PRONG-HORNS 



JUST at daybreak one beautiful morning in 

 the latter part of May, I rode over a divide, 

 headed for a nearby canon, in search of our 

 cattle that had strayed away during the night. 

 The bright stars paled and the new moon was 

 lost to view. The reflection of the sun against 

 the clear blue sky tinted the east with gorgeous 

 reds and purples, long before it rose above the 

 hills in the distance. 



I had been riding along slowly for some time, 

 on my return home, when my pony pricked up 

 his ears and my dog was all attention, as distant 

 repeated reports of a gun rolled across the 

 prairie through the clear atmosphere. Pres- 

 ently there appeared on the ridge a mile away 

 a number of antelope flashing the white patches 

 on their rumps so that they glistened in the 

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