TWENTY YEARS IN THE ROCKIES. Ill 



ing a bullet through the buck's heart. As if by magic a 

 dozen flags went up, and, as the sun disappeared, I saw 

 them vanish in the evergreens across the creek. 



I went to the place where the buck lay, took his head 

 and saddle to camp and prepared the head, which to-day 

 adorns my home and often recalls memories of that golden 

 sunset. In camp I found John frying trout for our supper. 

 With broiled tenderloins, coffee, roasted potatoes, and trout, 

 we feasted royally. In order to have him on hand early,, I 

 picketed my pony close at hand before we turned in, to be 

 lulled to sleep by the rushing water of the creek. 



Long before the break of day we were cooking break- 

 fast, and, although the roasted potatoes were nearly all 

 burned after passing a night under the cottonwood coals, 

 we found sufficient, and before the light began to break in 

 the eastern horizon, I was hurrying toward the mountain 

 top. After several miles of climbing, I found myself in a 

 little park, dotted with handsome cone-shaped pine trees, 

 while the rimrock was covered with small cedars, junipers, 

 and bunches of soap weeds. 



While admiring the enchanting scene I heard a cry, 

 long and pitiful, as though a lost child were near. It grew 

 fainter and gradually died away, but was repeated at inter- 

 vals. Day was breaking as the cry of the cat-owl was heard, 

 coming from the far-off canyon ; then came the cry from 

 another direction. Could it be possible a child had been 

 lost in this place ? No, the plaintive cry is one never for- 

 gotten by the mountaineer or traveler who has heard it 

 before. It was lonely enough on the mountain before day 

 light came, but the dismal cries of the owls and cougars made 

 it worse. Here and there I could see fresh tracks where 

 some animal had been running, and, after I had tied my 

 pony, I found hoof marks where mountain sheep had passed. 



