HOW I MISSED HER. 



CHARLES G. POOLE. 



We were out of fresh meat; had been for 

 several days, but concluded to finish haying 

 before taking a short hunt. All things must 

 come to an end, and so did our tedious hay- 

 ing, a process which had been protracted by 

 frequent rains. On Monday morning we 

 stacked our last load of hay, and after a 

 hasty dinner saddled our riding and pack- 

 horses ready to start, but again a heavy rain 

 came up, an earnest of what was to befall 

 us as we soon learned. 



Among our pack animals was one burro. 

 This useful but exasperating little brute was 

 strenuously opposed to starting on the hunt. 

 He seemed to foreknow our bad luck, but 

 hard pulling, forcible language, and judici- 

 ous club-work finally got him started. 



We took the Sheridan Trail, the most 

 practicable route to the National Park from 

 Rawlins, Caspar and Lander. This trail was 

 made by that famous guide and hunter, Nel- 

 son Yarnall, of Dubois, Wyo., in 1882. This 

 gentlemen, I may remark, was the principal 

 actor in the comedy which I am about to re- 

 late 



Along this trail, which, for 12 miles winds 

 beside Big Wind river, we passed a large 

 bunch of antelope, offering a fair shot, but, 

 as it still rained, and we were anxious to get 

 as near as possible to our hunting grounds 

 that evening, we did not disturb them. 



Crossing Wind river we followed the trail 

 around a small, marshy lake, literally swarm- 

 ing with geese and ducks, which on our ap- 

 proach fled wildly in all directions. 



By this time it was growing dark and the 

 trail was slippery; we were wet, tired, hun- 

 gry and a little out of humor. Not we: I 

 mean I. My guide never sinks below the 

 level of a tune or a joke. 



My friend Balaam, the ass. whom I had 

 to lead, growing weary, protested against 

 going farther, pulling back with all his 

 weight upon his halter. Taking a loop with 

 his rope round the horn of my saddle I made 

 my horse yank him along, till halting in a 

 little park we sought the shelter of a large 

 spruce tree, and camped, picketed our ani- 

 mals, ate a hearty supper, enjoyed a quiet 

 pipe, made down our beds, retired and were 

 soon asleep. Sometime before daybreak we 

 were aroused by a blood-curdling noise, 

 coming, apparently from everywhere. It 

 was a compound of elk-whistle, hog-grunt, 

 baby-squall and lion's roar. However, it 

 was only Balaam, lonely and cold, separated 

 from his fellows lifting up his voice in pro- 



test. As we were close to the finest elk- 

 range in the Rocky mountains we objected 

 to this unseemly noise, entering our objec- 

 tions in the form of clubs and stones. 



By daylight we were once more on the 

 way. Expecting game at any moment we 

 were cautious and silent, but, so far, had 

 seen only 2 deer which vanished before a 

 shot could be fired. At the summit we be- 

 gan to see signs of game and farther on it 

 seemed all the elk in the mountains had as- 

 sembled here in convention. Deep, hard- 

 trodden trails ran in every direction, now 

 and then spreading out as the animals scat- 

 tered to feed on the masses of bunch 

 grass native to these mountains. Again, 

 however, fate was against us, for torrents of 

 rain came on, and we were forced to seek 

 a camp. After 2 hours of pouring it broke, 

 and we went out afoot to locate our hunt- 

 ing ground for the next day. This was 

 impossible because the animals seemed to 

 wander in every possible direction, behav- 

 ing so strangely that even Yarnall was at 

 fault, confessing that he had never before 

 seen elk act so. Finally we abandoned the 

 hope and returned to camp. 



Wednesday morning dawned bright and 

 frosty. Our breakfast — a scant affair, since 

 our 2 days' allowance of grub was run- 

 ning low — was soon eaten, and we started 

 early. A bunch of cows and calves was sud- 

 denly encountered, but suffered to escape. 

 We were after bulls. Mr. Y. felt sure the 

 elk would concentrate farther on, so we 

 pressed forward — interminably, it seemed to 

 me. I was hungry and tired, and rapidly be- 

 coming hopeless. 



Poor Balaam ! On his devoted head fell 

 all my wrath and disappointment, as if he 

 were the sole cause. 



All at once we heard a sharp noise, part 

 whistle, part snort. Mr. Y. remarked: 

 ' That's the curiosity snort of an elk; " I, 

 worn out with disappointment and Balaam, 

 insisted that it was only the squeak of 2 

 rubbing limbs among the tree-tops. So, 

 we proceeded. Crash! and a band of elk 

 not more than 50 yards away sprang into 

 sight, speeding through the timber. I was 

 off my horse in an instant, and my .50-115 

 Bullard rang out among the silent moun- 

 tains. I had had the honor of the first shot, 

 I wanted the cow badly. 



Alas! the dissipating smoke revealed — 

 not a dying cow — but the fading sterns of 5 

 elk scudding under full sail into dim dis- 



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