After Wapiti in Wyoming 



I went into camp, one night in September, 

 on one of the many branches of the upper 

 Snake River, in northwestern Wyoming. It 

 was after a most severe and perplexing day's 

 pack, one of those days in which "things" 

 go wrong. The packs turned, the cinches 

 refused to hold, and the fresh little Indian 

 pony for which we had traded a sore-backed 

 packhorse, one cup of sugar, and a half-dozen 

 cartridges, three days previous, with some 

 Bannack Indians who came to my camp-fire 

 on the Snake River fancied she could put 

 everybody in good temper by having a buck- 

 ing fit. She had managed to settle one side 

 of her pack on a sharp stub when she came 

 down from a flight, and to punch a fair-sized 

 hole in the canvas cover, which immediately 

 began to flow granulated sugar; but by good 

 luck we managed to catch her lariat and re- 

 arrange her pack, minus about one half our 

 supply of sweets. The day was finished with 



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