2 Gbe Warbler 



might believe, by that slinking mephistopheles, the Coyote, began to dive at 

 the intruder; each one shrieking, at the full of its voice, an iterated, "Lib- 

 lib-lib-lib-lib". 



Like the palms of the Orient were soon silhouetted the cottonwoods of 

 Dead Mule Creek. And Dead Mule Creek, to my surprise, proved not a 

 mud-flow, like the bulk of the Wyoming Creeks. It ran cleanly; and over 

 pebbles. 



Being, fairly, an old settler, I found, ere long, my way thru the laby- 

 rinths that hid the mouth of Skull Creek. Thru numerous gates I made 



YOUNG KRIDEITS HAWK 



my way; and at last, after a sharp turn around a great spur of the hills there 

 stood in view a solitary mass of rock more fantastic, surprising, majestic than 

 even the well-known Crawford Buttes of Sioux County, Nebraska. 



I had just promised myself a delightsome survey of this castled pile, on 

 the way back from the wedding, when the scream of a hawk was heard. The 

 (seemingly) spotless belly proclaimed the species; and the help of my field- 

 glass indentified the quarry: a half-grown prairie-dog. I waved my hat in 

 recognition. Straight across the quarter-mile gorge he swept, with barely a 

 stroke of wing. Veering neither to right nor to left he arrowed straight for 

 the fortress-rock. 



