the head of Wisdom river. Thither I went and hunted faithfully; there
was plenty of game of other kind, but of bison not a trace did we see.
Nevertheless a few days later that same year I came across these great
wild cattle at a time when I had no idea of seeing them.

It was, as nearly as we could tell, in Idaho, just south of the Montana
boundary line, and some twenty-five miles west of the line of Wyoming.
We were camped high among the mountains, with a small pack-train. On the
day in question we had gone out to find moose, but had seen no sign of
them, and had then begun to climb over the higher peaks with an idea
of getting sheep. The old hunter who was with me 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, above
timber line, 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, and hung high on the sides of the gorge
which formed its outlet. Beyond the lake the ground rose in a pass
evidently 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