American Big Game in its Haunts 



to see them as the time approached for the sunset 

 gun to be fired. The notes of the trumpeter at- 

 tracted their attention at once. They all looked at 

 him eagerly. One then resumed feeding, and paid 

 no attention whatever either to the bugle, the gun 

 or the flag. The other four, however, watched the 

 preparations for firing the gun with an Intent gaze, 

 and at the sound of the report gave two or three 

 jumps; then instantly wheeling, looked up at the 

 flag as it came down. This they seemed to regard 

 as something rather more suspicious than the gun, 

 and they remained very much on the alert until the 

 ceremony was over. Once it was finished, they re- 

 sumed feeding as if nothing had happened. Before 

 it was dark they trotted away from the parade 

 ground back to the mountains. 



The next day we rode off to the Yellowstone 

 River, camping some miles below Cottonwood 

 Creek. It was a very pleasant camp. Major 

 Pitcher, an old friend, had a first-class pack train, 

 so that we were as comfortable as possible, and on 

 such a trip there could be no pleasanter or more in- 

 teresting companion than John Burroughs — "Oom 

 John," as we soon grew to call him. Where our 

 tents were pitched the bottom of the valley was 

 narrow, the mountains rising steep and cliff-broken 

 on either side. There were quite a number of 



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