the eruptions of the geysers, the immense mass of waters contained in the springs, the pits of boiling sulphur, the solid wall of forest of so many varieties of timber, the dainty flowers, the schools of trout, the shady nooks in the hill-sides resounding to the footfall of black-tail, elk, or bear, the lofty cones, snow-*crusted, reflecting back the rays of the summer sun—all the beauties, oddities, and marvels which combine to make the National Park a fairyland to dwell forever in the dreams of those who have the good fortune to enter its precincts. With all the cañons, passes, peaks, and trails of the Wahsatch, Uintah, Medicine Bow, Laramie, and other ranges he was as familiar as with his alphabet.
He was not always so prudent as he should have been while out on these trips, and several times had very close calls for death. Once, while shooting wild geese on one of the little tributaries of the Platte, he was caught in a blizzard, and while trying to make his way back to his comrades, stepped into an air-hole, and would have been drowned had it not been for the heroic exertions of Mr. John Collins and the late Mr. A. E. Touzalin. He had more adventures than I can count, with bears of all kinds and with maddened, wounded stags. Once, while hunting in the range known as the Three Tetons, he stationed his party so as to cut off the retreat of a very large bear which had taken refuge in a tule thicket or swamp; the enraged animal rushed out on the side where Crook was, and made straight towards him, mouth wide open and eyes blazing fire; Crook allowed Bruin to come within ten feet, and then, without the quiver of a muscle or the tremor of a nerve, fired and lodged a rifle-ball in the back of the throat, not breaking out through the skull, but shattering its base and severing the spinal cord. It was a beautiful animal, and Crook was always justifiably proud of the rug.
For eight or nine years, Mr. Webb C. Hayes, of Cleveland, Ohio, hunted with Crook, and probably knows more of his encounters with ursine monsters than any living man, not excepting Tom Moore. Mr. Hayes became a renowned bear-hunter himself, and is well known in all the mountains close to the Three Tetons. In addition to being an excellent shot, he is a graceful runner; I remember seeing him make a half-mile dash down the side of a mountain with a bear cub at his heels, and the concurrence of opinion of all in camp was that the physical
