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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