His rifle is borne on his left shoulder. His powder horn and bullet pouch
hang under his right arm. In his bullet pouch he also carries spare
flints, steel and various odds and ends. Beneath the broad belt which
encircles his waist there is a large butcher knife in a sheath of buffalo
hide. There is a whetstone in a buckskin case made fast to the belt, and
also a small hatchet or tomahawk.

Thus accoutred, our young hunter and trapper sets out in search of the
most lonely ravine which he can find among the mountains. He would reach
if possible, some solitary stream which no white man's eye had ever
beheld. He has no road, no trail to guide him. He rides his pony and leads
his mule. Over the prairie, through the forest, across the streams, in
silence and in a solitude which to him is not lonely, he passes on his
way.

Night comes. If pleasant, he unburdens his horse and mule; drives his iron
pickets into the ground, to which his animals are attached by ropes about
thirty feet long, generally in pastures of rich grass or wild oats; builds
a fire, cooks his supper, rolls himself in his blanket and sleeps soundly
till morning. If the weather is unpleasant it makes but little difference.
He knows exactly what to do. In a short time he constructs a frail but
ample shelter; and then, with his feet towards the fire, sleeps sweetly
regardless of the storm. His animals have no more need of shelter than
have the bears and the buffaloes.

This is the _ordinary_ life of the hunter. There are, of course,
exceptions when calamity and woe come. A joint may be sprained, a limb
broken. Fire may burn, or Indians may come, bringing captivity and
torture. But the ordinary life of the hunter, gratifying his natural
taste, has many fascinations. This is evidenced by the eagerness with