252 Hunting the Grisly 



fore, and we had in a roundabout way heard 

 that they were ranging near some broken 

 country, where a man named Brophy had a 

 ranch, nearly fifty miles from my own. When 

 I started thither the weather was warm, but 

 the second day out it grew colder and a heavy 

 snowstorm came on. Fortunately I was able 

 to reach the ranch all right, finding there one 

 of the sons of a Little Beaver ranchman, and 

 a young cowpuncher belonging to a Texas 

 outfit, whom I knew very well. After putting 

 my horse into the corral and throwing him 

 down some hay I strode into the low hut, 

 made partly of turf and partly of cottonwood 

 logs, and speedily warmed myself before the 

 fire. We had a good warm supper, of bread, 

 potatoes, fried venison, and tea. My two 

 companions grew very sociable and began to 

 talk freely over their pipes. There were two 

 bunks one above the other. I climbed into 

 the upper, leaving my friends, who occupied 

 the lower, sitting together on a bench recount 

 ing different incidents in the careers of them 

 selves and their cronies during the winter that 

 had just passed. Soon one of them asked 

 the other what had become of a certain horse, 

 a noted cutting pony, which I had myself 

 noticed the preceding fall. The question 



