A WEIRD FIGURE. 297 



sunshine and its winds, the latter being decidedly 

 the most disagreeable feature of the entire trip. 



Various episodes marked our journey from Silver 

 Creek to Sheridan. A few only of the more note- 

 worthy incidents can be transferred to these pages. 

 They will suffice, however, as specimens of our ad- 

 ventures, and help the reader, I trust, to a better ac- 

 quaintance with the free, wild life of the West. 



The second day after leaving Silver Creek, we 

 suddenly encountered another specialty of the 

 plains, the "Wild Huntress." So often has this 

 personage and her male counterpart danced, with 

 big letters and a bowie-knife, across yellow covers, 

 that we met the " original Jacobs " of the tribe 

 gleefully. She came to us in a cloud of buffalo, 

 with black eyes glittering like a snake's, and coarse 

 and uncombed hair that tangled itself in the wind, 

 and streamed and twisted behind her like writhinir 

 vipers. A black riding habit flowed out in the 

 strong breeze, its train snapping like a loose sail, 

 and a black mustang fled from her Indian lash — the 

 dark wild horse, a fit carrier for such somber outfit. 



She was introduced to us by the bison herd, which 

 came thundering across our front, with this strange 

 figure pressing its flank and darting hither and 

 thither from one outskirt of the flying multitude to 

 the other. The reins lay loose on the neck of her 

 mustang, which entered into the fierce chase like a 

 bloudhound, doubling and twisting on its course 

 with an agility that was wonderful. 



One hand of the huntress held out a holster re- 



