HUNTING THE PRONG-BUCK. 99 



before the first deep snows stopped all travel. 

 They had no time to halt ; for there were still 

 two or three miles to go that evening before 

 they could find a sheltered resting-place with 

 fuel, grass, and water. A little while after 

 passing them I turned in the saddle and 

 looked back. The lonely little train stood 

 out sharply on the sky-line, the wagons loom- 

 ing black against the cold red west as they 

 toiled steadily onward across the snowy plain. 



Night soon fell ; but I cared little, for I was 

 on ground I knew. The old horse threaded 

 his way at a lope along the familiar game 

 trails and cattle paths ; in a couple of hours I 

 caught the gleam from the firelit windows of 

 the ranch house. No man who, for his good- 

 fortune, has at times in his life endured toil 

 and hardship, ever fails to appreciate the 

 strong elemental pleasures of rest after labor, 

 food after hunger, warmth and shelter after 

 bitter cold. 



So much for the winter hunting. But in 

 the fall, when the grass is dry as tinder, the 

 antelope hunter, like other plainsmen, must 

 sometimes face fire instead of frost. Fire is 

 one of the most dreaded enemies of the 

 ranchmen on the cattle ranges ; and fighting 

 a big prairie fire is a work of extraordinary 

 labor, and sometimes of danger. The line of 

 flame, especially when seen at night, undulat- 

 ing like a serpent, is very beautiful ; though 

 it lacks the terror and grandeur of the great 

 forest fires. 



One October, Ferguson and I, with one of 

 the cow-hands, and a friend from the East, 

 took the wagon for an antelope hunt in the 



