“What about mountain lions?” Sandy asked eagerly.
“You’ll get your cougar, Sandy,” Joe said. “Don’t worry. The Lost River Range is full of game. A regular hunter’s paradise.” He shook the frying pan and tested the johnny cake with a fork. “You know,” he said meditatively, rocking back on his heels, “next to a little spot in Montana I’ve got my eye on, I love this country best. It’s unspoiled,” he explained. “It’s exactly the way it was when men like Jim Bridger and John Colter first saw it nearly a hundred and fifty years ago.”
“Who were they?” Sandy wanted to know.
“Trappers. Guides, like myself. John Colter guided Lewis and Clark. He traded with my people, the Blackfeet, and was the first white man ever to see Yellowstone National Park. The Indians told him about it and he went to have a look for himself. When he got back to his trading station, nobody would believe him. A whole valley where the smoke comes right out of the ground! They laughed in his face!”
“What finally happened to Colter?” Mike asked.
“He died, still sticking to his story. He was only about thirty-eight or so. It was a hard country.”
“It still is,” Mr. Cook said.
“Yes,” Joe agreed. “But that’s what I like about it. Some day,” he said softly, staring out at the setting sun in the west, “I’m going to settle into that ranch in Montana and spend the rest of my life living with it. Right in the back yard of the wilderness. I hope I never see another city.”
“When will that be?” Sandy asked.
Joe laughed. “When I can save up enough money to buy it,” he replied.