Not so with the rest of the party. Not a week later one of the cowboys rode into camp with a wild yelping, and there—behind him—were two of his companions, lugging in the body of a brown bear. He was a little fellow and his fur was all rubbed away in places, where he had scratched himself against the rocks. In spite of this he was good eating and his haunches were enjoyed by most of the party. Personally, I did not care for the meat and preferred canned tongue.
The elk trails were most abundant, and I knew that we would soon see these brown deer, for we gradually moved up to the summit of the Rockies, where were vast plateaus covered with millions of beautiful flowers. These the noble animals lived upon in summer and slept among them too, for I would often find round holes in the grass, where some of them had bedded down a short time before. One evening two of the horse-wranglers returned to camp with the haunch of a cow elk, and stated—with much glee—that they had run upon a band of six, coming through some fallen timber. Two had fallen before their rifles, and, after cutting off enough for the use of our camp, they had placed the bodies in a position that could be easily approached, at a later date, when bear would undoubtedly be feeding upon the venison.
A week later we had a glorious view of a large herd of elk.
While traversing a high belt of timber my companion—a surveyor—called out to me to hurry over and see something on the other extremity of the ridge, upon which he had just taken his position. When I reached his side I saw that he was looking in the direction of a high plateau, upon which fully a thousand elk were feeding. No bulls seemed to be there—they were all cows and calves—and were grazing like a herd of cattle. The little calves were butting at each other and frisking about in great glee, while their fond mammas watched them with loving and tender glances of affection. It was a beautiful and moving vista.
My companion had a field-glass, and we stood watching the changing mass of elk for at least an hour. They apparently had no knowledge of our presence, for the wind was blowing from them to us, so that no strange “scent of the trespassing man” came to their keen nostrils. There—in that beautiful mountain pasture—the baby elk were growing to maturity,—while far below in the valley the settlers were gathering the natural hay which usually fed them, for the use of their own cattle during the long and cruel winter. There would be much suffering and distress among the band, when they had left these mountain meadows for the valley.
A week later we met the trapper and plainsman: Jerry Lane. I had already come upon his cabin and had stopped there for luncheon, leaving a neat piece of paper on the door to the effect that,—
“Pardner, we used your tin plates, spoons, knives, and one can of potted tongue.”
High up in the hills the little log hut was situated near a stream of icy water. It was about sixteen by twenty feet, the floor covered with bear and wolf skins, and four rifles in the rack. Great steel traps hung upon the walls outside, and antelope hides were tacked against it. There were good books within: stories of hunting and adventure,—and upon the floor—were numerous copies of the Sunday New York Journal. Jerry Lane had lived well upon the summit of the Rockies.
I will never forget the view of the young trapper which came to me that morning. All around were the towering Rockies: an occasional fleck of snow upon the brown surface of the high cliffs; a gushing stream over on the right; the sage-brush plateau stretched away on every side, brown, bare, parched. A puff of dust first appeared in the far distance, then two figures rode up on horseback. They drew nearer and nearer. In front was the youthful personification of Buffalo Bill. It was Jerry Lane.