OUR FIRST SUPPER ON THE PLAINS. 207 



and fire. In the dim light, and at long distance, it 

 takes a quick and true eye to call from the ground 

 that welcome resound which tells of game fallen. 



Under the big oaks, meanwhile, our camp fire burned 

 brightly, and Shamus was developing the mysteries 

 of his art. Roast turkey and broiled antelope tempt 

 the pampered appetites of dyspeptic city men, but here 

 in the wilderness, their fresh juices, hissing from beds 

 of glowing coals, filled the air with a fragrance that 

 to us was sweeter than roses. Tired enough, after an 

 all day's ride, and hungry as bears from twelve hours 

 fasting, we sucked in the odors of the cooking meat, 

 as a sort of aerial soup, while the Dobeen stood an 

 aproned king of grease and turkey, with basting spoon 

 for scepter, and with it kept motioning back the 

 hungry hordes that skirmished along his borders. 



Two mess chests had been placed a few feet apart, 

 with the tail-boards of our wagons connecting them, 

 and over this was spread a linen table cloth, white 

 plates, clean napkins, and bright knives, with salt, 

 pepper, and butter. All were in their accustomed 

 places. This our first meal on the plains looked more 

 like an aristocratic pic-nic than a supper in the terri- 

 tory of the buffaloes. But the picture was too bright 

 to last, and ere many days neither napkins nor cloth 

 could have been made available as flags of truce. 



It is one of those threadbare truisms, adorning 

 all hunting stories of every age and clime, that hun- 

 ger is the best seasoning. We had an excess of it on 

 hand just then, and would willingly have shared it 

 with the dyspeptic, baldheaded young men of Fifth 

 Avenue The turkey we found fat and very rich in 



