At that time, this region, like all
of that country then, was a wild, unsettled, sagebrush desert, or
mountain wilderness.
The morning we left Eagle Valley the Colonel rode in advance of
the column with me, and I saw there was something on his mind. In
a little while he said he would like to kill a deer with big
horns, so that he could send it--the horns--to his father in New
York, who had never seen a deer, and he added that notwithstanding
he--the Colonel--had been on the Pacific coast two years, he had
never killed a deer in his life. I told him that I would fix it
for him to get one the very next day, and he was as pleased as a
child.
That night we camped by a big spring at the mouth of a great
canyon, and about the spring stood a number of large pine trees.
Many persons who had passed that way had carved their names in the
bark of the trees, and among the names were two that were quite
familiar to me. One of these was the name of Capt. Molujean--I
wondered how he had done it without stuttering--and the other was
the name of James Beckwith. On the same tree was written with lead
pencil: "Sixty miles to Beckwith's Hotel."
On my favorite horse, Pinto, I rode out with the Colonel for a
deer hunt. While riding along the canyon about two miles from
where the command had camped, I saw a large doe crossing the
canyon and coming down the hill toward us.
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