LETTER VIII. 



97 



LETTER VIII. 



Bighorn Camp. 

 DEAR PAT, 



Six thousand miles by road and rail and 

 ocean steamers, added to six days through moun- 

 tain forests, in which even mining engineers and 

 Indians are scarce, should suffice even in these 

 miserable days of over-population and over-civiliza- 

 tion to ensure the traveller solitude which the 

 ring of no other man's rifle should break. And 

 yet on my second day in camp there were white 

 men's horses down below on the next ' bench ' of 

 grass, and white men's rifles were making the 

 cliffs rattle above my eyry. As my old hunter 

 came back without any very definite report, I 

 rode down on the Monday evening to interview 

 the enemy in person, my heart swelling with a 

 just wrath. As I rode down the brae, I was 

 aware of a person beyond the brook, who, with 

 his back turned, appeared to be deep in some 

 culinary operation. I did not know then, but I 



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