y, when she was absent,
they took him and hung him to a tree. Strange to say, he did not "die
game." His wife came galloping in on the scene, but it was too late:
all was over for Jack Slade. It was strange and interesting to hear
this wild story in the very spot where it happened--to see the
blackened ruins and the graves of those who fell in that long day's
struggle, the lonely bluffs that once looked down on Jack Slade's
ranch and echoed to the trot of his famous teams. The creek here makes
a wide bend, leaving a fertile intervale where thousands of cattle
could graze: the trees are always green, the river never dry. About
three o'clock we came to our camping-ground among the timber on the
clear stream, over against the inevitable bluffs. Fire had destroyed
some of the finest trees, and on the great black trunks sat flocks of
chattering blackbirds, the little chickadee's familiar note was heard,
and a crane flew away with his long legs behind him, just as he looks
on a Japanese tray. The scene of encamping is ever new and delightful.
The soldiers are busy in pitching tents, unloading wagons and
gathering wood; horses and mules are whinnying, rolling and drinking;
Jeff, the black cook, is kindling a fire in his stove; children are
running about, and groups in bright colors are making, unconsciously,
all sorts of charming effects among the white wagons and green trees.

We spread our blankets in the shade and dream. The children's voices
sound pleasantly. They are bathing in a still pool which the eddy
makes behind the bushes, though the cool clear water is rushing down
fast from Laramie Peak. It seems as if we were almost at the world's
end, so lonely is the place, but there is nothing to fear. Indians
will not attack so large a party as ours. A strong wind rises and
sways the willows, making the wild scene wilder than ever; a blood-red
sunset flames from the horizon to the upper sky: and as it darkens,
and the wolves begin to howl, we think of Jack Slade and all the wild
stories we have heard of robbers and fights and Indian massacres.

At reveille we all started up. It was 4-1/2 A.M. Had we slept? We knew
not. All had been blankets and--blank. A pail of water and a tin
basin, a little "Colgate" for cosmetic, on went the warm flannels, and
we were ready by five o'clock for breakfast in the dining-tent. Here
we had camp-stools and tables, and upon the latter coffee,
beef-steaks, fried potatoes, preserves and olives.