THE BISON OR AMERICAN BUFFALO. 29 



It was, as nearly as we could tell, in Idaho, 

 just south of the Montana boundary line, and 

 some twenty-live miles west of the line of 

 Wyoming. We were camped high among the 

 mountains, with a small pack-train. On the 

 day in question we had gone out to find moose, 

 but had seen no sign of them, and had then be- 

 gun to climb over the higher peaks with an idea 

 of getting sheep. The old hunter who was 

 with me was, very fortunately, suffering from 

 rheumatism, and he therefore carried a long 

 staff instead of his rifle ; I say fortunately, for 

 if he had carried his rifle it would have been im- 

 possible to stop his firing at such game as bison, 

 nor would he have spared the cows and calves. 



About the middle of the afternoon we 

 crossed a low, rocky ridge, above timber line, 

 and saw at our feet a basin or round valley 

 of singular beauty. Its walls were formed by 

 steep mountains. At its upper end lay a 

 small lake, bordered on one side by a meadow 

 of emerald green. The lake's other side 

 marked the edge of the frowning pine forest 

 which filled the rest of the valley, and hung 

 high on the sides of the gorge which formed 

 its outlet. Beyond the lake the ground rose 

 in a pass evidently much frequented by game 

 in bygone days, their trails lying along it in 

 thick zigzags, each gradually fading out after 

 a few hundred yards, and then starting again 

 in a little different place, as game trails so 

 often seem to do. 



We bent our steps towards these trails, and 

 no sooner had we reached the first than the 



