the flag.  The other four, however, watched the preparations for firing the gun with an intent gaze, and at the sound of the report gave two or three jumps; then instantly wheeling, looked up at the flag as it came down.  This they seemed to regard as something rather more suspicious than the gun, and they remained very much on the alert until the ceremony was over.  Once it was finished, they resumed feeding as if nothing had happened.  Before it was dark they trotted away from the parade ground back to the mountains.

The next day we rode off to the Yellowstone River, camping some miles below Cottonwood Creek.  It was a very pleasant camp.  Major Pitcher, an old friend, had a first-class pack train, so that we were as comfortable as possible, and on such a trip there could be no pleasanter or more interesting companion than John Burroughs—­“Oom John,” as we soon grew to call him.  Where our tents were pitched the bottom of the valley was narrow, the mountains rising steep and cliff-broken on either side.  There were quite a number of black-tail in the valley, which were tame and unsuspicious, although not nearly as much so as those in the immediate neighborhood of the Mammoth Hot Springs.  One mid-afternoon three of them swam across the river a hundred yards above our camp.  But the characteristic animals of the region were the elk—­the wapiti.  They were certainly more numerous than when I was last through the Park twelve years before.

[Illustration:  Whiskey Jacks.]

In the summer the elk spread all over the interior of the Park.  As winter approaches they divide, some going north and others south.  The southern bands, which, at a guess, may possibly include ten thousand individuals, winter out of the Park, for the most part in Jackson’s Hole—­though of course here and there within the limits of the Park a few elk may spend both winter and summer in an unusually favorable location.  It was the members of the northern band that I met.  During the winter time they are very stationary, each band staying within a very few miles of the same place, and from their size and the open nature of their habitat it is almost as easy to count them as if they were cattle.  From a spur of Bison Peak one day, Major Pitcher, the guide Elwood Hofer, John Burroughs and I spent about four hours with the glasses counting and estimating the different herds within sight.  After most careful work and cautious reduction of estimates in each case to the minimum the truth would permit, we reckoned three thousand head of elk, all lying or feeding and all in sight at the same time.  An estimate of some fifteen thousand for the number of elk in these northern bands cannot be far wrong.  These bands do not go out of the Park at all, but winter just within its northern boundary.  At the time when we saw them, the snow had vanished from the bottom of the valleys and the lower slopes of the mountains, but grew into continuous sheets further