American Big-Game Hunting 



followed by a good stout packhorse, equipped 

 for a journey of several months, en route to 

 Cheyenne, probably one hundred miles due 

 north. After two days of hard riding I reached 

 Cheyenne, and found that the party had started 

 two days before, intending to cross the Platte 

 River at Fort Laramie, another hundred miles 

 north. Undaunted, I pushed on without delay, 

 not even stopping to take a shot at any of 

 the numerous bands of antelope that continu- 

 ally crossed my path. I reached the post the 

 second day, only to learn from a "bull- 

 whacker" — I dared not disclose my purpose 

 to the officers — that the party I was looking 

 for had been turned back by the troops as 

 trespassers on Indian territory, and were sup- 

 posed to have gone in the direction of Fort 

 Fetterman. Though somewhat disheartened, 

 I lost no time in following them, and soon 

 rode into their camp, after dark, in a blinding 

 snow-storm. 



My welcome was anything but cordial. 

 They regarded my story that I, a tenderfoot, 

 had ridden through from Denver in four days 

 to join them as suspicious, and believed, as I 

 afterward ascertained, that I had been sent 



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