Beadle's Dime Novels No. 310: Foghorn Phil — page 7: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

FOGHORN PHIL, THE KING OF THE BORDER. CHAPTER I. UNDER THE SNOW. HIVE years ago. It was November, and a wild storm was sweeping down from the boreal regions. Up out of one of those Coteau des Prairies of northern Montana rose the round bald peaks of Panther Mountain, bleak and grim against the wintry sky. The Powder river on the right and the Big Horn on the left, defined its eastern and western boundaries, respectively ; while the Tongue, cut- ling its way northward through the hills, poured its waters into the Yellowstone near Fort Alexander. But little else than desolation met the eye in these regions that bleak November day; for not the sign of a habitation could be seen around. Even from the summit of the high- est peak, not a sign of life was visible except a solitary fig- ure making ils way northward through the gathering shad- ows of evening twilight. It was the figure of a white man, clothed in the rude habiliments of an Indian warrior, and | armed with a rifle, tomahawk and brace of revolvers. Upon his back he bore the hind-quarters of a deer, which had evi- dently been recently slain. He was journeying eastward across an open, level plateau between the base of the Panther Hills and the Powder river, and was walking hastily, very likely to reach his camp, or a place to camp, somewhere within the belt of cottonwoods bordering the river before him. The distant howling of the wolves among the hills, andthe sharp barking of coyotes upom the plain, as well as the threat- commiclooks.comn