was, very fortunately, suffering from rheumatism, and he therefore
carried a long staff instead of his rifle; I say fortunately, for if
he had carried his rifle, it would have been impossible to stop his
firing at such game as bison, nor would he have spared the cows and
calves.

About the middle of the afternoon we crossed a low, rocky ridge, and
saw at our feet a basin, or round valley, of singular beauty. Its
walls were formed by steep mountains. At its upper end lay a small
lake, bordered on one side by a meadow of emerald green. The lake's
other side marked the edge of the frowning pine forest which filled
the rest of the valley. Beyond the lake the ground rose in a pass much
frequented by game in bygone days, their trails lying along it in
thick zigzags, each gradually fading out after a few hundred yards,
and then starting again in a little different place, as game trails so
often seem to do.

We bent our steps toward these trails, and no sooner had we reached
the first than the old hunter bent over it with a sharp exclamation of
wonder. There in the dust, apparently but a few hours old, were the
hoof-marks of a small band of bison. They were headed toward the lake.
There had been half a dozen animals in the party; one a big bull, and
two calves.

We immediately turned and followed the trail. It led down to the
little lake, where the beasts had spread and grazed on the tender,
green blades, and had drunk their fill. The footprints then came
together again, showing where the animals had gathered and walked off
in single file to the forest. Evidently they had come to the pool in
the early morning, and after drinking and feeding had moved into the