"Ghost of wasted power!" repeated the Groom. "That's not half bad, Poet."
Another turn, and the Absarakas notched the eastern horizon; and the whole huge valley, with titanic slopes as its farther wall, and the zigzag trench of the cañon as its central drain, lay at their feet. The air was cooler, now, and the breath came short, as lungs labored for more of the rare atmosphere. At their feet lay green meadows and open parks, on which they might have expected to see grazing herds of shaggy black Highland cattle.
Again a few starts and stops, and as if turned into view by machinery, came the northwest quarter of the Park, with all the country they had traversed—Electric Peak, in whose shadow they had entered upon their journey, Sepulcher Mountain, with its grave and the monuments at head and foot no longer to be made out, the valley of Carnelian Creek at their feet, and beyond it the jagged range, of which Prospect, Folsom and Storm Peaks are the culminations.
"That's something you don't always see," said Aconite, pointing to something away off to the northwest. "That thing is the Devil's Slide."
"And we saw his Inkstand yesterday," said the Hired Man. "He seems to've preëmpted a lot of this here region."
"Well," remarked the Colonel sardonically, "isn't the Park dedicated to the enjoyment, as well as the benefit of the people?"
"It started as 'Colter's Hell,'" suggested the Groom.
"In Old Jim Bridger's time," said Aconite, "it rained fire up here in these hills one year."
"I don't doubt it," assented the Artist. "And we've either seen or are promised a view of Hell Roaring Creek, Hell Broth Springs, Hell's Half Acre, Satan's Arbor, and a lot of other infernal real estate."
"It's heavenly up here!" said the Bride.