When the shadows had lengthened, but before any coolness had come into the air, I would head for the appointed camping-place. Sometimes this would be on the brink of some desolate little pool under a low, treeless butte, or out on the open prairie where the only wood was what we had brought with us. At other times I would find the wagon drawn up on the edge of some shrunken plains river, under a line of great cottonwoods with splintered branches and glossy leaves that rustled all day long. Such a camp was always comfortable, for there was an abundance of wood for the fire, plenty of water, and thick feed in which the horses grazed—one or two being picketed and the others feeding loose until night came on. If I had killed a prongbuck, steaks were speedily sizzling in the frying-pan over the hot coals. If I had failed to get anything, I would often walk a mile or two down or up the river to see if I could not kill a couple of prairie-chickens or ducks. If the evening was at all cool, we built a fire as darkness fell, and sat around it, while the leaping flames lit up the trunks of the cottonwoods and gleamed on the pools of water in the half-dry river bed. Then I would wrap myself in my blanket and lie looking up at the brilliant stars until I fell asleep. In both 1893 and 1894 I made trips to a vast tract of rolling prairie land, some fifty miles from my ranch, where I had for many years enjoyed the keen pleasure of hunting the prongbuck. In 1893 the prong-horned bands were as plentiful in this district as I have ever seen them anywhere. Lambert was with me; and in a week’s trip, including the journey out and back, we easily shot all the antelope we felt we had any right to kill; for we only shot to get meat, or an unusually fine head. Lambert did most of the shooting; and I have never seen a professional hunter do better in stalking antelope on the open prairie. I myself fired at only two antelope, both of which had already been missed. In each case a hard run and much firing at long ranges, together with in one case some skilful manœuvring, got me my game; yet one buck cost ten cartridges and the other eight. In 1894 I had exactly the reverse experience. I killed five antelope for thirty-six shots, but each one that I killed was killed with the first bullet, and in not one case where I missed the first time did I hit with any subsequent shot. These five antelope were killed at an average distance of about 150 yards. Those that I missed were, of course, much farther off on an average, and I usually emptied my magazine at each. The number of cartridges spent would seem extraordinary to a tyro; and an unusually skilful shot, or else a very timid shot who fears to take risks, will of course make a better showing per head killed; but I doubt if men with experience in antelope hunting, who keep an accurate account of the cartridges they expend, will see anything much out of the way in the performance.