520 
FOREST AND STREAM 
October, 1919 
cepticn of the high bald rock of Harney’s 
Peak, standing away to the south-east, 
the limestone uplift lying to the west of 
the fault, is now considerably the high- 
est. 
The limestone to the east of the frac- 
ture was not elevated nearly so high as 
that to the west, consequently the erosion 
was all to the eastward. To the west re- 
mains a comparatively smooth and level 
table-land, 20 miles wide, naturally 
slightly inclined to the westward from 
its most eastern brim. 
The western face, extending along the 
Wyoming line, is broken 
by numerous short, steep 
canyons, filled with dense 
thickets of pine, fir, and 
quaking-asp. Three wind- 
ing, grassy g u 1 c h e s — 
Beaver, Hell, and Gillette 
Canyons — constitute the 
water-shed of the greater 
part of the region. So shal- 
low and level are these and 
their branches, that to- 
ward their sources they 
become a succession of 
narrow park-like openings 
in the heavy pine forest. 
The Black-tailed deer 
prefer the more open 
points and ridges of the 
western brakes. The 
White-tails, more timid, 
avoid the sunny open hill- 
sides so dear to the hearts 
of their cousins, and keep 
back in the heavier tim- 
ber. They are inclined, 
however, to stay away 
from large areas of dense 
thickets and under-growth, 
leaving that to their other 
cousins, the Fantails. 
The Fantail is an un- 
usual type of deer, found 
in fairly good numbers 
along the eastern brink 
of the limestone, and in 
the heavier growth down 
on the slate formation. It 
is a miniature edition of 
the Whitetail, weighing, 
when full-grown, from 40 
to 60 pounds. In flight, it 
displays a somewhat 
spreading white tail, per- 
haps a foot in length, held 
upright, from which it 
derives its name. In the 
thick cover they inhabit, 
stalking them is practical- 
ly a waste of time. 
A S we took the road westward toward 
Hill City, nobody could have 
changed places with us. At Ten- 
derfoot Springs, ten miles above Hill 
City, we made our first night’s camp. 
The next morning was cloudy and colder, 
■with a raw north wind, and as we took 
the road to Custer Park, we glanced 
often and anxiously at the sky. We were 
not afraid it would snow; we were afraid 
it wouldn’t. Sure enough, the cutting 
■wind took on a new edge of driven snow, 
as we turned west across the Park, to 
bear a little to the north up French 
Creek. We may have been cold; I don’t 
remember, but we were happy. We 
would be on the hunting grounds tomor- 
row, with a fresh tracking snow. We 
had merely started a day late. 
Crossing the summit in a foot of snow, 
we reached Bull Springs, three miles be- 
yond, as the storm cleared away and the 
evening came on, fair and very cold. We 
wanted to do our first hunting twelve or 
fifteen miles to the north, and decided to 
push on to Alkali Springs, about four 
miles, before camping for the night. 
Bright and early the next morning, in a 
temperature of something like 20 degrees 
below zero, with our wagon wheels sing- 
ing a merry tune, we were again on our 
way. After a couple of hours of hard 
going, we turned off to the east for a 
mile or so, and went into camp at the 
north edge of a small sheltered park. 
Springs are rare in the limestone, and 
there was none at this camp, but we 
cared little for that when there was snow 
to be melted. As we hustled the harness 
off the mules, and picketed them to two 
small trees in the park, avoiding unnec- 
essary noises in the process, we were con- 
tinually looking off into the woods, half 
expecting to see deer moving across the 
open spaces among the snow-laden trees. 
Although the sun was bright, the per- 
fectly still air was somewhat sharp, as 
we buckled on our cartridge belts, and 
loading our guns as we walked out of 
camp, started away through the soft dry 
snow. Win and Ben had elected to hunt 
through the country to the east for some 
distance, swinging to the south. I paral- 
leled them for a half mile, gradually cir- 
cling to the north. When we had been 
separated for perhaps a half hour, dur- 
ing which not so much as a track had 
crossed my path in the silent world of 
white, I heard two heavy reports, with 
an inter\'al of a few sec- 
onds between, in the direc- 
tion they had taken. 
After another hour, I 
saw the first break of the 
level surface of the snow 
in a long straight track 
coming down the slope at 
the right, and crossing a 
hundred yards ahead. An 
old mountain lion had 
made it during the night, 
as I ascertained where he 
had passed beneath a 
leaning tree. Brushing the 
snow from the end of a 
near-by log, I sat down to 
eat my lunch, looking at 
the round foot-prints of 
the lion, four inches across 
the pads, where he had 
made them in the shal- 
lower snow. There was 
something business-like in 
the straight course the big 
cat had held across the 
wide timbered flat. It was 
no uncommon thing to see 
these sinister-looking 
tracks in the Limestone 
country, but in all our 
hunting we had never en- 
countered one of their 
makers. 
I had lighted my pipe, 
and was considering going 
on, when two more shots 
broke the stillness. Of the 
events of a day’s hunting 
in a wild country, not the 
least thrilling is the sound 
of a comrade’s gun. One 
has plenty of time for 
speculation regarding the 
chances of the shot, and 
looks forward to the story 
around the evening camp- 
fire with the keenest an- 
ticipation. 
Getting well to the 
north, I was swinging back to the 
west through an open country of 
rolling sugar-loaf hills and islands of 
timber, a little disallusioned regarding 
the region, which we had never be- 
fore hunted, when over a rise at the 
edge of a timbered hillside, I glimpsed 
the horns of a big buck, apparently lying 
down. I instantly ducked, and working 
over to the left a few yards, crawled up 
behind a big log, which would bring me 
in plain sight of the spot at a distance 
of about 100 yards. 
With the 40-90 cocked and at my 
shoulder, I rose up very slowly behind 
the snow-covered log, to see the largest 
A buck and a doe moving softly through the light snow 
