American Big- Game Hunting 



horses are rounded together, and when we 

 have jumped into our saddles, the cook, who 

 always handles the reins, gives a crack of his 

 whip, and we take our departure from civ- 

 ilization. A couple of miles brings us to a 

 primitive wire-rope ferry, where we cross the 

 Yellowstone River, which at this season of 

 the year is low and clear; in a few minutes 

 we are over, and, ascending the bluffs on the 

 other side, take our last look at the beautiful 

 valley we are leaving behind. 



By night we reach Pryor's Creek, and pick- 

 ing out as good a camping-place as possible, 

 the mules are soon unhitched and with the 

 horses turned loose to graze. While the cook 

 is preparing the evening meal, I bag a few 

 prairie-chickens to give variety to the fare. 

 Breakfasting at daylight the next morning, 

 we are soon under way again, with Pryor's 

 Mountains in the distance as our goal for this 

 day's journey. Toward evening the white te- 

 pees of an Indian camp are visible clustered 

 in a picturesque group close to Pryor's Moun- 

 tains. Passing them, not without paying a 

 slight tribute in the way of tobacco and such 

 other gifts as our copper-colored friends gen- 



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