"You bet yer! I wanted to see who that tearing war-horse belonged to. What shall I tell your gal when we get down Ogden?"
Again the Dutchman looked serious.
"You know dat gal?"
"I should smile," replied Dick, with hopeless melancholy.
"Vell—vell—vell: you tell dat gal I bin on vilt goose chase after mine dam olt hoss, vat run vays mit her letter. And py golly, partner, joos take care and don' get on inside track of dat gal. Eh? Vat? You nee'n't tell her vat else. I finish der tale ven I kom." And again profusely thanking us, the errant lover trotted away with his steed in tow.
One evening we camped below a likely-looking ridge for hunting, and, leaving the waggon next morning at "sun-up," set out in search of game, intending to bivouac a night in the upper woods. Elk had already begun to descend from the summits of the loftier ranges, whither, owing to the persecution of flies, they are forced during summer to retreat. It was necessary, therefore, to advance with caution even on the foot-hills.
We had worked our way up through a belt of fallen timber into a forest of magnificent pines interspersed with grassy glades and willow bottoms, and were slowly proceeding, when a low whistle from Dick attracted my attention. He had halted to the left of me, and with furious gesticulations was indicating something in front of him. As I turned, an elk sprang up. Uncertain whence danger threatened him, for a second he paused, but a bullet from my Express rifle settled his deliberations. When my broncho, scared by the report, had concluded his part in the performance, I was able to inquire the effect of the shot.
"Is he down, Dick?"
"You bet yer. He's a daisy! You've shot him in the couplings, and broke his back. I guess I'll finish him," and Dick put a bullet through its head.