III. 



T was about midnight 

 in the end of August 

 when Nimrod and I 

 tumbled off the train 

 at Market Lake, Idaho. 

 Next morning, after a 

 comfortable night's rest at the "hotel," 

 our rubber beds, sleeping bags, saddles, 

 guns, clothing, and ourselves were 

 packed into a covered wagon, drawn 

 by four horses, and we started for 

 Jackson's Hole in charge of a driver 

 who knew the road perfectly. At least, 

 that was what he said, so of course he 



