Wedidnotmakethirty-fivemilesthatday，noryettwenty-five，forhehadletmesleep。Wemadeanearlycampandtriedsomeunsuccessfulfishing，overwhichhewascheerful，promisingtroutto-morrowwhenweshouldbehigheramongthemountains。Heneveragaintouchedorcamenearthesubjectthatwasonhismind，butwhileIsatwritingmydiary，hewentofftohishorseMonte，andIcouldhearthatheoccasionallytalkedtothatfriend。
NextdayweswungsouthwardfromwhatisknowntomanyastheConanttrail，andheadedforthatshortcutthroughtheTetonswhichisknowntobutafew。BitchCreekwasthenameofthestreamwenowfollowed，andheretherewassuchgoodfishingthatweidled；andthehorsesandIatleastenjoyedourselves。Fortheyfoundfreshpasturesandshadeinthenowplentifulwoods；
andthemountainodorsandthemountainheightswereenoughformewhenthefishrefusedtorise。Thisroadofoursnowbecametheroadwhichthepursuithadtakenbeforethecapture。Goingalong，Inoticedthefootprintsofmanyhoofs，rain-blurredbutrecent，andthesewerethetracksofthepeopleIhadmetinthestable。
“YoucannoticeMonte’s，“saidtheVirginian。“Heistheonlyonethathashishindfeetshod。There’sseveraltrailsfromthispointdowntowherewehavecomefrom。“
Wemountednowoveralongslantofrock，smoothandofwideextentAboveusitwentupeasilyintoalittlesidecanyon，butahead，whereourwaywas，itgrewsosteepthatwegotoffandledourhorses。Thisbroughtustothenexthigherlevelofthemountain，aspaceofsagebrushmoreopen，wheretherain-washedtracksappearedagaininthesofterground。