One day after we had selected our new camp, I took my rod along and wandered into the wonderful forest of ancient trees. There I seated myself on a log to think over my experience. Somehow my own trials and ambitions seemed small, trivial and not worth while when I looked upon those grand trees standing silently on guard as they were standing when Columbus was busy smashing a hard-boiled egg to make it stand on end. Yes, naturalists tell us some of these same trees were standing before the New Testament was written and then as now their branches concealed their lofty tops and formed a screen through which the powerful rays of the noon-day sun are filtered, refined and subdued to a dreamy twilight below, a twilight in which the soft green mosses and lace-like ferns thrive into luxuriant growth.It was so still and quiet in that forest that the silence seemed to hurt my ears and I found myself listening to see if I could not hear the deep dark blue blossoms of the fringed gentians whispering scandals about the flaming Indian paint brushes that flourished in the opening in the woods where the sun’s ray could reach and warm the dark earth. As I listened I could not help but speculate a great deal as to the possibilities of the odd old man of this forest being in some way connected with my father’s history, but the story of the wolf-man as given to me by my big companion was so varied and so mixed with the superstitions of the Indians and trappers who had come in contact with him, or had seen him and his weird wolf pack roaming the mountains, that I could not in any way take it as the basis for a solution of the problem.

Indeed, the more Big Pete told me the less I believed that this strange and probably mad man could be my father. In truth, the only real clue or even faint reason I had for believing that he owned the missing “Patrick Mullen” was because this gun at a distance seemed to correspond with the description of the Mullen’s gun. It was a faint clue indeed and sometimes seemed not worth investigation. Yet when I began to doubt the possibility an unexplained impulse or force kept urging me on to believe that if I but persisted and found an opportunity to examine this gun it would prove to be the one I sought, and if I had a chance to talk to this strange Wild Hunter much of the mystery that surrounded my own babyhood would be cleared up, so I found myself earnestly longing for a real interview with this mysterious creature.

The more I thought of it the more I was inclined to believe that I was on the right track, until at last convinced that this was so, I cried aloud, “I have found him!”

“Who! Who!” queried a startled owl, as it peered down at me from its hiding place in the dense foliage of a cedar far above.“Never mind who, you old rascal,” I laughingly replied, and picking up my fishing-rod I parted the underbrush to start on my way through the wood for some trout, but suddenly halted when I found myself staring into the face of a huge timber wolf. The beast’s lips were drawn back displaying its gleaming fangs, its back hair was as erect as the cropped mane of a pony, its mongolian eyes shone green through their narrow slits and its whole attitude seemed to say, “Well, now that you have found me, what do you propose to do?”

Now, boys, do not make any mistake about me, I am not a hero and never posed as one; in truth my timidity at times amounts to cowardice, a fact which I usually keep to myself, but I never was afraid of wolves until I so unexpectedly met this one. It is needless to say that I have no hair on my back, it is as bare as that of any other fellow’s, nevertheless, on this occasion I could distinctly feel my bristles rise from the nape of my neck to the end of my spine, just the same as those on the oblique-eyed, shaggy monster whose snapping teeth were so near my face.

Everybody is familiar with the fact that people who have had limbs amputated often complain of pains or itching in the missing members. My missing back hair, the hair which my ancestors lost by the slow process of evolution, the hair which grew on the back of the “missing link,” stood on end at the sight of this wolf. However, this fear was but momentary and when my courage returned I lifted my rod case in a threatening manner, and the wolf slunk away as noiselessly as a shadow, and like a shadow faded out of sight in the dim twilight of the ancient forest. When I reached the open land beyond the forest another surprise awaited me.

Surely this is heaven, I thought as I waded knee-deep among the beautiful flowers of the prairie, starting the sharp pin-tailed grouse, prairie chickens and sage grouse from their retreats and sending the meadow-larks skimming away over flowering billows. Reaching an elevation where I could peer beyond the crests of one of the “ground swells” which furrowed the sea of nodding blossoms, I saw through the stems of the plants, a part of the prairie at first concealed from view, and there appeared to be numerous irregular boulders of dark brown stone scattered around among the vegetation, and the boulders were moving!

Careful scrutiny, however, proved them to be not stones but live buffalo. Big Pete had often told me that these animals lived unmolested by him in the park; but when I realized that I was looking at between three and four hundred real buffalo my heart gave a great jump of joy. I tried to view them so as to take in their details, but the apparently shapeless masses of dark reddish brown wool appeared to have none, unless indeed the comical fur trousers with frayed bottoms on their front legs might be called detail.

Even the faces of the beasts were so concealed by masks of knotted wool that at first I could distinguish neither eyes, noses, horns or ears; but in spite of their ragged trousers and their masked faces, the bison are sublime in their mighty strength and ponderous proportions, and as this was the first wild herd I had ever seen and one of the very few, if not the only one, then extant, I viewed them with the keenest interest.

But the scattered bunches of antelope, which I now noticed were dotting the plains around the buffalo, appealed to my love of the beautiful. Knowing that in other localities these charming little creatures are rapidly being slaughtered and steadily decreasing in numbers and that all attempts to breed them in captivity have so far failed, they at once absorbed my attention to the exclusion of their larger neighbors.

When we moved our camp to the far side of the lake, Big Pete told me that I could find plenty of trout streams beyond the timber belt, and he also informed me that I could there see the walls of the park and satisfy myself that there was but one trail leading into the preserve.I do not now recall the sort of walls that were pictured in my mind or know what I really expected to see enclosing Darlinkel’s Park, but I do know that when I suddenly emerged from the dark forests into the sunlit prairie, the scene which greeted my vision was not the one painted by my imagination.

Before me stretched an open plain surrounded by mountains arising abruptly from a bed of many colored flowers; they were the same ranges whose snow-covered peaks formed a feature of the landscape at the lake and at our first camp.

Here, however, their appearance was different, as different as the dark forest from the open sunlit prairie. The scene at first did not seem real, it had a sort of a drop-curtain effect that was as familiar to me as the row of footlights and gilded boxes, but never did I expect to see those delicate tints, that blue atmosphere, the fresco colored rocks and all the theatrical properties of a drop-curtain duplicated in nature, yet here it was before me, not a detail wanting, even the impossible mammoth bed of gaudy flowers at the foot of the mountain was here and the numerous cascades had not been forgotten. Well, it does seem wonderful to me that unknown theatrical daubers should know so much more of nature than the public for whom they paint.

But, nature is a bolder artist than even the daring scenic painters; in front of me was a prairie of flowers, acres and acres of waving, undulating masses of color; thousands of Arizona wyetha (wild sunflowers) mingled with the brilliant tips of the fire-weed and clumps of odorous and delicately colored horsemint. There were other flowers unfamiliar to me and hundreds of big blossoms of what I took to be a member of the primrose family. It was in this garden that the buffalo and antelope were grazing.

An old buck antelope saw me and I instantly dropped to the ground and was concealed by the flowering vegetation. I wanted to see the home life of these animals, but was disappointed because of the attention I had attracted. When first discovered the does were browsing with heads down and the kids were playing tag with one another, every once in a while spreading the white hair on their rumps and then lowering the “white flag” again, they apparently used it as a Morse signal system of their own. But now they were all alert and facing me; the bucks had seen something and that something had suddenly disappeared. This must be investigated, so they circled round hesitatingly; the apparition might be a foe but still they must satisfy their curiosity and discover what it was of which they had had a moment’s glimpse and thus they approached nearer and ever nearer to my place of concealment.

Soon, however, I became aware of the fact that the antelope had unaccountably lost all thought of me and were deeply interested in something else which from their actions I concluded to be recognized as an enemy. It was now apparent that if Big Pete did not hunt the prong-horns someone or something else did hunt them.

As a bunch broke away from the scattered groups and came in my direction, making great leaps over the prairie, I detected the cause of their panic in the form of a huge eagle which was keeping pace with and flying over the fleeing prong-horns.

The bird was not more than a dozen feet above the animals’ backs and in vain did the poor creatures try to distance their pursuer. At length they scattered, each one taking a course of his own. Then the bird did a strange thing. It singled out the largest buck and persistently following him, it came directly towards me and passed within ten feet of my ambush, the broad wings of the antelope’s relentless foe casting a dark shadow over the straining muscles of the beautiful animal’s back. I was tempted to drive the bird away or shoot at it with my revolver, but the thought that I had seen that bird before restrained me and the fact that it pursued a strong, healthy buck instead of selecting a weaker and more easy prey convinced me that this eagle had been trained to the hunt and was not a wild[2] bird, for the immutable law that “labor follows the line of least resistance” holds good with all wild creatures. It was not long before I had to use my field glasses to follow the chase and then I discovered that the poor prong-horn was showing signs of fatigue. It had made a grave error in dashing up an incline and the eagle from his position above knew that the time had come to strike and, like a thunderbolt, it fell, striking its hooked talons in the graceful neck of the terror-stricken antelope.

Hoping to get a nearer view of the last tragedy, I hastened towards the spot and before I was aware of my position, found myself close to the herd of buffalo. I then saw that these beasts being unaccustomed to man, did not fear him, but on the contrary meant to show fight. As I came to a sudden halt the old bulls began to paw the earth, throwing the dirt up over their backs and bellowing with a low vibrating roar that was terror-inspiring. Then they dropped to their knees, rolled on their backs, got up, shook themselves, licked their noses, “rolled up their tails” into stiff curves, put down their heads and came at me. The cows with their hair standing on end like angry elks and bellowing loudly were not behind their lords in aggressiveness and the comical little calves came bouncing along after their dame.

Was I frightened? That depends upon one’s definition of the word. I was not panic-stricken, but to say that I was not excited when I saw those animated masses of dark brown wool come roaring and thundering at me would be to make boast that no one who has had a similar experience would believe.

Fortunately, not far behind me was the hollow or gully already mentioned and I bolted over the edge of it. As soon as the bank concealed my person I ran as I never ran before taking a course at right angles to my original one and leeward of the herd, and at last, out of breath, I rolled over in the weeds and lay there panting and straining my ears to hear the snorting beasts.

My chest felt dry, hot and oppressed from forced and labored breathing, and had the buffalo discovered me I do not think I could have run another step. But the big brutes halted at the edge of the bank and seeing no one in sight walked around pawing and throwing up great clouds of dust and in their rage apparently daring me to come forth. Like a small boy when he hears a challenge from a gang of toughs, I decided that I did not want to fight and lay as quiet as possible among the sunflowers until I had regained my breath. When the buffalo wandered back to their original pasture land I, like a coyote, slunk away and consoled myself with the thought that although I had had my run for my money, at least, I had seen the death of the antelope even if I did miss again seeing the Wild Hunter “collar his game,” as Big Pete would have called the act of securing it. Besides this I had a real exciting adventure with good red-blooded American animals and learned the lesson that large horned beasts which have not been taught to fear man are exceedingly dangerous to man.