274 



HUNTING TRIPS 



This was late one November, on an occa- 

 sion when our larder was running low. My 

 foreman and I, upon discovering this fact, 

 determined to make a trip next day back in 

 the broken country, away from the river, 

 where black-tail were almost sure to be 

 found. 



We breakfasted hours before sunrise, and 

 then mounted our horses and rode up the 

 river bottom. The bright prairie moon was 

 at the full, and was sunk in the west till it 

 hung like a globe of white fire over the long 

 row of jagged bluffs that rose from across 

 the river, while its beams brought into fan- 

 tastic relief the peaks and crests of the buttes 

 upon our left. The valley of the river it- 

 self was in partial darkness, and the stiff, 

 twisted branches of the sage-brush seemed 

 to take on uncanny shapes as they stood in 

 the hollows. The cold was stinging, and we 

 let our willing horses gallop with loose reins, 

 their hoofs ringing on the frozen ground. 

 After going up a mile or two along the 

 course of the river we turned off to follow 



