48 The Wilderness Hunter. 



stones and cactus. By some indiscriminate firing at 

 long range we dropped the deer ; and as Old Tompkins 

 cooled down he realized that his bare feet had paid full 

 penalty for his dash. 



One of these wagon trips I remember because I 

 missed a fair running shot which I much desired to hit ; 

 and afterwards hit a very much more difficult shot about 

 which I cared very little. Ferguson and I, with Sylvane 

 and one or two others, had gone a day's journey down 

 the river for a hunt. We went along the bottoms, cross- 

 ing the stream every mile or so, with an occasional 

 struggle through mud or quicksand, or up the steep, rot- 

 ten banks. An old buffalo hunter drove the wagon, with 

 a couple of shaggy, bandy-legged ponies ; the rest of us 

 jogged along in front on horseback, picking out a trail 

 through the bottoms and choosing the best crossing 

 places. Some of the bottoms were grassy pastures ; on 

 others great, gnarled cottonwoods, with shivered branches, 

 stood in clumps ; yet others were choked with a true for- 

 est growth. Late in the afternoon we went into camp, 

 choosing a spot where the cottonwoods were young ; their 

 glossy leaves trembled and rustled unceasingly. We 

 speedily picketed the horses changing them about as 

 they ate off the grass, drew water, and hauled great logs 

 in front of where we had pitched the tent, while the wagon 

 stood nearby. Each man laid out his bed ; the food and 

 kitchen kit were taken from the wagon ; supper was 

 cooked and eaten ; and we then lay round the camp-fire, 

 gazing into it, or up at the brilliant stars, and listening to 

 the wild, mournful wailing of the coyotes. They were 



