round the end of the mountain. From this I got my first clear
impression of the topography of the country surrounding our
objective point. Buckskin mountain ran its blunt end eastward to
the Canyon--in fact, formed a hundred miles of the north rim. As
it was nine thousand feet high it still held the snow, which had
occasioned our lengthy desert ride to get back of the mountain. I
could see the long slopes rising out of the desert to meet the
timber.

As we bowled merrily down grade I noticed that we were no longer
on stony ground, and that a little scant silvery grass had made
its appearance. Then little branches of green, with a blue
flower, smiled out of the clayish sand.

All of a sudden Jones stood up, and let out a wild Comanche yell.
I was more startled by the yell than by the great hand he smashed
down on my shoulder, and for the moment I was dazed.

"There! look! look! the buffalo! Hi! Hi! Hi!"

Below us, a few miles on a rising knoll, a big herd of buffalo
shone black in the gold of the evening sun. I had not Jones's
incentive, but I felt enthusiasm born of the wild and beautiful
picture, and added my yell to his. The huge, burly leader of the
herd lifted his head, and after regarding us for a few moments
calmly went on browsing.

The desert had fringed away into a grand rolling pastureland,
walled in by the red cliffs, the slopes of Buckskin, and further
isolated by the Canyon. Here was a range of twenty-four hundred