HUNTING THE PRONG-BUCK. 101 



We were camped on the wagon trail which 

 leads along the divide almost due south to 

 Sentinel Butte. The line of fire was fanned 

 by a southeasterly breeze, and was therefore 

 advancing diagonally to the divide. If we 

 could drive the wagon southward on the trail 

 in time to get it past the fire before the latter 

 reached the divide, we would be to windward 

 of the flames, and therefore in safety. Accord- 

 ingly, while the others were hastily harness- 

 ing the team, and tossing the bedding and 

 provisions into the wagon, I threw the saddle 

 on my horse, and galloped down the trail, to 

 see if there was yet time to adopt this expedi- 

 ent. I soon found that there was not. Half 

 a mile from camp the trail dipped into a deep 

 coulie, where fair-sized trees and dense under- 

 growth made a long winding row of brush and 

 timber. The trail led right under the trees 

 at the upper end of this coulie. As I galloped 

 by I saw that the fire had struck the trees a 

 quarter of a mile below me ; in the dried tim- 

 ber it instantly sprang aloft like a giant, and 

 roared in a thunderous monotone as it swept 

 up the coulie. I galloped to the hill ridge 

 ahead, saw that the fire line had already 

 reached the divide, and turned my horse 

 sharp on his haunches. As I again passed 

 under the trees, the fire, running like a race- 

 horse in the brush, had reached the road ; its 

 breath was hot in my face ; tongues of quiver- 

 ing flame leaped over my head and kindled 

 the grass on the hillside fifty yards away. 



When I got back to camp Ferguson had 

 taken measures for the safety of the wagon. 

 He had moved it across the coulie, which at 



