It seemed that years ago, when hunting in a range of mountains to the west of Rosebud, Wharton had been snowed up and obliged to winter in a certain valley which he christened Bull Pine Park, because it was surrounded by a number of Scotch firs, called 'bull pines' by the Yankees. Here, it seems, he noticed that hundreds and thousands of deer came in to winter, finding ample food and shelter in what was a sheltered basin of enormous extent, full of sweet, sun-dried, yellow grass, and protected by the shape of the land and the timber. To the old man's eye it was a type of what a range should be--a small range, that is to say--and he had kept his own counsel and waited until he had capital enough to stock his park and start on his own account. His only doubt was as to the Indians. True, he had seen none when there, or he might never have come back; but the valley was a long way from the frontier ranches, was very full of game, and on the stream which watered it he had noticed signs of what looked like a large annual fishing-camp. It was Wharton's intention, after the round-up, to revisit his valley with his three partners, to carefully reconnoitre the feeding-grounds, build a shanty, and, if possible, put up a corral, make certain about the nature and disposition of his red-skinned neighbours, and then, if all was satisfactory, return to Rosebud and drive in his cattle in the early spring. Nares had given his old foreman leave to run his cattle and half-a-dozen of Snap's with the Rosebud herd until the spring, when the Bull Pine Firm, as Snap proudly called it, would come over to Rosebud and drive off about one hundred and twenty beasts as the nucleus of their future herd. During the round-up the two young Winthrops won the good opinion of everyone by their reckless riding, and still more by the songs they sang over the camp fire at night. Towzer even had a banjo, the parting present of Jumbo, Jonathan Brown's black factotum, and with this he was kept uncommonly busy all night, being excused all share in the cooking arrangements in return for his music. 'Towzer, give us old Jumbo's own song,' said Frank one night, when all the old favourites had been sung more than once. 'Which?' asked Towzer, 'Jumbo had such a varied _répertoire_.' 'Oh, the one for Saturday night, when Brown came back drunk from the depot. You know,' he added, turning to the rest, 'this old nigger used to amuse himself by ridiculing his "boss" in nigger melodies. Play up, Towzer.' So adjured, Towzer twisted his face into a suitable grin, and sang: Oh, massa! him feel sickly, Oh, massa 'gwine to die. Him feel so awful empty, Him feel so awful dry. Oh, den he take to whisky, To whisky made from rye, It make him feel so frisky, It make him feel so spry. Oh, den he chuckle fit to bust, An' next he almoss' cry. Dat's how de whisky's in his nose, De water in his eye.