After a year the call of the Yellowstone drew him on the back trail. As he traveled he sometimes pondered about that mark he would make for himself in the world. Yet there was no hurry. There was undreamed plenty of everything in this land of his. One had but to choose his course, dip in and help himself from the storehouse that was inexhaustible,--Nature’s storehouse that replenished itself without help. He reflected that ever since history began, this natural reservoir had been refilled more rapidly than it could possibly be depleted by man. A world of plenty; leather for all the world from the buffalo of the plains; hardwood timber without end to the eastward; free grass for fifty million cows; meat for the nation from the antelope of the plains and the elk and mule deer of the hills; wealth untold for those who would seek for it and burrow in the ground for gold; and in this great untouched forest of the northwest coast was enough lumber to roof the earth. He smiled and slapped the brown mare on the neck as a whimsical thought crossed his mind. “She didn’t forget a thing,” he said. “She didn’t leave one thing out. There’s enough of everything to go round and a lot to spare. Back in the Yellowstone, where we’re headed for, there’s enough natural and unnatural wonders to entertain the people of the world. She didn’t even leave that out--plenty of everything for us all.” As he traveled eastward his desire to look again upon this best land of all increased and he made longer packs. Soon it was rumored that the lone wanderer, for so long a part of the Park, had returned to roam once more in the hills of the Yellowstone. He knew the valleys of warm springs where his horses might winter while others were forced to drive their stock to the lower country. He prospected far and wide in summer but always he came back to winter within the limits of his own estate. After a lapse of perhaps fifteen years since Woodson and Old Tom had quit the plains, a little pack train was seen winding down the east slope of the hills. The man rode a bay mare that mothered a mare colt. In the rear of the string still another bay mare, ancient and decrepit, pensioned for long service and unburdened by a pack, trailed stiffly after the rest. The man told those he met along the trails that he was headed for the lower country to join a hide outfit for one last buffalo-hunt on the plains. Men smiled at the naïve plans of this Rip Van Winkle who had been asleep in the hills; for the buffalo was gone.