TWENTY YEARS IN THE ROCKIES. 257 



red squirrels were merrily cutting the burrs and chattering 

 among the branches. The mountain jay clamored in the tops 

 of the trees where the nuts were thickest. The little chip- 

 munk was gathering up what fell to the earth, busily de- 

 positing it in his winter home. All living creatures were 

 active. How natural it all seemed ! 



I crossed Soda Butte Creek and started up the mountain. 

 Fallen timber, cordwood and old tree-tops almost blocked the 

 way, but I pressed on higher and higher up the grand old 

 mountain until I was almost out of breath. Towering up 

 in the clouds stood Index and Pilot peaks covered with ever- 

 greens and snow. I often was forced to stop to catch my 

 breath in this high altitude. Looking far down into the 

 depths I could see the little stream glistening in the sunlight. 

 Cooke City looked like a group of toy houses. Once more 

 I turned my eyes toward the summit. Its grandeur and sub- 

 limity were almost overpowering. 



Surely such a place must be the home of the bighorn 

 sheep. I scanned one shelf after another and swept my eyes 

 along until on a sharp projecting cliff I beheld some living 

 thing. The old-time thrill went through my frame like a 

 shock of electricity. Before I could make out what the ob- 

 ject was, I hastened along over rocks, bushes, scrub junipers 

 and beds of green moss. Finally I could see the grayish out- 

 lines of what appeared to be a bighorn. By taking a cir- 

 cuitous route I gained an easy distance and good range. Aft- 

 er a long hard climb I found myself on a high peak, destitute 

 of life, for my bighorn had disappeared around the peak. 



At length I landed on his feeding ground and soon found 

 his tracks in the loose dirt. His hoof marks were like those 

 of a yearling steer. I set out upon his trail, keeping low be- 

 hind the rocks. After traveling about a mile he had started 

 to run, so I gave up the hopes of ever again seeing him and 



