A Glimpse of Buffalo Roost The little party gathered about the fire the next morning, cooking the last breakfast of the trip. To-morrow they would be home again. Would they take back a glowing description of a cabin site, situated in some cool forest nook, in the shadow of some mighty crag, or would they be forced to disappoint the anxious crowd of fellows who would be waiting for their return? By seven o'clock they were jogging down the railroad at a lively gait, keeping their eyes open for a canyon that would lead in back of Cookstove Mountain. They had come down the track at least two miles without finding any encouraging signs when they came upon a trail that seemed to lead from the railroad into an unknown canyon. Perhaps it was one of the many trails from the railroad back to the remains of some of the old construction camps. Perhaps it was a cowpath that led into a fertile meadow where cattle loved to rest by cool springs. Might it not have been the connecting link between some old prospector's diggings and his point of supplies? Possibly it had been worn by the ever-watchful forest ranger as he rode over the reserve, watching for the fires of careless campers, the trespass of cattle, or, perhaps, to make a timber sale to some mountain ranchman. Perhaps it was one of these, but more likely it was a combination of them all. What strange stories it could tell if it could but speak! Had it been on the southern slope it might have been lost in the cool shadows of the forest, or have disappeared in the leafy molds and decaying twigs of many autumns. But it was on the north slope, from which the hungry flames of a giant forest fire had snatched every tree and bush, leaving only the barren hillside.