234 The Wilderness Hunter 



was a wild, nervous roan, and as I swung carelessly 

 into the saddle, he suddenly began to buck before I 

 got my right leg over, and threw me off. My 

 thumb was put out of joint. I pulled it in again, 

 and speedily caught my horse in the dead timber. 

 Then I treated him as what the cowboys call a 

 "mean horse," and mounted him carefully, so as 

 not to let him either buck or go over backward. 

 However, his preliminary success had inspirited him, 

 and a dozen times that day he began to buck, usual- 

 ly choosing a down grade, where the snow was deep, 

 and there was much fallen timber. 



All day long we pushed steadily through the cold, 

 blinding snowstorm. Neither squirrels nor rabbits 

 were abroad; and a few Clark's crows, whiskey- jacks 

 and chickadees were the only living things we saw. 

 At nightfall, chilled through, we reached the Upper 

 Geyser Basin. Here I met a party of railroad sur- 

 veyors and engineers, coming in from their summer's 

 field work. One of them lent me a saddle-horse and 

 a pack-pony, and we went on together, breaking our 

 way through the snow-choked roads to the Mam- 

 moth Hot Springs, while Hofer took my own 

 horses back to Ferguson. 



I have described this hunt at length because, 

 though I enjoyed it particularly on account of the 

 comfort in which we traveled and the beauty of the 

 land, yet, in point of success in finding and killing 

 game, in value of trophies procured, and in its al- 



