1 68 RANCH LIFE AND THE HUNTING-TRAIL 



to a long divide, furrowed by many buffalo trails, which I knew I could 

 follow even when it grew dark, and which came out on the prairie not 

 very far to one side of the line camp. 



The day on which I was lucky enough to shoot my largest and finest 

 ram was memorable in more ways than one. The shot was one of the 

 best I ever made, albeit the element of chance doubtless entered into it 

 far more largely than the element of skill, and in coming home from the 

 hunt I got quite badly frozen. 



The day before we had come back from a week's trip after deer; for 

 we were laying in the winter stock of meat. We had been camped far 

 down the river, and had intended to take two days on the return trip, as 

 the wagon was rather heavily loaded, for we had killed eight deer. The 

 morning we broke camp was so mild that I did not put on my heaviest 

 winter clothing, starting off in the same that I had worn during the past 

 few days' still-hunting among the hills. Before we had been gone an 

 hour, however, the sky grew overcast and the wind began to blow from 

 the north with constantly increasing vigor. The sky grew steadily more 

 gloomy and lowering, the gusts came ever harder and harder, and by 

 noon the winter day had darkened and a furious gale was driving against 

 us. The blasts almost swept me from my saddle and the teamster from 

 his seat, while we were glad to wrap ourselves in our huge fur coats to 

 keep out the growing cold. Soon after midday the wagon suddenly broke 

 down while we were yet in mid-prairie. It was evident that we were on 

 the eve of a furious snow-blizzard, which might last a few hours, or else, 

 perhaps, as many days. We were miles from any shelter that would per- 

 mit us to light a fire in the face of such a storm ; so we left the wagon as 

 it was, hastily unharnessed the team horses, and, with the driver riding 

 one and leading the other, struck off homeward at a steady gallop. Once 

 fairly caught by the blizzard in a country that we only partly knew, it 

 would have been hopeless to do more than to try for some ravine in which 

 to cower till it was over ; so we pushed our horses to their utmost pace. 

 Our object was to reach the head coulees of a creek leading down to the 

 river but a few miles from the ranch. Could we get into these before 

 the snow struck us we felt we would be all right, for we could then find 

 our way home, even in pitch-darkness, with the wind in the quarter from 

 which it was coming. So, with the storm on our backs, we rode at full 

 speed through the gathering gloom, across the desolate reaches of prairie. 

 The tough little horses, instead of faltering, went stronger mile by mile. 

 At last the weird rows of hills loomed vaguely up in our front, and we 

 plunged into the deep ravines for which we had been heading just as the 



