"
"What--a varmint?" asked Ollie.
"A genuine varmint," answered Jack. "A regular painter. It's
in a cage, to be sure, but it may get out during the night."
We all went over to see it. It was in a big box back of a
hotel, and the man in charge called it a mountain-lion, and said
it was caught up in the Black Hills. "Right where we're going,"
whispered Ollie. The animal was, I presume, really a jaguar, and
was a big cat three or four feet long.
We were off again the next morning, looking forward eagerly
to the camp for the night, which we expected would be at Chadron,
and where our course would change to the north into Dakota again,
this time on the extreme western edge, and carry us up to the
mountains. Most of the day we travelled through a rougher
country, and saw many buttes--steep-sided, flat-topped mounds;
and in the neighborhood of Bordeaux the road wound among
scattering pine-trees. We camped at noon near the house of a
settler who seemed to have a dog farm, as the place was overrun
with the animals. We needed some corn for the horses, and
asked him if he had any to sell.
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