Ranching in the Bad Lands 19 



day, when snow covered the ground and the shaggy 

 ponies crowded about the empty corral, a flock of 

 snow-buntings came familiarly round the cow-shed, 

 clamoring over the ridge-pole and roof. Every few 

 moments one of them would mount into the air, 

 hovering about with quivering wings and warbling 

 a loud, merry song with some very sweet notes. 

 They were a most welcome little group of guests, 

 and we were sorry when, after loitering around a 

 day or two, they disappeared toward their breeding 

 haunts. 



In the still fall nights, if we lie awake we can 

 listen to the clanging cries of the water-fowl, as their 

 flocks speed southward; and in cold weather the 

 coyotes occasionally come near enough for us to 

 hear their uncanny wailing. The larger wolves, too, 

 now and then join in, with a kind of deep, dismal 

 howling; but this melancholy sound is more often 

 heard when out camping than from the ranch 

 house. 



The charm of ranch life comes in its freedom, 

 and the vigorous, open-air existence it forces a man 

 to lead. Except when hunting in bad ground, the 

 whole time away from the house is spent in the sad- 

 dle, and there are so many ponies that a fresh one 

 can always be had. These ponies are of every size 

 and disposition, and rejoice in names as different 

 as their looks. Hackamore, Wire Fence, Steel- 

 Trap, War Cloud, Pinto, Buckskin, Circus, and 

 Standing Jimmie are among those that, as I write, 

 are running frantically round the corral in the vain 



