American Big-Game Hunting 
followed by a good stout packhorse, equipped 
for a journey of several months, ez route to 
Cheyenne, probably one hundred miles due 
north. After two days of hard riding I reached 
Cheyenne, and found that the party had started 
two days before, intending to cross the Platte 
River at Fort Laramie, another hundred miles 
north. Undaunted, I pushed on without delay, 
not even stopping to take a shot at any of 
the numerous bands of antelope that continu- 
ally crossed my path. I reached the post the 
second day, only to learn from a “bull- 
whacker”—I dared not disclose my purpose 
to the officers — that the party I was looking 
for had been turned back by the troops as 
trespassers on Indian territory, and were sup- 
posed to have gone in the direction of Fort 
Fetterman. Though somewhat disheartened, 
I lost no time in following them, and soon 
rode into their camp, after dark, in a blinding 
snow-storm. 
My welcome was anything but cordial. 
They regarded my story that I, a tenderfoot, 
had ridden through from Denver in four days 
to join them as suspicious, and believed, as I 
afterward ascertained, that I had been sent 
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