THE BIG-HORN SHEEP 165 



I was staying at the line camp of two of my cowboys, a small dug-out 

 in the side of a butte that marked the edge of the Bad Lands, the rolling 

 prairie coming up to its base. The quarters were cramped for three men, 

 an entire side of the little hut being filled by the two bunks in which we 

 slept, — I in the upper, my two companions in the lower, — while the fire- 

 place occupied one end, the mess-box served as a table, and the earth- 

 covered roof of logs was so low that we could hardly stand upright. Win- 

 dow there was none ; but it was snug, and, for a line camp, clean. There 

 was plenty of fire-wood, and, for a wonder, the chimney did not smoke ; so 

 we were comfortable enough. The butte itself served for three out of the 

 four walls. No other building is so warm as a dug-out, and in the terrible 

 winter weather of Dakota and Montana warmth is the one thing for which 

 all else must be sacrificed.* 



In such high latitudes the December sun rises late. Long before day- 

 break we had finished our breakfast of bread, beans, and coffee. The two 

 cowboys had saddled their shaggy ponies — which had spent the night in 

 the rough log stable — and had ridden off in opposite directions along 

 their lonely beat, muffled in their wolf-skin overcoats and heavy shaps ; 

 while I strode off on foot towards the high hills that lay riverward, my 

 rifle on my shoulder and my fur cap pulled down well over my ears. 



The cold was biting, for even at noon the sun had not power to thaw 

 the frozen ground. But there was very little snow ; just enough to powder 

 the hills and to lie in patches in the hollows. I walked rapidly up a long 

 coulee, then climbed up a steep rounded hill and followed the divide back 

 into the heart of the Bad Lands. By the time I was on my chosen hunting- 

 grounds the sun had topped the horizon behind me, and his level rays lit 

 up the peaks and crests. 



The next hour was spent in hard climbing and incessant watchfulness. 

 The hills lay in isolated masses. I clambered painfully up their slippery 

 sides, creeping along the narrow icy ledges that ran across the faces of the 

 cliffs, and cautiously working my way over the smooth shoulders. From 

 behind every ridge and spur I carefully examined the opposite hill-sides, 

 using the field-glasses if there was scope for them. Sheep, standing still or 

 lying down, are often very hard to see, their coats assimilating curiously 

 with the neutral-tinted cliffs and bowlders ; but against snow they of course 

 stand out much more distinctly. 



At last, as I lay peeping over the ragged crest of a clay butte, I made 

 out a small dark object half way up a steep slope some six hundred yards 



* I have camped out when the thermometer showed 65 degrees of frost: not — 65°, as I see I 

 once put it by a mistake in copying my rough field-notes. 



