After Wapiti in Wyoming 



I went into camp, one night in September, 

 on one of the many branches of the upper 

 Snake River, in northwestern Wyoming. It 

 was after a most severe and perplexing day's 

 pack, — one of those days in which "things'* 

 go wrong. The packs turned, the cinches 

 refused to hold, and the fresh little Indian 

 pony — for which we had traded a sore-backed 

 packhorse, one cup of sugar, and a half-dozen 

 cartridges, three days previous, with some 

 Bannack Indians who came to my camp-fire 

 on the Snake River — fancied she could put 

 everybody in good temper by having a buck- 

 ing fit. She had managed to settle one side 

 of her pack on a sharp stub when she came 

 down from a flight, and to punch a fair-sized 

 hole in the canvas cover, which immediately 

 began to flow granulated sugar; but by good 

 luck we managed to catch her lariat and re- 

 arrange her pack, minus about one half our 

 supply of sweets. The day was finished with 

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