Our old friend, Elk Mountain, is still in view, a stately and magnificent pile, serving as a land-mark for a hundred miles around.  Beyond all this, to the west and south — a good hundred miles away — are the snowy ranges; their hoary peaks of glistening purity penetrating the vast blue dome above, like monarchs in royal vestments robed.  Still others are seen, white and shadowy, stretching away down into Colorado, peak beyond peak, ridge beyond ridge, until lost in the impenetrable distance.

As I lean on my bicycle on this mountain-top, drinking in the glorious scene, and inhaling the ozone-laden air, looking through the loop-holes of recent experiences in crossing the great wonderland to the west; its strange intermingling of forest-clad hills and grassy valleys; its barren, rocky mountains and dreary, desolate plains; its vast, snowy solitudes and its sunny, sylvan nooks; the no less strange intermingling of people; the wandering red-skin with his pathetic history; the feverishly hopeful prospector, toiling and searching for precious metals locked in the eternal hills; and the wild and free cow-boy who, mounted on his wiry bronco, roams these plains and mountains, free as the Arab of the desert — I heave a sigh as I realize that no tongue or pen of mine can hope to do the subject justice.

My road is now over Cheyenne Pass, and from this point is mostly down-grade to Cheyenne.  Soon I come to a naturally smooth granite surface which extends for twelve miles, where I have to keep the brake set most of the distance, and the constant friction heats the brake-spoon and scorches the rubber tire black.  To-night I reach Cheyenne, where I find a bicycle club of twenty members, and where the fame of my journey from San Francisco draws such a crowd on the corner where I alight, that a blue-coated guardian of the city’s sidewalks requests me to saunter on over to the hotel.  Do I. Yes, I saunter over.  The Cheyenne “cops” are bold, bad men to trifle with.  They have to be “bold, bad men to trifle with,” or the wild, wicked cow-boys would come in and “paint the city red " altogether too frequently.  It is the morning of June 4th as I bid farewell to the “Magic City,” and, turning my back to the mountains, ride away over very fair roads toward the rising sun.  I am not long out before meeting with that characteristic feature of a scene on the Western plains, a “prairie schooner;” and meeting prairie schooners will now be a daily incident of my eastward journey.  Many of these “pilgrims” come from the backwoods of Missouri and Arkansas, or the rural districts of some other Western State, where the persevering, but at present circumscribed, cycler has not yet had time to penetrate, and the bicycle is therefore to them a wonder to be gazed at and commented on, generally — it must be admitted — in language more fluent as to words than in knowledge of the subject discussed.  Not far from where the trail leads out of Crow Creek bottom on to the higher table-land,