Hunting the Prong-Buck 95 



cottonwoods along the river brink, showing large in 

 the leafless branches ; they called and clucked to one 

 another. 



Where the ground was level and the snow not too 

 deep I loped, and before noon I reached the sheltered 

 coulie where, with long poles and bark, the hunter 

 had built his tepee- wigwam, as Eastern woodsmen 

 would have called it. It stood in a loose grove of 

 elms and box-alders ; from the branches of the near 

 est trees hung saddles of frozen venison. The smoke 

 rising from the funnel-shaped top of the tepee 

 showed that there was more fire than usual within; 

 it is easy to keep a good tepee warm, though it is 

 so smoky that no one therein can stand upright. As 

 I drew rein the skin door was pushed aside, and the 

 hard old face and dried, battered body of the hunter 

 appeared. He greeted me with a surly nod, and 

 a brief request to &quot;light and hev somethin to eat&quot;- 

 the invariable proffer of hospitality on the plains. 

 He wore a greasy buckskin shirt or tunic, and an 

 odd cap of badger skin, from beneath which strayed 

 his tangled hair ; age, rheumatism, and the many ac 

 cidents and incredible fatigue, hardship, and ex 

 posure of his past life had crippled him, yet he still 

 possessed great power of endurance, and in his 

 seamed, weather-scarred face his eyes burned fierce 

 and piercing as a hawk s. Ever since early manhood 

 he had wandered over the plains, hunting and trap 

 ping; he had waged savage private war against half 



