Jack kept his record straight for a month and then lost the combination entirely for eighteen days. There were no churches, no schools, and but one voting precinct in the whole of Grand County. Ward primaries had not been established and politics centered in a justice of the peace, sheriff, and county judge, none of whom accumulated wealth from office emoluments. On Thanksgiving Day Jack's last officially correct entry in his log book noted the thermometer as "frozen up," subsequent days for a long period recording "a little colder," "much colder," "terribly cold." The fifth day from Hot Sulphur Springs found the trapper and his pupil on the west slope of the Gore or Park range, encountering a terrific snowstorm, in the midst of which they stumbled into a band of elk which made Jack forget all his troubles of keeping the trail, the difficulty of keeping the big wagon box on runners from upsetting and himself from freezing. As the big animals loomed up in the clouds of snow flakes driven pitilessly into his face he suddenly recalled the oft-told stories of "buck fever," and for fear this dread disease would shatter his nerves he waited the arrival of the experienced trapper. The band was moving slowly down the ravine, not seeming to notice their enemy--man. "Shoot 'em, why don't you shoot? Careful now, and get that big bull with his flank turned toward you. There, give him another, quick! Again! before he gets out of sight--you've got him!" And Jack saw his first wapiti plunge to his knees, recover, bound sideways and then again lunge with his nose plowing deep into the snow, his hind legs straining at the earth for a support, only to sink in a last effort, and the "monarch of the forest" was Jack's prize. It was but a few moments' work to knot a lariat to a hind leg and by the aid of his Indian pony drag the carcass to a tree, hang the body out of reach of wolves and coyotes, then seek a suitable location for a camp, which in that storm was no easy matter. For hours it had been unload, dig the sled out of a deep bank of snow, load up again and flounder a few rods, only to repeat the process. The diversion of killing an elk gave a rest of half an hour, then another attempt was made to cross a small park before night should envelop them in her black mantle. About half way, however, the horses floundered into a drift which accumulated over the spongy surface of a willow-banked ravine, the sled pitched its nose down deep, the trapper swore, and Jack wanted to. "Guess we better 'cache' our stuff and get over thar in the timber and let the 'dod gasted' blizzard play itself out," said the man of many winters' experience. "You have done mighty well for a tenderfoot. An old-timer couldn't have done better in tramping snow and breaking trail than you have. This is about as bad a storm as you will ever get into. When it snows so you can't see the horses' heads in front of you it gets about the limit."