M. Mark Miller, Author

Author: mmarkmiller

  • Views: Yellowstone Park Belongs in Montana

    After I urged my FaceBook Friends last week to buy my book as a Christmas gift, sales surged. In fact, Amazon.com ranked Adventures in Yellowstone Number One among books on Wyoming history for a while.

    Of course, I’m grateful for book buyers, and it’s always fun to be on top, but I think Wyoming history is the wrong category. Although most of Yellowstone Park’s land mass lies in Wyoming, most of its early history is in Montana. In fact, the Montana territorial legislature asked the U.S. Congress to attach the park to Montana twice, in 1872 and 1874. The territorial legislators offered two interrelated reasons for their request: the wonders of the Yellowstone Plateau were accessible only from Montana, and, Montana residents had explored the area and begun to develop it.

    As the accompanying relief map shows, extremely rugged mountains surround the Yellowstone Plateau. As the “Memorial” the territorial legislature drafted in 1872 put it:

    . . . this portion of Wyoming is only accessible from the side of Montana, contains the heads of streams whose courses lie wholly in Montana, while, through the enterprise of citizens of Montana, it has been thoroughly explored, and its innumerable and magnificent array of wonder in geysers, boiling springs, mud volcanoes, burning mountains, lakes, and waterfalls brought to the attention of the world. Your memorialists would, therefore, urge upon your honorable bodies that the said portion of Wyoming Territory be ceded to Montana . . . .

    The legislators had a point. While the trappers of the Mountain Man Era sometimes entered what is now Yellowstone Park over the rugged mountains to the east and south, by the time the Montana and Wyoming Territories were established in the 1860s, most explorers came from north and west. In 1863, Walter DeLacy led a group of prospectors from Bannack, Montana, up the Snake River into what is now Yellowstone Park. In 1869, David Folsom and his friends, Charles Cook and William Peterson, left Diamond City, Montana, and went up the Yellowstone River to the Yellowstone Plateau.

    A year later, an expedition led by General Henry Washburn, with an Army escort under Lt. Gustavus Doane, followed the same route as the Folsom-Cook-Peterson party. In 1871, U.S. Commissioner of Mines Rossiter Raymond led a party of men up the Madison River to see Yellowstone’s wonders.

    Also, in 1871, Montana entrepreneurs were racing to capture the tourist trade. Bozeman businessmen were building a road up the Yellowstone River through the canyon that would come to be named after toll taker, “Yankee Jim” George. At the same time, Virginia City businessmen were extending the road from Henry’s Lake to the Lower Geyser Basin. And, other adventurous Montana businessmen were building a hotel and bathhouses at Mammoth Hot Springs.

    And, what were Wyoming residents doing then to develop Yellowstone Park? Nothing!

    In 1874, the Montana territorial legislature renewed its request to the U.S. Congress that the part of Yellowstone Park that “now lies within the Territory of Wyoming be detached therefrom and attached to the territory of Montana.” Obviously, the Congress demurred. Even today, after more than a century of road building, nearly twice as many visitors enter Yellowstone Park from Montana entrances than from Wyoming entrances.

    I think Montana pioneers made a good case for making all of Yellowstone Park a part of Montana. And, it would make more sense for Amazon.com to categorize Adventures in Yellowstone with Montana books instead of Wyoming books. But I understand that geography trumps history.

    I’m just glad when my book sells—no matter what category it’s in. And remember, Adventures in Yellowstone makes a great gift for Valentines Day.

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    — Relief map from the Yellowstone Digital Slide File.

    — Related Stories you might enjoy:

  • A Tale: An October Snow Storm at Yellowstone Canyon — 1880

    Thomas Moran, The Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone


    Carrie Strahorn was an adventurous woman who insisted on traveling with her husband  Robert  (she called him “Pard”) as he traveled the country searching for destinations for the Union Pacific Railroad. Carrie wrote newspaper columns about her adventures and eventually collected them in a book,     Fifteen Thousand Miles by Stage.

    Despite warnings about winter storms, the Strahorns decided to visit Yellowstone Park in October 1880. Their guide was George Marshall, who operated a stage line between Virginia City, Montana, and a hotel he built at the Lower Geyser Basin. Also, Park Superintendent Philetus Norris accompanied the Strahorns during  part of their trip.

    The weather was fine when the Strahorns began, but as they returned to Marshall’s hotel after visited the Mammoth Hot Springs, a snow storm caught them. Here’s Carrie’s story about that.

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    The rain changed to snow, and through the storm we saw the disconsolate face of Mr. Marshall, as he stood near the smoldering campfire muttering to himself as if he had become demented. Upon inquiring the cause of his trouble, he said as soon as he saw the snow he went to look for the horses—and they were gone.

    “Gone!” we all exclaimed in unison and despair. The horses were gone and we were at the end of our rations with a big storm upon us. The many warnings not to go into the park so late went buzzing through our minds like bumblebees. The snow was several inches deep and falling faster every minute.

    As soon as daylight came the men started in search of the horses. I was left all alone in the camp for several hours waiting with my rifle in hand, until after a hard and hurried chase the horses were overtaken and brought back. We knew that we should hurry home as quickly as possible—but to be within five miles and not to see the falls was asking too much. With the return of the horses we resolved at once to go on.

    Superintendent Norris thought it was not best for me to go to the falls. The trip must be a hasty one, and the start home not to be delayed longer than possible for fear of continued storm. The snow ceased falling soon after daylight, but the sun did not appear and there was every indication of more snow. Pard was reluctant to leave me, and knew what disappointment lurked in my detention, but he was overruled. With Mr. Norris he started off leaving me with Mr. Marshall—who was to have everything ready for the return to Fire Hole Basin on their return.

    The more I meditated the more I felt that I could not give up seeing the canyon and falls. To be balked by a paltry five or ten miles was more than I could stand. I called to Mr. Marshall to saddle my horse at once for I was going to the falls.

    He laughingly said “all right,” but he went right on with his work and made no move toward the horse. I had to repeat the request the third time most emphatically and added that I would start out on foot if he did not get my horse without more delay.

    He said I could not follow them for I would not know the way, but I reminded him of the freshly fallen snow, and that I could easily follow the trail. He was vexed with my persistence as I was with his resistance, and he finally not only saddled my horse but his own, and rather sulkily remarked that if the bears carried off the whole outfit I would be to blame. When well on our way I persistently urged him to return to the camp and he finally did turn back, but waited watched me until I turned out of sight.

    Alone in the wild woods full of dangerous animals my blood began to cool, and I wondered what I should do if I met a big grizzly who would not give up the trail. The silence of that great forest was appalling and the newly fallen snow made cushions for the horse’s feet as I sped noiselessly on. It was a gruesome hour, and to cheer myself I began to sing, and the echoing voice coming back from the treetops was mighty good company.

    The five miles seemed to stretch out interminably. When about a mile from the falls other voices fell on my ear, and I drew rein to locate the sound, then gave a glad bound forward for it was Pard on his way back. Mr. Norris said anyone might think that Pard and I had been separated for a month, so glad were we to see each other.

    Pard could not restrain his joy that I had followed, and sending the superintendent on to the camp he at once wheeled about and went with me to the falls and canyon that I came so near missing. Up and down o’er hills and vales we dashed as fast as our horses would carry us until the upper falls were reached where we dismounted and went up to the edge of the canyon to get a better view.

    These falls are visible from many points along the canyon, and. the trail runs close to them and also by the river for several miles, the tourist many glimpses of grandeur. Above the upper falls the river is a series of sparkling cascades, when suddenly the stream narrows to thirty yards, and the booming cataract rushes over the steep ledge a hundred and twenty feet and rebounds in fleecy foam of great iridescence. The storm increased and the heavens grew darker every hour, but we pushed on.

    Moran has been chided for his high coloring of this canyon, but one glimpse of its rare, rich hues would convince the most skeptical that exaggeration is impossible. We longed to stay for days and weeks and hear this great anthem of nature and study its classical and noble accompaniment, but there was a stern decree that we must return, and that without delay.

    There was no hope for sightseeing as we kept on our way back to the Lower Geyser Basin. Without giving our horses or ourselves over half an hour to rest at noon, we rode on and on, up hill and down, through woods and plains, fording the Fire Hole River again and again, until at last the lights of Marshall camp were in sight. The storm had continued all day, turning again from snow to rain in the valley. How tired I was when we rode up to the door. Our forty-mile ride was ended at seven o’clock, but it took three men to get me off my horse.

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    — Adapted from Carrie Adell Strahorn, Fifteen Thousand Miles by Stage, 1911.

    — Image, Yellowstone Digital Slide File.

    — You might also enjoy “Big Boots to Fill” by Carrie Strahorn.

    — Read more of Carrie’s story in my book,  Adventures in Yellowstone.

  • Narrative History or Historical Fiction? — Redux

    In September, I posted a rumination on this question: Should I approach my next book, Encounters in Yellowstone 1877, as narrative history or as historical fiction? Then I was researching the morning of August 25, 1877, when George Cowan regained consciousness in Yellowstone Park after Indians had shot him in the head and left him for dead. I thought I could write a more vivid account of George’s ordeal if I knew what the weather was like on that day. It occurred to me that if I were writing fiction, I could just invent the weather.

    Recently, the issue arose again when I was writing about the time George and his companions spent at Henry’s Lake on their way to the park. After several days of hard travel, they stopped to rest at the sportsmen’s paradise.

    One day, while everybody else went out on the lake in boats, George and his wife, Emma, decided to ride horses into the nearby mountains. They said they were going to hunt. Elk and deer were supposed to be abundant the area, but after a long day, George and Emma returned empty handed.

    I’d like to write that they went for some “just the two of us” time. After all, they were newlyweds who had been traveling for a week and sharing a tent with Emma’s 13-year-old sister, Ida. It’s not far-fetched to think the Cowans wanted to be alone.

    I’m not just wanting to write a raunchy sex scene to liven things up. (Not that I don’t like a raunchy sex scene as much as anybody.) If I could show George and Emma as lovers, that would strengthen an important narrative theme that pervades their story and gives it coherence.

    In a later scene, when George regains consciousness after the Indians shot him, his first concern is not that he is alone in the wilderness with bleeding gunshot wounds. Instead, he anguishes over Emma’s fate at the hands of the Indians.

    The theme of the Cowan’s devotion returns still later after Emma  gives George up for dead and returns home to mourn. When she finally learns that George has survived, she makes a heroic horse-and-wagon trip to be by his side—175 miles in 31 hours.

    If I were writing fiction, it would be easy to foreshadow the drama of such experiences. To make a  love story for George and Emma. I could write something like this:

    George winked at Emma when he heard Ida say that she wanted to join the boating expedition on the lake. “Emma and I are going to see if we can bag us an elk,” he announced.

    The newly weds rode their horses away from the lake. After an hour, they crested a hill and headed down toward a stream that flowed out of the mountains.

    “There’s a nice spot,” Emma said, pointing to a grove of aspens that was bordered by a meadow.

    George dismounted and helped Emma off her horse. “I’ll picket the horses,” he said.

    George tied the horses in a grassy spot on long ropes and loosened the cinches on their saddles so they could graze. When he looked back, he saw that Emma had spread a blanket in deep shade under the aspen canopy.

    “There is no chance that the bright sun would burn our bare skin there,” George thought.

    There isn’t a shred of evidence that anything like that happened, and I don’t expect to find any. In the Victorian Era, genteel people like the Cowans didn’t talk about their feelings, and certainly not about their sex lives. If I stay with narrative history, I can’t make things up. It doesn’t matter that fictional scenes are completely plausible and re-enforce the narrative. I can only write things I can document.

    But there might be a way to stay with narrative history and still hint at a love life for George and Emma.  Would it be okay to speculate about their activities and motives—as long as I’m careful to let readers know that I’m moving beyond the facts? Could I write something like this:

    George and Emma mounted their horses and rode off to the mountains, ‘To hunt elk and deer,’ they said. But maybe the newly-weds just wanted to be alone after sharing their tent with Ida for a week.

    What do you think?  Should I switch to fiction, or stick to verifiable facts, or add overt speculation?

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    — To see related posts, click on “Narrative History” under the Categories Button on the right side of this page.

  • ******** S*E*A*S*O*N*’*S *** G*R*E*E*T*I*N*G*S ********

    Winter at Old Faithful Geyser & Inn

    — Postcard, Yellowstone Digital Slide File.

  • A Tale: A Near Tragedy on Uncle Tom’s Trail

    When Louis Downing visited Yellowstone National Park in 1911, good roads, comfortable hotels and camps, and tour guides left little room for adventure. But, as Downing found out, travelers could still get a thrill by taking “Uncle Tom’s Trail” to the base of the Lower Yellowstone Fall.

    Downing, a druggist from Hamilton, Montana, toured the park “The Wylie Way,” with a group of people he called “the family,” because they had become such fine friends on the trip. Here’s his description of what happened to members of the family when they decided to descend “Uncle Tom’s Trail.”

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    After sending a few cards, Grace D., Mr. Jewell, Jane D., Sis, Lee and Doc followed a pretty trail through the forest to Uncle Tom’s Trail. A big sign marked “Dangerous” hung at the top.

    At the bottom of the trail, we could see a guide helping two women down—almost lifting them from rock to rock. Jane D. promptly decided that long skirts and high heels were not safe on that trail and refused to start. The boys agreed with her, but Grace, who wore flat heels, had started.

    Sis wanted to go but agreed to remain at the top with Jane D. Doc went down like a squirrel. Mr. Jewell and Lee remained near Grace. Almost half way down Brother Lee’s Kodak fell to the bottom and broke into a dozen pieces. When they reached the river, they sat on a large rock and drank some of the water. They were directly under the falls, and the view in either direction was magnificent.

    A light rain caused them to fear that the slippery rocks would make ascent dangerous so they started up the trail though they could have spent hours in the canyon. They reached the top in twenty-two minutes.

    Following the roadway, they came to a flight of stairs leading to a platform built close to the fall. The green water and white foam plunging over the rocks was simply magnificent.

    Grace D. says the climb up those steps was the hardest she had ever taken; yet, the view was worth the effort. Doc took a picture of the Falls from this point.

    In the meantime, the girls sat at the top of the trail—the mosquitoes swarming about them. They had almost made up their minds to start down when Sis slipped and fell a little to the left of the trail. She slid several feet before she could get hold of a rock that would hold her. Even then she realized that it would soon loosen, so while Jane D. frantically shouted for help Sis managed to pull herself up to the roots of a tree while the mosquitoes settled on her arms making it almost impossible to hold on.

    Jane D. tried to signal they boys, but they were too far away to realize what she meant and merely waved their hands. She knew that Sis could not hold on much longer, so she ran toward the road and finally attracted the attention of several tourists. Mr. L.F. Huesselmann of Osage, Iowa, reached the scene first, but Sis, knowing that he could not pull her up alone, held on until Mr. W.F. Schroeder of Oakland, California, reached the trail. They succeeded in getting her up and several feet from the trail before she weakened and sat down. Jane D. was pale and nervous and Mrs. Schroeder was badly frightened. She said her knees had just given way when she saw Sis hanging above the trail.

    Sis herself was over the fright in a few minutes, and laughed hysterically, but poor Jane D. couldn’t see anything to laugh at and said so.

    ∞§∞

    —   Louis E. Downing Diary. K. Ross Toole Archives, University of Montana Library, Missoula.

    — Colorized Photo, Yellowstone Digital Slide File.

    — You might also enjoy F. Dumont Smith’s story of a trip to the base of the Lower Fall of the Yellowstone.

  • News: Holiday Spirit Lives in Small Town America

    A Cream Separator

    The highlight of my book signing last night occurred when carolers stopped at the Manhattan Museum to regale us with song. It seemed like everybody who lives in this town of 2000 was milling around downtown, greeting each other with cheerful smiles, and popping in and out of decorated stores to check out offerings and buy Christmas gifts. There was no piped in music to drown out the authentic sounds of holiday greetings, carolers, and the clip-clop of the horses that pulled a hay-ride wagon.

    I arrived early and had time to tour the new museum, which is housed in the old buidling that used to be a combination fire station and city jail. When I looked into a jail cell filled with dairy equipment—milk cans, strainers, and a cream separator—I was reminded of the times my brothers and I rushed to finish the evening milking so we could open our presents on Christmas Eve. (My parents had the wisdom to know it’s better to reward children who work in a dairy barn with early opening of presents than to make them wait until after morning milking.)

    I love these small town museums that have sprung up across Montana. They do such a good job of letting us peek into the past. I could almost smell my mother’s cooking when I looked at the collection of kitchen appliances from the time when electricity was new in rural America. I could almost see my father working in his shop when I looked at the collection of antique tools—a saw for cutting loose hay, tongs for hauling blocks of ice, and wrenches for keeping your Model T running.

    I enjoyed chatting with fellow author, Michele Corriel, and bought a copy of her mid-grade book, Fairview Felines: A Newspaper Mystery. She reciprocated by buying two copies of Adventures in Yellowstone: Early Travelers Tell Their Tales.

    Like most authors I crave fans so it was great to hear people praise my articles from The Big Sky Journal like the one on early Yellowstone Entrepreneurs, and from The Pioneer Museum Quarterly like “Tales of the Belgrade Bull.”

    I had a good time—and sold a few books.

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  • News: Adventures In Yellowstone Book Signing

    I’ll be signing copies of my book, Adventures In Yellowstone: Early Travelers Tell Their Tales, on Thursday, December 9, at the Museum in Manhattan, Montana. I’ll be appearing with fellow author Michele Corriel, the author of Fairview Felines. I’m looking forward to meeting her.

    Festivities include a chili feed at the Senior Center, horse-drawn hayrides, Christmas carolers, and activities for the kids. Shops open their doors and invite folks in for refreshment and conversation.

    Come by if you want a dose of small town holiday cheer. And don’t forget to stop by the museum for signed books.  They make great Christmas gifts.

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  • A Tale: The First Written Description of Yellowstone Geysers — Daniel T. Potts, 1827


    By the early 1800’s trappers were scouring the Rocky Mountains  for beaver. Evidence of  their travel is sketchy, but we know that trapper brigades reached the Yellowstone Plateau by 1826.

    In 1947, two elderly ladies offered to sell the National Park Service three letters that were then 120 years old. A fur trapper named Daniel T. Potts had sent one of them to his brother in 1827. It is thought to be the first written description of the thermal features of the Upper Yellowstone by someone who actually saw them. Here’s the famous “Letter from Sweet Lake.”

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    Sweet Lake
    July 8th 1827

    Respected Brother,

    Shortly after writing to you last year I took my departure for the Blackfoot Country. We took a northerly direction about fifty miles where we cross Snake River or the South fork of Columbia—which heads on the top of the great chain of Rocky Mountains that separate the water of the Atlantic from that of the Pacific. Near this place Yellowstone South fork of Missouri and the Henrys fork head at an angular point. The head of the Yellowstone has a large fresh water lake on the very top of the mountain—which is about one hundred by forty miles in diameter and as clear as crystal.

    On the south borders of this lake is a number of hot and boiling springs—some of water and others of most beautiful fine clay. The springs throw particles to the immense height of from twenty to thirty feet in height. The clay is white and of a pink. The water appears fathomless; it appears to be entirely hollow underneath.

    There is also a number of places where the pure sulphur is sent forth in abundance. One of our men visited one of those whilst taking his recreation. There at an instant the earth began a tremendous trembling. With difficulty he made his escape when an explosion took place resembling that of thunder. During our stay in that quarter, I heard it every day.

    From this place by a circuitous rout to the northwest, we returned. Two others and myself pushed on in the advance for the purpose of accumulating a few more Beaver. In the act of passing through a narrow confine in the Mountain, we where met plumb in face by a large party of Blackfeet Indians. Not knowing our number, they fled into the mountain in confusion—and we to a small grove of willows. Here we made every preparation for battle. After finding our enemy as much alarmed as ourselves we mounted our Horses which where heavily loaded we took the back retreat.

    The Indian raised a tremendous yell and showered down from the mountaintop. They had almost cut off our retreat when put whip to our horses. They pursued us in close quarters until we reached the plains where we left them behind.

    Tomorrow I depart for the west. We are all in good health and hope that this letter will find you in the same situation. I wish you to remember my best respects to all enquiring friends particularly your wife.

    Remain yours most affectionately.

    Daniel T. Potts

    ∞§∞

    — Original manuscript, Yellowstone National Park Research Library.

    — Sketch by E.S. Paxson, Montana Historical Society

    — You might also enjoy:

  • News and Views: Three Recent Books Describe Early Yellowstone Travel

    I was delighted this morning to find a brand new, autographed copy of Paul Schullery’s book, Old Yellowstone Days, on my breakfast table. Now I can retire the 1977 edition that I refer to often. It’s falling apart.

    The re-issue of Paul’s book means that three collections of first-person accounts of early travel to Yellowstone National Park have been published in the last two years. Old Yellowstone Days joins Ho! For Wonderland: Travelers Accounts of Yellowstone, 1872-1914 by Lee H. Whittlesey and Elizabeth A. Watry and my book, Adventures In Yellowstone: Early Travelers Tell Their Tales.

    At a superficial level, a single blurb could describe all three books: “A collection of interesting stories about nineteenth century travel to the world’s first national park by the people who lived the adventures.” But, the books really are quite different. In fact, only two of the forty stories contained in the three books appear more than once.

    Schullery focuses on celebrities. His book includes Rudyard Kipling’s description of Yellowstone as “a howling wilderness . . . full of the freaks of nature,” and his condescending description of a Fourth of July Celebration as “wild advertisement, gas, bunkum, blow, anything you please beyond the bounds of common sense,” and Theodore Roosevelt’s lament that hunters were wiping out all of America’s big game—bison, elk and moose, as well as Frederick Remington’s description of his adventures helping soldiers capture poachers.

    Whittlesey and Watry provide a wide sample of “ordinary” Yellowstone experiences. They begin with Montana Pioneer Granville Stuart’s detailed descriptions of everything he saw when the park was just a year old in 1873. They end with Elbert and Alice Hubbard’s precious accounts of what they saw in 1914. Whittlesey and Watry approach their task in a scholarly manner liberally sprinkling their book with footnotes to explain unclear references.

    I take the opposite approach focusing on extraordinary tales filled with adventure, like Emma Cowan’s story of watching Indians shoot her husband in the head, or with humor, like the Earl of Dunraven’s hilarious explanation of how to pack a mule. I don’t use a single footnote and edit extensively for easy reading by today’s readers.

    The books are testament to the enormous diversity of the Yellowstone experience. Fans of Yellowstone Park would enjoy all of them. So would fans of history. And fans of well told stories.

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  • A Tale: Wapiti Are The Stupidest Brutes — 1874

    Most early Yellowstone tourists came from the adjacent territories because getting to the park was too expensive for other people. But a few wealthy adventurers from distant places found the time and money to make the long trip. Hunting, which was perfectly legal until the Army took over administration of Yellowstone Park in 1886, was a prime attraction.

    One such traveler was Windham Thomas Wyndam-Quin, the fourth Earl of Dunraven. A fabulously wealthy Irish nobleman, Lord Dunraven hired several men to accompany him. One of them was Fredrick Bottler, a rancher who settled in the Paradise Valley on the Yellowstone River in 1868. Bottler was familiar with Yellowstone’s wonders and served as an outfitter, guide and hunter for several early expeditions.

    Dunraven, who had been a war correspondent for British newspapers, was an astute observer with a droll wit. In addition to his stories about watching geysers and hunting big game, he offers humorous advice on how to pack a mule, and tells about roasting fresh elk meat over a campfire.

    He wrote several books about his travel adventures. Here’s his description of Elk Hunting from The Great Divide, one of his most popular.

    ∞§∞

    We wound our way towards the head of the valley, half asleep, for the day was very hot. Before long I jerked my horse on to his haunches and slid quietly off. The others followed my example without a word, for they too had caught a glimpse of the dark brown forms of some wapiti feeding quietly in the wood. Bottler, in his enthusiasm, seized me violently by the arm and hurried into the timber, ejaculating at every glimpse of the forms moving through the trees.

    “There they go! There they go! Shoot! Now then! There’s a chance.” At the time he was dragging me along, and I could no more shoot than fly. At last I shook myself clear of him, and, getting a fair easy shot at a large fat doe, fired and killed her.

    Wapiti are the stupidest brutes in creation; and, instead of making off at once, the others all bunched up and stared about them, so that we got two more before they made up their minds to clear out. There was a fine stag in the herd, but, as is usually the case, he managed to get himself well among the hinds out of harm’s way, and none of us could get a chance at him.

    Bottler and I followed his tracks for an hour, but could not come up with him; and, finding that he had taken clear up the mountain, we returned to the scene of action. There we found the rest of the party busily engaged in cutting up the huge deer. One of them was a hind, in first-rate condition and as fat as butter. We were very glad of fresh meat, and, as the ground was very suitable, determined to camp right there, and send some of the flesh down to the main camp in the morning. We pitched our Lilliputian tents at the foot of one of a hundred huge hemlocks, set a fire, and proceeded to make ourselves comfortable for the night.

    We were all smoking round the fire—a most attentive audience, watching with much interest the culinary feats which Bottler was performing—when we were startled by a most unearthly sound.

    Bottler knew it well, but none of us strangers had ever heard a wapiti stag roaring before, and it is no wonder we were astonished at the noise. The wapiti bellows forth one great roar, commencing with a hollow, harsh, unnatural sound, and ending in a shrill screech like the whistle of a locomotive.

    In about ten minutes this fellow called again, a good deal nearer, and the third time he was evidently close to camp, so we started out. Advancing cautiously, we presently, through a bush, distinguished in the gloom the I saw body and antlered head of a real monarch of the forest as he stalked out into an open glade and stared with astonishment at our fire.

    He looked perfectly magnificent. He was a splendid beast, and his huge bulk, looming large in the uncertain twilight, appeared gigantic. He stood without betraying the slightest sign of fear or hesitation; but, as if searching with proud disdain for the intruder that had dared to invade his solitude, he slowly swept round the branching spread of his antlers, his neck extended and his head a little thrown back, and snuffed the air.

    I could not see the fore sight of the little muzzle-loader, but luck attended the aim, for the bullet struck high up the shoulder; and, shot through the spine, the largest wapiti stag that I had ever killed fell stone-dead in his tracks.

    It was early in the season, and his hide was in first rate condition, a rich glossy brown on the sides and jet black along the back and on the legs; so we turned to, cut off his head and skinned him; and, by the time we had done that and had packed the head and hide into camp, it was pitch dark, when we were ready for supper and blankets.

    ∞§∞

    —From Dunraven, The Great Divide, 1875.

    —William Henry Jackson Photo, Yellowstone Digital Slide File.

    — To see more stories by this author, click on “Dunraven” under the “Categories” button to the left.