214 The Wilderness Hunter 



It was a picturesque sight to see the loaded pack- 

 train stringing across one of these high mountain 

 meadows, the motley colored line of ponies winding 

 round the marshy spots through the bright green 

 grass, while beyond rose the dark line of frowning 

 forest, with lofty peaks towering in the background. 

 Some of the meadows were beautiful with many 

 flowers goldenrod, purple aster, bluebells, white 

 immortelles, and here and there masses of blood-red 

 Indian pinks. In the park-country, on the edges of 

 the evergreen forest, were groves of delicate quak- 

 ing-aspen, the trees often growing to quite a height ; 

 their tremulous leaves were already changing to 

 bright green and yellow, occasionally with a reddish 

 blush. In the Rocky Mountains the aspens are al- 

 most the only deciduous trees, their foliage offering 

 a pleasant relief to the eye after the monotony of the 

 unending pine and spruce woods, which afford so 

 striking a contrast to the hardwood forest east of 

 the Mississippi. 



For two days our journey was uneventful, save 

 that we came on the camp of a squaw-man one 

 Beaver Dick, an old mountain hunter, living in a 

 skin tepee, where dwelt his comely Indian wife and 

 half-breed children. He had quite a herd of horses, 

 many of them mares and colts; they had evidently 

 been well treated, and came up to us fearlessly. 



The morning of the third day of our journey was 

 gray and lowering. Gusts of rain blew in my face as 



