And now, as I propose to give some hunting experiences of those days, if
you will accompany me to Billings, on the Northern Pacific Railway, the
nearest town to my ranch and the Mecca to which the devout cattleman
drives his wagon for supplies, I will introduce you to the foot-hills
and mountains, and some of the adventures therein.
After four days on a sleeping-car, it is a delightful release to tumble
out on a frosty September morning, and, being guided to where the
ranch-wagon and crew are bivouacked just outside the limits of the
rapidly growing town, to get one's breakfast on terra firma. No time is
now to be wasted; the mules are hitched up; the little band of horses
are rounded together, and when we have jumped into our saddles, the
cook, who always handles the reins, gives a crack of his whip, and we
take our departure from civilization. A couple of miles brings us to a
primitive wire-rope ferry, where we cross the Yellowstone River, which
at this season of the year is low and clear; in a few minutes we are
over, and, ascending the bluffs on the other side, take our last look at
the beautiful valley we are leaving behind.
By night we reach Pryor's Creek, and picking out as good a camping-place
as possible, the mules are soon unhitched and with the horses turned
loose to graze. While the cook is preparing the evening meal, I bag a
few prairie-chickens to give variety to the fare. Breakfasting at
daylight the next morning, we are soon under way again, with Pryor's
Mountains in the distance as our goal for this day's journey. Toward
evening the white tepees of an Indian camp are visible clustered in a
picturesque group close to Pryor's Mountains. Passing them, not without
paying a slight tribute in the way of tobacco and such other gifts as
our copper-colored friends generally demand, we fairly enter Pryor's
Gap, and there, in a beautiful amphitheater, we again make camp. This
evening we must have trout for supper, so all hands go to work, and we
are soon rewarded with a fine mess of trout from the head waters of
Pryor's Creek.
The next day, as we reach the summit of the gap, one of the most
beautiful views in the country opens out. The great main range of the
Rocky Mountains stretches before us, its rugged, snow-capped peaks
glistening in the morning sun, and we long to be there, but many a long
mile still intervenes, and forty-four miles of desert has to be crossed
to-day. This is always an arduous undertaking. It is monotonous in the
extreme, and men and animals are sure to suffer for want of good water,
for after leaving Sage Creek on the other side of the gap, there is no
water to be had until Stinking Water River[A] is reached. But all
things must have an end, and at last, late in the evening, we find
ourselves encamped on the banks of that stream, beautiful despite its
unfortunate name.
[Footnote A: Bancroft, in his account of the early explorations of
Wyoming, refers to this river as follows: "It is a slander to use this
non-descriptive name for an inoffensive stream. The early trappers took
it from the Indians, who, in their peculiar fashion, called it 'the
river that ran by the stinking water,' referring to bad-smelling hot
springs on its banks."]
Fording the river the next morning, not a very terrifying operation in
its present low stage, we climb the steep bank and soon begin our long
ascent of the divide that separates us from our ranch and Greybull
River. Accompanied by an immense amount of expletives, and very bad
language, the mules are finally induced to gain the summit. Here even
the most casual observer could not fail to be impressed with the
magnificent and apparently indefinite expanse of mountain scenery, that,
turn which way he will, meets his view. However, we have no time to
linger, and picking our way among the countless buffalo wallows which
indent the level surface of the summit, the wagon, with its wheels
double locked, is soon groaning and creaking down the descent, which
leads to the merrily rushing Meeteetse, following which, down to its
junction with Greybull, we are soon inside our own fence, and are
joyously welcomed by the dogs. Here, too, I find my trusty friend and
companion of all my hunting trips, Tazwell Woody, a grizzled veteran of
the mountains, who once long ago claimed Missouri as his home. From the
ranch to the mountains is a comparatively short trip, for one day's
travel to the westward would place you well up on their slopes.
Let me say of this portion of the range that it is the most rugged,
broken, and precipitous of its whole extent, and the charm of overcoming
its apparent inaccessibility can only be appreciated by one who has
toiled and sweated in surmounting the difficulties of mountain travel
from a pure love of nature in its wildest and grandest form.
* * * * *
Experience having taught me long ago that it was well nigh impossible to
get good specimens of all the different varieties of big game on any one
trip, I made up my mind to devote a certain amount of time each year to
one variety. By this means their habits could be studied more closely,
and the main point never lost sight of. In a short paper like this I may
best take up the chief of these varieties one by one, and, without
regard to the time of their occurrence, tell something of my
experiences with each. And first, as to perhaps the shyest, the Rocky
Mountain sheep.
* * * * *
In the pursuit of Rocky Mountain sheep, the hunter, to be successful,
must have a fondness for the mountains, a sure foot, good wind, and a
head which no height will turn. These requisites, with patience and
perseverance, will, sooner or later, as the hunter gains experience,
reward him with ample returns. Sometimes, however, the unexpected will
happen, and the following tale may serve as an example.
We were camping well up in the mountains, and almost any hour of the day
sheep could be seen with the glasses. I was after sheep; it was my
intent, business, and purpose to get some if possible, and all my
energies were concentrated in that direction.
There were two fine rams in particular that we could see about a mile
and a half from camp occupying the slope of a rocky point or promontory
that jutted out from a spur of the range. These two had a commanding
position, for, while it seemed impossible to get to them from above,
they could see every movement from below or on each side of them.
However, after studying the country for two days, I found that by
ascending the mountain behind them and coming down again I could still
keep above them, though there was a very narrow ledge of rocks, rather a
hazardous place, that had to be crossed to get to the point they were
on. This narrow ledge they had to come back on to get to the main part
of the mountain; so, stationing my companion there, and taking off my
shoes, and putting on an extra pair of heavy stockings, I proceeded to
crawl toward the sheep.
With due care, and not making a sound, I made a most successful stalk.
Peering over the ledge, I raised my head just enough to be sure my game
was still there. They were there, sure enough, within seventy-five yards
of me, totally unconscious of danger, when all of a sudden they sprang
to their feet and dashed away from below me as though possessed of a
devil. I fired hastily, but of course missed, and turning, tried to run
back to head them off, wondering what had started them, as I knew I had
made no noise. But running over broken rock in one's stocking feet is a
very different thing from the slow, deliberate movements that brought me
there, and besides, in a few seconds I had the mortification of seeing
my would-be victims bounding across the narrow ledge that separated them
from the mountain. However, I thought with satisfaction that at least
one would meet its death from my companion in hiding; but, alas!
although the rams almost knocked him down, his cartridge missed fire,
and the game ran safely by.
Regaining my shoes, which was a great relief, I soon joined my
companion, and then discovered the curious adventure I had been made the
subject of. It seems that when I had reached a point well down on the
promontory I must have disturbed a cougar, which was evidently there for
the same purpose I was, and which had stealthily followed me as I
proceeded toward the sheep. Old Woody described it as highly amusing--I
sneaking down after the rams, and the panther sneaking down upon me. As
soon as the beast got an opportunity, it turned off, and, making the
descent, alarmed the rams and thus made my hunt a failure.
[Illustration: Stalking the Stalker.