CHAPTER VI 



CAMPING ON THE PLAINS 



I WALKED out of Cheyenne early one morn- 

 ing thirty-odd years ago with a camp outfit 

 and a week's provisions. It was late May. 

 One mile out and I was on the fenceless, trackless 

 plains. The prairie was green with low-growing 

 buffalo grass and brilliant with dashes of red, 

 yellow, and blue wild flowers on short stems. 

 Meadow larks were singing and prairie dogs 

 barking merrily. The sun shone hot from a 

 clear blue sky all day. 



A little before sundown I dropped my heavy 

 pack by an old buffalo wallow near the Wyoming- 

 Nebraska line. I could see miles across level 

 plains toward every point of the compass; not a 

 house, a fence, or a tree within the horizon. I 

 was alone. I judged there was not a person 

 within fifteen miles, perhaps not for twice as 

 far. Although I travelled about for days I did 

 not see a house or a fence. 



For months I had planned to have a camping 

 trip out on the Great Plains to see what wild life 

 lived on the prairie and how it lived. I felt that 



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