Here and there the valleys were cut through by coulees through which ran swift, blue-gray rivers, clear and icy cold, while from the hilltops we caught glimpses of little lakes covered with wild-fowl that shrieked and squawked and splashed, careless of danger.

Now and then we saw what made a black spot against the green of the prairie, and Jack told me it was a rancher's shack.

How remote from the great world, and how lonely it seemed!--this little black shack among these multitudinous hills.
I shall never forget the summer evening when Jack and I rode into Swan Creek.

I say into--but the village was almost entirely one of imagination, in that it consisted of the Stopping Place, a long log building, a story and a half high, with stables behind, and the store in which the post-office was kept and over which the owner dwelt.

But the situation was one of great beauty.