The Range 



Comanche yell. I was more startled by the yell than 

 by the great hand he smashed down on my shoulder, 

 and for the moment I was dazed. 



&quot; There ! look ! look ! the buffalo ! Hi ! Hi ! Hi ! &quot; 



Below us, a few miles on a rising knoll, a big herd 

 of buffalo shone black in the gold of the evening sun. 

 I had not Jones s incentive, but I felt enthusiasm 

 born of the wild and beautiful picture, and added 

 my yell to his. The huge, burly leader of the herd 

 lifted his head, and after regarding us for a few 

 moments calmly went on browsing. 



The desert had fringed away into a grand rolling 

 pastureland, walled in by the red cliffs, the slopes of 

 Buckskin, and further isolated by the canon. Here 

 was a range of twenty-four hundred square miles 

 without a foot of barb-wire, a pasture fenced in by 

 natural forces, with the splendid feature that the 

 buffalo could browse on the plain in winter, and 

 go up into the cool foothills of Buckskin in summer. 



From another ridge we saw a cabin dotting the 

 rolling plain, and in half an hour we reached it. As 

 we climbed down from the wagon a brown and black 

 dog came dashing out of the cabin, and promptly 

 jumped at Moze. His selection showed poor dis 

 crimination, for Moze whipped him before I could 

 separate them. Hearing Jones heartily greeting 

 some one, I turned in his direction, only to be 



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