IN THE BIG HORN MOUNTAINS. 59 



and Jack Conley, our packer, sought shelter under a large 

 sheet of canvas that they had hastily spread upon the appare- 

 jos to protect them from the storm. I quickly drew on my 

 rubber coat, preferring to stand out and watch the grand play 

 of the elements. Our poor mules and my pony turned their 

 heads toward the storm and stood and took it like veterans. 

 The storm lasted about half an hour and was as violent as any 

 I ever saw. When it subsided, the coulee near which we were 

 camped and in which before there were only a few pools of 

 water, was now alive with a roaring torrent. The country all 

 about us was drenched and washed, and General Hazen, or 

 any one else, need never tell us again that it don't rain in the 

 Yellowstone valley in summer. 



Now that the storm was over, we began to look about us 

 to see what had become of our dinner. We had no shelter to 

 put it under, and were obliged to leave it to the mercy of the 

 storm. We collected the fragments together, reconstructed 

 them to the best of our ability, and sat down to a repast, of 

 which the following is about the 



MENU. 



SOUP. 

 Cold rainwater. 



MEATS. 



Breakfast bacon, rainwater sauce. 



GAME. 



Teal Duck, all shot away. 

 After dinner. 



ENTREES. 



Pork and Beans, soaked in rainwater. 



VEGETABLES. 



Fried Potatoes, ditto. 



BREAD. 



Hot biscuit, ditto. 

 Hard tack, ditto. 



DRINKS. 



Coffee, diluted with rainwater, three to one. 

 Rainwater straight. 



