The _Moon_ was now well into Dakota. Steadily she forged up the turbid river, thrumming past Pierre, and, farther on, Standing Rock reservation. At Bismark we made a brief stop. Then we turned The Great Bend and plunged into the Bad Lands. Through this gashed and distorted country the _Moon_ plowed along an ever-narrowing channel. From her deck I had my first glimpse of the buffalo, already doomed to extinction. Wild cattle and deer scuttled back up the fearful slopes at our approach, or vanished into the yawning canyons. Unaccustomed to that altitude, I marveled at the clarity of the atmosphere, the wonderful stillness of the land. The high banks that shut us in slanted away like paint-daubed walls, what of the vari-colored strata. The ridges back of them were twisted and notched by ancient geologic contortions, washed by countless rains and bleached by unnumbered centuries of sun—a strange jumble of earth and rocks and stunted trees; a place to breed superstitious fears, and warp the soul of a man with loneliness. In time the _Moon_ left this monstrosity of landscape behind, emerging upon a more wholesome land. Grassy bottoms spread on either side the river, and the upper levels ran back in a vast unbroken sweep, the true prairie. And presently we swept around a bend into view of a cluster of houses lining the north shore, and the _Moon’s_ whistle outdid all previous efforts in the way of ungodly sound. Twenty minutes later she was rubbing softly against a low wharf, her passengers were disembarked, and the back-breaking task of unloading cargo began. CHAPTER IV—A FORTHRIGHT FIGHTING-MAN In due time the foodstuffs and other goods were unloaded, and the _Moon_ began to take on her return cargo of buffalo hides and sundry bundles of furs, the harvest of the past winter’s hunting and the spring trade. Had it been left to our loud-mouthed captain there would have been no cessation of labor until the last pelt was stowed; he would have worked us twenty-four hours to the day. But Benton was not St. Louis, and the men who loaded ship were of a different calibre from the stevedores at the River City. A certain number of hours would they work, and no longer, though the _Moon_ rotted at her slip. So we of the regular crew had a breathing spell as sundown approached. And the first spare time at my command I used to write a letter to Bolton, detailing my misadventures. This I posted, so that in case anything kept me from returning on the _Moon_, he would at least know whither I had gone and how I had fared.