HUNTING THE PRONG-BUCK. 95 



with failing bodily powers, found his life-work 

 over. He had little taste for the career of the 

 desperado, horse-thief, highwayman, and man- 

 killer, which not a few of the old buffalo 

 hunters adopted when their legitimate occu- 

 pation was gone ; he scorned still more the 

 life of vicious and idle semi-criminality led by 

 others of his former companions who were of 

 weaker mould. Yet he could not do regular 

 work. His existence had been one of excite- 

 ment, adventure, and restless roaming, when 

 it was not passed in lazy ease ; his times of 

 toil and peril varied by fits of brutal revelry. 

 He had no kin, no ties of any kind. He 

 would accept no help, for his wants were very 

 few, and he was utterly self-reliant. He got 

 meat, clothing, and bedding from the antelope 

 and deer he killed ; the spare hides and ven- 

 ison he bartered for what little else he needed. 

 So he built him his tepee in one of the most 

 secluded parts of the Bad Lands, where he 

 led the life of a solitary hunter, awaiting in 

 grim loneliness the death which he knew to be 

 near at hand. 



I unsaddled and picketed my horse, and 

 followed the old hunter into his smoky tepee ; 

 sat down on the pile of worn buffalo robes 

 which formed his bedding, and waited in 

 silence while he fried some deer meat, and 

 boiled some coffee — he was out of flour. As 

 I ate, he gradually unbent and talked quite 

 freely, and before I left he told me exactly 

 where to find the band, which he assured me 

 was located for the winter, and would not leave 

 unless much harried. 



After a couple of hours' rest I again started, 



