ngston, Montana, with Cinnabar, at the northern edge of the park.
The road is about fifty miles long, and the scenery through which it
passes is astounding in its nature.

From Cinnabar the tourist is driven in large stages throughout the park.
If at all reminiscent by nature, he thinks about the experiences of
Coulter, to whom we have already referred as the pioneer white man of
Yellowstone. Early in the century the park was occupied by Indians, who
had scarcely come in contact with white men, and who had not learned
that in the unavoidable conflict between races, the weaker must
inevitably succumb to the stronger. Around the limpid streams and at the
borders of the virgin forests, containing untold wealth, tents made of
skin drawn over boughs cut roughly from trees, could be seen in every
direction. All around there were rough-looking, utterly uncivilized
Indians, who were carrying out their usual occupation of doing nothing,
and doing it with exceptional ability.

The women or squaws were more active, but frequently paused in their
work to look at the unfortunate Coulter, who, deprived of his clothing
and absolutely naked, was waiting, bound hand and foot, for the fate
that he had every reason to believe awaited him. His only companion had
been killed the day before, and he expected every minute to meet the
same fate. According to his own description of what followed, strategy
saved his life. An Indian, sent for the purpose, asked him if he could
run fast. Knowing himself to be an athlete of no mean ability, but
guessing the object of the question, he assured the Indian that he was
not a speedy runner. The answer had the effect he anticipated.

His thongs were almost immediately cut, and he was taken out on the open
prairie, given a trifling start, and then told that he might save
himself if he could. Coulter had run many a fast mile before, but he
never ran as on this occasion. He knew that behind him there were, among
the indolent young Indians, many who could run with great speed, and his
only hope lay in getting to cover ahead of these. Every long stride
meant that much space between him and death, and every stride he took
was the longest in his power. Again and again he looked around, only to
discover to his astonishment that he had but just held his own. At last,
however, all his pursuers except one were tired of the pursuit, and when
he found this to be the case, he turned like a stag at bay and
overpowered