we cut all conversation
short by riding away to camp.

"We'll just save them the trouble, and go in and see it for
ourselves," said Officer to me, as we galloped along. We had left word
with Honeyman what horses we wanted to ride that afternoon, and lost
little time in changing mounts; then we all set out to pay our
respects to the mushroom village on the Yellowstone. Most of us had
money; and those of the outfit who had returned were clean shaven and
brought the report that a shave was two-bits and a drink the same
price. The town struck me as something new and novel, two thirds of
the habitations being of canvas. Immense quantities of buffalo hides
were drying or already baled, and waiting transportation as we
afterward learned to navigable points on the Missouri. Large bull
trains were encamped on the outskirts of the village, while many such
outfits were in town, receiving cargoes or discharging freight. The
drivers of these ox trains lounged in the streets and thronged the
saloons and gambling resorts. The population was extremely mixed, and
almost every language could be heard spoken on the streets. The men
were fine types of the pioneer,--buffalo hunters, freighters, and
other plainsmen, though hardly as picturesque in figure and costume as
a modern artist would paint them. For native coloring, there were
typical specimens of northern Indians, grunting their jargon amid the
babel of other tongues; and groups of squaws wandered through the
irregular streets in gaudy blankets and red calico. The only
civilizing element to be seen was the camp of engineers, running the
survey of the Northern Pacific railroad.

Tying our horses in a group to a hitch-rack in the rear of a saloon
called The Buffalo Bull, we entered by a rear door and lined up at the
bar for our first drink since leaving Ogalalla. Games of chance were
running in the rear for those who felt inclined to try their luck,
while in front of the bar, against the farther wall, were a number of
small tables, around which were seated the patrons of the place,
playing for the drinks. One couldn't help being impressed with the
unrestrained freedom of the village, whose sole product seemed to be
buffalo hides. Every man in the place wore the regulation six-shooter
in his belt, and quite a number wore two. The primitive law of nature
known as self-preservation, was very evident in August of '82 at
Frenchman's Ford. It reminded me of the early days at home in Texas,