HUNTING THE PRONG-BUCK. 109 



the Black Hills, some two hundred miles 

 south. The ranch wagon went with me, 

 driven by an all-round plainsman, a man of 

 iron nerves and varied past, the sheriff of our 

 county. He was an old friend of mine; at 

 one time I had served as deputy-sheriff for 

 the northern end of the county. In the 

 wagon we carried our food and camp kit, and 

 our three rolls of bedding, each wrapped in a 

 thick, nearly waterproof canvas sheet ; we had 

 a tent, but we never needed it. The load 

 being light, the wagon was drawn by but a 

 span of horses, a pair of wild runaways, tough, 

 and good travellers. My foreman and I rode 

 beside the wagon on our wiry, unkempt, un- 

 shod cattle-ponies. They carried us all day 

 at a rack, pace, single-foot or slow lope, 

 varied by rapid galloping when we made long 

 circles after game ; the trot, the favorite gait 

 with eastern park-riders, is disliked by all 

 peoples who have to do much of their life- 

 work in the saddle. 



The first day's ride was not attractive. 

 The heat was intense and the dust stifling, as 

 we had to drive some loose horses for the first 

 few miles, and afterwards to ride up and down 

 the sandy river bed, where the cattle had gath- 

 ered, to look over some young steers we had put 

 on the range the preceding spring. When we 

 did camp it was by a pool of stagnant water, 

 in a creek bottom, and the mosquitoes were a 

 torment. Nevertheless, as evening fell, it was 

 pleasant to climb a little knoll nearby and 

 gaze at the rows of strangely colored buttes, 

 grass-clad, or of bare earth and scoria, their 

 soft reds and purples showing as through a 



