Next morning we were shown a group of Mrs. Holmes’ pets—­several young rabbits and a kitten, romping together in the utmost good fellowship.  The rabbits had been rescued from a watery grave in an irrigation ditch and carefully nursed back to life.  We helped her search for a lame wild duck that had spurned the offer of a good home with civilized ducklings, and had taken to the sage-brush.  Mrs. Holmes’ love of wild animals, however, failed to include the bald-headed eagle that had shown such an appetite for her spring chickens.

A few miles below this ranch we passed Bridger Crossing, a ford on an old trail through southern Wyoming.  In pioneer days Jim Bridger’s home was on this very spot.  But those romantic days are long since past; and where this world-famous scout once watched through the loopholes of his barricade, was an amazed youngster ten or eleven years old who gazed on us, then ran to the cabin and emerged with a rifle in his hands.  We thought little of this incident at the time, but later we met the father of the boy and were told that the children had been left alone with the small boy as their only protector, and that he stood ready to defend the home against any possible marauders.  No doubt we looked bad enough to him.

Just below the ford the channel widened, and the river became very shallow, the low rolling hills falling away into a wide green prairie.  We camped that night on a small island, low and treeless, but covered with deep, rank grass.  Next morning our sleeping-bags were wet with frost and dew.  A hard pull against a heavy wind between gradually deepening rocky banks made us more than glad to pitch camp at noon a short distance above the mouth of Henry’s Fork, a considerable stream flowing from the west.  In the afternoon Emery and I decided to walk to Linwood, lying just across the Utah line, four miles up Henry’s Fork.  Jimmy preferred to remain with the boats.

Between the river and a low mesa lay a large ranch of a different appearance from those others which we had passed.  Those past were cattle ranches, with stock on the open range, and with little ground fit for cultivation, owing to the elevation.  Here we found great, broad acres, fenced and cultivated, with thoroughbred stock—­horses and cattle—­contentedly grazing.

This pastoral scene, with a background of rugged mountains, appealed strongly to our photographic instincts.  After three or four exposures, we climbed the farthest fence and passing from alfalfa to sage-brush in one step, were at the foot of the mesa.

Climbing to the summit, we beheld the village in the distance, in a beautiful green valley—­a splendid example of Mormon irrigation and farming methods.  Linwood proved to be the market-place for all the ranchers of this region.  Dotting the foot-hills where water was less plentiful were occasional cabins, set down in the middle of hay ranches.  All this husbandry only emphasized the surrounding desolation.  Just beyond, dark in the southern sky, rose the great peaks of the Uintah range, the mountains we were so soon to enter.