IN THE OLD ROCKIES 



It has occurred to me to write, in the form of 

 two stories, of three days' hunting in the old 

 Rockies. One of these deals with days upon which 

 the memory loves to linger days full of adven- 

 ture, of unusual incident and of success. The other 

 is of a day when only bad luck seemed to attend 

 efforts in the way of climbing and covering ground 

 which only the enthusiasm of the twenties enables 

 one to put forth. I shall write of this last day 

 first, because, as I think Fielding said, a tale, like 

 a carefully prepared meal, should grow in interest 

 or spicy flavor as it progresses. 



With my friends Charles Penrose and Granville 

 Keller and an exceedingly lazy and generally 

 worthless boy, Frank, whom we had hired to look 

 after the horses, we were returning to Bozeman, 

 after about two months' successful hunting among 

 the headwaters of the Stinking Water and Upper 

 Yellowstone Rivers. At the head of Sheep Creek, 

 a small tributary, I think, of Trail Creek, we had 

 turned off the direct route in order to spend our 



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