CHAPTER VII. 



IN THE YELLOWSTONE VALLEY. 



HOW I SHOT A DUCK AN AUGUST THUNDER-STORM MENU FOR AN 

 EPICURE ROSEBUD RIVER AN OLD BATTLE FIELD LAME DEER 

 CREEK CUSTER'S LAST CAMPING GROUND SCARING A COYOTE 



DOG-IN-THE-MANGER MEANNESS OF CROW INDIANS. 



WE left Fort Keough on the morning of the 3oth of August. 

 Our route took us up the Yellowstone some twelve miles, through 

 a series of as picturesque bad lands as are to be found any- 

 where in the West. Their bold, rugged, ever-changing forms 

 and outlines rendered an otherwise uneventful ride interest- 

 ing in the extreme. 



After leaving the Yellowstone, we took a southwesterly 

 direction across a series of high mesa or table lands, follow- 

 ing a well-beaten wagon road, and jogged along at a rattling 

 pace till three o'clock in the afternoon, when we went into 

 camp near some water holes, having covered, in six hours, 

 thirty miles. While we were preparing dinner a teal duck 

 came and lit in one of the water holes within a few yards of 

 our camp. I picked up my rifle and said I would try and 

 get it. 



"Yes," said Huffman, " you see that you do get it, and 

 I'll have it in the frying pan before it's done kicking." 



I walked up so that I could look over the bank into the 

 water, and saw the duck in the midst of a bunch of grass. I 

 could not see his head plainly enough to shoot at it so I had 

 to take his body. At the crack of the rifle one of his wings 

 flew as much as twenty feet straight up into the air and other 

 pieces went in different directions. Then I remembered that 



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