American Big-Game Hunting 



course, and with the sweeping, unfriendly- 

 speed of the stream, its bleak shores seemed 

 a chilly place for home-seekers. Yet I 

 blessed the change. A sight of running 

 water once more, even of this overbearing 

 flood, and of hills however dreary, was ex- 

 hilaration after the degraded, stingy monot- 

 ony of the Big Bend. The alkali trails in 

 Wyoming do not seem paradises till you 

 bring your memory of them here. Nor am 

 I alone in my estimate of this impossible hole. 

 There is a sign-post sticking up in the middle 

 of it, that originally told the traveler it was 

 thirty-five miles to Central Ferry. But now 

 the traveler has retorted; and three differ- 

 ent hand-writings on this sign-post reveal to 

 you that you have had predecessors in your 

 thought, comrades who shared your sorrows: 



Forty-five miles to water. 

 Seventy-five miles to wood. 



And then the last word: 



Two and one-half miles to hell. 



Perhaps they were home-seekers. 

 We halted a moment at the town of Bridge- 

 port, identified by one wooden store and an 



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