American Big-Game Hunting 
horses are rounded together, and when we 
have jumped into our saddles, the cook, who 
always handles the reins, gives a crack of his 
whip, and we take our departure from civ- 
ilization. A couple of miles brings us to a 
primitive wire-rope ferry, where we cross the 
Yellowstone River, which at this season of 
the year is low and clear; in a few minutes 
we are over, and, ascending the bluffs on the 
other side, take our last look at the beautiful 
valley we are leaving behind. 
By night we reach Pryor’s Creek, and pick- 
ing out as good a camping-place as possible, 
the mules are soon unhitched and with the 
horses turned loose to graze. While the cook 
is preparing the evening meal, I bag a few 
prairie-chickens to give variety to the fare. 
Breakfasting at daylight the next morning, 
we are soon under way again, with Pryor’s 
Mountains in the distance as our goal for this 
day’s journey. Toward evening the white te- 
pees of an Indian camp are visible clustered 
in a picturesque group close to Pryor’s Moun- 
tains. Passing them, not without paying a 
slight tribute in the way of tobacco and such 
other gifts as our copper-colored friends gen- 
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