IN THE OLD WEST 213 



prairie, beetles of an enormous size were rolling 

 in every direction huge balls of earth, pushing 

 them with their hind legs with comical persever- 

 ance; chameleons darted about, assimilating the 

 hue of their grotesque bodies with the color of the 

 sand: groups of prairie-dog houses were seen, each 

 with its inmate barking lustily on the roof ; whilst 

 under cover of nearly every bush of sage or cactus 

 a rattlesnake lay glittering in lazy coil. Tanta- 

 lizing the parched sight, the neighboring peaks 

 of the lofty Wind River Mountains glittered in a 

 mantle of sparkling snow; whilst Sweetwater 

 Mountain, capped in cloud, looked gray and cool, 

 in striking contrast to the bumed-up plains which 

 lay basking at its foot. 



Resting their backs against the rock (on which, 

 we have said, are now carved the names of many 

 travelers), and defended from the powerful rays 

 of the sun by its precipitous sides, two white men 

 quietly slept. They were gaunt and lantern- 

 jawed, and clothed in tattered buckskin. Each 

 held a rifle across his knees, but — strange sight 

 in this country — one had its pan thrown open, 

 which was rust-eaten and contained no priming; 

 the other's hammer was without a flint. Their 

 faces were as if covered with mahogany-colored 

 parchment ; their eyes were sunken ; and as their 

 jaws fell listlessly on their breasts, their cheeks 

 were hollow, with the bones nearly protruding 

 from the skin. One was in the prime of manhood, 



