In the rear of this cabin was another, not quite so carefully built, into which the pony and mule were driven every night. During the day they were allowed to roam at will in the valley (the guide said that when the snow came and covered the grass they would be obliged to cut down cottonwood trees for them to browse upon); and, as soon as it began to grow dark, they were shut up for security. All the “signs” indicated that beasts of prey were abundant in the valley; and, if a pack of wolves or a hungry grizzly should chance to make a meal of the mule, how would they get Oscar’s specimens and chest of tools back to the fort in the spring? Taken altogether, it was just such a camp as he had often read of; and Oscar, as he rubbed his hands over the fire and gazed about their comfortable quarters, grew enthusiastic. “Now, this is what I call comfort,” said he. “With plenty to eat, a good supply of firewood close at hand, a tight roof to shelter us from the storm, and no enemies to trouble us—what more could a couple of hunters ask for? I don’t think spending a winter in the foot-hills is so bad after all.” The guide smiled and nodded his head significantly, but made no other reply. He knew that this was the poetry of a hunter’s life, and that the prose would come soon enough. Having arranged his blankets and thrown a few sticks of wood upon the fire, Oscar removed his boots and coat and lay down to rest, leaving Big Thompson to the companionship of his pipe and his own thoughts. He lay for a long time watching the sparks as they ascended toward the opening in the roof, and listening to the roaring storm, which seemed to increase in violence every moment; and finally, while he was laying elaborate plans for the capture of some of the wolves, whose mournful howls now and then came faintly to his ears, he passed quietly into the land of dreams. He did not know that there was another camp in the valley, and that other ears besides his own were listening to the howls of those same wolves, but such was the fact. CHAPTER XXIII. HUNTING THE BIG-HORN. Oscar slept soundly that night, in spite of the roaring of the wind and the howling of the wolves, and awoke at daylight to find breakfast waiting for him. A glance out at the door showed him that the storm had ceased. The weather was clear and cold, and the snow covered the ground to the depth of six inches. “Just deep enough for tracking,” Oscar remarked, as he gave his hands and face a thorough washing in it. Of course the first thing on the programme was a hunt. That was what the boy came out there for, and he was anxious to begin operations at once. He longed to bring down one of the big-horns he had seen watching him at his work, and to knock over one of the lordly elk that had scurried away with such haste when he and Big Thompson kindled their first camp-fire in the valley.