From Cinnabar the tourist is driven in large stages throughout the park.  If at all reminiscent by nature, he thinks about the experiences of Coulter, to whom we have already referred as the pioneer white man of Yellowstone.  Early in the century the park was occupied by Indians, who had scarcely come in contact with white men, and who had not learned that in the unavoidable conflict between races, the weaker must inevitably succumb to the stronger.  Around the limpid streams and at the borders of the virgin forests, containing untold wealth, tents made of skin drawn over boughs cut roughly from trees, could be seen in every direction.  All around there were rough-looking, utterly uncivilized Indians, who were carrying out their usual occupation of doing nothing, and doing it with exceptional ability.

The women or squaws were more active, but frequently paused in their work to look at the unfortunate Coulter, who, deprived of his clothing and absolutely naked, was waiting, bound hand and foot, for the fate that he had every reason to believe awaited him.  His only companion had been killed the day before, and he expected every minute to meet the same fate.  According to his own description of what followed, strategy saved his life.  An Indian, sent for the purpose, asked him if he could run fast.  Knowing himself to be an athlete of no mean ability, but guessing the object of the question, he assured the Indian that he was not a speedy runner.  The answer had the effect he anticipated.

His thongs were almost immediately cut, and he was taken out on the open prairie, given a trifling start, and then told that he might save himself if he could.  Coulter had run many a fast mile before, but he never ran as on this occasion.  He knew that behind him there were, among the indolent young Indians, many who could run with great speed, and his only hope lay in getting to cover ahead of these.  Every long stride meant that much space between him and death, and every stride he took was the longest in his power.  Again and again he looked around, only to discover to his astonishment that he had but just held his own.  At last, however, all his pursuers except one were tired of the pursuit, and when he found this to be the case, he turned like a stag at bay and overpowered him.

Then seeing that others of the Indians were taking up the chase, after a brief rest, Coulter made another great run, plunged into the river in front of him, and finally entered the labyrinth of forests and craters now known to the world as Yellowstone Park.  Here, if his story is to be believed, he succeeded in making for himself clothing of some character out of the skins of beasts that he shot, and finally he fell into the hands of less hostile red men.

So much of the early days of Yellowstone, and of the reminiscences which a first visit naturally conjure up.  The park as it exists to-day is overcrowded with modern interests, and one only refers to these reminiscences by way of contrast.  There are in the park at least 100 geysers, nearly 4,000 springs, and an immense number of miniature parks, large and small rivers, and other marvels.