I remember I was feeling sorry for the poor fellows with a price on their heads,—­the little pink man on my lap had softened my heart wonderfully.  Jerrine was enjoying the pictures in a paper illustrating early days on the range, wild scenes of roping and branding.  I had remarked that I didn’t believe there were any more such times, when Mrs Louderer replied, “Dot yust shows how much it iss you do not know.  You shall come to mine house and when away you come it shall be wiser as when you left.”  I had kept at home very closely all summer, and a little trip seemed the most desirable thing I could think of, particularly as the baby would be in no way endangered.  But long ago I learned that the quickest way to get what I want is not to want it, outwardly, at least.  So I assumed an indifference that was not very real.  The result was that next morning every one was in a hurry to get me started,—­Clyde greasing the little old wagon that looks like a twin to Cora Belle’s, and Mrs. Louderer, who thinks no baby can be properly brought up without goose-grease, busy greasing the baby “so as he shall not some cold take yet.”  Mrs. Louderer had ridden over, so her saddle was laid in the wagon and her pony, Bismarck, was hitched in with Chub, the laziest horse in all Wyoming.  I knew Clyde could manage very well while I should be gone, and there wasn’t a worry to interfere with the pleasure of my outing.

We jogged along right merrily, Mrs. Louderer devoting her entire attention to trying to make Chub pull even with Bismarck, Jerrine and myself enjoying the ever-changing views.  I wish I could lay it all before you.  Summer was departing with reluctant feet, unafraid of Winter’s messengers, the chill winds.  That day was especially beautiful.  The gleaming snow peaks and heavy forest south and at our back; west, north, and east, long, broken lines of the distant mountains with their blue haze.  Pilot Butte to the north, one hundred miles away, stood out clear and distinct as though we could drive there in an hour or two.  The dull, neutral-colored “Bad Land” hills nearer us are interesting only because we know they are full of the fossil remains of strange creatures long since extinct.

For a distance our way lay up Henry’s Fork valley; prosperous little ranches dotted the view, ripening grain rustled pleasantly in the warm morning sunshine, and closely cut alfalfa fields made bright spots of emerald against the dun landscape.  The quaking aspens were just beginning to turn yellow; everywhere purple asters were a blaze of glory except where the rabbit-bush grew in clumps, waving its feathery plumes of gold.  Over it all the sky was so deeply blue, with little, airy, white clouds drifting lazily along.  Every breeze brought scents of cedar, pine, and sage.  At this point the road wound along the base of cedar hills; some magpies were holding a noisy caucus among the trees, a pair of bluebirds twittered excitedly upon a fence, and high overhead a great black eagle soared.  All was so peaceful that horse-thieves and desperate men seemed too remote to think about.