HUNTING THE PRONG-BUCK. 115 



violent that we could hardly face it. In the 

 late afternoon it died away, and I again 

 walked out to hunt, but saw only does and 

 kids, at which 1 would not shoot. As the sun 

 set, leaving bars of amber and pale red in the 

 western sky, the air became absolutely calm. 

 In the waning evening the low, far-off ridges 

 were touched with a violet light ; then the 

 hues grew sombre, and still darkness fell on 

 the lonely prairie. 



Next morning we drove to the river, and 

 kept near it for several days, most of the time 

 following the tracks made by the heavy 

 wagons accompanying the trail herds — this 

 being one of the regular routes followed by 

 the great throng of slow-moving cattle yearly 

 driven from the south. At other times we 

 made our own road. Twice or thrice we 

 passed ranch houses ; the men being absent 

 on the round-up they were shut, save one 

 which was inhabited by two or three lean 

 Texan cow-punchers, with sun-burned faces 

 and reckless eyes, who had come up with a 

 taail herd from the Cherokee strip. Once, 

 near the old Sioux crossing, where the Dakota 

 war bands used to ford the river on their 

 forays against the Crows and the settlers 

 along the Yellowstone, we met a large horse 

 herd. The tough, shabby, tired-looking an- 

 imals, one or two of which were loaded with 

 bedding and a scanty supply of food, were 

 driven by three travel-worn, hard-faced men, 

 with broad hats, shaps, and long pistols in 

 their belts. They had brought the herd over 

 plain and mountain pass all the way from fat 

 distant Oregon. 



