ard mile after mile I was entranced with the richness of the
land, the abundance of game that had once held sway among the hills,
shown by the antlers of the elk parched white by the suns, which lay on
every side and the rams' horns often seen by the stream. A few bones of
the little gazelle were among the remains, and a heavy buffalo trail cut
the mountains where once the buffalo passed through this land out onto
the Yellowstone.

I had wandered a long way and now cut across the country to the camp
through rocky canyons and dense cedar growth. I started a bear from his
bed but could not find him, and then found that the bear had started a
large band of black-tail deer, which ran about a half a mile and then
walked leisurely along, cropping the bunch grass here and there. About a
mile from camp I jumped a bunch of fourteen of all kinds, and when they
broke cover out of a plum thicket I shot a two-year-old spike buck, cut
off his hams and carried him to camp, where I found the boys waiting for
some venison.

Our camp fire already lit up the valley, and the clear running stream
glistened as it passed over the granite and quartz of the Porcupine
Basin. Great shadows were thrown among the trees like the ghosts and
goblins on the ride of Tam O'Shanter, who reveled among the witches and
warlocks. But we were hungry and happy and turned our attention to the
broiling venison and brewing coffee.

After supper we began a study of the mountains and the probable cause of
gold being distributed all along the streams in such small quantities.
Some said it was deposited by a great glacier from the north, or some
volcanic action on or near the natural park, but no theory seemed wholly
satisfactory.

When the sun illumined a thousand peaks the next morning, after a
delightful rest, we rode away from this Holy Grail of the Sheep Eaters,
and it was not hard to imagine the character of the little men who lived
among these hills and valleys.

When we reached the top of the divide we took a south-eastern course for
the famous Paint Rock country, near Shell Creek and its tributaries. Our
route lay through the sage brush of the Bad Lands, and some of the party
were very anxious to stop at a mountain stream and catch some trout.
There were some old sluice-boxes and deserted cabins, which were very
interesting to the average sightseer.

But we pulled on for the Paint Rock, and after ten hours hard ride we
arrived on this sacred and histor