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By

GRACE GALLATIN SETON
Author of ‘‘ A Woman Tenderfoot s

Pictures by
WALTER KING STONE

an
ERNEST THOMPSON SETON

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New York
Doubleday, Page & Company
1907

WW
/

Copyricnrt, 1907, By

Grace Gallatin Seton

LIGRARY of CONGRESS
Two Copies Received
MAY. 10 1907

Cepyri
™ oO! oF
cLiassU A xxXc,, No,
(Tbe ss.

OPY B.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION
INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN

TO ONE

Who, without strength, makes slaves of the strong;
Who, loving none, is loved by all—
THE BABY

10a &

NOTE TO THE READER

The events herein recorded really
happened, although some latitude
has been taken as to time and place;
and one experience may seem to fol-
low fast upon another, because, nec-
essarily, the best of all has been
omitted—the glorious succession of
eventless days when one was content
to be alive and carefree.

G@ Gos:

Cos Cob, Conn., 1907

CONTENTS

PART I—IN THE SIERRA

PAGE

Hoe Lhe “Inn of the - Silver
Moon”’ ; , oy eR

11 Real Dangers of the Open

Versus Popular Notion.
Undine’s Story . hen

PART II—IN THE ROCKIES

it The Grand Cafion and
What it Did to Nimrod 55

1v A Discursion on the Bron-

cis). ae : : a E
vy On-the March . : 93
v1 A Fire Ride . ; ee 5

vil Bear and Forbear : 125

CONTENTS

PAGE
vil What I Know About
Mountain Goats—Bob-

bie’s Story . : . ee
1x A Jack Rabbit Dance and

the Fantail Ghost - 16%
x A Sinew of the Law Dis-

played . : & AETOs
x1 On the Rosebud—Plenty

Coups’s Peace-pipe - 213

xut At the Feast of the Dog
Dance—The Way of
Arabella Horsetail . 229

PART III—ON THE OTTAWA

xull Te-vis-ca-bing . : « 27%
xiv A Canuck’s Trick . 98%

CONTENTS

PAGE

xv Concerning a New Ac-
quaintance—-The Mus-
calonge

xvi Several Things About
Moose

xvi ‘‘Jest Travellin” In Wa-
ter Country—Créche’s
Ultimatum.

xvi1I One Moose in Particular

PART IV—IN NORWAY

xix The New Hunting of
Reindeer—When I Ate
the Cake and Had
bi Toa 3 ’ é

eee yw

2; SOE

» 345

367

391

ILLUSTRATIONS

PAGE

A bath tub for Suzanne to envy
He approached threatening, his
face evil as boiling pitch .
The road led through the fra-
grant deep-shadowed pines .
The ride was becoming unpleas-
urably full of incident

I lowered the gun and let him go

That ungrateful billy straight-
way made a vicious charge at
his benefactor .

A tawny shadow close pe
the red earth

Hippity hop, around and
around : ae

One actually sat on ee of
the camera .

21
2 Avid
ve
107’

I4I

FSi

et Re

179 .

- 183

ILLUSTRATIONS

PAGE
Whiteswan. A portrait by him-

self . i ; “ark
Plenty Coups’s ledger. epi
Two squaws scolding their hus-
bands, who have been out all
night : : 2
Each in a canoe with a guide
to paddle . :
We baled and baled with our
foolish utensils. : . 2By
We all sat like graven images 361
Across the tiny lake loomed a

223

279

magnificent animal . Ser oh:
She looked at the fallen mon-
arch and sniffed in alarm . 383

A reindeer drawing room . 403

FART. I.

IN THE SIERRA

SSeS

—

WSS
SS

“THE INN OF THE SILVER MOON”’

SA you ever in the
pS) open air through all the

| rounded day with not
so much as a strip of
canvas between you
and the great space
above? Have you ever watched that
space put forth its round of blue—
from palest grey at early morn—chill
as Ophelia’s brook-kissed tresses, to
warmer—as the dove is grey, like
the passion of anzmic youth, to
steel—glittering as the mercenary
eye, to drab—a brooding menace,
to slate—even as Othello’s sombre

mien —a certainty of breaking
storm?

Or, have you ever watched its
gayer nature from that same chill
tone at dawn peep forth, little spots
of blue, like childish laughter dis-
pelling sterner mood, until the whole
wide dome is smiling—the blue of
the asteria; warmer yet as the sun
mounts—to turquoise, and at last
the true cerulean, shimmering, blaz-
ing in all the ripe completed beauty
of a June garden? Then have you,
as the hours circled, watched this
full-blooded light yield its radiance
to the spirit of evening, gently drift-
ing to the blue of the ancients, lapis
lazuli—deeper, deeper yet, until the
whole wonderful mantle is spread
over you, a great dark-hearted sap-
phire? Then, indeed you have found
something good.

I am not asking you, the veteran,
scarred with wounds and memories,
nor you, the free-spirited moun-
taineer or -plainsman; but you
house-ridden dwellers in the cities,
soul-sick ones, in church, in drawing-
room, in office, or sweat-shop. Throw
off your fetters for awhile, your

prejudice, your narrow-mindedness,
all the petty things that make your
daily trappings and take a sun-
bath with me, give your starved
soul a chance—the road to the
- outdoors is open to all. And as
Providence is apparently over-busy
administering to every feeble soul
the necessary, properly-mixed tonic
of self-sacrifice and recompense,
come with me back to the woods,
pry open your blind eyes and grow
as the flowers grow.

iq] STRONG breeze was stirring
w= the tree-tops, the shining blue-
IRAN eyed water of Lake Tahoe
danced happily in its mountain
home. The largest, fattest trout
found shelter there, lucky the human
who could float and dive with them.
He might feel he was descended
from the mer-folk, the sea his natural
habitat, so buoyant is it, so deep,
so bracing, so everything a water
should be.

At least Nimrod said it was all
these things, said it at great length
as he stood, fully dressed, with no

suspicious dampness to be discerned
upon his locks, and flung chips to
Undine, who rejoiced audibly while
bringing them to shore. Undine
was a black mongrel, a drifter in the
high country, like ourselves. She
had served many masters, cattle-
men, even sheepmen, but the only
law she permanently obeyed was
that of the wild. She had attached
herself to our cavalcade under cir-
cumstances unexpected as they were
praiseworthy. But first it seems
best to record that my.‘ Yes”
accompanied as it was by a variety
of exclamation and interrogation
points, caused Nimrod to say with
a trace of haste in his manner:

‘Look at Silverton i

And I did look at Silverton playing
tag in the water with Undine, whose
tail must have fairly loosened at
the joints with joy.

Silverton was good to look at,
six feet two; he was equally good
to be with. He is dead now, poor
chap, so I can say all the nice things
about him that occur to me. Lou
Silverton was the mountain type in
its highest expression, a big man

morally as well as physically, her-
culean strength at anybody’s ser-
vice (I have seen him break a big
pebble in his hands), his never-failing
good humour, his homely philosophy
and woodcraft lore made him the
man of all others to go camping with.
It was largely his courage and en-
durance that had made it possible
to bring Monarch the biggest grizzly
ever captured alive, to the Zoo at
Golden Gate.

Whether my derision had urged
him on, or whether his own remarks
were a precursor to his present
plan, I know not, but Nimrod disap-
peared behind some bushes and soon
was splashing right merrily. How
ITenvied them. My prim inheritance
forbade that a towel should serve as
a bathing garment. Tomy undoing,
memory now presented a_ picture
printed there only the day before
when on the march; a jolly cascade
of purest mountain vintage had
scooped out in its eager course a
granite slab, great boulders were
piled about it. Here was a bath-tub
smooth, unscarred by crack or peb-
ble, a bath-tub for Susanne to envy.

It was not more than three miles.
Surely I could find it. Leaving
these brazen men with their brazen
dog to take their shameless bath,
wrapped in a cloak of modesty and
sweet anticipations, I jumped upon
the ever-ready horse, and trying to
pretend that I was accustomed to
going through these great solemn
woods alone I started for the reality
of that ablutionary picture. When
at last it was found, the sun had al-
ready begun to pull down his shades,
the pool, perhaps eight feet across
and waist deep, looked black and
cold—brrrrh! very cold. No, de-
cidedly, Susanne would never have
risked her satin flesh. As I hesitated
the pines above sighed loudly:

‘‘ We love the pool so deep and cool,
It is our child.
Step boldly in, dare all to win,
’'T will then be mild.”

After that, the only polite thing
to do was to become acquainted
in the manner outlined. Unfortun-
ately, wet rock is often like good
intentions, most slippery. Not un-
aware of this I selected the least

A BATH TUB FOR SUZANNE TO ENVY

sloping approach; a_ chilly wind
swept by and through my Eve’s
costume most unpleasantly, when
bump, bang-splash! I had slid full
length, face downward into the
water.

O mournful deceivers above—are
you the unwilling servants of the
monster my affrighted eyes now
gazed upon? Life may hold worse
moments, I pray not. What fiend
had dashed me into that icy water
to disturb, in frantic struggles for the
life-giving air, the owner of this pool
—a water-snake with darting tongue
in a flattened head. It was not
courage but sheer fright that tight-
ened my hold on the rock rim near
his writhing tail. There seemed yards
of the squirming horror; in fact it
filled the universe. It seemed to be
enveloping me in swirling waves, as
the dragon of the pool gradually
glided under the rock. Then sud-
denly again the pines sang:

es eee dare all to win.”’

I let go and managed to scramble
out of the water, a frozen rag.
It had been such a delightful bath!

Fortunately Nimrod had hunted
me up and my courage being as
absent as the chill was present, soon
supplied some of the Dutch variety—
such siren pines, yet do I love you.

Having revived the _ perishing,
Nimrod, afterthe manner of husbands,
proceeded to investigate. How long
was the snake, how marked, what
shaped head?

“Humph! Pztuophis catenifer, a
harmless Bull-snake! Doubtless more
scared than you.” -Could you have
forgiven him? Later Silverton’s phil-
osophy smoothed my ruffled feelings.

‘““Why do you suppose I am such a
coward? Surely you have never been
afraid in your life, have you?”’

“Yes,” a courteous lie, ‘but being
afraid does not mean a coward.
That’s imagination. You see, I
haven’t much. It’s what one does
that counts. A fellar’s feelings are
his own job. I'll bet you’ve got
more of the real article than I have.
You get in a tight place, you hate it,
but get out. Now I get in a tight
place—I just get out—no frills—no
credit.”

He took off his sombrero, a huge

affair with a plain leather band on the
crown, and held it beside mine. It
was like his but much smaller and the
wide leather band was beautifully
carved, a Mexican silver buckle
held it.

‘““That’s the difference—frills. It’s
just as useful.”

We had been out in the Sierra
for two weeks. There was one more
of us, the cook. There ought to have
been three more of us, for Sally and
her husband were coming, but one of
the children got the measles. Unless
some other germs triumph, they will
join us next month in Idaho. Sally’s
real name is Gulielma. She could
not help it. There has always been
one in the family. Her grandmother’s
name was Gulielma Mary Ann Sprig-
ett Penn Wells Dean, so she got off
with G. D. Rockingham, and now
she is—you know—Tevis. So Bobby
Tevis calls her ‘‘Pet,” or ‘‘ Petty,”
and I call her Sally. She does not
care. She is hardened, she even
looks with sweet unflinching eyes
when her old-fashioned mother, going
back to first principles, says, ‘‘Gu-li-
el-ma!”’

I have never camped with a wo-
man, but Bobbie Tevis has felt the
call of the Red Gods and Sally has
to come. She is very wise in the
matter of husband keeping, is Sally.
I have never seen her equal. Bobbie
does everything for her, and adores
her, and is not happy unless she is
enjoying with him the same thing at
the same moment. She has practi-
cally made herself over, perhaps a
trifle strenuous for most, but it is
beautiful to behold.

As for the cook, he was just an
Ordinary Man who owned four horses
and a wagon and some saddle horses,
lived in Goldville, the place we
wanted to start from—and could
bake bread.

But to begin at the beginning:
We left Sacramento, a light hearted
trio, on the ‘‘mixed.” At last we
were started after much buying of
provisions and camp _ necessaries.
Perhaps you have never made the ac-
quaintance of a‘‘mixed”’? This one
had a moribund day coach very much
frayed and moth-eaten in the matter
of velvet seats, and very feeble in
the springs; we seemed to be riding

chiefly on the trucks. Being the one
daily train we had a caboose behind,
and the rest of us was freight. With
frequent stops for breath or water,
the engine puffed, puffed up hill at
least ten miles an hour. But no
matter, for the iron horse toiled
through a vast orchard and when it
gave a long wheezing hiss and put on
brakes to rest, merrily Silverton
jumped off and foraged for the ripest
figs and Nimrod for the rosiest
peaches, until gorged with the best
of California’s cornucopia, we were
glad to leave the fruit belt, puffing,
blowing and bumping our way to-
ward the Sierra, calm ‘‘sentinels of
the sky.’”’ Once among them the
engine banked its fires and expired.
We were at the terminal, Goldville.
Nowhere is the air so clear, the sun
so grateful, as in the mountains, but
likewise never do the clouds seem
so black nor human passions, stripped
of some of their civilised trappings,
show themselves more flagrantly.
I am thinking of what happened

during the two hours spent at Gold- __..-”

ville. Nimrod and Silverton were —
busy with the Ordinary Man getting -.::

ae A vi

our?

ready for the start that very after-
noon into the mountains—we were
to have no more roofs for a glorious
while.

Being unoccupied, I drifted down
the main street and into a little park
surrounding the Court House. Sev-
eral children and dogs were playing;
on the benches were a few loafers
and some women from the country
with baskets—a long line beyond of
dusty vehicles with horses hitched
testified that it was market day.
Selecting a vacant and shaded bench
I sat thereon and extracting a tiny
volume of verse from the crown of
my hat began to read—I have no
idea how long.

Fair lilies, roses red,
That once above my head
Waved in a wealth of soft caressing splen-
dour i

“Miss, did you ever see a dead
man?’ Shot into my ear like an
arrow. Someone had whispered it
sibilantly. My slow astonished gaze,
thus torn from the contemplation of
youth, love and beauty, saw beside
me a small woman in shabby black,

her eyes straight ahead, looking at
something within, her hands clasped
tightly in her lap. How had she
got there?

““He’s dead. I never saw one.
He’s there now.”

She shot a sidelong glance at me.

“Where?”

“Over there,” giving her right
shoulder a hitch in the direction of
Main Street.

““Wouldn’t you like to see him?”
She questioned in the same sup-
pressed tone. Most assuredly I would
not, but before I could say so she
went on.

“They took him there this morn-
ing. He shot hisself yesterday. He
lived next ranch—and I—want to
see him. I can’t go alone. Been
trying to Now will you come?”’
She had risen and for a moment an
eager look chased away the strained
one.

“Why did he——” She inter-
rupted me.

‘‘He’s a widower. She’s gone
about a year. His step-daughter
kept house for him, and folks say—
well she’s come to no good end, and

he’s shot hisself because folks said—
but he and I—we— _ Ain’t you com-
in’? Theold Man ’Il be startin’ back
soon.” She glanced at the long line
of market wagons beyond the square.

““Comin’?”’

“Very well.”

I had much to do to keep pace
with her. Once having gotten me,
her moral force, started, she trav-
elled swiftly out of the park, down
Main Street, turned at the third
block and halted abruptly in front
of ‘‘there,’’ which proved to be an
“Undertaking Parlour.”

‘“‘T dare n’t—see him.” It was a
plea for reinforcement.

‘““Come!”’

Once inside, she spoke to a man
who appeared from the rear in his
shirtsleeves.

‘‘T—we want to see him.”’

This speech appeared sufficiently
normal to the gentleman of the
undertaking.

‘‘Come right back here,’’ he said
in a cheerful business-like tone” the
coffin is most done, we’re just engrav-
ing the plate. He spelt his name
with two l’s, I presume?”’

The woman nodded. I essayed to
wait for her, a grip on my sleeve
showed that she still needed the
human touch of sympathy. To-
gether we followed to the workshop
where loudly a hammer proclaimed
a wooden case being put together, and
somewhat apart, on a rough bier,
under a sheet, lay the figure of “‘him’”’
who had not ‘‘made good,’’ as Silver-
ton would put it. In a little house
ten miles away a girl was cursing
him, and the neighbours were help-
ing. Here in the crude noisy shop
was his one mourner—the other
woman.

Dry-eyed she looked at him, bullet
mark and all, looked long and looked
again, then the vision held before her
she sought the street and turned
toward the market place and the
“old Man.”

She dropped me as one drops a
shoe, she neither knew nor cared;
and I scuttled back to Nimrod and
pleasant things.

We slept that night on a straw-
stack in the Ordinary Man’s ranch,
a few miles out of Goldville. Of
course, being an Ordinary Man he

had forgotten something important,
so we could get no farther. The
overdome was violet black that night
with a delicate all-over embroidery
of silver. For along time I lay looking
at it, the straw slowly settling under
my weight, making a cosy nest,
amply protected from the crisp night
air. I was floating in the sweet
upper silence when a something set
it all athrill, a long drawn melodious
quavering weooooooo—followed by a
few short, sharp shocks of sound, and
then a chorus of rolling quavers,
swelling and fading—wwwoo000
woovowo0.

It did not really wake me. I
knew it so well—the evening song
of the coyotes. They were singing
the song of the hills, and feeling that
now indeed was I truly in the open,
my lodging at ‘‘The Inn of the
Silver Moon” lost reality and the
silver wrought bowl slipped farther
and farther away.

REAL DANGERS OF THE OPEN VERSUS
POPULAR NOTION—UNDINE’S STORY

had vagrantly answered
| to the will of many, and

permanently toherown.
During her nomadic ca-
reer she had picked up
several trades, such as cattle- and
sheep-keeping, and at least three ac-
complishments, swimming, barking
like a wolf, and deer-running, the
last often much appreciated by the
bacon-fed herder with whom she had
consented awhile to tarry, taking his
orders, doing his work and sharing
his food and fire. Undine hated salt

pork and ‘‘camp sinkers,”’ so if possi-
ble she provided her own susten-
ance—any unlucky field mouse or
chipmunk not agile enough to escape
her spring. .

Sheep had always been associated
in my mind with great green stretches
of rolling park land whereon a
handful of these well-kept woolly
things fed picturesquely, yielding at
uncertain times and in obscure ways,
white fleece; so I had small sym-
pathy with the prejudice in the West,
encountered universally, against
‘“sheepmen.’’ Why class them among
the despised? And the herders as
creatures beyond the pale—outcasts?
—Why? We must have food, and
mutton is most delectable.

We had been travelling about a
week, each day gliding by as event-
less and delightful as another until
I had come to the comfortable be-
lief that in well-regulated ‘“‘outfits”’
nothing did happen; when the ac-
cumulated bolts of Jove struck
among us right busily. On a cer-
tain well-remembered day we began
to pass through some very extraor-
dinary country, unclean, desolate. |

The dust was incredible. It covered
us like the shower from a volcano.
Nimrod was transformed into a dis-
gusted looking Santa Claus, hair,
mustache, eyebrows, even eyelashes
had disappeared under a reddish
coating. Over the road (the Sierra
are much more man-claimed than
the Rockies, one finds roads instead
of trails) it hung like a blanket ten
feet high of ever changing particles;
the horses ploughed through it eight
inches thick or more, blinding, chok-
ing, intolerable. Itwas the dryseason,
but we had seen nothing like this.

‘““Why is it?” I questioned and
the Ordinary Man answered—

“Sheep.”

Silverton elaborated—‘‘It’s a pity
they’ve got hold of so much of these
mountains. But suppose they’ve
got to go somewhere. Gov’ment
ought to regulate "em, so many to
the square mile, and not let them
wipe out th’ hull country. Isn't
a green thing left when they get
through. Worse’n a plague o’ lo-
custs. We ’re gettin’ close to some
now.”
I wondered how he knew, but I

(iid

had given up trying to fathom Sil-
verton’s woodcraft, perhaps he saw
tracks or the breeze brought tidings.

Yes, there was something pe-
culiar on the wind, very peculiar
and very unpleasant. Was it burn-
ing rubber? No, much worse. It
was growing stronger and stronger,
and the dust! Every one of the mil-
lion particles bore its unspeak-
ably malodorous freight. Oh! for
the power that cleaned the Augean
stables! The Ordinary Man whipped
up his horses. I was seated at the
time on a big roll of bedding at the
back of the wagon, leading my
horse by the bridle. The four horses
shot forward and I had the choice of
loosening the hold on my horse or
myself. A lost horse seemed prefer-
able to a lost equilibrium and that
overpowering dust and smell made
me indifferent. 4

Nimrod caught the horse but I
declined to be burdened with it.
I longed for a fragrant terrace far
away where clematis, and oleanders
and day-lilies scented the clear air.

“Pretty nearly out,’’ he encour-
aged.

‘“‘Out of what?” I snapped gently.

““Sheep.”’ I think his expression
would have showed surprise if it
could have penetrated the layer of
dirt on his visage. ‘‘They are some
distance off on the right, must be
several thousands!”’

I had not seen a thing. But now
I heard voices, muffled sounds and
bleats. So this particular brand of
smell and this deluge of dust meant
‘“‘sheep.”” We were on the necessary
thoroughfare for these poor beasts to
reach higher pasture lands. They
were making a forced march in order
to get food, for this region had al-
ready been devastated by their pre-
decessors. The streams were defiled,
the vegetation gone, nothing but dust
and ruin.

Just then, a darting ball of red
shot into the road, turned toward us
one end from which two gleaming
eyes shone, the other end was stiff
for an instant and then waggled.

“‘Oh, you poor little doggie, what
a sight you are!’”’ It gave two short
barks and several hard waggles and
was off. ‘‘ That is the sheep herders’
mainstay,” said Silverton, “‘the dog

does most of the work. The herd-
ers are a ornery lot, mostly Mexican
trash, no decent man would take
such a job.”

So now I understood the preju-
dice. At best a herder’s life repre-
sents long weeks alone, his only and
constant company sheep, sheep, silly,
smelly sheep. At last we left them
behind and the air became humanly
possible again. Being stillin sheep
country we were obliged to make
camp where we could find water fit
to drink.

A little spring in the enclosure of
a deserted ranch (owner driven out
by the sheep) had escaped pollution.
It was sweet by its means to recover
a normal appearance, and the little
emerald patch was as welcome to us
as the oasis to a desert traveller.

The Ordinary Man was preparing
supper when a small red object
crawled, rather than walked, toward
us from the road, It lifted its nose
from the ground and evidently seeing
the object of its tracking, stretched
out on the grass, a very tired dog.

After a time the eyes opened and
looked at me.

‘You are surely the sheep-herders’
dog.” The animal gave itself a
shake as much as to disclaim any
such connection, and with a bark of
joy perceived the spring and jumped
in. It was gone a long time. Had
I been mistaken, was it a suicide?
when up came a creature in black
coat, shining and curly, emitting
little yelps of pleasure as it paddled
about. Then vigorously drying her-
self Undine went to the fire and sug-
gested that food would be most
appreciated.

She ate starvedly and then fell to
licking a long cut on the body. Per-
haps it was resentment of this that
had made Undine change her allegi-
ance, for change it she had, as sub-
sequent events proved.

I have often been struck by the
flimsiness of the threads from which
that curious fabric “‘popular notion”
is woven. I have never been able
to examine it closely without it
falling to pieces in my hands. Per-
haps it is a thankless task to destroy
it: it is the way half of the world wins
its living from the other half. But
I am tempted to poke holes in a tiny

section of it which maligns the Wild
Ones. A word should be said for
them. I have camped in a region
where bears prowled unceasingly,
where the smaller fourfoots, wolves,
foxes, lynxes, knew very well of my
presence. A mountain lion once
walked half way around my bed as
I lay peacefully sleeping, his nose not
a hand’s breadth from mine, as the
great padded tracks next morning
amply testified. I had much time
to study them, as the very smell of
their owner had stampeded the
horses miles away. Hundreds of
antelope, deer, wapiti, caribou I
have seen and have never been in
danger from them unless they were
being molested and therefore on
the defensive. In short the wild
animals are no longer a menace to
peaceful man.

The real dangers of the wilds that
have seriously threatened my life
were a common bull, and a little
creature no bigger than a thumb-
nail—a yellow-jacket wasp!

Rarely if ever does a dangerous
wild animal in the woods “‘hit first,”’
and having said this for the wild

ones, I may add that in spite
of these fine words, still shackled
by remnants of tradition, I am
always expecting them to, and
thereby prove myself a creature not
wholly open to reason.

However, if something must in-
spect camp at night, I would far
rather take chances on lion or bear,
for at least they have a care where
their feet are going, but a bull would
as soon trample on one as on the
grass alongside. He cares not a jot.
A horse will carefully step over a
human form but a bull has not a
shred of noblesse obliggé. He is a
blatant, stupid, brutal bully.

As for yellow jackets, there is
no creature more dreaded in horse
country. Many a poor pack-horse
on the trail has missed his footing
and gone to his death because of
them. I remember a certain ‘Lost
Horse Cafion,”’ the entrance of which
they guarded, and where our faith-
ful Midnight, in pain and fright,
bucked himself off the trail, plunging
nearly a thousand feet to the torrent
below, a horrible performance which
my horse came perilously near

repeating. We were only saved by
my being able to grasp an overhang-
ing branch, and thus relieved of
his burden the horse scrambled up on
to the trail not a second too soon.
Possibly the Creator had for long
been making children, cubs, puppies
and other young things then; of a
sudden fearing that the world might
become too sweet a place, balanced
by fashioning the wasp—all venom,
sting and temper.

(This is really the story of Undine,
but the propeller blade has to be in
the air some of the time, you know.)

After supper the long twilight still
lingered. Nimrod, who had been
sweeping the foothills with glasses,
gave utterance to this cryptic re-
mark:

“T think I see a milk wagon!
Fresh milk for breakfast, a good
idea! Come Silverton, Cook, bring
a pail,” and the three rode away
toward a small “‘bunch” of range
cattle that had come into view on
the edge of the sheep-ruined country.

Undine and I were getting ac-
quainted. She was not a lap dog,
had evidently no conception of the

part, but lay nose between paws
watching me as I sang, perhaps liking
the sound that the Poet had made
when he strung the words together—

‘Swiftly walk over the western wave,
Spirit of night!

Out of the misty eastern cave

Where, all the long and lone daylight,

Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear

Which make thee terrible and dear,—
Swift be thy flight! .. .”

The little dog raised her nose and
sniffed tentatively, then arose in an
attitude of attention. A horseman
was galloping towards us. Undine
sniffed again, gave a low growl, and
crawled out of sight under a pile
of canvas. A dirty swarthy little
man drew rein, almost pulled the
poor creature to its haunches.
Flecked with foam, it stood trem-
bling, breathing heavily.

“The Mexican sheep-herder of
course,”’ I thought, ‘‘cruel to every-
thing, beware of little black men,
all devil—soul like a _ pin-point,”
where had I heard that!

““Giv’-a the dog,’’ he demanded,
scowling down at me. Something
inside got. uncomfortably large and

thumped. I said nothing. Flinging
himself to the ground, he pointed to
Undine’s track.

‘‘He’s here—sacre! You can no’
keep!’’ He approached threatening,
his face evil as boiling pitch. The
deserted aspect of the place now
penetrated to his consciousness. His
darting black eyes searched about
cunningly, but he failed to see a
black nose and two shining beads,
noting his every movement.

‘‘Ah; mia bella!”

I retreated. He advanced, one
hand outstretched. It was the sig-
nal for Undine to launch herself
upon him.

“Santa Maria sacre”’

A torrent of ‘“‘hog’’ Spanish fol-
lowed. The little dog snarled and
growled at the approaching man.
He kept her off by kicking as he
edged toward a big stick, murder
written on every line of him—poor
little Undine! Running as fast as
the ground would allow, for it seemed
to jump up and down, I got to the
bed, some distance off, and grabbed
agun. Howit stuck in the scabbard!
At last the hateful thing was out.

HE APPROACHED THREATENING, HIS FACE EVIL
AS BOILING PITCH

cae
. mek

~

I was much afraid it would ex-
plode, in my haste; holding it in
the Mexican’s direction, but care-
fully into the ground, I commanded
him to let the dog alone, get on his
horse and begone.

This he did, cursing all sorts of
things in his jargon, but without
wasting any time, the coward! Pos-
sibly he knew as well as I, that a
gun in the hands of a nervous
woman is very dangerous, indeed.

When the men returned they found
Undine nursing bruises, and I nursing
the gun. Asno harm had been done,
it seemed best not to pursue the man,
although Silverton stayed on guard
that night in case he should return.
Thus again Undine proved her right
to be one of us, for if Silverton had
not been watching—but then, he
was.

Soon after the milkers’ return I
noticed Nimrod at the spring care-
fully washing the pails that they had
brought back empty. I never have
gotten the accurate details of that
expedition, but I believe that when
they reached the herd, Nimrod made
a bleat like a calf. Several cows

looked up and ran about anxiously,
showing they had calves. Silverton
lassoed one of these and with the
Ordinary Man’s help held her, while
Nimrod did the very precarious
milking. He was watching the cow’s
feet instead of the pail, so had milked
a quart or more before he noticed
that the milk was streaked with
blood. In sudden disgust he threw
it out, plentifully splashing his horse’s
feet. No one now had any desire
for milk, so they rode to camp.

Thus unthinkingly Nimrod set the
lure for a midnight visitor. In the
darkness the herd had grazed nearer
and nearer. Suddenly we all heard
the bellow of a bull—urrrh—urrrh—
urrrh—at the spring, The men
chased him away, and thinking no
more about it I went to bed. Soon
Nimrod was wriggling into his
blankets nearby. How delightfully
easeful that resting on air. But not
yet on that eventful night was sleep
to woo, and win.

That old bull had not been satis-
fied. He had smelled tainted milk
at the spring and again was investi-
gating in wrathful mood—rrrhh—

~

—rrh—stamping and snorting about,
crazier got his actions, he was work-
ing himself into a frenzy. Silverton
tried to drive him off. Instead, the
snorting, stamping brute started our
way. Silverton got out his pistol but
dared not use it in the darkness so
near us. I tried to jump up.

“Stay where you are, it’s your
-only chance, he may miss _ us!”’
Commanded Nimrod.

It was awful, that waiting,
expecting every moment to be
trampled on—when suddenly an
unlooked for champion dashed to the
rescue—yap, yap, yip! It was Undine,
a DavidforGoliath. Now her versatile
training showed forth. She knew
just what to do, nipping at flank and
leg and darting out of reach, she
turned the snorting, pawing Jugger-
naut and drove it far away.

After a time the doggie and
Silverton and the pistol came back;
but—the bull never did.

The beauty of the night had re-
mained unquestioned and now its
peace came back. I drowsed but
did not sleep.

We were nearing the home of the

Big Trees and already they towered
triumphantly to the sky.

How would it feel to be swinging,
on the tippy top of that giant red-
wood? See-saw—I gave myself up
to the soothing fancy—now I was
swinging in it, as gently as a babe in
its cradle, swish, swish—when a
faint, very faint movement beneath
brought me to earth with a jar and
stiffened every muscle to wakeful-
ness. Something was under the
heavy canvas on which rested the
rubber bed: Nervous, of course I
was after all the day’s excitement.

No, there it was again. Had I
remembered to put my horse-hair
rope around the bed, the magic rope
that is supposed to keep the rattle-
snakes away? Had I? NowI remem-
ber it was in place! Perhaps I was
to have the opportunity of testing it.
Noone not even the oldest inhabitant,
attempts to deny the numerous
rattlesnakes in the Sierra. Ah! that
sneaking insinuating motion, very
gentle, I could hardly feel, or hear,
or whatever sense it was that con-
veyed the intelligence—but unmis-
takable. It had gotten under there

somehow and was trying to get out.
Did that horse-hair quite meet, or
had I arranged it carelessly? I pic-
tured the rattler going all around
me trying at every undulation to
pass the rope whose stiff bristles
repelled its sensitive throat, per-
haps it had found the opening and
was gliding in! Perhaps it preferred
hair ropes to any other road.

‘‘Nimrod”’ said a small thin voice,
“have you got the electric lamp
within reach? There is a—’’ I did
not say it, ‘“—something under my
bed. There, did n’t you hear it?”’

This time the noise was much
louder.

‘“Squ-eee-eek.”

““Tt’s a field mouse getting jolly
well squashed. Now he is gone,”’
said the masculine voice with in-
finite patience and resumed his inter-
rupted slumbers. A flash of the
electric lamp showed Undine curled
up comfortably near on a saddle
blanket. She opened one eye and
cocked an ear, politely enquiring,
“Why don’t you do the same?’’ So
I did.

PART II.

IN THE ROCKIES

THE GRAND CANON AND WHAT IT DID
TO NIMROD

=7a|1 MROD and I were mak-

: | ing one of those conti-
nent-jumping trips over
which the foreigner
still is aghast. We ex-
pected to join Sally and
Bobbie Tevis in Idaho at the end of
the week. The night before we had
left Los Angeles with the thermom-
eter over the hundred-in-the-shade
mark, and as I made a restricted
night toilet in a lower berth and
closed tired eyes, there passed be-
fore memory’s eye the sparkling
light, the twinkling sand, the hot

blue sky, the air now soft, now fierce,
but always caressing, and everywhere
bright flowers on fence and tree and
house, a riot of brilliant blooms—
especially that mass of scarlet gerani-
ums at the station blazing its name
in welcome or goodbye to all who
passed. In the berth above, I could
hear the turnings and squirmings
of Nimrod, who was performing his
sleeping car penance.

‘Look out, they ’re coming!”’
It was a gentle whisper from above.

“What is it? Oh”’—and my
sleepy gaze fastened on a ghostly
hand descending within the line of
vision. It held a black object which
fell to the floor with a thud; an-
other followed. The porter would
know what to do with them.

I suppose we really walked in the
trail of good luck when we visited
the Grand Cafion, for we saw in
its most curious phase, that mightiest
gash of a mighty river in its immen-
sity and beauty, suddenly roll wonder
on wonder before us, as though the
whole world were striving then and
there to empty its coffers in one
glorious offering at the feet of God!

but we knew not what was reserved
for us and when we passed from
the warm Pullman sleeping car on to
the platform of Flagstaff we shivered
and repined.

Although it was nearly June, Na-
ture in her vagaries had flung a snow
storm around San Francisco peak and
we in summer clothes with only hand
baggage thought regretfully of the
trunks and warm clothing that were
speeding onward to Pine Cone Lodge.

Between eye-shutting and eye-
opening to be plunged from warmth,
light, flowers, all out-doors in joyous
mood, to the sleet and snow and the
wind that was almost a blizzard, and
cold against which our covering
seemed no protection, required a
plentiful application of traveller’s
philosophy. The street in front of
us was running rivers of slush.
Nimrod was the first to recover.
He broke the silence that had hung
over us, leaden as the clouds above.

‘Well, let’s get into this ‘one-hoss
shay’ and see if it can float us to
the hotel—Driver, what’s the best
hotel? ‘The Palace?’ ’”’ We looked
at each other with grim humour.

If it could only have been Smith’s
or Brown’s or Jones’s there might
have been some chance of decent
accommodation, but the ‘‘ Palaces”’
and the ‘‘Royals’’—well, we knew
them.

I resisted a woman’s inclination
to cower and straightened to meet
the cutting blast that swept around
the station corner as though Boreas
himself was in charge.

‘“Yes, there it is,’ Nimrod said
in a resigned voice as we looked
through the window of an antique
omnibus upholstered in red-and-
green Brussels carpet, and read a
legend ‘‘ The Palace Hotel’’ in brazen
black letters on the false third-story
front of a frame two-story clap-
board structure that ran back on
its narrow site like a train of cars.
We knew already that the ground
floor windows gave light to an
‘‘office”’ where was the clerk’s desk
and billboard, and which served for
the lounging room. Wooden arm
chairs, their backs reinforced by iron
rods, to accommodate the habit of
continual tilting by their occupants,
were placed against the wall and

hyphenated periodically by brown
earthen dishes which combined in
their big round shapes the opposing
emblems of cleanliness and filth.
The long, broad table supplied with
inkwells and cheap stationery and
the local papers, all rather untidy,
would be sure to occupy some por-
tion of the office space, and the
‘bar,’ separated only by abbre-
viated swinging doors, would give
forth its individual odours and its
voices; also we knew that beyond
the office was the dining room with
its long tables always set with the
“‘usuals,’’ including toothpicks, and
the kitchen, not by any means
hiding its essential part in the hotel
economics; while above stairs the
long, narrow corridor would be bro-
ken by doors that gave the entrance
to cell-like rooms, each small, square
and stuffy, lighted by one window
and furnished with ingrain carpet,
a pine bedroom set, and the noises
of one’s neighbours.

We arrived and dashed through the
torrent. How depressing it all was
in its sordid usefulness! no extreme
for good or ill that might lift it to

the picturesque. It was an ex-
pression of the crudity of man when
he has broken away from the primi-
tive and is trying to make a big
showing in a cheap way, and often
does he do this in the very lap of
Nature’s grandest achievements such
as here where she has with indiffer-
ence taken centuries of time and em-
ployed all the mighty agents at her
command, the sun, the air, the water
and the earth, all the elements to
make a home for one of her vassals,
the Colorado, and to paint it in all
the colours that could beautify.
Then does man erect a structure of
his on its surface, as a fleck of soot
mars the face of a beautiful woman,
putting up a false front, painting
its pine boards to look like brick,
and its pine furniture to look like
mahogany, papering its walls to
look like marble, curtains that imi-
tate lace, a melodeon that imitates
a piano, tissue paper that is cut and
twisted into shameless shapes of
flowers in an imitation Worcester
vase—nothing honest but the fly-
paper and the spittoon.

It is necessary perhaps, this civil-

isation in its first tottering steps,
but how different are the homes
of those who live with nature, of
the Indian, the frontiersman and
the scout—of the life in the open
that for another month I was going
to lead. The blood jumped through
my veins at the thought. No mat-
ter if the wind does blow, no matter
if the street is a foot thick in slimy
mud and the sleet beating down
mercilessly; it is simply nature in a
wild mood—I have seen her in
worse. It seems trying to one ac-
customed to the pampering com-
forts of man’s ingenuity, but soon
I shall throw off that yoke and walk
as a little sister with this big brother,
earth.

We had given ourselves very little
time to visit the Cafion and when
we were informed that the stage
would not run to the Cafion that day,
the prospect of spending a third of
the precious time in the Palace
Hotel at Flagstaff met with scant
favour.

“Tt is cold as liquid air, none of
these dainty sons of the soil want to
take their horses out,’’ said Nimrod

as he stood at the window in the
office looking disconsolately at the
storm. The street was running rivers
of mud lashed by the wind, the down-
pour swept past in undulating waves
of sleety wetness.

“Of course, we must get to the
Cafion to-night,’ I made answer.

‘‘There are seventy miles of it.
Can you do it?”

He needed no assurance.

“T will skirmish for a private
conveyance. Can you be ready in
an hour if my gold proves convinc-
ing?”

‘“‘Easily. Do you suppose we can
borrow an umbrella? I saw a ‘Dry
Goods Emporium’ down the street
as we came up from the station and
hope it will yield us some sweaters
and warm things.’’ I felt as bloodless
as a sheet of paper.

An hour later we dashed out of
town behind four half-broken mus-
tangs whose principal endeavour
seemed to be to stay off the ground
as much as possible. The two-seated
mountain carry-all swung from side
to side, sending the mud in showers
around it and upon the tarpaulin

curtains that partially protected us.
We were on the back seat and I
wondered if we really could stay
right side up.

“Driver what is the matter with
the horses?” burst from me. ‘‘Oh,
look at that leader! Heavens, we’ll
be in the ditch!’’ Nimrod reached
out a steadying hand under the robe
as he grasped the guard rail with the
other hand. ‘Should say he was
practising the hornpipe on one leg,
but the driver seems to understand
them.’’

The driver having now extricated
his leader from the ditch and con-
fined the cavorting of the wheelers
to the middle of the road answered:

“Oh, they are all right, ma’am.
hey re a bit fresh, that’s all.
They'll go a nice pace after they
have worked off five mile or so. Ye
see they ain’t no great pals with
their leather yet.” I gave myself
a dose of “don’t care’’ philosophy,
having acquired this trick on pre-
vious occasions—‘‘ Yes, this is bad,
awful, in fact, or so it seems to you,
but it has happened before to others
and will happen again. Are you

a craven soul? What is your fear,
that you may get hurt? The real
part of you cannot be hurt by any-
thing physical, and if you are going
to be hurt—well, you will be, fear
will not help you. ‘Cowards die
many times before their deaths’—
Ugh! away with it’’—and began
to feel better.

‘“Tra la la, tra la la, dear boy,
we are really getting to the Cafion,
‘the mighty channel that the mighty
Colorado has worn through the ages,
etc., etc.’ Brrh! Isn’titcold? Fancy
June behaving like this. San Fran-
cisco Peak is covered with snow.
I just caught a glimpse when the
clouds lifted a little. Driver, don’t |
you think the storm is nearly over?”’

The man thus addressed shifted
his quid from one cheek to the other
and emptied his mouth of sufficient
fluid to make speech comfortable.

‘“Tt’s nigh on three days, I reckon,
a change’s about due. The folks
at the Cafion been held up since
Monday. May be they won’t ob-
ject to seein’ the mail bag.”

The horses for the past fifteen
miles had been going a steady gait

and now showed signs of increased
activity, which I interpreted as mean-
ing the nearness of the relay station.
Although in a private conveyance
we carried the mail bag and were
using the post route horses. We
drew up with a flourish in front of
the one-story log ‘“‘shack,’’ divided
equally into quarters for the men
and the horses. No one was visible,
but immediately there were sounds
of ‘‘Whoa, you devil, whoa there,
save your hide’”—and a man ap-
peared with two dancing animals
partially harnessed. They repre-
sented many bloods, but principally
“‘cayuse.”” Regardless of the evi-
dent equine remonstrance the men
without further ado tied each to a
hitching post well-separated and has-
tened to help the driver and a third
man disentangle the four whose
twenty-odd miles of hard work had
not seriously impaired their vicious-
ness. I waited until peace reigned
in the vicinity of the carry-all and
then climbing over the front seat
in order not to disturb the side-
curtains so securely fastened, pre-
pared to descend. We were only

stopping long enough to change
horses. Nimrod was already on the
ground.

‘‘Oh, how glorious it is already,”
I cried, ‘‘the rain has almost gone
and we shall soon be able to see about
us, after all. Driver, where are the
fresh leaders—what’s your name,
please?”’

The driver, a short thick-set man
with a thin, rather finely cut face
and drooping moustache, stopped
in his task of changing certain
harness from the incoming to the
outgoing wheelers and brought out
his remarks in an accustomed
slow speech.

‘“My handle is Sommers, ma’am.
They'll be out ina minute. Ye hit
it plumb right. They’re fresh, an’
we'll all be ready to move when they
are introduced. Now ma’am, if you'll
step in’’—gallantly offering to help
me into the carry-all.

“But the horses aren’t attached
yet,” I demurred. ‘‘No ma’am,”’
said Sommers politely, with the air of
having already explained, ‘“‘ye see
they prefer to move and it’s healthier
to be ready to go with them.”

Nimrod and I got into the back
seat and awaited developments,
which were immediately forthcom-
ing. The four men got the wheelers
into position and the reins passed
over the dashboard and secured.
It was a lively skirmish, but soon
over. A man remained at the head
of each wheeler and the other two
disappeared into the stable and
after much commotion, men and
horses burst into the open. I saw
two mouse-coloured animals with
long ears laid back viciously and the
short-haired tail that suggested mule
and the stamping feet and roll-
ing eye of wicked horse. The
kicking and the bucking, the plung-
ing and rearing of these mountain
products, was only equalled by the
calm, irresistible determination of the
men to bend brute will to theirs.
At first the issue seemed doubtful,
then it became apparent that slowly,
with many a circling and bucking,
the ‘‘jacks’’ were being forced in
front of the wheelers, who now be-
came excited and plunged and reared
to help the general confusion.

I was beginning to understand

why it was necessary to be ‘‘ready
to move.” I felt a bit ill, ‘‘Oh
you miserable rabbit! Your old
enemy again, Fear, sitting on your
shoulder. Cannot you get some of
the calm of these men, if only—
Oh mercy!”

This last exclamation was jerked
out by a sudden lurch of the carry-
all as the wheelers, breaking away
from restraint, started to bolt. The
brake was jammed hard down and
the leaders were in the way. An
awful mix-up ensued. One horse
was down; phrases were flying in
the air. ‘‘Whoa, there you devil!”
‘‘Here you, go sit on his head’”—
“Look out, this ain’t no pink-tea
party, Baldy’s got la-igs,” ‘‘Whoa
there. I’ve got him!!’ ‘‘Oh hell!
Steady there, have you got it buck-
led?” ‘‘Hold him tight!”” By some
incredible sleight of hand the few
buckles were fastened, the reins
slipped through the guards, and
Sommers jumped to his seat, gath-
ered up the reins, loosened the brake
a little, shouted ‘‘Now!’’ The men
scrambled away from the plunging
leaders—and bedlam was let loose.

The leaders reared, backed, twisted
until they were so tied up in the
harness that they were helpless.
The three men after much struggling
and great risk of injury, managed
to disentangle them.

‘‘Get a whip and lash ’em, make
’em go,” called Sommers, as calm
as though giving an order to feed
them four quarts apiece. Again the
order was given. ‘‘ Ready—sail into
them.”” The horses were released
and before they could turn, a merci-
less lashing sent them forward with
ears laid back. From side to side
the carry-all swung, bump—thump
—jerk We clung to each other
and to the carriage. First on one
wheel then on another it tottered,
but the driver was clever. He made
no attempt to keep the road. Here
no fences confined it and the way
was level and sandy with a thin car-
pet of low vegetation. After a mile
of this I ventured to speak. There
was as yet no sign of docility and
the animals pursued their snake-
like course.

“‘A fresh horse in this country
evidently means an unbroken one.

It’s an outrage to have to drive with
such creatures.’

“Ye see, Ma’am, that’s why the
boss didn’t specially hanker to send
ye out. He don’t keep no lady’s
hosses in this outfit, an’ this being
in the beginning of the season, them
cayuses will know more if they live
through it. But them leaders come
mixed, hoss an’ mule; mighty tough,
an’ mighty ornery.”’

“They ought to be broken before
risking traveller’s lives. Are you
afraid?’ Gracious! We struck a
gnarled shrub and swung sidewise
dangerously and I repented my
loquacity. JI was answered in the
order of remarks.

“Yes ma’am, but it is cheaper
for the Company to do it this way.
Noma’am; leastways it don’t count.”

I wondered whether he really did
know fear. Whether or not, it was
evident that it did not ‘“‘count.”’
I laid the thought away after label-
ling it ‘‘tonic,’’ but asked no more
questions, and after three miles had
worried past and a steep ascent
begun, the animals had lost some
of their energy, although they con-

THE ROAD LED THROUGH THE FRAGRANT DEEP-
SHADOWED PINES

tinued to be nervous to the end
of the relay.

The afternoon wore on. Unaccus-
tomed to such excitement and long
hours of cramped sitting, we were
feeling wearied and chilled, and the
sandwich lunch brought from the
Palace Hotel and eaten en route,
was causing discomfort.

Tired as I was, the charm of the
mountains began to claim me. The
storm had passed. All was damp
and soggy and the sun could not
break through a barrier of clouds,
but the greyness was deepening
into darker shadows, and the time
of all the day that I loved most,
its close, had come. The road had
been mounting for the past two
hours and at six o’clock the third
and last relay station was reached.
The change of horses was accom-
plished without much trouble, and
we dashed off through the fragrant,
deep-shadowed pines, on the twenty-
mile home stretch to the little log
hotel on the Cafion’s edge. We were
now on a table land clothed with
alpine forest, its pungent odour was
like a draught of wine, intoxicating

with a promise of all the glad days
to come.

“T hope they have something
substantial. No communication for
three days and a party of ten snow
bound there is not encouraging,”
said Nimrod, beating his hands to-
gether to restore circulation.

Another hour past. ‘‘See, isn’t
that a light,” at last!

‘At least there will be hot coffee,’’
he added, apprehensively. Seventy
miles of cold and storm with only
a sandwich lunch having made us
solicitous of creature comforts. The
sounds of the wagon had brought
some one to the door and a cheering
bar of light streamed into the dark-
ness. There was hot coffee and other
things and with anticipation of the
morrow, we stole up the rough un-
carpeted stairs to a cold, bare little
room, undressed shivering, and as
quickly as possible sought oblivion
on a bumpy mattress under calico
patch-work quilts—maximum of
weight and minimum of warmth.
I love creature comforts, the tub
bath, the warm dressing room, the
nightly hair brushing, the soft light

covering and easeful bed—and when
foregone, it is a deliberate renuncia-
tion for some recognised good. After
all, those things do not touch the
soul, and life in the mountains does.
Under its spell the unimportant de-
tails of a routine life in the East shrink
to their proper size and one expands
as the purple lupin unfolds its sensi-
tive leaves to the sun, and shuts
them again in the dark.

In the morning I opened eyes on
the figure of Nimrod perched on a
chair peering through a small win-
dow in the roof.

““Well?”’

“‘Can’t see a thing. A thick grey
fog—might as well be on board ship.
What luck!”

About eleven there were signs of
the fog lifting and we, eager with
anticipation, put on rubber coats
and goloshes. We were cautioned
not to go more than a hundred feet
from the door, as the Cafion began
abruptly. Hand in hand we ad-
vanced through the mist until sud-
denly we stopped and drew back
breathless. The peculiar difference
in the blankness before us showed

that in a moment we would have
stepped off into space to fall—how
far we could not tell, but even then,
as we stood straining our eyes, ap-
peared in ghostly forms the tops of
trees. The place was full of mystery,
as we stood on the edge of the un-
known that peculiar stillness of a
fog heavy about us, while spread
before, if we could but penetrate
the veil, lay unimagined wonders of
Nature’s treasure house. Then the
thick whiteness around us began
moving right to left and upward.
The whole closed curtain rose wave
after wave, mile after mile, and
revealed an expanse of colour and
form shining in the sunlight stretch-
ing on—on—to the end of the world,
so appallingly beautiful that I felt
my brain reel. Turning away from
the terrifying grandeur of it, I sank
totheground. The suddennessof the
revelation had left no time for prep-
aration, and I gazed at the com-
monplace grass blades to restore my
balance.

In a moment, half ashamed of
so much emotion, I looked up to see
Nimrod disappearing into the stable.

He was gone so long that I began
to feel worried; then he came back
looking triumphant and a little sheep-
ish. Without a word he thrust an
envelope into my hand with some-
thing written on it. Mushrooms
grow best in dark detritus, the edel-
Weiss scorns all but the most rugged
spot in which to flower, Nimrod
in a pigstye had produced this:

“A thousand miles—the continent upheav-
ing

Thro storms of sand, of rain, of driving snow,

And then a sudden pause upon an awful
hidden brink

Where all upheaval seemed to fail, an inch
before your very feet.

The reason lost, the universe forgot, in
mists unknown, immeasurable.

And then a change:

This way and that the Powers uproll the
veil;

An inch beyond your very foot a great
abyss.

Down! down! down! the mists are rolled
away,

Thousands upon thousands of headlong
dizzy feet.

Down! down! down! with piney forests on
their nearest side,

More small than moss,

Down! down! down! to blue eternity.

And up! up! up! the swirling mists are
rolled,

Till peaks prismatic gleam and rise

In sheen of purple, opal, red and gold.

Up! up! in ranks until they seem to comb
the flying scud

That swims upon the heaven of heavens;

And shadowy peaks still higher yet appear,

And up and up and upward still, till lost in
blue eternity.

And still the mist is rolled away,

And in the light of revelation there,

Far down—unspeakably far,

A long thin winding shining line—gray
green,

The river—ancient as the earth—

Whose aqua-fortis flood, God’s graver was,

With which this gorge was cut.

Profounder than the gulfs between the
stars it seemed,

And awful as the day of Judgment come.

One moment there the sun refulgent shone;
Then warning, ‘“‘Thou hast seen enough
For all thy days remaining.”

Far down the mist of mists is rolled again
A film, a veil, a curtain-like futurity,

The last, the nearest of the peak is hid,
And just an inch beyond your very foot
An awful brink abysmal.”

Just think what it did to him—a
calliper scientist.
Ina place homely—most homely—

and time-tried he had sought mental
equilibrium. He had to run away
from the tremendous vision to
unload his mind of the burden, ere
it was crushed!

In the sublime there is no laughter;
sO more sanely now we surveyed
the scene. All the colours of the
rainbow blazed mile after mile away
like some titanic jewel casket, with
the gem of all, the boiling, seething
flood of the Colorado flashing like
a tiny streak of lightning, down
crag after crag, valley after valley,
below.

So this was the Cafion that paint-
ers had dared to portray, that writers
had dared to describe. I was
drunk with the gorgeous beauty
and immensity of it, even glad to
turn away and be busied with the
details of a horseback ride along the
brink. We reluctantly decided to
give up the trip down the Cafion,
as Hank’s Trail was out of repair
and dangerous owing to the storm.
The guides were unwilling to take
us that day, and we could not wait.

As I was getting into the saddle,
having obtained a battered riding

skirt, a nomadic ‘‘outfit’’ of Indians
came up to the hotel. There were
about twenty horses, five men and
several women, children and dogs.
They were not allowed to stop, but
passed at a snail’s pace, while two
of the men bartered badger skins
for tobacco and sugar, and a squaw
displayed some baskets and bead-
work of Apache designs.

“It is good to be here before the
railroad and the funicular to the
bottom and the modern hotel and
all the tiresome civilisation that is
sure to come, and before the Indians
give us Greek beadwork.”

‘“The savages out-savaged,”’ Nim-
rod replied, mounting his animal,
and gibed no more, for the Buckskin
playfully rolled his eyes and bucked
and bucked and bucked.

cage ia Hye wiley ate Wt ee age,

A DISCURSION ON THE BRONCHO
=ailE were to “outfit” at
«| PineCone Lodge, Idaho,
ninety miles from the
failroad: “The “‘Tevi,.”’
our usual manner of
— designating Sally and
Bobbie plurally, were already waiting
charged with the task of making ar-
rangements. Bert Sommers came
with us; Nimrod providently annexed
him at the Cafion, knowing that he
was footloose and a native of the
Bitter Roots.
“He knows how to manage these
animated pepper pots they call

horses, and he knows the country!”
Enough, a good guide is a precious
thing, to be secured when found,
like a nugget in the road.

Sally Tevis is wonderful. She is
not exceptionally beautiful, but she
makes one think she is. Her figure
is long and thin, her face is thin and
long, her hair is black and straight,
her complexion is sallow from a
liberal allowance of ill health and
she is no longer young, fast losing
the thirties; but the wit, keen per-
ception, wide cultivation and the
initiated yet sweet outlook on life,
makes so brilliant a spirit that it
flares through a common-place
exterior as the sun through a
window. I always think of her as
young and beautiful. She is, for her
spirit is that and she is all spirit.
“A wisp of fire,” Bobbie once called
her.

The Tevi rode out several miles
to meet us. Sally was attired in a
very new costume of grey corduroy
elaborately banded and vested with
leather, the same as her high boots.
The skirt was short and artistically
bifurcated. “It is its premsére—

the only model that does not make
a woman look a fright,’”’ she said,
submitting to my _ inspection—
“Bobbie approves, he hinted at
rather more leather, but it will stand
alone now, I think. It is very heavy
and stiff but Bobbie would have it
match his, and you know the Duchess
—— has one in which she rides ’cross
country. Otherwise no, not at all
for little Sally. You look as fresh
and lovely as ever” (Sally always
says agreeable things) “but you
must be tired. Everything is packed
ready for to-morrow from the essen-
tial powderpuff in my saddle bag
to the unimportant food and
bedding.” She deposited a light kiss
on the left cheek as I scrambled out
of the buckboard over saddles and
bundles.

“You won't find anything here but
a few decrepit ‘lung-ers’ and a man
with a grouch. He may be dis-
tinguished by a scowl and green
plaid stockings. Green is the safety
signal, but don’t be deceived; I have
suffered, so I have warned.”’

We ate a nondescript meal to this
lively accompaniment and going

some distance from the rambling
log “shack” and its cluster of one
room log cabins that formed Pine
Cone Lodge, the Tevi, Nimrod and
I spent the afternoon in target
practice, for later when we are in
game country we could not be bang-
ing guns and disturbing all the game
within ten miles.

Nimrod does not shoot except with
the camera, gave it up long ago.
He hunts the animals longer and
harder than any to study them. I
had one rifle and the Tevi had six
“shooting irons.” Not that the Tevi
are so bloodthirsty but Bobbie Tevis
attended to the equipment and Bob-
bie has theories. Everything he has,
Sally must have; it easily resulted in
an arsenal, two rifles, two shotguns,
a Mauser and a twenty-two for small
things; and Sally industriously hunts
and shoots when Bobbie hunts and
shoots, wears waterproof boots like
his and a hat like his, and is also in
grey-brown clothes the colour of the
woods. A red shirt waist (red is
Sally’s colour), independently pur-
chased, was left behind.

“Bobbie was afraid the game

a -

might see it or smell it through the
leatheroid telescope and fly the
country,” Sally explained, giving
her husband an affectionate pat, to
extract any possible sting.

“You know, Petty, I suggested
your bringing it for wear in camp.”’

“Yes, but it came out at the last
- minute to make room for that extra
hundred rounds of ammunition. We
are quite ready to be subsidised by
some South American government.
Good, Bobbie, that was a splendid
shot, a bull’s eye, was n't it?”

It was barely in the white, but she
said it to make up. If once in a
while she rubbed the velvet of
Bobbie’s good temper the wrong
way, she immediately smoothed it
back again. Perhaps I should not
expose her methods but they are so
successful, and Nimrod says he does
not object to being flattered even
when he suspects the process, if it
is done artistically. Most men are
that way, it would seem.

Sally is a good shot; in spite of
her brown eyes she rarely misses the
bull’s eye. Bobbie is as proud of it as
though it were his accomplishment,

“T wonder what luck in horses
this time,” said Nimrod. “I hope
they are safe.”’

The Tevi exchanged glances.

“Well, we have done our best,’
Bobbie exclaimed, in dogged tones
that suggested history.

“You may as well tell them now,”
said Sally. ‘“‘We’ll never be able not
to, it is too good a story.”

“There is one thing a tenderfoot
can count on in buying horses out
here. He will get the worst of it,”
Nimrod said consolingly.

“That's > right,” >and’: Bebrie
fetched a deep sigh— “‘you saw the
thing I was riding to-day? Well,
that’s my latest.”

“Go on, Bobbie. It is all in the
day’s work.’’ His wife’s eyes twinkled
sympathetically.

‘Well, there is a chap here with the
most of his palate gone, talked as
though he had a hot potato in his
mouth, fishy eyes, dirty, lazy, Dick
Jones, he zs a duffer.”’

“Katy is all right for Pet, but the
‘Captain’ Lusk you know, who owns
this lodge, had nothing I wanted to
ride, so I decided to send Jones to

Silver City, over the mountains by
a short cut, to get me a good saddle
horse. He was always mumbling
what a great judge of ‘hoss flesh’
he was. His instructions were,
‘easy-gaited, fast walker, plenty
ef spirit, «but no «mean tricks,
broken to game shooting from the
saddle, not particular as to color
50, tone as it-be not white.’ -I
never could endure a white horse.
The price was to be twenty dollars,
or at most twenty-five, and a five-
dollar bonus for going. As I had
nothing but a hundred-dollar bill and
no one here had change—I gave it to
him. Charley, our cook, was stand-
ing near during the transaction.
He disappeared quickly toward the
‘par’ to get a drink and thus forti-
fied, ejaculated to a group of loafers—
‘Hun’red—Jones—Silver City—hoss
—be goll-darned!’ .

“Such loquacity for him was
significant and I own I had mis-
givings, so I did not bother Sally
with the details of my little trans-
action. ”’

“You said you had sent him to
get a horse, but I remember, it took

Dick four hours to get himself out
of the ‘bar’ and into the saddle,”
put in Sally, “but at last he rode
away down the trail, a hunched up
figure in gray flannel shirt, dilapi-
dated vest and trousers, battered
hat and boots, with luggage to the
extent of a coat and a slicker tied on
behind.”

“That was Monday,” continued
Bobbie; “I expected that he would
return the following evening, but
was not surprised that Tuesday
night passed and no sign of Dick.
Wednesday night came and went.
On Thursday I mentioned my fear
to the boys that something had
happened him. It was received with-
out concern. ‘Oh, he’ll come back
all right. He’s got a gun. If there
was anything wrong we'd hear.’
But my conjectures as to what
might be detaining him elicited no
information.

“On Friday, yesterday, the Cap-
tain, spurred by my suggestion to
send a search party for the missing
Dick, spoke out—

“Now don’t you worry about
Dick Jones. He don’t know a horse

from a picket pin, and as fer ridin’
he couldn’t set on the ground ’thout
holdin’ onto the bushes; but he’ll
bring you a hoss all right, an’ he'll
be back to-night or to-morrow—
that hundred can’t last much longer.
If ye didn’t want him to cut loose,
ye had no call to give it to him.’

“Sally heard this speech—and be-
haved like an angel. Well, we waited
and waited, until this morning,
when taking one of my accustomed
glances up the Silver City trail I
spied two objects approaching.”

Bobbie stopped overcome by his
emotions. Sally finished.

“A rusty bay on which sat a man
in all the glory of a new ready-made
suit, blue-flannel shirt, red necktie,
new hat, new boots, from which
projected huge spurs, and behind,
in tow, was—a gaunt white horse.
White, my dears, white. With sag-
ging head and lagging feet, Bobbie’s
charger approached; with one ac-
cord we went into the shack, shut
the door, sat down on the table
and laughed till we were weak.”’

“You see him!” exclaimed Bobbie.
““He is a broken down cavalry horse

—worse than being tossed in a
blanket trying to ride him.

“He couldn’t get up a jump if a
cannon exploded over him. Dick,
aggrieved by my lack of enthusiasm,
demonstrated how gun-broken the
creature was by emptying his
revolver, over, under, behind, and
in front of him.

‘“ ‘Why don’t you try one here?’
I asked, putting a finger on the ani-
mal’s sunken temple. If you could
have heard his unpalated explana-
tion of his bargain, ‘twenty-five
dollars, dirt cheap—finest hoss in the
mountains, etc.’ Of course the seven-
ty was not forthcoming. With an
indignant surprise he announced his
intention of working it out. He
then took his new clothes and his
very seedy face into retirement to
sleep it off. Has not been seen
since.”

“We have christened the horse,
‘The Whited Sepulchre.’ But it is
all right for to-morrow,” Sally added
quickly. ‘Bobbie discovered that
the Captain has some good saddle
horses up his sleeve for extra
stipend.”

Bobbie’s face lighted up with his
genial smile.

“Yours, Mrs. Nimrod, is all right,
I'll warrant. She was offered to us
for twenty dollars by an impecunious
cowboy who was stopping here a day
or two. Kentuck he called her!
} She is a beauty for a mountain pony,

slim, light, clean built, with chestnut
coat, almost glossy in spite of no
grooming, long black mane and tail.
There must be a good strain of the
blue grass in her—suppose that ac-
counts for her name—and easy
gaited, she can go like the wind.
The mountain mixture makes her
tough.”’

Nimrod nodded—‘‘A thorough-
bred Kentuckian would go to pieces
in these mountains.”’

“Of course, couldn’t stand the
hills and the altitude. I have ridden
the horse for a couple of days.
She is great, a flyer, easy on the bit,
no tricks, gentle, high-strung. I
closed that bargain like a shot, and
afterwards told the chap he was
crazy for letting her go. He was
mounted on a shabby cow pony.
‘She’s all the things you say, and a

leetle more,’ he said, ‘look out for
her, bein’ a woman-hoss.’ With that
he rode away, a queer look in his
face. I think he had been drinking.
She is a beauty, and no mistake.”’

ON THE MARCH

———tiE next morning we

Na] were to start at ten.
Everybody had been up
since daybreak, trying
to reduce order from
the chaot + scene in
front of the lodge.

It was already eleven o'clock.
Sixteen laden animals were tied to
every convenient post, tree or
stump, saddle horses with reins
trailing—the Western horse is taught
to stand when the reins are on the
ground—pawed and fidgeted. There
was a certain glum feeling in the
air caused by Lusk, who secretly

disapproved of taking women on
such a rough trip. It more or less
affected the other guides.

“Captain, we must have another
pack-horse. Have you any left?”
asked Nimrod. Lusk nodded and
disappeared along the path up
stream. Soon he returned with a
queer expression on his face and be-
hind him, at the length of a rope, was
a dusty, sad-looking bay with a big
collar of yellow-eyed daisies nodding
their heads jauntily at every step.
The three guides looked as though
they had seen a banshee. Nimrod,
with that strained look that comes
when one wants to laugh, pulled
the male Tevis behind a cabin, while
Sally, with far too innocent a face,
looked on. I remembered that she
too had gone along that path shortly
before.

“Well, I'll be gashed,’”’ Sommers
muttered, looking at the garland, as
he threw the packsaddle into place.
The bay laid back his ears.

“Ornery?” His question was put
to Lusk, who nodded in the affirm-
ative. Charley, seeing the nod, stood
ready to assist. Adjusting the ropes

preparatory to the diamond hitch,
Lusk gingerly keeping a sharp look-
out for the animal’s legs, ears and
eye, lifted a pannier into position.
That was the signal—in spite of
Charley who was trying to hold up
the head, down it went, the back
humped suddenly, and Badger shot
into the air, landed stiffly all four
feet together, gave himself a shake,
and resumed his normal pose bare
of all encumbrances, save the daisy
garland rakishly cocked on one
ear. -They felt it made them ri-
diculous, yet not one of the three
men would deign to remove it;
hating the thing as though each
nodding bloom were a viper ready
to attack, they ignored it elabo-
rately. Three times did Badger
buck off his pack and each time
all that remained from the wreck
was his decoration. It stuck to him
through all his vicissitudes like a pet
sin and at last, when conquered, he
was guided into line, a crushed and
withered chaplet still hung round his
neck, mocking reminder that there
were ‘‘women in the outfit.” A
furtive wink at me was the only

indication that Sally was enjoying
the guides’ discomfiture.

With the thudding of hoofs and
a cloud of dust the pack-horses were
driven out of the enclosure. Nimrod
took the lead, the Tevi and I with
him; our horses, impatient at the
long delay, pranced and curveted
under the restraining bit.

The pace must be slow; a gallop-
ing pack-horse soon loses his burden.
But the animals behaved well. They
all belonged to Lusk’s “bunch,”’
and knew each other. Those who
were chums got together, and those
who were fussy chose their favourite
positions in the train.

Dear things, they have their per-
sonalities as well as humans and I
soon made the acquaintance of some
of them. Daisy, the blue-skin don-
key, was second in line, only the old
white horse, Billy, her favourite,
infront. Sommers, skilfully landing
a pebble on her as she was breaking
line by trying to browse by the way-
side, called in a tone of reproach,
although guiltless of French: “ Mar-
guerite, get out of that.” Daisy,
thus doubly admonished, flirted her

tail, drooped her left ear rakishly, and
returned to business. Daisy is the
morale of the pack-train. She knows
just how many pounds she should
carry without bucking off her pack,
she can calculate to the fraction of an
inch whether or not the space be-
tween two trees will allow her pack,
which projects far beyond her sides,
‘to pass. She knows when on’ the
march that she has to attend to
business. She has a genius for pick-
ing out the best trail, avoiding bogs,
logs, wasps’ nests and overhanging
branches. She has been known to
grope her way across a bog ona sunk-
en, invisible log. She will allow no one
in front of her but a man on horse-
back or Billy, a rather stupid horse
for whom she has an attachment. She
carries the bottles and breakables,
and being a quick walker keeps Billy
up to his work; in any other part of
the line he lags badly, is very lazy
and much given to side nibbling.
Charcoal, a black horse, has de-
veloped this trait into an art. He
chooses the middle of the train, that
being usually farthest from human
interference, and no matter how

high his head is tied he seems to
manage to feed, a fast walker and
cunning, he has been a good saddle
horse, until a streak of outlawry
reduced him to the ranks, and feed
he will, on duty or not. He has been
known to take advantage of a hill-
side or a ditch in order to bring his
tied-up head within range of the
grass, and a favourite trick to meet
the difficulty is lying down. He has
long since demonstrated that it is
better to let him have his way. His
method is to leave the line of horses,
all going in single file, dash ahead,
nibble by the roadside until the
train catches up to him, whereupon
he will fall into the vacant place that
he considers his. In the timber he
behaves himself, as there are no
temptations, and many knocks and
falls have taught him that it is easier
to let someone else pick the trail for
him. Molly, the buckskin, is always
the last if she can arrange it. In
her equine fashion she seems to have
worked out the problem of getting
through the march with as little
trouble as possible.

This brings her next to Charley,

the cook, whose proximity and
authority keep her in the trail.
Like some humans she is happier
within sight of the cross, and she
has noticed that her companions
one and two ahead, get all the ad-
monishing pebbles. She likes to have ©
Baldy, a raw-boned bay, in front of
her in spite of his unpleasant posses-
sion of a free-flying pair of heels.
Resignation is her chief attribute.
Baldy, aside from, or because of, the
above-mentioned trait, is a pro-
fessional bucker. He always expects
to buck off his pack once or twice
the first morning, but after that pre-
liminary flourish he behaves like a
gentleman. Baldy’s dashing spirit
seems to captivate the ladies, for
Maybell always struggles for the place
in front of him to secure the bitter-
sweet of his friendly nips at tail and
flank. Maybell is a brown mare of
cow-like disposition and structure.
Upon her pot-bellied frame no sad-
dle will stick, and although the poor
thing was cinched within an inch
of her life, apparently, so copious
were the groans and wheezings, a
cunning device of blowing herself

out enabled her, when the opera-
tion was over, to shrink comfortably
within her girths, and soon the pack
would go careening to one side, if not
strewn on the ground. Maybell on
this occasion reserved her contri-
bution to the general confusion in-
cidental to starting, until the river
was reached.

Nimrod leading, Lusk and Som-
mers in the water guiding, and
Charley bringing up the rear, the
horses were getting through nicely
when a cry of “ Maybell!” turned all
eyes to the middle of the stream
where the unfortunate animal was
struggling in the water. Her pack
had turned completely under, making
a resistance to the rushing current
up to her withers too great for May-
bell to withstand. She was swept
completely off her feet. I saw Som-
mers and Lusk spur their horses to
the rescue. There was a_ swirling
splashing of water, Baldy and Molly
stampeded and got into deep water
whexe they had to swim, the packs
getting soaked, and Charley strug-
ling to lead them to the bank. Nim-
rod directing me to continue to lead

the train so as to get them all out
of the stream, galloped back, Bob-
bie with him, to guide the other
startled animals safely into the
shallows.

Meanwhile a skilful bit of work
was going on in the middle of the
stream. Maybell, frenzied and help-
less, tied up with loosened ropes, was
kicking furiously. Lusk dexterously
managed to get a rope around her
neck and fastened the other end to
his pommel, held her head up, while
Sommers struggled to get near
enough to cut one of the girths; all
three were being swept down stream
by the swift current. At last he
succeeded, another broke, and May-
bell, partially released from her bur-
dens, was towed to shore, where by
this time all the horses in a dis-
organised group, were awaiting.

Without a word Lusk galloped
down stream along the bank keeping
track of the floating bundle until it
struck against a boulder and lodged
there. JI was much pleased to see his
loyal solicitude for our stuff.

“It’s his bedding, you know,”
said Charley with a chuckle. “He

knows better than to put anything
else on Maybell. It will be kinder
moist for a snooze. There goes a
shoe. He’s got it.’”’ In half an hour
Maybell’s soggy burden was in place,
various cinches tightened and the
train again in line, jogging along
comfortably for the day now, I
hoped, at the usual three miles an
hour gait.

The trail wound up an easy ascent
through pleasant meadows, jewelled
with dainty purple lupin bloom and
the feathery red-top, and, scattered
freely with great patches of daisies,
like Nature’s linen on the grass to
bleach: through groves of aspen
fluttering careless leaves for every
vagrant zephyr and into the dark-
hearted pines, mysterious with the
messages of the ages past, ere man
was born, and the gods of the grow-
ing things trod their shaded aisles.
The trail slipped under fallen forest
prides, the mighty sticks that time
had felled as easily as the sapling is
broken by the wind. It leaped over
baby brooks just learning torundown -
the hillside, and slipped from stone
to stone, to where the torrents dashed

along. It stopped at the brink of a
cafion and began again on the other
side, leaving the trusting traveller,
without guidance, to get over the
chasm -as best he might. It grew
faint sometimes and ran wild in a
choice of ways whimsically conceal-
ing its direction so that only the
skilled could follow. It forked with-
out sign to tell its bent, save a broken
twig, crushed grass blade, or over-
turned pebble—frail witness for the
tenderfoot; and at last it left the
earth altogether and joined the points
of the compass, the sun and the
Polar star.

Then “Captain” took the lead;
he scanned the ascent sharply
and began to pick a trail around
bushes and boulders and over the
crumbling gravelly soil. We fell into
line plod—plod—plod—the breathing
of horses, the creaking of leather,
the tinkle of a bell on Daisy, the
rattle of tinware on Dolly, plod—
plod—and another table-land was
reached. Through heavy timber now,
dodging brambles, jumping logs, on
and on, hour after hour; unable to
endure the saddle cramp, I was

walking, panting and breathless with
exercise in that altitude. The blood
pounded in my head with such a
noise that Sally caught an arm be-
fore I realised that she had been
speaking.

“We camp beyond the clearing,
I rode on to tell you. How do you
like Kentuck? Katy appears to be
all the Captain claims for her, steady,
mountain-wise and plenty of nerve.”
She began to sing softly—

“Sweet Katy Conner,
I dote upon her.
Kate, Kate, my charming Kate,
I hope you'll carry me,
Nor please don’t take a notion
Of complicated motion
And fling my precious bonelets
In the branches of a tree.”’

What did I think of Kentuck?
There certainly was something queer
about her. Perhaps it was that cow-
bov calling her a ‘“woman-hoss”
put it into my head, but only a short
time ago, I had felt Kentuck sud-
denly getting ready to jump. I could
not imagine why. There was a stick,
perhaps two inches thick, lying in

the trail, but she had gathered her-
self together and jumped high enough
to have cleared a three-foot log. Be-
ing unprepared, I acquired a horrid
crick in the neck. Since then, how-
ever, she had passed other sticks
and paid no attention to them. I
_ decided a fly must have stung her and
made answer—

“She is a treasure, canters like
an automobile rocking-chair. Fast
walker, too, which is a comfort on
the march.”’

The trail had arrived and at once
lost itself in a wide meadow, as
level and safe as a boulevard, not
even a badger hole in sight. So we
broke into a canter—glorious motion,
the air, sparkling wine, when like a
rocket Kentuck jumped in the air and
stopped stock still, trembling, all
four feet together. I came down on
her neck, by some wonder did not
go over, and managed to work back
over the pommel into the saddle
again.

“What on earth was that?” I in-
quired. Sally looked worried and
said I should be careful.

“Of what?” I demanded, rather

nettled. | Considerably shaken, we
proceeded at a walk to follow the
pack-train, perhaps half a mile away,
when we came to a natural ditch,
a crack in the earth about four feet
wide and six or seven feet deep.
Katy was alittle ahead. She jumped
across it, but Kentuck, my treasure,
tried to step across, and so down she
plunged into the opening while I went
tumbling, fortunately, on to the op-
posite bank, it proved, as there was
no room for two in the crevice.

The mare was up in an instant, I
took more time; the ride was be-
coming unpleasurably full of inci-
dent. The problem now presented
was how to get her out of that crack!
The walls of it were absolutely
straight. Picking up the bridle with
a forked stick, I led her several
hundred yards and then sat down.
Why try to get her up? Why try
to do anything but lie in the lap
of my sorrows? Meanwhile Sally’s
signal of distress was bringing
Nimrod.

He soon extracted Kentuck from
the fissure and the symptoms of
her behaviour from me.

THE RIDE WAS BECOMING UNPLEASURABLY
FULL OF INCIDENT

“The mare is locoed, all the symp-
toms,’’ he announced.

“Locoed!”? echoed Bobbie, who
had arrived in time to hear the tale.
“T know what that means! Then she
is really luny, sees things, a little
thing looks big, another big thing
looks little at the same time. They
say that a horse or cow that eats of
the loco weed never is cured. It’s
like the opium habit or ‘‘hasheesh”’
mighty uncanny. They go along for
days and weeks without an attack,
then all of a sudden there’s the devil
to pay.’ Bobbie settled in a heap
on his horse! His chagrin was so
obliterating, it was funny. ‘‘Mrs.
Nimrod what do you think of me!
Til never buy another horse! You
are welcome to use me for a door
mat!”

My feelings had sustained the prin-
cipal injury, so it behooved me to
be magnanimous.

“Cesar once made a mistake,
I believe.”’

I rode the rest of the way on
Bobbie’s other failure, the “‘ Whited
Sepulchre.”” He insisted upon it,
while he walked behind leading Ken-

tuck, Kentuck looking as innocent
as a basket of figs in which the viper
rests. No more with us, at least,
would she toil or bear a burden.

“Thus is vice rewarded,” com-
mented Sally when a few moments
later, at camp, my saddle dropped
from the mare and she was free to
roam the mountains, to seek her
favourite food, thrive on the lux-
uriant grass and drink from the
clearest streams. I sank back into
the pine needles, a sweet sense of
ease after exertion. Thrice welcome
rest the reward of a difficult day, and
lavishly did nature send her minions
to attend—the fragrance of dead
pine, the fillip of ozone, and the
caressing voices of breeze-blown
leaves.

Too soon the bustle of making
camp assailed, and determined not to
show the white feather, I too, be-
came one of the camp scene. All
were busy. Nimrod, in haste to pro-
vide me with comfort, was starting
the fire. The Tevi were puzzling over
the raising of a tent, the guides were
unloading tired animals as swiftly
as possible, sweated blankets were

* Seat ed aah, bal

taken from aching backs, hobbles
snapped on forelegs, and with much
joyous kicking of hind-legs, frisk-
ing and rolling in the dust, great
‘ solace to an itching skin, the
‘bunch,’ kept together by Daisy’s
bell, ambled afield. Surplus pro-
visions were all stacked neatly in a
pile ready for the morning, and
covered with canvas in case of
showers; provisions and_ utensils
were clustered near the cook fire,
where Charley had begun prepara-
tions for the evening meal and be-
tween times chopped wood. Lusk
and Sommers assisted in putting up
the tents, so that we could “move
in,” rubber beds were blown up,
sleeping beds placed on top, night
things laid out, change of clothing,
rubber tub, toilet necessaries needed
for the morning, the candle lamp,
and matches handy. In a tent a
thing unvailable is a thing lost.

We all worked. It was good ex-
ercise after long hours in the saddle
and we knew well the independent
spirit of these mountaineers. They
as little expect to render personal
service as the Secretary of a Company

expects to be the body slave of its
President.

A gay little offshoot of the rush-
ing brook beyond, babbled past our
tent door. Nimrod was sketching
some great blue berries that hung
over it. Again I flung myself on the
bank to rest a “vast half-hour”
before dinner. How plentifully hun-
ger throws itself about in this active
life!

“If anyone should happen to take
a photograph of this scene it would
meet with my approval,” said Nim-
rod, looking hard at me. “The cam-
era is on my saddle pommel over
there. You can “see Tm“ Gusy. 2
arose resignedly; evidently no lotus
eating was to be tolerated in that
camp.

“First one thing and then an-
other, always cheerful and busy,
that’s my motto,’ said the old
woman as she dug up flowers to see
if they were growing. Nimrod, will
you set your hat back a little, please.
Sally, put down that towel, that’s
a dear. Tut, tut, Bobbie Tevis, I
suspect you of posing, you have not
carried that gun all day and there is

no possibility of bear until to-
morrow.’

“Tt’s Sally’s, I am going to clean
it,’ was the outraged rejoinder, by
which the wise may know to just
what stage the “foto” had pro-

Wile
A FIRE RIDE

rae—eeeiN THE East one may
B) (Gal) pevenothing more orig
§€S}! inal than a banana peel

AEN or a railroad accident

| pe4]| to threaten life, but in
the Rockies one has
flood, fire, cyclone, quicksand, bog-
holes in endless variety, and animals
from the fretful quill-pig in his quills
to the fighting elk, equipped with
an arsenal of polished ivory points.

It happened on the Fourth of July
about an hour after the usual caval-
cade had strung out for the day’s
march, that we met with an adven-

ture so full of pyrotechnics that it
seemed as though even here must the
spirit of the “signers” penetrate. We
noticed a peculiar haze that grew
rapidly denser. ‘“‘A forest fire on
ahead,’ Nimrod said; and soon we
saw before us a great forest belt
where a fire had been raging for days.

A few forest rangers had been
struggling with it, but they were
able only to keep the greedy monster
from extending its sweep on each
side as it ate its way ravenously
down the wind. The broad track of
destruction, two or three miles wide,
was saddening to see—tree trunks
lying prostrate in a smoking mass of
children-trees and forest growth, or
still upright, pointing charred and
maimed signals to heaven. ‘The air
was grey with flying ashes and the
flames leaped and crackled as they
ran along the ground through the
berry bushes and dead leaves, and
worked along the tree branches that
a moment before had been beautiful
with life; changing all things, as at
the blight of a witch’s wand, from
a riot of colour, brilliant greens,
browns, orange and_ scarlet—to

mourning, all the well-loved forms of
the forest shrivelled and twisted,
draped in leaden greys and deepest
black. What pain, what sorrow,
what beauty spoiled, what needless
waste, what visions of the under-
world laid bare! It might have been
the enchanted circle that always in
Fairyland protects the Beauty and
Delight beyond.

To cross it was like one of the
labours of Hercules, but there was
no way around; either forward, or
retreat. ‘‘Cap’n,”’ who was leading,
had something of Napoleon in him,
and this was evidently not his Mos-
cow. So into this havoc where the
Fire King had passed but had not
yet wholly given up his reign, we,
and the entire pack-train, plunged.
The horses were kept on a sharp trot,
for the ground was still scorching
hot in places. Each member of the
party, Sally and myself included,
took two or three.pack horses to
drive ahead to keep them “ pushed
along” better. The trail was nearly
obliterated; our course wound in and
out trying to avoid obstacles, old
and new. Suddenly the horse before

me gave a great leap over a burning
tree that had just fallen. I was
riding Katy that day. She snorted,
as well she might, when she saw the
three foot log with dancing flames
its entire length barring the way.
How were we going to get over
that thing that seemed alive with
wicked tongues darting, ready to
devour? There was no time to be
lost, and Katy took a high jump to
avoid the flames, which, however,
must have singed her, for she gave
a double jump and a short run upon
landing which was decidedly discon-
certing. But I had not much time
to think. There was a shout ahead,
a. stampede of pack-animals, and
another burning tree crashed across
my path. Falling trees were the
greatest danger; at any time one of
us might be felled to the earth.
Katy and I took that tree at a trot,
and another beyond. It was no
place to linger; the air was electric.
Weirdly strange, yet not strange.
Where had I been through all this
-before? It assailed my senses and
my memory. How familiar it seemed
—the wonderful ringing Wagner

OVE a he, ll te ahd 0 tile ey

OO Nal iy LOE

fire-music was in my ears—beau-
tiful, fearful, spellbinding. Brun-
hild was not so much to be pitied
after all. The intoxication of Loki
was upon me.

And what erratic tricks he plays!
On my left I noticed the skeleton
form of what had been a raspberry
bush. Not a leaf was left—not a
green bramble, but still in the very
heart of it was one ripe, luscious-
looking berry, hanging like a ruby
in the midst of ruin. How had it
escaped—that one touch of beauty?

Near it was another impish trick
of the conqueror—a weird sight
indeed. A high white pine tree, so
tall that its green branches waved
triumphantly over thetorment below,
so sturdy and vigorous that its
smooth bark had resisted the flames,
but alas of no avail. The enemy had
eaten into its heart; it was enduring
the tortures of Prometheus. One
side of its mighty base, five feet
through, had been carved out as
neatly as though fashioned by man
for a fireplace, and here the flames
crackled merrily, taking as does the
vampire, its treasure of life, while

the green plumes waved far above,
as yet unconscious of their fate.

We had gone over two miles, jump-
ing, dodging, trotting and stumbling,
throats and eyes smarting from the
smoke until the two miles seemed
twenty, when I saw that we were
leaving the region of living fire and
passing through a city of the dead.
It had been a forest of young pines
from four to ten inches thick, but
now reduced to sorry plight, a be-
wildering mass of charred sticks
streaking upwards like accusing fin-
gers from those in torment. In my
ignorance I was relieved, thinking
we were “out of the woods”; but
this proved the worst of all, for the
sticks toppled over without warning
—a breath of wind, the vibration of
the horses’ feet—and fell before the
horses, even upon them, if they were
not spry—a ghostly company, with-
out stability, threatening injury at
every turn.

My clothes lashed with blackened
branches had the general appearance
of the zebra’s skin. Every separate
muscle ached, my knees were bruised
from encounters with the trees which

were very close together; but so far
there had been no serious damage
to the outfit.

At last it was growing dark. I
had settled down to a certain grim
endurance, and had treated my
nerves to a favourite tonic of which I
have made mention before, that
“cowards die many times before
their death; the valiant never taste
of death but once,’’ when I heard
a shout ahead which I knew must
mean “Lost Horse Creek and our
camping ground.”

Instantly my thoughts sped to
that magnificent place of comfort
—camp—where hunger and thirst
and weariness would vanish. The
picture was so pleasant that I
quite forgot the very material part
of me which just at that moment
was in danger. But Katy, fortun-
ately, was not imaginative, and saw
that a six-inch tree was falling
directly upon us. She quivered from
head to foot and waited a second
for the word of command that did
not come, then she gave a great
bound and stopped so short that I
nearly went on without her. Then

[ too saw the awful thing that was
descending upon us. I jerked back,
but a near sapling, released by the
fall of the parent tree, was also com-
ing down. We were between the
two. .

Not having a woodman’s eye I
did not know how they were going
to fall—did not know which way to
move. ‘‘ When you don’t know what
to do, don’t do it” is a mountain
adage. I clinched my teeth and
waited. There were shouts, but
meaningless to me, although I caught
a glimpse of a man’s pale face. One
instant of suspense and the big tree
crashed in front of Katy’s nose. She
started back in terror right in front
of the falling sapling. I lashed her
forward just in time to escape, and
it came shivering down on Katy’s
rump, nearly bringing her to the
ground. She recovered at once, a
wildly started to run.

As it was impossible to run in
those ruins and Katy was a moun-
tain pony and knew it, she did the
best she could with a series of jumps
in the down timber, the repetition
of which I can very well do without.

I felt like one of the monkeys at the
circus that are strapped on the pony’s
backs—the pommel alone saved me
and my self-respect.

But we got out without further
mishap, and after Katy had caught
up with old Billy, three horses ahead,
and told in a neigh or two all
about it, she carried my tired bones
to camp in tranquillity.

Camp! Oh, the sweetness and
peace of that nook in the mountain
meadow, rich with grass for the
horses, the snow peaks far above, the
right breeze blowing, the intimate
little brook, fringed with willows,
gurgling in front of our tents, a grove
of great pines standing sentinel, and
far above the twinkling sky of night.

“Alas, poor Easterners, who wot
not of this life,’ murmured Sally,
after dinner, snuggling luxuriously on
a pile of rugs before the camp-fire,
weary but happy.

“Talk about fireworks,’’ answered
Bobbie, nursing a bruised foot, “ Hoo-
ray for a glorious Fourth!”

SSeS =
————
—————
————
——4

Sit

=a Bitter Root Grizzly
ul| is the toughest of bears.
| Every one knows that,
| and he lives in the
a) roughest country. In
fact life becomes gener-
ally superlative when hunting him.
One is either going up, or going down,
either travelling around boulders,
which is abominable, or over slide
rock, which is worse. Nothing is level
nor easy. The mountains reveal their
anatomy of rocks in the most har-
dened fashion with only here and
there a patch of vegetation, scrub oak
or stunted pine to cover them. A

pitiless country on horse and man,
only the ‘‘roachback’’ thrives and
the wing-footed goat.

For three days on the trail we had
climbed and panted and climbed,
varied only by a day’s travel in a
cedar swamp, a fearsome place where
we were like midges in a glue pot.
It took long to forget the despair-
ing struggles of our laden animals
_as they stuck in the mire. Imagine
taking a pleasure trip where groans
and frightened horse squeals and
visions of broken legs and necks
danced in the air, when to stay
mounted was one’s only safety.
Jerk, your horse misses footing on
a comparatively firm tussock and
flounders fetlock, knee, shoulder
deep, plunging, rearing, squealing,
jump, jerk, down—nose in the mire;
up, at last something firmer, a clump
of willow roots for forefeet, a tre-
mendous bound—you on top all the
time, and the hind ones are out, all
four hoofs in a foot’s space. An in-
stant for breath, but the footing too
frail for such weight, again you
plunge in, dodging the low, snarled
branches so heavily interlaced above

that at midday one travels in gloom;
protecting one’s knees from the army
of trunks, getting out of the way of
Daisy and Billy, worse off than you—
and this going on for hours.

Ever we were toiling up, scaling
bald ridges that left no cover for the
imagination, mile after mile of chasm
and rock showed death waiting but
for an instant loss of poise, a single
misstep of a horse.

Oh, we had not lacked incident,
and now we were enjoying the hiatus
of some sweetly dull days in camp—
a tiny strip of green, scant pasture for
the horses, having called a halt. Un-
compromisingly rose the rocky cliffs
above, beside, beyond us.

Bobbie Tevis was fishing in the
inevitably nearby stream.

I never could understand the
fascination of holdingan end of a stick
while a foolish bit of string soaked
in the water, but for Bobbie it has
volumes of interest. The stick is
glorified into a rod that cost a
month’s wage for a labouring man,
and the paraphernalia of hooks, reels
and flies takes more thought than my
winter’s wardrobe. Fortunately the

mountain trout are delicious. Sally
was lazily putting on rubber boots
preparatory to joining her liege.
Nimrod was sketching the home of
some calling-hares on a big landslide
back of the camp.

The Pika are curious little creatures
who store up their hay and winter
supplies in the crevices of the rocks.
When they are not disturbed they
come out of their holes and sit in
front sunning themselves and making
little noises to each other, like a lot
of Chicagoans on their doorsteps on
a summer evening. They carry an
astounding amount of stuff in great
mouthfuls. I was ostensibly watch-
ing the cook jerk some venison which
was hung on a forked stick in an
improvised smoke-house of willow
shoots; but the pungent smoke from

. the smouldering willow in no way
disturbed my real occupation of being
thoroughly, blissfully lazy. There was
need to be, for soon we were to start
on a bear hunt and this country is
like an untrained guest, it is so
unaccountable and demands so much
energy.

The party separated about ten

o'clock. We wanted to be up in the
likeliest place for bear in the late
afternoon and it takes all day to get
anywhere, for most of the travel,
over merciless rocky steeps, has to
be done on foot. Sally and I can go
anywhere a horse can go, but the
necessity for personal locomotion 1m-
_ mediately puts us at a disadvantage.

Nimrod and I took Sommers and
started off westerly. The Tevi and
five guns of various makes and sizes
(Bobbie believed in being ready for
all emergencies) went with Lusk in
the other direction. Of their luck
Sally told at the campfire later—
much later.

They did much hard travelling but
saw nothing except a martin sitting
in a black ball up a tree. About four
o’clock afar off they heard shots and
thought we must be firing, as there
was no one else in the mountains.

“Should judge that was about two
ridges over, wouldn’t you? Wonder
what they have struck?” Lusk said.
“Two shots, that will hardly be a
a bear.”

“ Now keep a sharp look out, Pet,”’
Bobbie called excitedly,” that may

scare something our way. Gee, I
would like to get a chance—just a
chance.’’ Poor Bobbie with his Win-
chester, his Savage, his Mauser and
not so much as a whisk of a tail had
he seen.

“Better luck to-morrow, sure to
see ‘em soon,”’ Lusk encouraged.

“Sh! Wasn’t that something mov-
ing on that far ridge below?” Bobbie
got out his glasses. ‘‘Yes, by jingo,
it’s a bear feeding on the blueberries.
Say, that’s great! Look at the way
he stows those berries; puts his arm
round a bush, and just shovels them
in with his tongue,’ he handed the
glasses to Sally.

“T believe I'll try a shot, anyway—
what do you say, Cap’n?”’

“No use, too far. We must get
nearer. We better go down on the
other side of the ridge and come up
behind him, providing he don’t get
frightened and travel.”

This is Sally’s excited narrative
unadorned:

“If I live to be a hundred and
fifty, I shall never see a day like this
again. You know how awfully rough
it is getting about. It really is no

horse country and not fit for humans
to travel in. We left our horses
about noon. We had been off them
most of the time, anyway, and soon
after we heard the shots, we saw two
bears feeding on the mountain side
about a mile away. In order to ap-
proach them we had to climb back
on the ridge we had just left. We
had trailed for an hour—my gun
weighed over three hundred pounds
by then, and the thing I breathe with
had struck work, only got a good
breath about one in twenty—when
we sneaked out of cover and saw that
the bears had hardly moved. It was
a longshot, good three hundred yards,
but Bobbie was not doing much
better in the way of lungs, and he
decided to risk the shot. The bullet
struck one cf the bears, and both of
them sought the bushes. Bobbie got
another shot into the wounded one,
I think, before it dropped. Of course
we started pell mell in pursuit. We
slipped and fell and tore our hands
and ‘barked’ our shins until we were
about half way down the mountain
where there was a little level place.
That was my limit. Go further with-

out rest, I could not. I hated dread-
fully to be left, but of course Bobbie
had to follow his bear and Cap’n’s
duty was with Bobbie. I couldn’t
think of letting him go alone, besides
I could not endure the thought of
that poor brute suffering. But when I
saw them actually going off I found
I had more strength than courage
and toddled after them. Fortunately
we found him within a hundred
yards—and it was soon over.”

Dear, enthusiastic, kind-hearted
Bobbie, the role of conquering hero
suited him so well, who will begrudge
him that one trophy, meaning as it
did the lure by which he gained rich
treasure of renewed health and
energy for the affairs that make the
world go round?

But my tale was different and was
not told that night.

Till noon Nimrod and I had
climbed skilfully, managing to keep
in the wooded torrent courses and
thus use the horses. But now we
were obliged to tie them and proceed
on foot. No more the majestic yel-
low pine, the odorous balsam and
spruce tempered the sun’s rays.

Again the superlative, the hottest
noons, the coldest nights, are here.
No more would the yew bedeck its
lateral branches with scarlet waxen
berries, nor some blue-eyed myrtle-
covered mound invite repose. No
more would the delighted eye rest
on orange scarlet beads, set in their

~ heavy, yellow-ribbed leaves, nor the

tropical blue ball that its long point-
ed lily leaves reveal; the flaming rose
hips no more, nor the elder, nor the
Oregon grape would hang its tiny pur-

_ ple clusters amid the leafy reds and

yellows; no more the great, indigo
fruit of the sarvis and the huckle-
berry, no more all the colourful
growing things. Instead are rocks,
rocks smooth, rocks rough, rocks
big—whole ledges and mountains of
them—rocks small as sifted gravel,
the track of a snow slide.

For hours we toiled, heels often
higher than head, until rebellion
shrieked from every muscle. Three
thousand feet up one obelisk, as
many down, uncounted stretches on
the ridges, up and down, rocks, rocks,
not a patch of green level or large
enough for a grave.

Toward sundown, gasping as we
had done many times before, we
dropped on a far outjutting ledge
that split the heavens. Half of the
whole wide earth seemed spread
before us, valley after valley,
range upon range waved away in
purple shadows to the borderland
of spirit. The mountain chill gathered
as we looked and the warmth was
frozen out of the sky. It was over time
to be getting back tocamp. My face
and hands were scratched, shoes in
ribbons, feet like boils, in fact not a
spot worth mentioning without its
scratch or bruise. There was small
chance of my making camp that night
if it had to be done on foot. This was
not hunting. It was suicide.

Nimrod sent Sommers after the
horses, which he judged were not
morethana mileaway, and designated
a spot at the foot of the ridge where
we would wait. A stream flowed
through it, bordered by the usual
strip of woods and we could see dimly
a bald place which meant a tiny
meadow, perhaps an acre in extent.

Sommers started off. All very well,
but how was I to get there, or any-

where’? The limit of endurance had
been reached long ago. But when
endurance gives out one still has the
will and slowly I crawled and stum-
bled along. There was yet plenty of
half-light and as soon as we reached
the timber Nimrod saw many tracks
of wild things. He could examine
- them at his leisure, asa five minutes’
scramble meant a ten minutes’ halt
for me. Fortunately it was down
hill, one could slide part of the time.
What did a bruise or two more mat-
ter? Nimrod pointed out manyrotten
logs torn open by the paws of hungry
black bears and grizzlies, seeking
for their favourite summer relish,
wood ants. He followed the fresh
track of a mountain lion that was
stalking a blacktail. He showed
where the doe had stopped to feed,
had taken alarm and bounded off.
There were moose, lynx, yes, and
elk and wolf tracks. This wooded,
watered spot was evidently a favour-
ite resort. It was uncanny in the
deepening gloom to feel that the
woods about were full of eyes and
noses and claws and jaws.

At last, after infinite weariness,

through branches and brambles and
logs we reached the stream. Of
course, the little meadow of rank
grass was on the opposite side. We
crossed over on the rocks—more
rocks, I had hoped to have seen the
last of them. The inevitable slip
occurred. midstream and Nimrod
fished me out, wet to the waist.

It was only one thing more. He
made a tiny fire, Indian fashion.
‘Fool white man makes heap fire
and gets away, Indian make little
fire, stays close,’ and then proposed
that he should leave me.

Does that strike a chill down your
spine? No?’ Then you are not a
woman, or have no imagination of
how it feels to be left alone at dusk
in the wilderness, untracked save by
wolves and lions and bears and other
“ravening monsters seeking whom
they may devour.”

Sommers should have arrived long
before, something had undoubtedly
happened to detain him. Just then
we heard the sound of a distant shot,
Sommers signalling for help. Nimrod
must go. There was no alternative.

“T’ll be back as soon as possible

with the horses,’ he said. ‘‘Fire
one shot for answer.’’ I did so, as
he hastily collected some sticks for
the fire and placing them beside me,
ran off in the direction from which
the shot came. I could see his form,
black in the drab light, bobbing over
the uneven meadow and disappearing
_ into the woods. He was gone—and
gone were all things comfortable and
understood. I was marooned in the
unknown. Can you feel the creepi-
ness of it?

Nimrod had cleared a six-foot space
in the tall marsh grass. I could not
see above it as I crouched beside the
fire that gave forth scarcely notice-
able light or smoke—or heat either.
How chilly it grew, how dark, how
awfully silent! It was the silence of
the tomb and I was afraid, exquisitely
afraid, of—nothing.

But my imagination soon found
plenty of food. Sommers had been
thrown and injured. Nimrod would
never find him or he would break
a leg in the dark and perish miserably
from exposure. I would never see
him again or any one. Some day
strangers would find my bones and

identify me by a hat pin, no, my
belt-buckle, unless the packrats
carried it off. Here I wouid lie as
uncounted as the salmon skeletons
that strewed the bank, worthless re-
mains of a bears’ banquet.

I put a stick in the fire. It re-
verberated to China. I knew then
the stillness and greyness that was
before the Creation. [had lived cycles
since Nimrod left, taking reality
with him.

I started up, anything would be
better than this. It was worse stand-
ing. I crouched again for afew more
zeons, straining every nerve to hear
some sound of returning humanity.
I could have heard a hair drop; then
I did hear a sound as of a low body
going through the grass, not twenty
feet away. I froze with a vast new
kind of terror, but it was a better
brand than the last. Here at least
might be action, and it was real, un-
mistakable. There again that low
rustle coming. A mountain lion!

A twig snapped. No, it made too
much noise, a faint swish, a very
faint thud, thud, it had passed me
and was going to the water. I heard

it pause and then the sound of an
animal drinking. It was certainly a
bear, nothing else makes so much
noise.

I stood up, and not forty feet
away was a Grizzly, his back to-
ward me. Helooked as big as an
ox. My eyes, accustomed to the
twilight, took in every detail—the
gleam of his eye as his head turned,
the slobber, slobber of his jaws as his
deft paw raked into them some
blueberries from the bank.

I do not know how long J stood
there staring at him, absolutely
motionless, but I know how a prisoner
feels when waiting for the hangman.
Then I began to think again.

Here was the chance to distinguish
myself. Never was a stage set more
dramatically. How the glory of it
would ring down through the family
annals, unaided, hand to hand, so
to speak, encounter of a monster and
the wonderful heroismof the woman,
etc. Could I doit? for the sake of my
descendants. Imust try. My nerves
were twitching like a frog’s when
the electrical current is turned on.
Hardly able to control them enough,

I reached cautiously for the gun,
raised it as best I could—how the
thing wabbled and danced and
circled.

The long day’s strain had told, but,
with a final supreme effort of will, I
got it to my shoulder and fired.
Then shut my eyes for an instant
expecting the creature to seize me
and devour.

Nothing happened! I do not
believe I aimed, I never knew.
The bear turned and started back
toward me the way he had come,
evidently on a runway, he looked as
big as an elephant; already another
cartridge was jerked in. I was calm
now, I had done it and must fight.
If he were wounded I knew there
would be no quarter. I had the gun
at shoulder and then for the first
time the creature, who was now a
mastodon, saw me. Its little eyes
glared straight at me. I shall never
forget them, and there we stood,
transfixed.

For the fraction of a second he
debated what to do and then turned
slowly away. Now was the moment.
There would have been no miss this

I LOWERED THE GUN AND LET HIM GO

time. A hunter knows when he will
shoot true. I sightéd along the
barrel, a clear shot to the brain—it
was so close—my finger on the
trigger! Then I lowered the muzzle
to the ground—and let him go. He
had refused to injure me! Could I

1 do less?

I watched him going off in the
woods and sat down again amid the
silence and the bears.

My one shot soon brought an an-
swer, quite close, and had been most
fortunate, for in the dark Nimrod had
somewhat strayed. He found Som-
mers in a plight with three horses
in a bog. At ten o’clock we got to
camp—what few shreds were left
of us—and heard the triumphant
tale of the Tevi.

Bear and forbear; water and oil.
Clearly, my story could not then
be told.

WHAT I KNOW ABOUT MOUNTAIN
GOATS—BOBBIE’S STORY

=a Dante had ever hunted

i] mountain goats, the
world would have been
richer by another canto
of the Inferno. What
an opportunity lost for
those humorous gentlemen of the
Inquisition and the Star Chamber:
But this is the age of discovery.

No golden depas, alas! stood ready
to offer libations to the victory-
crowned when after the hardest
hunt that imagination can picture,
we returned to camp empty-handed;
yet were we satisfied. Goats we

had seen, yes, three, and one we
actually handled. This at least has
the merit of orginality. I like to
think of it. Instead of taking, we
gave life and received the usual
benefactor’s reward. It happened
this way:

For two nights Nimrod and I
with Sommers had made a temporary
camp in goat country. The wind
blew, the snow descended, the streams
glazed over, we fed on bacon and
camp ‘“‘sinkers’’ and had only a six-
foot lean-to tent, eked out by boughs,
to cover our beds. We had left
everything in the main camp that
we could possibly do without. Con-
ditions could hardly be described
as comfortable. J had thought rocks
in themselves were bad enough, but
ice-covered rocks—well, never mind.

The first night we lingered around
the blessed fire, dreading the plunge
into arctic darkness where our snow-
covered beds gave chill greeting.
The wind had changed after the
lean-to was set up and before its
tricks were discovered had sent the
prying snow into every corner of
our shelter.

Nimrod was discoursing learnedly
upon the animal whose tracks we
had seen that day. I like to get
my Natural History by object les-
sons, when in Goat-land learn about
goats.

“The Oreamnos montanus harms
no one. He is a browser, and finds
his food chiefly in the buds and
twigs of the trees that creep up to
his fastnesses. Such patches of for-
est like this are all through his
range and it’s here that you'll find
him, between the timber line and
the snowfields, which are his water
supply.’’ Nimrod tilted his hat still
further on one side to shield his face
from the driving snow.

“The goat clings to his habitat,
and he is not a very migratory ani-
mal. The individual range is rather
small if food and water be obtainable
and no alarming smells assail his
guide; but they sometimes swim
rivers, and a salt lick is a delicacy
for which they will risk a short
sally from their fortress homes. You
do not know of any about here, do
you, Sommers?”

Sommers shook his head.

“Do goats ever make mistakes ?”’
I asked.

‘“‘T suppose so. He thrives among
cliffs that to us are impassable and
his strength is wonderful, but I
fancy now and then one gets in
a tight place from which there is
no retreat, and there must be
accidents. They have a habit of
grazing on the mountain sides where
the grass first appears, the only
grazing they do, beyond nibbling
on small plants, and this habit
perhaps is the cause of more mortal-
ity than any other, as many are
killed each spring by snowslides.”’

‘“‘T once saw a goat that had made
a mistake,”’ said Sommers in his
slow drawl, following up Nimrod’s
bait. He threw a stick of wood on
the fire while we waited.

‘““They are so plumb sure of them-
selves, they go anywhere. This one
had walked out on a pine tree stuck
out from a cliff like that’’ (holding
a forefinger out level from his
hand). ‘‘The trunk was covered
with snow and patches of ice and
at the far end hung some moss.
He went out all right to get it, but

i

going back was not so easy, even
for a Billy; he slipped and got
caught in a crotch and that’s where
I found him stuck -fast and frozen,
perhaps a month after.

fertiu it aint usual; You can’t.
never hurry a goat; you can pepper
the ground about with shot, you
can yell even, but you can’t make
him go faster than is safe. He puts
every foot where it ought to go.”

That night I dreamed of the goat
that had made a mistake, suspended
in mid-air, starving and freezing
to death; and the next day we found
another foolish goat. But it was
a young one, and youth is the age
for error.

About noon we came to a stretch
of glare ice, over which we were
proceeding with great caution, Som-
mers in the lead testing carefully,
for death lays its traps here in the
shape of pits where the snow has
melted, but the thin, surface cover-
ing remains, presenting to the careless
foot as solid a surface as the ad-
jacent rock. We were crawling
along this when a certain sound
instantly stopped our progress. It

was a faint bleat, undoubtedly
goat.

We soon discovered that a kid of
the year had fallen prisoner into one
of these pits. How long ago we could
not tell, but it was still alive. We
set about effecting a rescue. Som-
mers cautiously lowered himself into
the basin, whereupon that ungrate-
ful Billy chased him all around the
hole, doing as much damage to shins
and temper as his strength would
permit until Sommers, using his belt
as acollar, hauled the kicking, strug-
gling beast to the edge where Nimrod
was waiting to assist in getting him
up. Never was a rescue more un-
poetically performed and when in
spite of himself the goat was landed
safely on top, he returned thanks
by drawing off and making so vicious
a charge, his head with its little
nubbins of horns well down, that
Nimrod was knocked completely off
his feet, and having thus laid low
his benefactor the vindictive one
took himself off over the ice with
astonishing rapidity.

Watching his easy progress I
wished for some of the rubber corns

= 4

THAT UNGRATEFUL BILLY STRAIGHTWAY MADE A VICIOUS
CHARGE AT HIS BENEFACTOR

with which his feet are provided,
for mine showed a determined pro-
pensity to seek the dull grey
sky. ;
Enough is as good as more, some-
times much better. We struck out
for the main camp next day, not
loth to leave to the mountain goats,
to the Excelsior youth, or any one
else, this region of ‘‘snow and
ice:

Again we found the sun, the
huckleberries, camp comforts and
Sally Tevis, all very delightful;
and about midnight, appeared
a human wreck that had to
be pulled off its horse and
assisted to the fire—Bobbie Te-
vis, bursting with the story of
“his goat.”

It took us far into the night to get
it all, but what matter? Even then
it was much easier told than done.
Bobbie plunged into his narrative
as soon as hot coffee had thawed
his tongue.

‘“‘As you know, children, I desired
goat more than righteousness; Sally
was knocked out.”

That lady interrupted:

“T wish I were a Mountain Goat,
I’d drink the glorious view;
And gladly skip from jag to jag;
Would you? would you?”

Humming the paraphrase before she
could be suppressed. Sally had
chosen to be flippant over goat,
and for once had insisted upon re-
maining in the main camp.

“Cap’n and I started yesterday
at daybreak, expecting to be back
last night. I knew Pet would be
all right during the day, with Charley
to look after her. After riding sev-
eral hours we left our horses picketed
in a meadow and proceeded on foot
with a light back pack. If one could
only hunt goats on a horse! Well,
we had climbed and slipped and
stumbled over boulders, up preci-
pices and slide rocks all day. I
think I had never known anything
like the ache of bones and general
exhaustion, feet giving out, skin off
the heels, left one crushed by a
falling rock. The altitude bothered
immensely, could hardly breathe go-
ing up hill, and it was all up or down,
principally up—all this and not a
sight of game. We had followed

the track of a big Billy only to have
it apparently fall off the cliff; you
know a goat would rather walk on
the under side of a ledge any day.

“Cap’n wanted to make a detour
of a half mile and come up under
the cliff. It sounds easy but it
would have taken us at least two
hours to do it and hard work at
every step, jumping from rock to
rock, crawling along narrow ledges
and dropping to the next below.
A slip may mean a broken leg or
worse; it’s no place for clumsy, two-
legged creatures, and—I was so
tired, even then in the middle of
the afternoon, that nothing but pride
kept me from dropping in my tracks.
Cap’n was done up too, I know,
because whenever I called a halt
for a few minutes to get wind he
sat down—never knew him to do that
before when on the trail. I believe
he is like a horse, can go to sleep
standing, and once he slipped out
of his pack.

‘Well, chance favoured us. We
had not dragged ourselves along the
ridge two hundred yards when I
spied another track and we both

decided that the same Billy had
made it, and a big fellow he must
be. We worked on that trail for
hours until it got too dark and I
could not have gone another step
anyway. To get back to camp was
beyond me. There was not a sin-
gle foot of level ground, to say
nothing about a place big enough
for a bed. It was very chilly way
up there; we had only a blanket
apiece. There seemed small pros-
pects of fire and less of getting
water, we were practically beyond
timber line and streamland. I con-
fess little Bobbie dropped in a heap
too miserable to care, but one can’t
slump altogether, so in a few minutes
opening my eyes I saw that Lusk had
disappeared. Also in the dark I
could make out the scraggly outlines
of a scrub oak. Hobbling over to it
I managed to break off some dead
branches and started a tiny fire.
How that living thing puts heart into
one! Warmth, food and water, are all
one really needs in this world for
happiness—at times.’’ Bobbie cor-
rected himself hastily.

“‘IT made sure that the tree was

firmly rooted, then sitting on the
up-side I wrapped my legs around
it and leaned back against a rock
and tried to imagine being in a
place from which I could not fall
and where there was not constant
danger from sliding rocks. Thegoat
is a very slow moving animal and
its protection is living in a region
where no other four-foot wants to go,
and as for two-foots, there are much
easier ways of committing suicide.”
His eyes twinkled for an instant.
“IT don’t know how long it was
that I clung there with the sensation
of being suspended in mid-air and
only half aware of the surroundings,
when I heard muffled noises, the slight
clicking of one rock with another.

“What could it be? A goat cer-
tainly would not approach that fire,
tiny as it was. It was just possible
for a mountain lion to have strayed
up so high. It might come near
to the fire but it would not be so
clumsy. Why, the Cap’n of course.
My wits were so befogged that I had
forgotten that there was any other
human being in the world.

‘“‘He came very slowly, jumping

from rock to rock and trying to
carry steadily the coffee pot, nearly
full of melting snow. He put it on
the fire and coaxed a blaze suffi-
ciently to make coffee. The gift
of David would not enable me to
sing the adequate praise for that
cheering cup. I stopped seeing things
and began to feel real again. -My
crushed foot was bad, and tired—
let that pass.

“The night was very cold. We
had not covering enough for two,
so we took turns sleeping and in
feeding the fire. Cap’n found a
dead tree near, which by careful
management provided us with fuel.
There was not level space enough
to lie down in comfort without
levelling the rocks. I was awfully
worried about leaving the little girl
but could not help it. At daylight
when I attempted to rise, I really
thought something was permanently
wrong—never felt so queer in all
my life, as though the whole ma-
chinery of the body was trying to
run without oil, everything rubbed
and grated together horribly, frozen
and famished to boot. Lusk was

done up too. In this cheerful state
we started the day’s hunt. I did
not care if I never saw a goat. In
fact, I preferred not to see one. I
hated the thought of it, but still
since I was up in that rocky in-
ferno to get a goat, I knew I
had better finish up the business as
I never wanted to do it again. So
we staggered along to a little draw
where we hoped to find water. On
a spur in plain view was a big
Billy. Cap’n said he was as big
a one as he had ever seen, or that’s
what he meant. I believe what he
said was a ‘Whanger.’

“‘It was half a mile, but I did not
see how I was ever going to reach
him, so I wanted to try a shot any-
way. But Cap’n wouldn’t have it.

“You know how the mountains
weather, there is the main ridge with
smaller spurs shooting from it and
a draw or gully between each spur.
Well, this chap was on the second
spur from us, at least two hours’
work to get within gun range, pro-
viding he would stay there. Dog-
gedly I followed Cap’n over the
rocks and around the boulders and

up a nasty place where the rocks
had split leaving a crack about two
feet wide. A dead tree had gotten
jammed into it upside down, and
up this tree with the branches all
going the wrong way, we crawled.
It was as slippery as glass and the
sharp branches jagged. A misstep
would have sent us down into—
well, I did not care to examine
where. When we got up to the
top—I had to pass up my rifle and
pack, before I could manage it—
we found ourselves at the head of
a draw in a clump of trees, near a
tiny stream. It was what the Cap’n
had been looking for ever since day-
break, but he’s such a mute some-
times, he gave me no hint.

We had breakfast and lay there
for two hours. The sun grew
stronger, the whole world changed
to radiance and beauty. I moved
from the fire and stretched out in
the full glare of the sun, comfort-
ably cooking, and feeling a delicious
sense of rest. We stayed till eleven
o’clock, when Lusk, who had climbed
up a cliff to look around, motioned
me to come.. Being once more cap-

able, I sprang up and laboriously
joined him. There was that Billy
waiting for us—had not moved an
inch apparently. A goat’s vision
is not extra good, he depends upon
his nose, and the wind was blowing
toward us. By reaching the next
spur he would be within range.
Hastening as much as possible, jump-
ing from rock to rock, going up the
face of a cliff that was almost straight
up—could never have done it if I
had given myself time to think—
in about half an hour we crawled
out on a ledge with only a draw of
slide rock between us and the spur
opposite where we had seen the
goat. As we peered cautiously from
behind a boulder, Cap’n suddenly
pressed my head down out of sight.
A little annoyed at this summary
treatment I started to speak. He
held up a finger warningly:
‘““*Vion’ he whispered. Now if
there is anything I wanted more
than a goat it was a mountain lion.
Greatly puzzled at the change of
quarry I sneaked after Lusk. Every
move now was as cautious and
noiseless as we could make it. The

style of hunting was entirely changed.
The puma has all his senses with him
ready for business. At last stretched
flat behind a rock I peeped over,
and there within seventy-five yards
of me, broadside on, a splendid shot,
stood a magnificent tawny creature,
with a big tail swaying from side to
side. I could see the yellow gleam
of his eye and I shall never forget
that tail! He had been lying down,
perhaps asleep on the sunny ledge
and just at that instant had gotten
up. He was not alarmed. Quickly
I ducked down and raised my rifle
over the rock and sighted along the
barrel. Now what do you suppose
happened ?”’

Bobbie’s face was grim at the
recollection and his eyes looked out
reproachfully. ‘“‘In that fraction of
time the lion had moved two or
three paces—and his head and shoul-
ders were hidden behind a tree,
just the tip of his nose was visible
to the right of the tree. I stayed my
finger on the trigger a second so as
to let the shoulder be exposed again,
when that cussed puma turned at
right angles and by the meanest

trick ever played, kept himself com-
pletely covered by that tree, you
know they are awfully thin edge on,
until he entered a clump of bushes
fifty feet away, and all that I ever
saw of him was a yellow tail swaying
from right to left of that tree. Oh,
that mocking, tantalising tail!

Children! Can you imagine my
feelings? I believe I would have
fired into that tree if Lusk had not
brought me to my senses. ‘No!
scare everything.’”’

“That was hard luck,” we all
chorused. Bobbie squared his shoul-
ders and went on—

‘“‘T looked for the goat. Of course,
it was gone too. We started to get
across the slide in pursuit. It was
awfully loose; wouldn’t hold at all.
Down, down we slipped, withan awful
rattle of falling stones below, and
above came pelting a regular land-
slide, and we in the middle of it.
When we finally brought up, we
were a quarter of a mile below the
goat spur. We had missed it alto-
gether, way above us, and I was
thankful not to go pounding down
to the chasm below, with many of

the rocks we had dislodged. Hugging
a friendly tree I decided again I had
enough of goat. About the lion I
would not even think. Evidently
the Angel of the Wild Things was
having a busy day. The competi-
tion was too great. Lusk had picked
himself up and was scanning the
country with a glass.

‘““Goat’’—he said, handing me the
glasses and motioning upward. |
could have thrown them at him,
but, of course, looked, and there
was that old goat strolling around
the other side of the spur. I picked
up my gun. Climb that mountain
I would not. It was over two hun-
dred yards in a straight line, but I
would have a shot at least. Without
moving, one leg gripped around a
sapling, I took free-hand aim and
fired. The creature jumped and lay
down. It was no use trying again,
couldn’t see him. Cap’n started up
the base of the next spur which was
quite close. I let him go alone, not
even then would I follow. In about
half an hour I saw him waving his
arms wildly forme tocome. Having
gotten my wind, I lashed my flicker-

ee ee ee —

ing enthusiasm and toiled up a
wooded spur, on my head half the
time.

“Well, I finished the goat.’”’ Bob-
bie glanced down for a moment.
“Tl spare you the details, but when
he lay down finally, his precious
head was hanging over the cliff. If
he fell it would be smashed to bits.
When we got to him he was too
heavy for us to move—an enormous
fellow. I tied my belt around his
hind leg and secured it to a sapling.
We had an awful time skinning out
the head and separating it from the
body; our strength was spent; but
we managed it at last, and just in
time, for as we pulled it to a safe
place, the sapling gave way.

“Look out!’ Cap’n yelled, and I
dodged as the carcass, belt, tree and
all, went slipping over the edge,
struck about a hundred feet -below
and went, rolling, plunging, masses
of flying rock with it, down—nearly
a mile below, and when we got to
it at sunset, I doubt if there was
a whole bone in its body. It was
dark when we staggered to the
meadow two or three miles farther

eB

on, where we had picketed our
horses yesterday.

““T don’t know how I ever sat
that horse, and this foot will lay
me up for a while, but look, Petty,
isn’t that a head? Bet it is a record
breaker!”

Alas! Even as Bobbie enthused,
he sighed—poor human Tevis—
another victim of the unattainable.

‘‘I wonder,’ he said, ‘‘if, when I
look at it, I shall always see the
waving of that yellow tail from side
to side behind a tree—the puma
that I did not get!”

A JACK RABBIT DANCE AND THE
FANTAIL GHOST

=| UNNING through the

i] whole of our trip, as
silver in a brocade,were
allusionstothe‘‘fantail”’
—a small deer of quite
distinct species. Nim-
rod, the scientist, pricked up his ears
at each hint.

“Tt has not been conclusively
proven that the ‘‘fantail’’ exists.
Hunters’ stories affirm it. An isolated
bone or two, but never a complete
skeleton, has been produced. The
fragments I have seen might have

been the young of black- or white-
tele

Preserving an open mind he took
copious notes from Cap’n and
Sommers.

“IT ain’t never killed one,”’ con-
fessed Cap’n, ‘‘ but they are sure here,
seen their tracks often. It’s narrower
than a fawn. Once I followed one
and came on it in the dusk, about
the size of a greyhound, only shorter
of course, a full grown adult with
small horns. No, it was not a fawn,
too clean limbed and tight made—”’
and so on.

Nimrod put it all down in his
journal. ‘‘Perhaps,’’ he said: and
travelled miles to see a track the
Captain assured him was “ fantail.”

‘It may be,”’ he announced, after
measuring it carefully fore and aft and
amidships and taking its photograph.
“How I would like to be sure! A
good specimen settling the matter
would be worth while.’ His scien-
tific acquisitiveness wasfully aroused.

One morning we started, as we had
daily, to hunt for what we could find.
Nimrod read many tales of the wild
for me. Elk had bedded here last

ar SE

;
1
t

= a Ae a

night, a bear had rubbed the bark
off that tree, scratching his back, a
close inspection disclosed some hairs
sticking to it; black bear, brown or
grizzly, small or large, which way
going, all this he knew at a glance,
arriving at the result by knowledge
and deduction.

At last on a sun-baked hillside we
dropped to rest in a huckleberry
patch, wonderful child of a forest
fire. Never in the hot-houses of
Midas have I seen such berries as
nature provides here for the taking.
Acres of huckleberries as big as one’s
thumb, juicy and sweet, hanging
in luscious luxuriance, sharp con-
trast to the spiny manzanita and
rocky arid stretches. While they last
the bears gorge themselves, and we
gorged ourselves without the effort
even of rising. To be Irish—al-
though we were lying down, we were
practically sitting up, the hillside was
so steep. I felt like the lazy man of
Bagdad who reclined under a fig tree,
all his life, nourished by the fruit that
dropped into his mouth.

Nimrod’s keen eye was scanning
an opposite ridge not two hundred

yards away. The ridges follow one
another like the teeth of a comb and
relatively as close. Suddenly he
grabbed his field glasses and gazed
excitedly.

‘‘Look, what do you see there?
There, beside that stump,” locating
the spot with the glasses. I saw
a small deer, partly hidden by bushes.

‘““Fantail?’”’ I whispered breath-
lessly, knowing what it would mean
to Nimrod if he could really see one.
But even as I said it, came a dis-
gusted ‘‘pshaw,’’ from him as the
cause came into view around a
boulder, a blacktail doe. The little
one sprang up and joined his mother,
followed by a second fawn: It was a
pretty sight to see them moving
leisurely along unalarmed, the wind
was blowing toward us. With ear
and tail and leg lazily they fought
the deer flies. Undoubtedly the
mother was making for some spot
she knew, some sylvan draw in which
to pass the heated midday hours.
In time the family group drifted out
of sight over the ridge into a spot I
was to know.

Then was enacted a drama of the

A TAWNY SHADOW CLOSE AGAINST THE RED EARTH

mountains that is rarely seen, even
by old guides, and as events proved,
we were by no means the passive
spectators we thought. Lying
supinely on a hillside seems a good
way to avoid incident, but if you had
seen what we did, you would have
done what we did, doubtless, with
consequences as far reaching.

Perhaps the sun had climbed to-
ward noon long enough for the
millions of time tellers to have ticked
off the quarter-hour when on the same
hillside opposite, a tawny shadow
close against the red earth moved
swiftly, nose to the ground. Wenever
stirred, the gun and the camera re-
mained undisturbed, soabsorbed were
we watching that incarnate death
tracking its prey. I had never seen a
puma in broad daylight outside of
a cage, and now as that great cat
stealthily crawled along, disappearing
in the berry patches, and out again,
I thrilled with the by-gone delightful
horror of ‘Arabian Nights!”’

“He is following the blacktail
trail,’ Nimrod whispered. ‘‘It is late
in the day for him to be hunting.”
Cautiously we sat up among the

Spi

bushes, never taking eyes off that
swiftly sneaking form, that wove
back and forth. It paused where
the fawns had joined on and then
followed faster than before; soon it
was over the ridge.

“Will he catch her?” I asked,
jumping up.

“Not likely, but they do some-
times,’’ was the answer as with one
accord we started to follow. It meant
a hard scramble to get over there and
we had not gone far when the doe
came running back over the ridge.
Evidently frightened by the lion, she
had hidden her young and was lead-
ing him away from them as well as
trying to save herself.

Alas! she saw us now in full view,
and turned her course. She did not
know that we could be trusted.
She lost ground by it and I thought
I got one glimpse of a yellow pursuer
drawing near. Hurry as fast as we
could, it was nearly half an hour
before we got to the place where the
blacktail had turned and the lion
track showed, not on the trail, but
running alongside. We followed some
distance. It had been a successful

hunt for the tawny one, and we found
the poor quarry in its death agony.
The lion of course had removed him-
self at our approach. He could af-
ford to leave the meal, it would wait
for him. It was but humane to put
a bullet where it would speed oblivion
to the cruelly wounded deer. That
bullet of mercy, mark it well, we had
trouble enough with it and with
another. It would seem _ that
innocence and good intentions must
be protected, but vice, expecting
punishment, takes care of its own.
We searched long for the little
blacktail, but they were successfully
hidden. Nimrod calmed my distress
for their motherless, unprotected
condition by saying that they were
big enough to be weaned and there
was a good chance of them being able
to feed themselves if the Angel of
the Wild Things would protect them
from enemies. I knew that a very
young fawn would probably starve to
death on the spot where it dropped,
when the mother gave the signal to
freeze—waiting, waiting for its pro-
tector’s little grunt of release.
On the way back to camp Nimrod

spied a baby rabbit trying to hide.
He was such a dear little fellow that
Nimrod, wishing to have him pose
for a picture, dexterously dropped
a hat over him, and in order not to
hurt his model, replaced the hat with
the bunny inside, and for several
hours that astonished rabbit
travelled in safety on the top of a
curly head. He was then put on the
ground by the side of our tent with
the lid of a ‘telescope’ over him. He
had plenty of air and grass to feed
on till morning.

The Tevi crawled back in time for
dinner. ‘‘Worn to a frazzle’”’ was
Sally’s comment.

To one who has never answered
the call of the Red Gods, how can
the all-pervading friendliness of the
camp fire be described? It is inti-
mate, it is mystical, it is soul-
enveloping; or it is merely cheering,
according to one’s mood. It can be
perverse and disagreeable, but it is
always necessary, the very heart of
camp life. Perhaps we all were fire
worshippers once. I love it best as
the comfortable open-house friend
between dinner and bed. ‘Then

ans cA naahiaiacleanlielein iste ples +? Se aang ™

i wr Bie

stories float over it, even as mist
on the meadows. It is the birth-
place of fancy, the cradle of memory.

A comfortable group was revealed
by its glow this night.

Drawn on by deft questions from
Nimrod the Cap’n was spinning one
of his yarns about the mysterious
“fantail.” Bobbie was cleaning a
gun, Sally curled up near him on a
rug like a contented kitten. Sommers
sat on his feet, whittling a stick.

“Tf you once caught sight of its
tail, you’d know—the critter spreads
it out wide like—”’ the Cap’n stopped
as a sound, curious yet quite audible,
broke in upon his speech.

Weall sat still listening. Thump—
thump —silence. Then thump—
thump—. It had a hollow metallic
sound, unusual for the woods. What
coulditbe? Light broke across Nim-
rod’sface. He began to laugh, silent-
ly. “It’s that baby rabbit I got on
the trail to-day,” he said softly, so as
not to disturb the noise-maker.

The ‘telescope,’ a good-sized case
for carrying clothes, was made of
leatheroid, and acted as a sounding
board. ‘‘If there are any rabbits

within hearing they will come. The
little fellow is thumping for them.
It’s the rabbit way of calling for
help,” said Nimrod. ‘‘There, did you
see that? Keep quiet, and don’t
move.”

A big rabbit had dashed within
the circle of the fire-light and dis-
appeared into the darkness. In a
few minutes another flitted in and
out of sight, another and another,
thump—thump—could be heard
from different parts of the forest.

“They are gathering,’ Nimrod
whispered, ‘“‘must be a dozen at
least.’

Bobbie went into his tent and
came out with a lighted acetylene
lantern. With this he advanced into
the forest cautiously, the lantern
casting a long cone of light as he
turned it slowly, searching. The
sounds ceased. He sat down on a
root. We all quietly joined him.

The rabbits, startled at first by the
strange light, were quiet, also watch-
ing. Then one bold chap, moved by
curiosity, hopped cautiously near;
others followed. No harm resulting,
he advanced still nearer, and leaped

HIPPITY HOP, AROUND AND AROUND

across the patch of lighted ground.
One, a dozen rabbits, big and little,
followed him. Circling, he came back
again and again, each time nearer to
the queer little sun. What he did
others did, in augmenting numbers
until we counted twenty playing the
game of ‘‘Follow the Leader.’’ It
was a weird sight—a Rabbit Shadow
Dance. Hop hop, hippity, hop, back-
wards and forth and around went
the shadows—a fairy scene. Nimrod
slipped away to get his camera.
The rabbits hardly noticed him, so
interested were they in their game.

In every group there is always a
foolhardy one and curiosity is a
strong motive power, even in
rabbits. One little fellow began to
examine the camera and actually
sat on top as though it were a stump.
Bobbie could not resist putting out
his hand and seizing the rabbit by
theears. Itset up asharp squealing.
At the same moment a venturesome
Jack came so close to the lamp in his
investigations that he burned his nose
and sprang back.

Instantly every rabbit disappeared.
Warned of the danger by their

companion’s squeals, their former
fears returned. Bobbie, seeing his
mistake, had at once released the
captive, but the woods remained as
silent as a theatre after the show is
over. For long we sat quiet hoping
for a return of our entertainers, but
the charm was broken, the lamp died
out, and again only the noisy silence,
the starlit darkness, the camp-fire
message.

The next morning we made an
early start, animated by the Cap’n’s
assurance that he might show us
‘fantail,’ as he had ‘‘seen fresh
tracks’? the night before. Also he
promised that Icould ride allthe way ;
my lion-blacktail pursuit had made
this imperative.

Oh, land of steeps and rocks, many
a sacrifice of aches and pains you
have accepted from me! But to-
day it offered one of its caresses,
and like all things beautiful and
rare, it bestowed its blessing upon
us in full measure. Blithely, in the
crisp fragrant air of early sunlight,
we followed a well-defined game trail
bordering leisurely a tumbling in-
consequent rill that drew its life from

ONE ACTUALLY SAT ON TOP OF THE CAMERA

this wooded ravine. Once we floun-
dered in a willowbog; but it was a
passing frown not indicative of tem-
per. Already the way was smiling,
masses of flaming Indian cup, and the
fairy blue bell, the aristocratic lupin
in full lilac bloom, and wealth of
feathery grasses for the open glades,
while in the leafy gloom was spread
a carpet of pine needles on which
the willing partridge vine had woven
a pattern of shining green, pailletted
with coral, and strange coloured
beads on brilliant red and purple
stems welcomed our passing.

Three miles of this when the Cap’n
made a signal to dismount. I looked
disapproving surprise which brought
in response a hitch of the shoulder,
a jerk of the head, which indicated
that it was not far to walk. Silently
he tied the horses and made his.way,
through a thicket, with elaborate care
to avoid noise, I followed, hardly
breathing, and Nimrod brought up as
rear guard. His eyes had unusual
brightness. Perhaps he was on the
edge of solving a long dispute be-
tween hunters and scientists. It was
understood that if possible I was to

secure a specimen of ‘“‘fantail,”’ a
proper sacrifice for the advancement
of knowledge.

After infinite precaution, wriggling
past branches, avoiding a step on
twig, dead leaf or any noise maker,
we arrived at a spot that is deep
graven in my memory. It was a
small open basin, perhaps a hundred
yards in diameter, surrounded by a
ring of dense second-growth saplings.
The marks of a forest fire were every-
where present in the charred sticks
heaped one on the other, making
travel through it impossible, com-
bined as it was, with tall marsh grass
and bog foundation. The tree circle
was interrupted only at the spot,
where we were. Here was salt lick, a
forty-foot patch of ground where the
earth was mixed with strong alkali.
These are not uncommon in the
mountains and invariably are the
resorts of animals when instinct sends
them seeking for salines. A game
trail led through this one and many
tracks showed its popularity.

The Cap’n with a dramatic gesture
pointed to the ground and Nimrod
was on his knees at once examining

mitdeeteeenenaneena SR TRE IOIN S E sre eS linge

a dainty deer track. It was fresh,
not more than two hours old,
and there were staler tracks of the
same animal, probably made yester-
day, showing that it was staying
in this locality.

Nimrod was full of suppressed ex-
citement. My lips formed the magic
word—‘‘fantail?’’ and the answering
nod expressed—‘‘I really begin to
think so!”

Then he pointed to another set of
tracks, a little smaller, of same type
and wrote on his note book for me to
see, ‘‘May be buck and doe.”’

To track them was out of the
question, I was too lame, so making
ourselves as comfortable as possible
we prepared to wait for the return
of the track-makers. They would al-
most surely come back, but possibly
notfor several hours, toward evening.
The Cap’n went back to the horses,
for the cold lunch provided against
such a contingency, and Nimrod
explored the adjacent woods, always
silently and within sight.

In the woods there are no electric
bells with someone at the other end
in case of emergency, and as you

know if you have read these confes-
sions, | would rather face a bear any
day than be left alone.

It was a sweet time; this still
hunting was agreeably restful. Idly,
I reclined on the top of some thick
bushes, an old trick as the ground
gets uncomfortably hard. The bush
gives somewhat and one has a springy
seat. Sage brush makes an _ ideal
sofa, but this stunted willow was not
bad. The hours wore on. Nimrod
ceased exploring and took to scrib-
bling. His efforts enriched the pres-
ent for me at least:

A SONG OF THE WEST

‘‘A meadow lark sang as the sun went
down,
He sang in the dying glow,
He stirred up my heart with his artless art
And his song of the long ago.

“He sang me a song of the West, the
West,
He set all my feelings aglow,
He brought back the days of my youth
with his song—
His song of the long ago.

‘‘A coyote howled when the night was gone,
A voice on the wind from the East;

My horse turned his head from the place
where he fed,
He heard but a hated beast.
But he sang me a song of the West,
the West, etc. ;

“A Sioux in his tepee away in the night
Drummed a chant of the ‘Buffalo days’
Till the men with me swore at the savage
uproar
And cursed him, his drum and his race.
But he sang me a song of the West,
the West, etc.

“The moon in the morn was stillin the sky
But the mountains in day were aglow,
And the girl by my side, the blue-eyed, my

bride,
Sang, but not of the long ago.

“She sang me asong of the West, the West,
Swept sorrow and worry away;
She stirred up my heart with her tuneful
art
And her song of the strong to-day.”’

Perhaps for a moment we may
have forgotten the ‘‘fantail,’’ but the
Cap’n had not. His whole attitude
stiffened in attention and so did ours.
I could not hear nor see a thing new,
but Nimrod evidently did. His breath
was coming fast and my heart began
to thump to suffocation. It must be

“fantail”? and I would have to shoot.
On me depended the solution of the
“fantail” puzzle.

The Cap’n passed over the gun
and motioned across the little basin.
I was too short to see over the tall
marsh grass in the foreground. In
desperation I found precarious foot-
ing on a root which brought me on a
level with their eyes, and looking
through the branches of an aggravat-
ing willow bush that wasin the way,
I saw two ears facing me. One
flicked a fly off. It was a hundred
yards fully, and the light was failing.
The ears moved, turned and I could
guess where the body was.

“Shoot—it’s going,’’ whispered the
Cap’n.

Another instant, and the illusive
“fantail” would be again a myth. I
took the desperate chance and aimed
where his shoulders ought to be.
The animal jumped, and gave one
glimpse of itself going over a log.

“Tt is hit”’cried the Cap’n. I began
to weep. It was the first time I had
fired at a live thing without having
a sure shot. The four victims of my
pride had never suffered. Now I

had wounded that dainty little crea-
ture that could harm no one—and it
had gottenaway. To track it in that
night in the down timber, was
impossible.

“Perhaps you did not hit it,”’ con-
soled Nimrod. But the Cap’n, not
comprehending and also seeking to
console, insisted that I had. ‘‘ We’ll
get him in the morning.”’

‘What did it look like,’ I enquired
of Nimrod, whereupon that gentle-
man gave me a curious glance.

‘“You will see to-morrow, perhaps,”’
and changed the subject.

Oh! ghost of the Fantail! How
it haunted me that night! If it had
been trained by the Society for
Psychical Research it could not have
done its work better. All night I
kept vigil and at daybreak we were
back at the place where it had stood
on the opposite side of the basin.
The ground was hard and yielded no
evidence. For a long time we cast
about for some sign. It seemed
hopeless, but I would not give up.
Every leaf and tiny pebble was
searched.

Had we seen anything last night?

Had I really fired at something flesh
and blood, or was it a spook? Yes—
a tiny drop of blood showed brown
on a leaf.

Then began a wonderful exhibition
of trailing on the part of Nimrod
and Cap’n. They found the track,
lost it repeatedly, circled as does a
dog, got it again, or else a pin point
of blood on leaf or stone or gravel.
It led across the ravine up the steep
bare hillside; once after a tiresome
search we found where it had lain
for the night. Nimrod after close
study diagnosed the injury as a
‘broken leg.’’ Shuddering and sick
I urged haste, but that was futile.
There was no blood now, there never
had been much, blindly we selected
a game trail where we saw many
tracks of a big deer and a lion track
too, but not the small onewewanted.
Eight hours had passed in unravelling
the puzzle. I was exhausted as usual,
but could not give up. Nimrod
seemed about to speak, when far
ahead on the trail I saw a small
deer.

The Cap’n whispered ‘‘ Aim sure.”

At last the ‘fantail’; up flew the

gun. “It looks like a fawn,” I de-
murred. It started to go on three
legs and I hesitated no longer. The
animal shot in the air, turned a
complete somersault and rolled a
hundred yards down the mountain
before a boulder stopped it, quite
dead. I am sure the Cap’n never
tells this story.

Instead of hurrying toward. it,
Nimrod sat down to rest. He
answered my amazed look by—

“That ‘fantail’ is a blacktail fawn.
Suspected it last night, but its track
was peculiar and the Cap’n was so
sure. I could not see it well last
night, and its being alone without
the mother was misleading.”’

“Do you know where you are?”
he added—I shook my head, too
chagrined for casual matters.

“Up there is the ridge where the
lion killed that blacktail doe. Of
course the fawns would hang around
in the locality.”’

“But the other?’ I faltered.

“Lion got it! I passed the re-
mains this morning but steered you
away. Your fawn was wounded, it
was better to finish eo

I stopped him, not wishing to hear
more. ‘Trusting to the wisdom of
another, inspired by a desire to fur-
ther science, I had tortured and
killed that motherless little creature!
No wonder the name of “ fantail”’
disappeared from the camp circle
and I never raised a gun again that
trip or for years and never but once
since at a living mark.

Treacherous ‘‘fantail,’’ illusive, un-
proven still, protected by Saint Hu-
bert, you may roam the hills in safety,
you may enshroud yourself in
mystery, while retribution works its
way with me.

A SINEW OF THE LAW DISPLAYED

—— HAT was the situation.

New| We had ended the mis-
ery of a doe wounded
to death by a mountain
lion, we had killed a
blacktail fawn by mis-
take for a “‘fantail.” Both crimes
punishable by law, yet perpetrated
from the best of motives and by one
who believes deeply in game protec-
tion.

Three days after the tragedy re-
lated, two men rode into the camp.
They poked about as though they
had right to do so, and my growing
indignation had almost produced

speech when the elder of the two,
putting a hand suggestively on the
doe’s skull which Nimrod at that
moment was sketching, remarked:

“Are you the fellow who makes
pictures of animals and writes about
them? Well, Mr. Nimrod, you are
my man, you are under arrest!
I reckon that skull and this fawn
skin will do.: My name is Dean.”
He displayed a game-warden’s badge
with an air of triumph.

Immediately there was a great
hubbub in camp. Nimrod arrested
for killing a doe and a fawn, Nimrod
who had not fired a gun the whole
trip! In vain I endeavoured to ex-
plain that mine the killing, mine the
punishment. Nimrod would not
permit it. He assumed the blame,
but described to Dean the situation;
of no avail.

‘“‘T ain’t made an arrest this sum-
mer and I’m about due to hold
down my job. I’ve got a good case,
plenty of proof—Mackenzie here will
swear to it. And it will do me good,
show my boss I am busy.”

With insolent frankness he said
this, and the look of the man gave

no hope that he would relent. Dean
intended to take his prisoner away
immediately. It required much per-
suasion, and a bond to keep Nimrod
with us under pledge to appear at
Garver to stand trial within forty-
eight hours.

There is an old saying: One never
knows the law until one breaks it.
Here was I a criminal, though with
no such intent, and worst of all not
allowed to bear my own punishment.

Thus was our trip broken up and
by five o’clock next morning our
gloomy party began a forced march
in order to make Garver in time.
One hundred miles in two days is
not possible with a pack-train. Leav-
ing Sommers and Charley to bring
it as fast as they could, the Cap’n,
the Tevi and the criminals hurried
ahead, our horses at a trot over logs,
bogs, wasps’ nests, jolt, jolt, an
awful day’s travel. We ate a cold
dinner, with the exception of coffee,
and in the small hours got into
Pine Cone Lodge, more dead than
alive. Forty miles without a trail,
part of it in a snow-storm that ren-
dered the footing most precarious.

One of the horses had to be shot
afterward. The cold was of the
penetrating, damp variety. The
next day we made the sixty-odd
miles in a carry-all, over a com-
bination of ruts and holes and
“corduroy ’’ which was termed a road.

Oh shades of the Pioneer Mothers!
For you, such may have been all
in the day’s work—but I am not
complaining, did you think I was?
No, only giving a hint of what it is
like to be caught in the toils of error.
I cannot pretend to be a heroine,
and did not enjoy it.

The Cap’n was undeniably per-
turbed. This arrest might seriously
hurt his business, if followed by
conviction. He had sent a call
among the mountains for a rally of
his friends at Garver, with what
result you shall see.

“All I want is fair play”’ he said.
‘““Dean is a bad character. Has
killed two men and been in the
‘Pen.’ But he’s got a pull that
made him game warden and he
wants to show them what he can
do. And he ain’t friendly to me,
or anybody, as I know of,”

|

Our first business in the morning
was to secure counsel, one Hiram
Barker. Our second, to seek with
a purpose the county newspaper
office; but news was scarce, it was
too good a story and the editor, who
was also owner as well as printer and
devil, smiled at us deprecatingly
and wrote and wrote and wrote,
creating a wonderful fabric with
enough woof of truth to make it
hold together. Wizard Fantail, are
you not yet avenged?

As we were walking down the main
street in the brilliant shimmering
sunshine, Sally exclaimed: ‘‘Oh,
look! isn’t that Mr. Barker with a
new suit on, ‘ready made’ from Chi-
cago and a b’iled shirt?”’

““Yes,’’ Nimrod affirmed. ‘‘They
say that he always gets a new suit
of clothes when he is retained on a
case. The boys call it his law suit.
We left him in Swan’s Emporium an
hour ago when Mrs. Nimrod acquired
the affair she is wearing that makes
her look like a peony!”’ This was a
thoroughly reproachable shirtwaist of
shrimp pink flannel; mine was in tat-
ters and the luggage fifty miles away.

Sally took up the Barker theme.
‘‘Now he is a flourishing attorney,
one day in the week in his office.
This morning in overalls and a
flannel shirt he was a hard-working
farmer. Has a ranch fifty miles
below here, you say? His trousers
are over his boots and he has a cigar
instead of a quid in his mouth.
These are the final touches. The
butterfly has burst forth.”

‘““More like a magpie. Wait till
you hear him this afternoon.’’ Nim-
rod looked at his watch. It was
nearing two o’clock. Hiram Barker,
attorney-at-law, on seeing the group
changed his course and bowing cere-
moniously to the ladies addressed
his client.

‘“‘T see the jedge is makin’ for the
court room and Mister Dean is
waitin’ for him on the steps. He
ain’t got no call to be friendly with
the jedge jest now.’ Then giving
himself a little mental shake he
slipped out of his Western vernacular
as he had out of his rancher’s
clothes, and his speech became as
ready made as his attire.

“Shall we proceed to the court

room? Judge Neal is punctual. I
find that the prosecution has a few
exhibits.’”’ He conversed in a low
tone with Nimrod until the main
business block of the town was
reached. It was two story, of brick,
the ground floor divided into stores,
the second floor devoted to several
offices and the “‘town hall.’” Within
its bare, dirty, whitewashed walls
had transpired most of the excite-
ments of Garver. Its dances, its
political meetings, its theatricals, its
public functions and its trials. On
gala occasions, flags and greens may
have draped its ugliness, to-day
there was not one spot of beauty
upon which the repelled eye could
rest. High, narrow windows, dirty
and bare of shades, admitted the
August’s sun full heat upon a deal
table at one end, a dozen wooden
chairs grouped near it and two rows
of heavy wooden benches ranging
back from it. A glass transom,
broken at some more jovial session
had been mended with brown paper,
and the insignia of winter, a cast-
iron pot-bellied stove, had been dis-
jointed by one pipe length, the two

severed ends gaping mute testimony
to the room’s neglect.

The Tevi sat on one of the front
benches, with me. Nimrod upon
another bench with the sheriff, the
front of a group of men. Facing us,
behind the deal table on a revolving
chair sat the particular branch of
Uncle Sam’s tree of justice who was
to preside over our fate.

Judge Neal was a wizened, sandy-
haired old man with kindly twinkling
eyes. Heworeasmallround felt hat,
which neither Sally’s presence nor
mine had dislodged, a crumpled stiff
shirt front and a white cotton hand-
kerchief in lieu of a collar. Being
lame, a heavy walking stick reposed
upon the table. It served as a
paper weight, and later, when pro-
ceedings grew lively, as a gavel.

Dean was on one side of him,
Barker on the other. The sun
poured down upon them, the flies
buzzed noisily, the heat was suf-
focating.

One could not but contrast the
general discomfort and ugliness, and
the fires of greed and hate and mur-
der lurking near, with the days

before, under God’s roof where the
soul could feel its eternal beauty.

At five minutes past two, the
little mild-mannered judge laid aside
his hat, a signal that he had assumed
the réle of “yer honour” and in a
rough and ready way the wheels
of justice started. A jury of six was
impanelled. Dean’s first question to
each,‘‘Are you a Woodman?” met
with an invariable ‘Yes.’’ Then
on one pretext or another he en-
deavoured to exclude the man as
juror. I was puzzled at this until
Bobbie whispered:

‘““Cap’n is a Woodman and they
have all rallied to help him out.
He’s evidently popular.”

“What is a Woodman?”’

“One: who belongs to a_ semi-
secret organization out here. If Nim-
rod loses, it will reflect on Cap’n and
hurt his business. Look at Dean,
he’s furious. The whole six are
Woodmen. He can’t help it.”

The case proceeded quietly. The
prosecution presented its charges,
that of killing doe and fawn. The
judge fussed with his papers. Mac-
kenzie was called as witness. He tes-

tified to seeing a dead fawn skinwitha
bullet hole in it and a hornless skull
lying in our camp. Here the pros-
ecution and the defence, namely
Dean and Barker, fell to wrangling.
It finished with the following scene.

Barker to Dean. ‘‘Perhaps the
learned gentleman for the prosecu-
tion will explain for the benefit of the
Court the difference between a bear’s
skull and a doe’s skull.”

Dean. “It is not necessary, unless
the learned gentleman who asked
the question, needs coaching.”’

Barker. “I should like to ask if
there is as much difference as between
a doe’s skull and a human skull.”

Dean, darting a fiery glance at
him, but controlling himself: ‘‘The
gentleman is out of order, your
Honour.”

The judge ruled that he was and
thumped the stick upon the table
twice for no apparent reason, but
I began to perceive a subtle change
in the attitude of the men about us.
The air was becoming electric. I
recalled that Dean had killed a man,
Cortwright two years before, in a
livery stable at Golden, shot him

in the back, and that still another
murder was attributed to him.

Barker (changing his tack). ‘‘The
learned gentleman has not spent all
his time in the mountains? He has
lived in a town—Golden, perhaps?’’

Dean (savagely). ‘Yes, I lived at
Golden. What’s that got to do
with the case?’’

Barker (persuasively). ‘‘ Perhaps he
kept a livery stable there—about
two years ago?”’

Dean (defiantly, squaring toward
his tormentor—the witness, the case
in hand was forgotten). ‘‘ Yes, I kept
a livery stable two years ago. What
is that to you?”

Every man now was sitting on the
edge of his seat. One juror who
was immediately back of Dean fas-
tened his eyes on that man’s right
arm and gathered himself together
as a cat does before a spring. Still,
I did not quite comprehend.

Barker (in a smooth voice). ‘‘And
left it for good reasons?”

Dean (in a tone not pleasant to
hear). “And left it for good reasons.”’

Barker. “Did you ever hear of a
man named Cortwright?”’

Dean. “To hell with you, you
infernal scoundrel,’ and suddenly
a dozen things happened. Dean’s
hand flew to his right hip pocket.
The juror from behind pounced on
him and knocked him to the floor,
every man was on his feet, the
judge’s stick came down on the
table. ‘‘Order—order in the Court.”’

The sheriff sprang forward, re-
volver in hand, Dean regained his
feet, cursing under his breath. Again
the judge’s gavel-cane descended
sonorously and his piping voice com-
manded ‘‘Order, or the sheriff must
do his duty.”

Dean, his face ashy pale, stood
shaking his head like a lion at bay;
an instant’s intense silence, then
with a visible effort he regained
self-control.

Dean. “I beg your Honour’s par-
don. The gentleman of the de-
fence is a white-livered hell-hound.
He is trying to derogate the
character of the counsel for the
prosecution. ”

Barker attempted to speak. The
Judge checked him.

‘Gentlemen will please lay all

weapons on the table—Sheriff!”” The
sheriff made the rounds and col-
lected four revolvers. The judge,
who had also risen in the excitement,
resumed his seat of justice. With
a strong undercurrent of bad blood
which might yet be spilled, the case
proceeded. Dean made his points,
a clever fabric, the dead fawn, the
hornless skull, the dead doe on the
mountain, evidently devoured by
Lion afterwards,and much extraneous
confusing detail.

Barker broke down the case by
presenting the truth as he saw it.
The counsel for the prosecution
summed up briefly and then Barker
arose. It was his golden hour. For
twenty-five minutes by the watch
he let off what Nimrod afterwards
called “his natural gas.”

He began slowly: |

“Yer Honour, gentlemen of the
jury. You have been gathered here
from your tasks of honourable em-
ployment to witness a stupendous
piece of wilful persecution. This
monumental and egregious’ error
has been perpertrated by one who
by his noble office should ever

uphold as on the shoulders of the
populace the worthy laws of this
magnificent State of Idaho. (He
gathered breath) Idaho, the brightest
gem in our great nation’s diadem.

“What man among you—what
man among you, I say, would be so
blind to the calls of our divine
Columbia to let for a single fraction
of time the shadow of suspicion,
after listening to the evidence here
shown to-day, that the stranger
at our doors could have been guilty
of such conduct as he has herewith
been charged. What man so lost
to the powers of reason, whereby
he shows his divine origin, and
supremacy over the lower animals”’
—his voice rose in crescendo and
with a grand action his right arm
shot up and sawed the air with the
gesture known as wind-mill, his left
flung back the flap of his ready
made coat revealing a label, so that
all might read ‘‘The Fair. $7.98.”

It was the finish touch for Sally.
“Oh look, didn’t I tell you it came
from Chicago?”’

All oblivious of the real cause of
the very evident impression he was

making, roller after roller of Barker
eloquence broke upon the rocky
shore of his Eastern audience. But
the jury was visibly impressed. One
time my face grew very red and the
shrimp pink reflection had made
it red enough before.

“Torn from the loving arms of a
beauteous wife likea commoncriminal
he was snatched away from honour
and love and position and credit
and all that he had wrested from
the world’s grasp. Picture the poor
young wife, deprived of her tender
and loving partner, alone in the
mountains, away from her home
and her dear friends, weeping cop-
iously, pale and feeble and sick, en-
during agonies of dread and fear.”’

Eyes unconsciously travelled to
where I sat in the full glow of
health, looking uncommonly com-
fortable. Vainly I tried at such
short notice to become pale, cower-
ing, fearful, sick and tormented.

But unabated the volume of the
orator’s words flowed on, carrying
with it all the debris of his memory.
He finished with a peroration in
which the glories of the nation past

and present were in-woven with
the stars and stripes of the noble
flag, and the eagle screamed tri-
umphant.

He sat down mopping his brow,
the jury filed out and in five minutes
filed back again with a unanimous
verdict: ‘‘Not Guilty.”

Dean, by far the more intelligent
of the two counsels but with human
kindness turned to bitterness, the
mark of Cain upon him, shrugged
his shoulders, muttered that he
“would get even”’ with Barker, and
stalked alone from the court room.

I sent a thought of sympathy and
certain admiration after him. He
was so undoubtedly one with a chip
on his shoulder, a man against
whom every hand was raised. His
own doing. He met the uplifted
hand with sullen bravery and asked
no quarter.

Heavy weights sink to the bottom,
and the grappling in this legal pool
had troubled only the surface. But
tragedy had hovered above the rude,
bare court room—shadows of the
murdered Fox and Cortwright, and
the uncertain fate of Dean and

Barker, that feud being but just
begun.

Gladly we scuttled out of town,
and leaving the Tevi facing east at
the railroad, fifty miles distant, we
sought cover among the Red Men,
until the winged words of the ‘special
correspondent’ (who meant us no
harm, merely business) had ceased
to buzz over our particular morsel
of Yellow food.

SO SAA

PD SASS

SEMIS
SOO \Y\ Y >:

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Wl, 4

ON THE ROSEBUD—PLENTY COUPS’
PEACE-PIPE

seq EN Nimrod and I ar-
WE5| rived at the Crow Agen-
cy, the first picturesque
figure to catch our eye
was Whiteswan, or, to
— be more accurate, what

is left of Whiteswan after the Custer
Battle; for now he is chiefly memories
and one sound leg. He has, to be
sure, a bullet-shattered right arm and
two remaining limbs semi-paralysed,
which in his portraits of himself,
he very properly disregards. White-
swan has passed from a great
brave in war time, to being the

chronicler of his tribe in peace. Like
many another, he has laid down the
gun for the pen, and, following in
the path trod by the worthy Cellini,
the glory of his deeds has lost none
in the telling.

Pictograph is the Indian written
language, as originally it was ours.
But we have long since evolved ‘‘S”’
from a striking serpent that hisses and
‘“‘M” from the crude outline of a cow’s
head saying ‘‘ Moo,”’ while the Indian,
well-contented, has continued to fol-
low the customs of his ancestors,
knowing not the unchanging name
of a tree but the look of it in all
weathers and all seasons. His own
barometer, compass, architect, food-
provider and defender, he needs none
of the complicated civilised machin-
ery, and his library is always spread
before him. Hence the pictograph
serves sufficiently well now, as in
the Stone Age.

Through an interpreter I asked
Don’t-walk-on-top if the Indians
had any jokes, whereupon he drew,
amid much chuckling among the by-
standers, one of the old reliablesfrom
the stock-in-trade of the humanrace,

£

ant
ANT

KASAM

WHITESWAN—A PORTRAIT BY HIMSELF

regardless of colour or country. He
called it ‘‘Two squaws scolding their
husbands for being out all night.” I
refer this drawing to the Art students
as it appears to contain a valuable
suggestion—If hands are difficult,
don’t draw hands. Or as in the
record of Exploits by Whiteswan,
if an incident is to be disconnected
from others on the same page, turn
it upside down. Surely such a so-
lution would occur to few, but it is
undeniably effective.

The dominant figure among the
Absarokas is Plenty Coups, the war
chief. He finds the pictograph quite
sufficient for his needs in running
a country store. Why keep an
elaborate set of books with double,
redouble (pardon) entry, and a
staff of mathematicians, when a
ledger like the following -serves
every purpose? A mark is put
for every dollar, a long mark
for every tenth dollar and a pic-
ture above to denote the owner.
When the account is cancelled it is
rubbed out. Why have a burden-
some file to remind one of ‘‘has
beens’? The ingenuity of Plenty

Coups’s drawings shows his inheri-
tance in the pictographic art.

How many, off hand, would be able
to depict with a few strokes ‘‘He
Rides on Top”-\@) “or-ean) “Old
Woman Otter’ (4) or ‘‘The Other
Buffalo” (1) or a‘‘Small.”’ This last,
simple enough, an arrow placed in the
hand for comparison of size. Won-
derfully simple—when one knows
how.

Our introduction to Plenty Coups
was effected by Whiteswan and upon
this occasion another side of the
Indian simplicity was forced upon
us. Happy people to whom the germ
theory has not yet penetrated! Not
a thought do they give whether there
be one or five million bacteria in
their food, or utensils. The principal
social ceremony, that of smoking
the peace pipe, is the epitome of in-
difference to microbes good, bad or
neutral. Squaws, striplings, and un-
feathered braves are not allowed to
participate in smoking the peace pipe,
so when this honour was offered to
me, a paleface squaw, my courtesy
and prudence had a severe strain.

Chief Plenty Coups’s village where

PLENTY COUPS’ LEDGER

1. The Other Buffalo 4. Odd-Woman-Otter
2. Bird-on-His-Bonnet 5. He-Rides-on-Top
3. Plain Feather 6. Plenty-Otters

heholds rude court, isabout four miles
from the Agency where his trading
store is located. At council and on
gala occasions he wears his great
warbonnet made of eagle feathers,

one for each deed of valour, or coup.

The string trails far on the ground,
and it was the great number of these
that gave cause for his name, Plenty
Coups. Heisa born leader; his men-
tal equipment and executive powers
would have spelled success in any
walk of life, and now, convinced of
the hopelessness of struggling against
such overwhelming odds as the pale-
faces possess, he has accepted their
way and taken successfully to com-
merce.

It was nearly nine o’clock on a very
black night, which had enabled us to
lose the road twice, when we finally
reached the Chief’s teepee and waited
without, while Whiteswan announced
our arrival. The Council was about
to begin. As Whiteswan opened the
flap for us to enter, the heavy air of
many unwashed people in the twenty-
foot teepee made me elect to stay
near the door, thereby gaining credit
for modesty (it is not seemly for a

We ray

Lom

squaw to be too bold) and doubtless
contributing to the honour that the
future held. The braves were seated
cross-legged in a wide circle around
the fire. Plenty Coups in the seat
of honour opposite the door, the
chiefs next in standing were on each
side of him and so on till the circle
was completed by the paleface
visitors. In groups back of the coun-
cillours stood squaws, children,
youths and various disqualifieds. I
was the only woman seated, the
Chief having graciously motioned
me todoso. No English was used,
not a syllable; in fact, hardly anv
Absaroka, the whole ceremony was
performed in the sign language, of
which Nimrod knew a good deal and
I a smattering.

By gesture Chief Plenty Coups
said that he was pleased to welcome
the distinguished stranger who loved
the animals and understood the wild
things, and pleased to greet his
squaw.

Then Nimrod arose. He ex-
pressed himself that for three sleeps
we had travelled to make the
acquaintance of the distinguished

.
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LHSIN 'TTV LNO NAY AAVH OHM ‘SGNVASOH eta ONIMTOOS SMVNOS OML
Gol -uo-yjvjf-7.uogq fg Sumpap uokvs7

Plenty Coups, etc. (I longed for a
moving picture of him in action.)
When Nimrod had finished his pan-
tomine, a squaw brought the peace
pipe, and handed it to Plenty Coups,
another squaw filled it and by means
of two sticks, brought a live coal from
the fire, our only illumination. Ma-
jestically and in absolute silence
the Chief smoked the time immemo-
rial emblem, in this case a sandstone
carved bowl and a twisted wooden
stem two feet long, much painted,
beaded and feathered. At last it
appeared to be drawing well; he arose
and blew four smokes, to the four
Great Winds or Spirits. First to the
East, the beginning of all things,
then to the North, the South, last to
the West, the end of all things.
Silently he sat again upon his fur
robe and passed the lighted pipe to
the right hand chief, Grey Wolf,
who repeated the ceremony with
equal solemnity and handed the
pipe to Whiteswan, on Plenty Coups’s
left. Slowly in this manner the pipe
progressed zigzag down the line.
I fell to counting how many mouths
it would have entered before it came

to Nimrod, providing he was to be
favoured—twenty-three! poor Nim-
rod! I had not even the satisfaction
of offering him some antiseptic lip
salve, by chance in my pocket, as
the silence was so obvious, I had not
the courage to break it. As the
twelfth brave sat down Plenty Coups
indicated that he thought it was pro-
per for the distinguished paleface and
his squaw to join the ceremony.
So the evil-smelling thing came our
way and Nimrod arose and did his
duty.

I was in a quandary. It was con-
trary to all custom and a very great
honour to include me, but the Chief
surely had made the sign of long hair,
which means squaw. Still when Nim-
rod proffered the pipe I hesitated,
but Plenty Coups left no room for
doubt. ‘‘The Great Spirit will accept
greeting from the paleface squaw.”’

That pipe was the nastiest tasting
and smelling thing that ever got into
an unwilling mouth. The tobacco
was rank, the mouthpiece, of course,
had done yeoman service. I man-
aged to salute the East—why were
there so many points to the compass?

—the North and South got smoke
tears as well as smoke. Well, at least
the West was the end of all things.
I sat down feeling that I had earned
a brevet from the diplomatic service,
and as soon as possible sought the
air.

I have never been able to place the
blame for the indescribable taste
of that pipe; to be sure I am not a
second Mrs. Buchanan and I had
never smoked a pipe before, so it
may have been any one or all of
those twelve braves, or it may have
been the innumerable previous cere-
monies, or the poor tobacco. Well,
it is a bygone. The moon had burst
through the clouds and the ride
back to Crow Agency was delightful,
and before the Dog Dance, two days
later, I was quite able to discriminate
between vinegar and mustard and
appreciate the graciousness of that
majestic old man with his feather-
ful record of exploits and his dignified
acceptance of national defeat. Long
may he couch on sage brush, talk in
sign language and write in picto-
graph! Civilisation has nothing to
teach him.

AT THE FEAST OF THE DOG DANCE—
THE WAY OF ARABELLA HORSE-
TAIL

“aj NCE an Indian, always

‘ail an Indian. No matter
how the “‘Great White
Father’’ may pinchand
pound the clay, its
shape may alter, it is
still red clay. It was at the Feast
of the Dog Dance that I realised
this in learning the story of Arabella
Horsetail.

The three o’clock recess bell had
not stopped sounding when a figure
in brown calico, sprigged with white,

stole out of the schoolyard gate
and sped along the road to the rail-
way station. The west-bound train
passed an hour before, so the place
was deserted, and Arabella Horse-
tail crossed the tracks unobserved
and away up the hill, where a turn
in the road hid her from sight of the
tiny settlement, which the Whiteman
calls Crow Agency. On sped the
flying feet over the pathless arid
waste to a group of trees a mile away,
the only ones in sight. They marked
a sudden crack in the ground, as
though God had scooped out the
place with His finger that some
green thing might find moisture,
and live. Six trees only had dared
to rear themselves in this gully, and
their shapes could be seen from afar,
the more so as strange objects marred
the symmetry of their outline—
oblong shaped bundles of bright
coloured blankets, wound from end
to end with buckskin thongs and
securely strapped to the branches;
for these were the Manakes-ees, the
trees of the Absaroka dead.

The girl sped to the last lone tree,
where memory said, her mother had

been placed six years before. In-
stinctively she went, with unseeing
eyes, and flung herself at full length
on the bunch grass beneath it. Her
mind was in a whirl. Wild rebellion
filled her thoughts. The ways of
the Whitemen were past bearing—
how she hated them! They
had snatched her away from the
happy careless life of her people
when she was a roly poly babe of
five. For ten years they had made
her wake, sleep and eat at their
bidding, had coaxed and coerced
her to learn their manners, their
customs, their ideas, until civilisa-
tion hung upon her like a_ badly
fitting garment that hid her good
points and showed her bad ones.
And now, so pleased are they with
their work, they are going to send her
toCarlisle, the Whiteman’s college for
Indians, and for three more years
there would be no escape—umnless
she married. Why should they
think their ways, their religion, so
much better than those of her people?
‘They have taught me,” she thought
proudly, ‘‘to think in their language,
but they cannot teach me to think

their thoughts, for I am Indian, an
Absaroka, and come from a great
people, who would rather walk on
the great broad earth that belongs
to all; than on a carpet made by
one man, owned by another and
coveted by a hundred. Ugh! I
hate them, I hate their civilisation.
In their arrogance, forcing upon us,
the weaker, a religion upon which
they cannot agree themselves. They
ask us to give up our way of bar-
tering a thing we don’t want for a
thing that we do, and learn instead
their love of money, though all the
time crying that it is the curse of the
world. They have brought us whis-
key and cigarettes. What do they
offer us in exchange for the bright
sun-heat, the wild glad rain, the
mountain top, the crystal stream,
the everlasting plain, for the rich red
blood coursing through our veins, for
the love of nature, whether her moods
be stern or gay?

“What is their civilisation? Do
they pretend that it will make us
happier? Look at my people to-
day! This is what they would force
upon me, their man-made clothes,

their man-made God. And because
they are many and my people few,
they say, ‘We are right; do as we
do or die’—and we die.

“They killed my mother when
they tore me from her arms, her
one ewe lamb. ‘Manita, Manita, I
cannot live without you!’ I can
hear her last cry now, so long ago,
before Grey Wolf and Whiteswan
laid her away up there. ‘Manita!’
Oh mother—and they call me Ara-
bella Horsetail! Ugh, I hate them!’

Manita sprang to her feet with
clenched hands, flaming cheeks, and
arms uplifted toward the tree. She
suddenly became aware of her sur-
roundings. The tree where her
mother had lain so long was empty,
and on the ground, not six feet from
where Manita had been lying, was a
long bundle with thongs cut and
wrappings undone, and protruding
from the mass of blankets was the
shrivelled, mummified remains of—
her mother.

She stood for a long time stunned,
gazing at the awful spectacle. Then
with a little shake, she began to think
again, but slowly and with difficulty

4 we

>

=<

‘ Coyotes—tore—it—down—per-
haps—No, no, the thongs—were—
cut—with a knife.” She approached
shrinkingly.

‘Her rings—armlets and necklace
are gone—she has been robbed!
The White Devils have done this—
they have robbed my mother—
they have despoiled the dead!”

She felt numb. She could only
repeat with wearying monotony,
“They killed her—they killed her!”
After a while the voice in her ears
said instead: ‘‘They robbed her in ?
life and in death.”’ :

The peculiar odour from the :
corpse added to her horror. Then
something snapped in her brain.

She sank in a heap beside her
mother, and went floating off into

space in a _ swirling, throbbing
darkness.

It was dawn the next morning
when Sharpnose and Whiteleg, herd-
ing cattle on the range, passed the
Manakes trees and noticed some
unusual objects under the south
bank of the gully. They rode up to
see what they were.

Their approach awakened Manita,
who had passed from her swoon into
the sleep of youth, and was much
refreshed. The curses of Sharpnose
and Whiteleg as they replaced the
dead in a crotch of the tree and
lashed it firmly with Sharpnose’s
lariat, told Manita that her mother
would be avenged, and her thoughts
took a more personal bent. The
rebellion in her heart was ten times
stronger than yesterday, but she
no longer wanted to take White-
leg’s bright sharp knife and plunge
it into the heart of Mr. Warwick,
the missionary and teacher of the
school. To kill him would mean to
die too. The arms of the White
Government are long and many,
and merciless—and she wanted to
be free, to get away from it all, to
live the life of her people, the life
to which she was born.

An Indian woman is, according
to the Whiteman’s law, a ward of
the Government—in the Agent’s pow-
er—until eighteen, or until married,
and admitted to be marriageable
at fifteen. Here was the loop-hole.
She had no wish to be married, but

she was fifteen and she saw a chance
for escape, if——.

As she stood facing the rising sun,
waiting for Sharpnose and White-
leg to restore to its place the out-
raged dead, a plan was _ slowly
forming in her mind. The great,
fiery ball was well up in the horizon
when the two men approached her,
leading the horses.

Ah-heh-et-seh, Sharpnose, the fam-
ous hunter, was lithe, sinewy, grace-
ful, with clear coppery skin and
handsome face.

It-tas-da-chirsch, Whiteleg, was
thickset, with heavy, stolid features
to which smiles and flashes of pleas-
ure were little known.

Manita sighed. She would have
preferred Sharpnose, but he was
married, and would notdo. Turning
to Whiteleg she said, ‘‘Will you
take back me to the school? Your
horse will carry double.”

Sharpnose, with a nod of goodbye,
flung himself into the saddle and
galloped away. Whiteleg silently
mounted his horse and notwith-
standing that animal’s objections,
vigorously expressed, drew Manita

up behind him and started madly
careering for the Agency. But the
horse soon gave in to the sharp
bit and settled to a walk. Manita
had her arms around Whiteshirt’s
waist, holding on. Her brain was
busy. Suddenly she spoke.

‘“‘Tt-tas-da-chirsch, they are going
to send me to Carlisle.”

A grunt came from in front.

ja hate them.

Whiteleg nodded.

“T won't go.”

Silence in front.

‘‘Tt-tas-da-chirsch, I won’t go, I
won't go and you must help me.”
The arm around his body tightened
into a squeeze, and Manita’s lips
were close to his cheek. ‘There is
but one way to escape the White
Devils. I must marry in my tribe;
Whiteleg, will you marry me?”’

There was no response, so Manita
hurried on. ‘‘ We won’t really marry,
you know. Only make believe, ac-
cording to the Whiteman’s ceremony
and their God, and we would go
away to your teepee. Wah-pu-ta,
your mother, would help us, and
on the next Sunday, at the meeting

of our people, you can divorce me
—according to our law—and I shall
be free! It won’t be much trouble
for you. Whiteleg,”’ she said, per-
suasively ‘‘ Will you?”

Whiteleg shook his head and
grunted. The nearness of the girl
confused him.

“But remember my mother, re-
member the years I have been a
slave, remember what they have
done to our people. Remember Pine
Leaf—how they sent her to Carlisle.
They said she was so bright and
clever and so adaptable, that was
the word, and how, when she gradu-
ated there was no place in the world
for her. The Whites would not
take her into their hearts and homes
just because she wore high-heeled
boots and carried a parasol and
spoke grammatical English. They
might welcome her as an ‘interesting
development,’ but receive her as a
sister, daughter, wife? Never. She
was too Indian. And we, you re-
member how we despised her, how
we turned our backs upon her be-
cause she had forsaken her people.
She was too English for us. There

was no place for her, so she gave
herself to the Manakes-ees and now
she lies buried on the Custer Trail.
Whiteleg, I shall be like Pine
Leaf. No, no! I will not go! I
want to live with my people, and
befree. It-tas-da-chirsch, won’t you?
and,’’ she added, cunningly, well
knowing the man before her, ‘‘it will
make Mr. Warwick very sad, for
he will think we have insulted his
God and his people, and when he
sees how little we care and all are
laughing at him he will gnash his
teeth. He will hate us, and we will
be like thorns in his feet; will you?”’
A slight pause ‘‘and I will give you
- my pony that Whiteswan is keeping
for me—will you?”’

Then the Indian spoke.

“Ugh! I hate the Whitemen. When
shall it be? I'll take pony.” .

Manita’s delight, was barely re-
strained, and the man began to
enjoy the situation. They were
nearing the settlement and Manita
poured her plan into her res-
cuer’s ears. He listened with
occasional grunts, until he drew
rein before the school-yard gate,

2 f

2 2 4

ae We @
aa

gy *-

and the girl slid lightly to the
ground.

Two weeks later the inhabitants of
the handful of houses that comprised
the Crow Agency were in astate of wild
excitement. Arabella Horsetail was to
be married that morning to Mont-
gomery Whiteleg—the Montgom-
ery dating from the week before,
when the Indian had submitted to
being baptised and christened, any
English name taken at random, on
which occasion Mr. Warwick ignored
the fact that although Whiteleg
knew a good deal of English, he
took no part in this ceremony, ex-
cept through an interpreter, and
thanked God that His ‘‘ poor servant
had been the means of bringing to
the fold another of those benighted
children, and that He in His provi-
dence, had thus miraculously inter-
ceded to change the heart of the
unregenerate, so that disgrace might
not fall upon one already in the fold.”

In fact Arabella Horsetail had
found the way of her marriage
with Whiteleg remarkably smooth.
When she had walked into the
missionary’s room at the school after

that memorable night and announced
her intention of marrying Whiteleg
Mr. Warwick had ejaculated ‘‘ Thank
God, who is merciful to the sinner!”’
And after sending a message to recall
the search party that had set out
the night before to look for Arabella
he had talked very solemnly to her
about the sacredness of marriage
and the terrible punishment of those
who live in sin, and advised her to
convert Whiteleg so that an early
union could be effected.

His reproaches for running away,
she took in silence, and life for the
next few days went on as before.
Neither conspirator had thought of
the necessity of the Christianising of
Whiteleg before the missionary
would perform the ceremony, and it
was not until bribed with Arabella’s
painted buffalo robe, an heirloom left
by her mother, that It-tas-da-chirsch
consented to become Montgomery
Whiteleg and nominally a Christian.

It was while hurrying back to the
schoolhouse after this interview that
Manita overheard a conversation
which unravelled the puzzle of her
present position.

She was passing behind the hedge
that encircled the missionary’s gar-
den, and Mrs. Warwick’s voice,
musically accompanied by running
water in the irrigation ditches that
redeemed the garden from the sur-
rounding waste, was saying to a
group of Agency people there as-
sembled for a lazy hour before
dinner:

“Yes, the Indians are a queer peo-
ple, and they do not civilise easily.
The Government has to admit an-
other failure in the recent disband-
ment of the last Indian Regiment.”’

Capt. Wilkins, newly installed in
command of the Crow Agency, for-
merly at the Cheyenne remarked—

“Oh, they are a good-for-nothing
lot, and hopelessly immoral.”’

“Well, I cannot agree with you in
that,” Mrs. Warwick replied, ‘“‘or
at least when the divine influence of
religion is at work. Take the case of
Arabella Horsetail. The naughty
child ina moment of rebellion against
some petty correction, I suppose,
ran away from school. She doubtless
was seen and followed (or it mav
have been planned) by the dark-

browed Indian, Whiteleg. They
were out all night, but early next
morning he brought her back, both
of them looking as unconscious as
could be. Of course it was dreadful,
she was so young, although quite
old enough, according totheir notions,
to marry. My husband could get
nothing out of her concerning her
night’s escapade but wild stories of
faints and dead trees, to which of
course, he paid no attention. But
he felt his duty in the matter and as
delicately as possible made her see
her immoral position, and his victory
—thanks to the All-wise Power, was
easier than he had expected, as
Arabella herself proposed marrying
Whiteleg, and has been instru-
mental in bringing him into the fold
of the Redeemed. As you know, the
wedding has been hurried as much as
possible for her sake, and takes place
next Sunday. It will be the first
Indian wedding sanctified by the
church and Mr. Warwick feels that
he has not laboured in vain. So
you see, my dear friends, they are
not quite unredeemable.”

And a silvery laugh floated over

the hedge and lost itself in the water,
as Manita stole away busy with the
problem that has worn out so many,
why it is easier to believe evil than
good.

The wedding was set for three.
Already the morning service was
over and Arabella was being dressed
in a* white frock of lawn, well
starched, and a net veil that had
already done duty as a window
curtain in Mrs. Warwick’s parlour.
Manita in soft buckskins and bead-
ed moccasins, with hair unbound,
might have rivalled Pocahontas or
Minnehaha; but Arabella Horsetail
in a tight white dress, with skirt and
sleeves at that fatal neither-long-
nor-short length, in clumsy shoes,
her stiff black hair screwed into a
knot behind, and the blood swept
away from her face by excitement,
leaving it a dull gray brown, was
depressingly ugly.

The sun glared in the cloudless
sky. Arabella’s schoolmates were
already fidgeting in their seats in
the chapel, where the ceremony was
to be performed, and the various

white folk of the Agency, including
ourselves arrived, when word was
brought to the waiting bride-elect
that there was a hitch in the pro-
ceedings. Montgomery Whiteleg re-
mised to have his hair cut. “A
simple thing, but a knife upon which
nations have split. To the Indian
the loss of his hair was an indignity,
to the missionary, the refusal to
lose it a sacrilege. The affair was at
a deadlock.

When the situation was explained
to her, Arabella arose, rushed out of
the school, and, her white veil float-
ing behind, ran along the road,
around the corner and into the
trading store, where Whiteleg, the
centre of a group of men, was sitting
savage and sullen. He looked at her
out of the corner of his eyes, and
then seizing her hand he pulled her
into the street, out of hearing of
the men. ‘‘The White Devil goes
too far,’’ he muttered.

‘“‘Tt-tas-da-chirsch promised Man-
ita,’ the girl said simply. Then she
added, ‘‘My three ponies and my
buffalo robe are yours. At the
Dog-dance next Sunday it will be

your turn to throw the lasso around
Mr. Warwick. ”

Whiteleg turned sullenly to the
store and sat down again in the chair.
Arabella motioned to Tom Don’t-
walk-on-Top, the interpreter, who
was also barber, and then sped
back to the school.

Ten minutes later Mr. Warwick
joined these two according to the
Episcopal service of the Christian
religion, Arabella Horsetail respond-
ing in English, and Montgomery
Whiteleg only through the inter-
preter. Then came the congratula-
tions. All Arabella’s schoolmates
kissed her good-bye, and looked at
her with big wondering eyes that
she could yet seem the same while
she must be so different, being now
-married, and they gladly allowed the
problem to be drowned in lemonade
and cake.

As soon as the ceremony was over,
Whiteleg strode from the building
and waited in front under a tree
for Manita, who soon appeared in
a blue and white calico dress, fol-
lowed by old Wah-pu-ta,_ eack
carrying a big bundle, these

comprising all of Arabella’s worldly
effects.

When Whiteleg saw them he
wrapped his blanket around him,
thus covering his ‘store clothes,’
and empty-handed, as befits a brave,
started at a slow pace along the road
to his wigwam, some two miles from
the settlement. Manita lifted the
bundle to her head and followed
him, keeping well behind. Wah-
pu-ta did the same, and in this
fashion the three trailed along the
hot, dusty road, and disappeared
from view.

Manita had been installed in her
new home three days when one of
the events occurred which are so
important to the modern Indian,
the monthly issue of beef.

By sunrise Whiteleg mounted one
of his newly acquired ponies and
set off for the Agency. He was
to be sentinel that day, and after
riding through the still sleeping
settlement, he climbed a high hill
to the south, from which direction
the cattle were expected. There he
remained for hours seated on his

horse, a mere speck breaking the
severe line of the hill against the
horizon, but able to see and be seen
for miles on either side.

Manita and Wah-pu-ta also were
early astir, for they had the work
of the modest establishment to do.
Wah-pu-ta was old and feeble, and
many household duties, such as
carrying water, chopping sticks and
loading the tethered horses, tasks
quite beneath the dignity of a brave,
had been reluctantly assumed by
Whiteleg. Manita, since her com-
ing, from a desire to be useful and
not to be a burden on her rescuers,
had performed these duties and
many more, and Whiteleg had
found it very pleasant to sit in the
sun, smoke cigarettes and watch her.
During his long hours of vigil, the
thought continually recurred to him
that his teepee, of which up till now
he had been barely conscious, had
become a much more attractive
place than it was last week, or
last month with only Wah-pu-ta
in charge. His mind slowly and
laboriously worked out one or two
clear impressions concerning just

what part he should play at the
coming Dog Dance, and that part
would not be, he well knew, in ac-
cordance with the will of Arabella
Horsetail. He had decided that Ara-
bella was good enough to keep, and
that instead of divorcing her, and
thus bringing to a successful termina-
tion this farce, he would at Dog
Dance marry Manita, the daughter
of Seatiss, the Wolf.

Meantime Manita, unconscious of
the cloud threatening her darling
wish to be free as the birds and
responsible to none, blithely did the
chores of the wigwam and the cook-
ing bower, and enjoyed the morning
freshness, which so soon the sun
would scorch away. ‘They were en-
camped by the Little Bighorn, a
muddy stream, which in some way
managed to coax a few trees and
bushes along its banks. It seemed
almost attractive by contrast with
the monotony of alkali sun-baked
land that spread away for hopeless
miles and miles, and comprised the
Eden that the Government has re-
served for the Absarokas, or Crows.
When Manita had harnessed two

shaggy horses to the fourth-hand
Studebaker, she threw some sacks
and boxes into the wagon and helped
Wah-pu-ta to scramble to the seat
beside her. The old woman tied
a red and green handkerchief around
her withered face and opened a
huge white cotton umbrella, through
which the sun glared with tireless
energy. Manita started the horses
on a jog trot, guided them into the
road, not far distant, and joined the
straggling procession of similar con-
veyances, and of foot travellers,
who all were bound for the same
place, the Clerk’s office.

The Government’s office at the
Agency on beef-issue days was a
puzzle of Whitemen, Indian and
food, which invariably worked out
the same _ result — misunderstand-
ings—in spite of the reasonings to
the contrary of the wise men at
Washington. The record of each
nominal head of the family is kept,
and a certain amount of coffee,
flour, bacon, beans and the like, is
doled out to him by the allwise
Government, which sits in its spa-
cious well-managed homes in the Far

East and regulates these things.
The beef also is bought by the
Government, driven alive and
killed on the spot, an admirable
plan, if contractors were always
honest.

Manita had followed all the little
excitements of the day with keen
interest, it being her first beef issue
from the Indian point of view. As
the sun was getting low, she was
once more seated in the wagon with
Whiteleg beside her driving, and
Wah-pu-ta packed in the back with
bundles and boxes of provisions. Man-
ita had clasped in her hand a bundle
containing a pair of moccasins and
a belt of finest buckskin, beauti-
fully beaded, for which she had
exchanged her wedding shoes.

Nothing was said as they jogged
along. The twilight came quickly,
the crescent moon and numberless
stars dappled the deep blue sky.
A gentle evening breeze cooled the
earth, but it failed to cool the
fevered thoughts of It-tas-da-chirsch,
in whom the meditations of the
morning and the frequent draughts
of firewater in the afternoon had

combined to produce a state of
maddest adoration for Manita.

Emotions such as these do not
remain long concealed, Wah-pu-ta
was asleep in the wagon-box. White-
leg put his arm around Manita
and kissed her. Then the horses
requiring attention he was obliged
to release her. Manita did not under-
stand, but she entirely disliked the
new development. Soon White-
leg renewed his addresses, which
Manita repulsed.

“Tt-tas-da-chirsch has been tak-
ing fire-water,’’ she said in Ab-
saroka.

“Tt-tas-da-chirsch loves Manita,
the fawn-like. She is good cook and
strong. She make good squaw,”
thus Whiteleg, who was a man of
few words.

“At Dog Dance I will really
marry Manita.” He again at-
tempted to kiss her.

The world seemed suddenly to
have broken in two and left Manita
suspended in mid-air. She climbed
over the seat into the back of the
wagon, jostled Wah-pu-ta into wake-
fulness, and being thus protected,

tried to calm her thoughts and
face the new situation.

She had no intention of marrying
Whiteleg, but she had no _alter-
native if he wanted to marry her,
for in the minds of every one but
Wah-pu-ta, Whiteleg and herself,
she was already his wife.

She had made a mistake in taking
for granted that Whiteleg would
feel at all times as she did. She had
made him too comfortable, had fitted
in too easily. In her gratitude for
what he had done and was to do for
her, she had tried to please him, and
she had succeeded too well. For-
tunately shestill had three days before
the Dog Dance to change his mind.

Her first opportunity soon came.
Whiteleg, who was getting very
drowsy, dropped his whip in the
road. Manita refused to pick it up
saying she was too tired, but agreed
to hold the reins while he got out.
Grumblingly he did so, and stumbled
back after the whip. He heard the
rumble of wheels when he stooped
to grasp it, and straightened himself
in time to see his wagon fading out
of sight down the road. He started

after it, but if there is one form of
work a settlement Indian hates more
than another, it is walking; besides
he was uncommonly drowsy. So he
sat down on the bank beside the
road to wait for Manita’s return, and
soon toppled over into an uncom-
fortable position and fell asleep.

When he awoke, water was run-
ning im the irrigation ditch beside
him, and the sun was unpleasantly
hot. He was within sight of his wig-
wam that had seemed so far the night
before, and he was in no amiable
mood as he shambled to the cooking
bower and sullenly attempted to
eat what Manita set before him.
The bacon was burned to a crisp
and the coffee had a queer taste,
but Whiteleg said nothing as he
feared the fault was his own palate;
the Whitemen’s whiskey, as he knew,
was not a good morning appetiser.
Neither did he question Manita con-
cerning last night’s disappearance,
He had a feeling that the less said
about last night the better. But
Manita was ready with an explana-
tion; had, in fact, sat up half the
night awaiting his return.

“Whiteleg, the horses nearly ran
away last night. You know I am
not gifted with managing horses. I
studied figures and words at school
instead of horses.”’

Whiteleg looked up in surprise.
He had particularly noticed the
power Manita had over the horses,
which is one of the prides of the
Indian. He found himself under the
necessity of changing his original
conclusion, to his mind, an unpleas-
ant thing in itself. Then he noticed
that Manita was sitting idly on a box
in the shade, when she might have
been unpacking the wagon, and
shortly afterward she wandered off
down the river, so that he was obliged
to help Wah-pu-ta with the heavier
things, which were too much for her
strength.

Manita came back in time to cook
the evening meal, and in response
to Wah-pu-ta’s questions, said she
had gone off for a walk feeling
rather lazy, and had stopped with
Ba-kee-da for awhile, and that
Ba-kee-da had taught her a fas-
cinating game of cards, called ca-
sino. No, she was not hungry,

a

SY, gina Ue
OO Ne"
La bt é n

Ba-kee-da had prepared a nice
meal for her.

Whiteleg grunted. Wah-pu-ta had
a good deal to say but she said it
mostly to herself in an undertone.
Manita was amiable and apparently
unconscious of any change in the
home atmosphere.

The dinner was a failure. Manita
was attended by bad luck. The beans
were not cooked enough and she had
forgotten to season them; the mo-
lasses, which was to redeem them,
had been allowed to stand so long
exposed that it had become the
last home of so many flies and bugs
that even Whiteleg passed it by.
The meat, by some awkwardness
Manita upset into the fire, and when
it was rescued, tasted chiefly of ashes
and smoke. Manita obligingly cooked
another piece which, she being in a
hurry, was not even warmed through.
The bread and the corn were burned,
Manita’s attention having been dis-
tracted by her other mishaps.

The next morning Manita put salt
instead of sugar in the coffee, time-
worn but effective device, and did
several other absent-minded things

which at last brought forth an ir-
ritated rebuke from Whiteleg, to
which she replied good naturedly—

“T am sorry I am not a good
cook, and I certainly did have better
luck when I first started, but what
do you expect from a girl brought
up at a Government school? They
don’t teach them to be good squaws.
They teach them things lke this,”’
and she repeated “Curfew Shall Not
Ring To-night,’”’? which Whiteleg did
not understand, and which bored him
exceedingly.

After that Arabella Horsetail often
recited verses she had learned at
school, and went about in a mooney
sort of way, failing utterly to see the
many little things she might have
done to assist the wigwam economies.

By Saturday night Wah-pu-ta had
naturally slipped into her old position
as cook, and Whiteleg, as of yore,
had to fetch and carry, for Manita
was never available at the right
time, or if she were did the task very
badly; not from ill-will, she always
assented cheerfully, but her mind
was so occupied with gazing at
the stars, reciting verses, and book-

learning generally, that the fatigue
of watching her bungling, was greater
than doing the thing itself.

I had been a witness of the mock
wedding the week before, and now on
the following Sunday at the Feast of
the Dog Dance, I was to see the second
and final scene.

I remember how blazing hot it was,
and how dusty, as we drove in a
springless lumber wagon three miles
out from the Agency where the
Indians were encamped. Every
stone, every leaf was shrouded in a
thick dust garment—even the river
bed of the Little Bighorn had shrunk
to a mere thread; the heat rose from
the alkali dust in shimmering waves
fairly cooking us brown, as in an
oven. Drawing near the gala ground
we saw many teepees dotted along
the banks with only a few clumps
of willows and one or two scraggly
cottonwoods to break the awful
glare. Many of the teepees were
painted, which made them most
picturesque. A large one coloured
dull red, stood out for miles. It was
further decorated with a band of

animals in various colours, blue,
green, white, black, and the door
was closed with a beautiful grizzly
bear skin of which Nimrod secured
a photograph together with a copper-
coloured baby standing in front.
The little fellow could not have been
more than four years old; he wore
nothing but a little breech-cloth, a
pair of moccasins, a necklace of elk’s
teeth and a feather in his hair, ar-
rayed for the dance. When he saw
that Nimrod was going to photo-
graph him, he ran to fetch a big
stick, slipped a rag of a garment over
his head and placed himself in front
of the teepee, the big bear skin hang-
ing behind him, his right hand grasp-
ing the stick, up high—little body as
straight as an arrow, deliberately
posing—most unusual, as the belief
is current among Indians that some
virtue goes out of them into the
pictured resemblance.

When released he scrambled on to
a pony and joined a dozen or more
Indian children who were dashing
around on ponies trying to lasso
each other. Many of the ponies car-
ried double, one ‘buckskin’ had

three little girls all riding bare-back,
not a scrap of harness on him but a
string bridle; they stuck like burrs—
without sign of fear—and made the
horse gallop and turn and twist in
their play. They wore cheap calico
dresses with coloured rags braided in
their hair, but were dressed for the
occasion in moccasins and leggings
beautifully beaded, and some wore
strings of beads and wampum. A
band of young braves in white man’s
garb mounted on cow-ponies were
having a race, and rope-throwing con-
test on the prairie. We had seen that
sort of thing before, so we left our
horses tied to the wagon in a group
with a dozen others that had come
from long distances to witness the
Feast.

The Indians had gathered from all
over the Reservation, these feasts serv-
ing as a kind of convention at which to
transact the business of the nation;
disputes are settled, business adjusted,
marriagessolemnised,treaties enacted.

A circle perhaps a hundred feet
across had been formed by teepees
and rough shelter tents and in the
centre of this was a tall pole with

the American flag at the top and
some feathers tied below it. Around
and around the pole danced the
warriors in full war paint. Some
of them were of splendid physique
and their costume was not designed
to conceal their anatomy. It was prin-
cipally necklaces, armlets, anklets,
beads and feathers. A breech-cloth
was the only thing worthy to be called
a garment, although some wore a
beaded flannel jacket, red or blue,
and. sleeveless. The head-dress re-
ceived chief consideration—beads, bits
of fur, ribbon and eagle feathers, in a
band going around the head and along
a tail hanging to the ground. There
must have been two hundred Indians
standing and sitting around the
dance circle. At the south end was
the teepee of the Master of Cere-
monies. He came out every now and
then and announced in a high sing-
song voice what was going to happen,
in Crow, of course. Next to his teepee
were the musicians. <A _ strip of
canvas had been stretched above
them, and they needed it. Two or
three men beat tom-toms, while a
half a dozen women relieved each

other in chanting a weird, high wail,
in which one could distinguish a
certain rhythm.

Nimrod was concerned for fear
I would have a sun-stroke, my face
was like raw beef, but the squaws
made room for us under one of their
sheltering canvases, and we sat there
for two hours watching the per-
formance. The concomitants were
indescribable—the heat, the glare,
the sweaty Indians, the crying
babies, the flies, attracted by bits
of food thrown about.

I had been watching for a long
time a charming Indian girl arrayed
in all the glory of an elk-tooth jacket,
wampum necklaces and beaded leg-
gings, her thick black plaits of hair
woven with bright ribbons. As she
was evidently nervous, and a visibly
nervous Indian is a rarity, I asked
the interpreter about her. He looked
at me in surprise and said, “That is
Manita—and that’s It-tas-da-chirsch,’’
indicating a sullen looking, burly fel-
low who was watching Manita nar-
rowly.

In their Indian finery I had recog-
nised neither as the bogus white

folk who had stood at the altar the
week before.

With the assistance of Tom, a
very good fellow, we followed the
course of the ceremony. The music
was never allowed to stop and the
braves—I forgot to say that they
were gaily painted with stripes and
spots of yellow, red, black and white
principally, over the face and body
—would dance when the spirit moved
them and until they were tired.
There were always some of them
dancing in a kind of continuous
performance. One time Mak-ke-nah,
the Master of Ceremonies, came out
and made a long speech. He was
a scraggly looking old man, and he
became much excited, waved his
arms about wildly, stamped up and
down, fairly howled sometimes—
looked as though he was making a
stump speech, and so he was. Tom
gave us a gist of it. He began:

“ Hear, hear—listen to Mak-ke-nah
the Silver-tongued! All ye of the
mighty Nation of Absaroka, Greet-
ing.’’ Then he went on to say that his
people had been great but were now
under the heel of the Whiteman.

He painted their past glory with lav-
ish brush, indulging in much wordy
fireworks, and then he blackened
their faces and called them miser-
ables in a dozen ways and told
them that they would be less than
nothing if they did not rise up and
smite the Paleface—Nimrod called
him ‘‘a regular old fire-eater.”” I
could see the black eyes of the In-
dians begin to snap. Every now
and then there would be cries of
“How how!” Then when he
stopped, exhausted, a fine old man
with much dignity came out—and
we recognised Plenty Coups, one of
their most honoured chiefs. He said
he sympathised heartily with every-
thing that their eloquent brother
had said, but that he was foolish
in a variety of ways for stirring up
the people, as it was hopeless to
fight the Whiteman; that the world
had swept beyond the Indian, it must
be the will of the Great Spirit that
they should no longer conquer,
and they must be patient while the
cloud was upon them.

Then the Silver-tongued came out
again and said with many flourishes

that he supposed the Chief was
right, and that now they would
have a good time feasting. He
called down the Spirit of the Dog
upon them. A large iron pot was
brought into the centre of the ring.
With upraised arms he gave a kind
of incantation over it. Then the
cover was lifted off, and I saw
it in the pot! Boiled Dog! Some
of the hair was still sticking to the
skin. Every man, woman and child
had a piece, eked out with soda
crackers and dry bread. Then all
the braves joined in the great dance.
They ki-yi-ed and they hoop-la-ed
and perhaps after that dog business
I would have been ready to go, but
for that beautiful, nervous Indian
girl and her sullen companion.
During the Feast of the Dog and
subsequent dance, Manita had been
earnestly talking to It-tas-da-chirsch.
She seemed to be arguing with him.
He appeared obdurate. At last, with
a gesture of despair, she stopped.
Her arms hung dejectedly by her
sides. Suddenly her face brightened.
Quickly she went to the Chief
Plenty Coups’s teepee and disap-

peared. Whiteleg looked after her
in perplexity. Faster went the
dancers, louder and louder grew
their cries, and minute after minute
sped by. Then down from the tent
came Mak-ke-nah, leading by the
hand the wild-eyed girl.

Raising his arm in a commanding
gesture a sudden silence fell upon
the throng.

In a low voice at first, and
gradually gaining crescendo, he
told Manita’s story, as she had
poured it out to the listening
Chiefs, of her unhappy childhood,
of the mission school, of her moth-
er’s death, broken-hearted for her
five year old baby torn from
her, of the vandalism at the dead
trees, of It-tas-da-chirsch’s bargain,
of her payments to him of the
ponies and buffalo robe and now of
his refusal to divorce her. With
graphic words he laid the story
before them and finished:

“And now wise people of the
great nation of the Absaroka, what
shall be done to this maiden? Shall
ye make her squaw to It-tas-da-
chirsch, who already has her ponies,

or shall ye grant the freedom for
which she beseeches ye?”

He stopped; a murmur arose.
Then stood up an old man, Bear
Claws, the father of Pine Leaf, the
one who had killed herself because
she had been educated away from
her people.

“Let her go free,’’ he said briefly.

A young buck on horseback in the
outer edge of the ring echoed the
phrase. Many voices took up the
cry. Whiteleg was urged to the
front, but the affair had gotten
beyond him. He made no resist-
ance. A chorus of ‘“‘ How—hows,”’
and the thing was done. Manita,
with eyes shining, with the painted
symbol of virginity still on each
cheek, bowed to the four winds and
sped away to be once more a member
of Seatiss’s teepee circle—sped free as
a bird toward the distant hills and
the sunset.

With her went the charm of this
primitive scene, and we too turned
our faces toward our birthright—
the rising sun, and civilisation.

PART ILM.

ON THE OTTAWA

——
a
= ——————
rT

TE-VIS-CA-BING

=——lHE Ottawa region was
Nel; the very own stamping
ground of the Tevi.
Bobbie Tevis had
created a hunting box
in the wilds on one of
the innumerable lakes that puncture
that country like asieve. Te-vis-ca-
bing he called the roomy log camp,
which appellation when strongly ac-
cented on the second syllable, sug-
gested appropriate Indian. If he
had perpetrated “ Idlewild” or some-
thing or other “villa”—but of
course, Bobbie would not.

The Tevi, Nimrod and I tumbled
off the train late at night much
excited—after two years to be again
in the woods. Much violent up-
rooting from home duties had been
required to accomplish it, but
the precious freedom was ours, and
heaven (a place where one does what
pleases one best) became available
on the twentieth of September.

The little town of Trois Lacs
(butchered into “Trollak” even by
the Canuck natives) was already dark
save for the saloon, and we gladly
burned the midnight candle while
exchanging fripperies for frugalities
of costume and luggage in prepara-
tion for the early morning start.

Once while following the econ-
omical and primitive method in vogue
at this “hotel” —guiltless of plumb-
ing—I went to the window to throw
out some water, when my hand was
stayed, barely in time, by a mascu-
line voice pouring out a torrent of
bad French, or rather a patozs. Two
figures were standing directly below
in shadow:

“You will not come. I shall dance
with Francois—”’

A mocking feminine voice floated
up to me, and, as I discreetly lowered
the sash, the man was vowing by
all the saints in the calendar that
he would be at the dance, that he
knew a way, trust him, and that
the plus belle flower in Trois Lacs
should dance with no one but him-
self, or his hunting knife would kiss
the flesh of Francois.

I only understood a word here and
there but enough to occasion a
remark to Nimrod concerning the
picturesqueness of the Latin love-
making. The Saxon type of man
who earns his living out-of-doors,
would probably have said simply,

“fT am coming—and I mean bus-
iness,”’ but the results would have
been the same, or even more ‘un-
healthy’ for Francois.

There was no delay in the start.
By six o’clock our guides were wait-
ing and in another hour we and our
belongings had been ferried over the
Ottawa in a huge batteau that looked
none too strong to navigate the
rapids and the log-choked surface of
this mighty river.

While the wagons that were to

take us the forest part of the journey
were being packed, Sally and I stood
on the shore and looking across the
turbulent water-way to some lumber-
men’s shanties, bade farewell to the
Ottawa, and to cut-glass, damask
and long skirts. Then we inspected
the men upon whom so much depend-
ed for comfort or misery during the
next month. The Tevi’s two guides,
George and Arthur, were Ottawa
river-men and experienced in the
country. Bert, our special guide, as
well as the all-important cook, had
been imported from the Adirondacks.
The Cook was a Civil War veteran
burdened, as we soon learned, with
disabilities and wonderful stories.
Nate Créche, as “camp boy,’’ com-
pleted the party. Nate was essen-
tially a “Trollak” product. It was
his birthplace, thirty years ago, and
represented to him the big world, to
which he came occasionally when he
had accumulated enough to have a
“good time.’ Reared in lumber
camps, with limited intelligence and
no education, but much native cun-
ning, he spoke three languages abom-
inably, English, French and Indian.

Nate once described himself as a
“ pot-pourrt of French, Indian, Nigger
and Irish.’’ He knew how to do a
great many things badly, but he had
one ability which, by dint of much
practice, he had developed into an
art—he could tell a lie, or a chain of
lies, and make it a well-nigh perfect
piece of work.

He never employed the truth if he
could arrange to do without it, and it
was this consistency that made him
possible to get on with, as the mis-
chief of a lie comes when it is
believed.

Physically he was as tough and
stunted as a scrub oak, swarthy as
an Indian; his head, surmounted by
a great mop of coarse black hair,
was small and set on a massive
muscular throat column, such as the
Stone Age man must have had, and
which was further developed by
long use of the tump line. He
was a creature who seemed to have
inherited many of the vicious strains
of his various forebears without their
off-setting good qualities, save a cer-
tain Irish good nature.

But I digress and am doubtless

too severe, influenced by the recol-
lection of certain occasions, two in
particular, when we were victims
of this irresponsible creature—really
no more to be blamed than a lumber-
ing mastiff puppy who knocks over
one’s pet Sévres vase by a wag of
his tail.

The supply wagon had _ been
packed and our host wanted Nate
to start ahead with it. Nate was not
to be found until a loud halloo
brought him up the bank from the
river with a remark about “getting
a drink of water.”

George favoured Arthur with a
wink. ‘‘Nate’s been sayin’ good-bye
to his girl. She’s a good ’un. He
is afraid he will lose her.”’

Far across the water at Trois Lacs,
I saw a tiny figure in white standing
on the shore, and was reminded of
the other two lovers the night before.
Truly Cupid seemed busy here.

Such a road we now had to travel!
We could not claim to be unacquain-
ted with such, as this was not our
first trip into the wilds, but there
is something so aggressively uncom-
fortable in a rocky, boggy, hilly,

rutty corduroy road, that one can
never form the habit. Like Cod
Liver Oil, each acquaintance with
it means a fresh victory.

Fifteen miles in five hours would
hardly win the Vanderbilt Cup, but
when Crosby’s Lake, our lunching
place, shimmered through the trees
we were as thankful as though its
silver were the hard earned bauble
itself, and we the owners.

At luncheon Bobbie, perched pre-
cariously on a boulder, held forth on
the merits of canoes over horses as
a means of locomotion. It sounded
attractive—and proved to be all
quite true—long hours of gently
gliding through placid waters, fish
darting beneath, ready to furnish hy-
gienic meals, beautiful arboreal shores
in view, now far, now near, flower-
strewn portage trails, with an occa-
sional game animal staring at us
through the trees. Likewise the
greater_carrying power of a canoe
over a horse and consequent addi-
tional comforts—about which there
is more to be said later.

But Bobbie gave only one side of
the picture. He neglected to state

that sometimes the fish refuse to be
caught and that it rains, yes, and
rains and rains again, and the winds
lash angry waves, upon which,there
is no peaceful gliding but much need
of strenuous endeavour and a knowl-
edge of swimming. He failed to
note the necessity of staying in a
cramped position until one has sam-
pled a large collection of aches and,
lastly, that the flower-strewn portage
is more often the trail of fatigue on
which burdened humans, doing the
work of pack-horses, sweat and strain.
No, my preference is still for the four-
footed friend who does most of the
work, neither automobiles, airships,
nor canoes can win away my
allegiance.

Still I acknowledge the wonderful
charm of the water country and the
almost human companionship of the
canoe. And the soft ease of smoothly
gliding on a placid lake was borne in
upon my soul the.following morning
when we were astir before the sun
had cleared away the water veil that
had draped the landscape in silvery
softness. We had spent the night
at a deserted lumber camp, now in

WITH A GUIDE TO PADDLE

‘EACH IN A CANOE

charge of a man and a cow, and used
as a half-way house by the few
travellers who go into those wilds.
Créche and the Cook had already
started with the loaded wagon over
a well-nigh impassable wood road.
We were to take the water route
and all expected to reach Te-vis-
ca-bing that night.

Each in a canoe with a guide to
paddle it, we slipped through water
so calm that later when the inevi-
table photograph was developed, so
sharp was the reflection that one had
to examine closely to know real from
shadow. This was indeed all that
our host had pictured. The wooded
shores brilliant from the first frosts
rose like the rim of a huge cup waiting
for Manabozou to quaff an autumn
vintage. Three miles of easeful silent
motion and we landed at the first por-
tage. Each guide without waste of
time or speech swung his canoe over
his head and started on the trail, in
this case a mile up a hill and down
again to the next lake.

We started more leisurely as the
guides were to make two trips to
our one, we having brought some

“duffel’’that Bobbie had deemed not
wise to leave on the bumping, jolting
wagon—eggs for instance, and other
breakables. Nimrod weighed his
pack, twenty-three pounds, and
laughed it to scorn, but I noticed he
was willing to rest when Sally and I,
out of breath, dropped on a moss-
covered bank at the top of the hill,
Bobbie carried his guns and seemed
to find them sufficient. I had started
with a gun, seven pounds; a camera,
three pounds; alittle bag, two pounds;
and a fishing rod, half-a-pound.
One by one these articles were trans-
ferred to Nimrod, but I wish to
relate that I came triumphantly
through with the fishing-rod.

Once more in the canoe on the
second Lake, in answer to my obvious
remark that every pound seemed to
double its weight every five minutes,
Bert, my paddler, said:

“Yes’m. Some greenhorns tries
to work us like pack-horses. But
let em try a ‘carry’ themselves. I’ve
seen ‘em. They begin by throwin’
away and throwin’ away until they
get down to a pocket handkerchief.
Then they tear that in two—and

keep the half with the hole in it—
sssh!”

He had spoken in a low tone for we
might see game at any time, and
his abrupt ending warned me that
something interesting was about to
happen. Nimrod in the bow of his
canoe nearby was already craning
his neck at some object across the
lake, perhaps half a mile.

Bobbie was calling in an excited
whisper to Sally to look at the moose,
and then I saw the creature, a spike-
horn bull, wading in the shallow
water eating lily buds. Quite at
home he pursued his breakfast undis-
turbed by us (we were silent and not
near) as though he knew the law
protected him until the first of Octo-
ber. Of course, he had nothing to
fear from us at any time, we were
not hunting spike-horns, but health
and happiness.

For several minutes the canoes
stole toward him, as he was on the
very spot where we were to land.
Then, realising the continued ap-
proach of the strangers, he bestirred
himself a bit, turned out of the
water, shook the moisture from his

glistening coat and trotted along
the portage trail till out of sight;
then, as Nimrod announced later,
when studying the tracks, he swung
off into a thicket.

Third Lake proved uneventful;
then a two-mile carry. Fourth Lake
was punctuated by a bivouac lunch
at the beginning of the next carry.
The sun was hot now and had roused
to a busy hum all the tiny voices of
the forest, but although we knew
animals big and little were in the
neighbourhood, probably observing
us at the moment, we saw nothing
but tracks.

Fifth Lake took most of the after-
noon, a monotonous dipping of pad-
dles. The last carry was through a
treacherous bog and then into the
Home Lake and Te-vis-ca-bing two
miles away. The evening shadows
were gathering, nature had thrown
a bewitching peace on the stretches
of water, woods and sky, an occa-
sional jumping fish caused a sweet
glad note as it plashed back to its
home, and then rang out the weird
call of the loon. LLLLLa-lliilloooo,
LLLLLLLa-iililloo, lilla-loo, loo—

the echoes took it up and sent it
back as a welcome to us from
their world, the world we all loved.
Thus we came to Te-vis-ca-bing,
offering shelter and camp-fire hos-
pitality, its outlines showing in the
half-light of a rising moon. Even
as we looked, two red eyes shot
forth—a light had been made from
within.

Good—we thought, Créche and
the Cook have arrived, and all goes
well for a start on the trail
to-morrow. We were all keenly impa-
tient of any roof but a canvas one,
and in the woods where one takes
only necessities, to be separated from
the supplies is like a caravan in the
desert without water, a steamer in
mid-ocean without coal.

Our satisfaction, alas, was short
lived. We soon found that Clifford,
an Indian game warden, whom our
thoughtful host had informed of our
coming, had started the glowing wel-
come of the hearth, and Créche with
our precious supplies was still an
unknown quantity. So was the
Cook, but a cook without cookables
does not count.

easpeelllbg Vib iss.,.. a— om

sae, >.
oe

=—=y|OOD was the important
eu@|| question.

The cabin was well-
furnished, but being
new, it held no hope of
left-overs from the year
before. Clifford produced a little
coffee from his pack, all he had, and
we hesitated to deplete the scanty
store of beans and bacon in his camp
on the next lake. So we waited
“with both ears hung out of the win-
dow” as Sally expressed it, and
pretended we were not hungry.

It was nearly ten o’clock. “ What

can have become of the-boys?” had
comprised our host’s remarks at
quarter hour intervals ever since
dark, and he was considering a search
party when Nimrod suggested the
old device of firing three shots in case
they might have missed the road.
Soon a feeble halloo called us all to
the door, and behold—the Cook, a
very lame and tired old man hob-
bling toward us, alone, with not so
much as a Uneeda biscuit in his
hand.

To our questions, tumbled one
after another, “Where is Créche?
Where is the wagon? What did you
do with the horses? Is there any-
thing wrong?” The Cook sat heavily
on a chair, took the proffered coffee
and remarked that he’d “‘be ihc
he knew or cared where Créche was,
that the horses were safe till morning,
picketed in a little clearing, he did
not rightly know how far as not
knowing the road he had “travelled
a bit,’’ which being interpreted means
he was lost. His story, sifted,
smoothed out, and pieced together,
was this:

About three o’clock, Créche while

tightening some ropes on the load
discovered that a big brown canvas
roll was missing. He told the Cook
to drive on, that the road was plain
and not more than three miles far-
ther, while he would run the back
trail. He said he thought the
bundle must have worked loose
while crossing that stretch of
corduroy in the swamp. “It’s
a wonder a feller kept teeth in
his head, let alone bundles on
a wagon,’ and with that he had
departed.

The Cook, on a strange rough road
with strange horses (canoemen sel-
dom know much about horses), soon
decided he had had enough, and
taking advantage of a little meadow
he had picketed the tired beasts and
left them to feed as best they could,
while he set out for the cabin. -Dark-
ness soon obliterated the occasional
blazing on a tree that marked the
road, and he had the prospect of
wandering about all night, within
half a mile of us, when the gunshots
enabled him to get his bearings.

At daybreak George and Arthur
went for the wagon and returned

with it in time for us to have
a substantial breakfast. Thus
cheered, we counted off the boxes
and bundles hoping that Créche
might have been “mistaken,’’ as we
politely put it. Alas, this time he
had spoken the truth. There was a
big brown canvas roll missing, and
it was—m1ne.

In an excess of thriftiness, I had
put into it all things necessary for
my use in the tent—bedding, cloth-
ing, toilet articles, everything that
represented my personal comfort and
independence. No one had a surplus
from which to supply me. There
was no question. The bundle must
be found.

I knew it had crossed the Ottawa
for I had seen it. ‘‘ Poor Créche, he
may have to travel the whole of the
forty-five miles to the River. That
bundle must weigh nearly a hundred
pounds. He never could carry it all .
the way back in one day,” I said,
adding ‘‘How would you like to do
it, George?” For that person’s face
wore a quizzical look I could not
understand. He was packing am-
munition in a bag for Bobbie

and waited until the top was se-
cured before answering.

George always was deliberate and
spoke in low tones, wasting no words
—as though game was near.

“No need to worry about Nate,
He won’t hurt himself. Likely won’t
see that bundle afore he gets to the
River.”

A snake-like suspicion darted
through my sympathy for the absent
Créche—the River, a girl in white
waving farewell, a torrent of bad
French under a window.

“Was there a dance at Trois Lacs
last night, George?”

“Not as I knows of.”’

“To-night, perhaps?”

George’s eyes betrayed slow sur-
prise, then twinkled.

“No’m. To-morrow night the
Frenchies have a blow out.”

To-morrow night! Keep us wait-
- ing for three days. He would never
dare. I dismissed the idea as pre-
posterous. Surely he was liable to
appear at any moment.

We spent the day watching, wait-
ing, fuming. My thoughts alter-
nated between sympathy for poor

bundle-burdened Créche, walking
ninety miles, more or less, and indig-
nation at his possible perfidy. Being
a guest, I said nothing. Our host
openly berated him as stupid, care-
less, lazy, but had no inkling of
ulterior causes that might have ex-
plained his continued absence.

That night we determined not to
lose another day while waiting for
Créche.

“He is as watched for, as a truant
lover,’’ said Sally almost jerking down
the shade that had been left up so
that the lamp-light might shine out
as a beacon.

Bobbie decided to move all the
paraphernalia possible to our first
camp on White Lake, known for its
big fish, and get it ready, and with
the guides he spent the day doing
this. There is much to be done to
prepare a “ permanent” camp, which
is to be lived in for several days. A
temporary camp is a one-night stand.
Trees must be chopped, tents put
up, a fire-place made for cooking,
very elaborate, after the Adirondack
manner, with stones and live logs;
and, not to be forgotten, a landing

place for the canoes. The more
experienced a canoeman is the better
care he takes of his fragile craft. The
originator of that old adage, ‘‘an
ounce of prevention” etc., must have
been a canoeist. 3
Nimrod and I arranged with Clif-
ford and another Indian who was
quartered at his camp, to make an
early start for Loon Lake to visit
an echo cave of repute among the
Mangasippi Indians. To my ques-
tion, ‘How far?” I got answer:
“Three lakes—two little portages
—a big one. Across Loon Lake two,
three mile; quite a piece, walk to
cave. Lady can do it; walk quick;
paddle quick; no pack; one canoe;
Clifford come to-morrow—sun up.”
To feel really intimate with a day
one must greet it at birth. So subtle
and elusive is the dawn’s language,
limited and elemental—like all youth
—only three king notes separate the
tranquil spaces of increasing light—
form, colour and iastly, sound.
Four figures in a canoe, gently
moving through the rushes of a tiny
stream that joined Home Lake with
Next Lake, did not seem to disturb

the harmony; left not so much
trace as a cow moose trotting along
a game trail and stopping at the
ribbon of water for a morning drink.
We crossed the tracks, clearly seen
on the sandy bottom, and so fresh
that the water had not obliterated
them. Just a gracious bowing of
the water grass, as we slipped over it,
a soft swish as it rose and the scene
was as before our passing. On the
banks, often within arm’s reach on
either side, hung ripe sarvis berries
and brilliant yew and holly still
glistening with frosty dew. All was
softness, brilliancy, mystery, peace;
I could have laid my cheek on the
bosom of that morning scene and
been lulled forever in a sweet con-
tent, so beautiful was it, so inde-
scribably satisfying. Only in a canoe
could it be possible to thus approach
and move in nature.

The sun rose to the eight o’clock
position and the mood changed.
Quiet yet but no longer hushed
or reverent, we debarked to
avoid some rapids that emptied
into Next Lake. Once more in the
canoe, the Indians at bow and stern,

paddling, Nimrod got out his sketch
book to perpetuate for future refer-
ence, a gorgeous yellow mushroom,
probably poisonous, and I employed
the time with a fishing-rod securing
four wall-eyed pike for the camp
table. One of them was spawned
and grew and grew to a goodly three
pounds to become part of history,
for it furnished a note in Nimrod’s
journal that it weighed three pounds
and its ‘stomach was full of craw-
fish.”

The following lake was rather rough
under a rising wind. We paddled
fast across it, too fast for fishing. It
was evident that Clifford was anxious
to reach Loon Lake when the wind
increased. But we had not half
crossed the long portage when dark
clouds began to gather, the day
had grown rough and masculine, full
of energy and menace and when we
came finally to Loon Lake the waves,
gathering force from a three-mile
sweep of open water, were rolling in-
shore vigorously. We had difficulty in
getting launched, a fierce gust of
wind threw us back on shore, and
Clifford had to spring into the shallow

ASR ea
i As
foe: Jae

water to save the canoe from some
rocks. He looked at the storm-
clouded sky, the rolling white-capped
waves, at Nimrod, and finally at me;
but we said nothing, not realising
as he did, the danger of such a sea in
a heavily laden canoe. Besides to
turn back or give up is the last thing
to commend itself to us.

Cat-like he jumped into the bow,
and the two paddlers battled against
the waves for the open. The wind
storm increased. The white-crested
waves rose higher and higher. We
were drenched with the spray and
began to ship water, no light matter
when the gunwale was barely three
inches from the water line. Then
the black raincloud burst, emptied
itself in a deluge, and we were fairly
caught in a perilous place.

The Indians exercised all their
skill, fortunately great, in keeping
the canoe in the wind. But the craft
was filling and nothing apparently
to bale with.

“Can you swim?” I shouted to
Clifford above the gale. He shook
his head without turning around,
his eves glued on the approaching

WE BALED AND BALED WITH OUR FOOLISH UTENSILS

a

billow that almost rose over him.
With a skilful turn of the paddle
he poked the nose of the little canoe
up through it.

“Can you swim?” I asked of the
stern paddler. Another shake of the
head. Incredible! these men living
thus precariously on the water, and
not able to swim! I blush to confess
that I was very inexpert. Only
Nimrod to save us all. The canoe
was rapidly filling. It must be baled
out soon or we_ should sink.
Nimrod and I cast about with our
eyes for something, anything with
which to bale. No other part but
our eyes moved, for we all were
balancing ourselves to a hair in that
cockleshell.

Nimrod spied a tomato tin,
brought to boil water for tea, and
I bethought me of the rubber drink-
ing cups in my pocket. Rapidly
with as little motion as possible we
baled and baled with our foolish
utensils. It was a fight of endurance.
The waves were gradually drifting
us to shore, if we could but keep the
frail craft from capsizing or sinking
for a little longer. The wind was

increasing. It seemed hopeless, when
the downpour stopped as suddenly as
it had begun; and before we could
manage to land, far from where
we wanted to go, the sun grinned out
at us, as though it were a huge joke,
and he wished to say: “I’ve come
out to dry you off. It doesnt
matter.”

So it is, out-of-doors, the elements
are somewhat rough and inconsider-
ate playfellows sometimes, but one
must accept them with all one’s puny
strength, or not play the game—live
in cities and forget the gods.

When finally a dry match was
found, a fire built—Nimrod has a
record on one-match fires with wet
wood—and as we stood around it
drying clothes and eating lunch, I
was received into the order of
canoeists, having successfully passed
through the initiation.

Clifford said something in Indian
to his friend. Nimrod, understand-
ing a little, looked at him enquir-
ingly. “I said, Squaw all right. No
afraid! bad water, very bad. She
no cry! Take her anywhere.’”’ And
I felt that honours perhaps when

only partially deserved are sweetest,
for I was afraid.

Determined not to be balked we
“did” the cave by a long tramp
through the woods. The wind and
waves had subsided under the influ-
ence of the evening calm, and the
return journey was made under as
great a charm as the morning.

But its fabric was different: not
promise but memories was the woof,
and the warp held threads of gold
instead of silver, of gold and copper
and black; and of purple, the em-
blem of experience.

The next morning we ate the wall-
eyed pike and waited for Créche.

But, since I was the one inconven-
ienced, I insisted that we ought not
to wait for him longer, that we move
to White Lake and let Créche follow.
Secretly I felt sure that he would
appear before the day was over, since
thenight previous was the “ Frenchies’
ball”; but the spirit of charity was
still warm within me and I refrained
from giving reasons for my expressed
belief.

“Since Mrs. Nimrod seems to have
a special wireless on Créche, and

knows he is coming to-day, let us
start,’ pleaded Sally, coming to my
aid, and it was so ordered.

As the camp was made and already
provisioned and we had only per-
sonal luggage, which meant running
the trail but twice, once for that and
once for the canoes, we could afford
to start late. It was about eleven
o'clock; Sally and Nimrod and I,
each in a canoe with some luggage
and a guide paddling, had already
pushed out from the landing when
we heard our host’s shout of joy
from the cabin and, like great ugly
two-headed birds we floated—again
waiting for Créche.

We could hear Bobbie’s by no
means courteous orders addressed
to the camp boy to “shut up and
hurry up.’”’ Then Créche appeared,
a black ant crawling down the steep
bank to the landing, with a huge
brown bundle on his back, my thrice
precious and welcome belongings.
He threw it into a canoe and pushed
off. The Cook got into his canoe
and pushed off; but still George
waited on shore with the last canoe
ready for our host, who came not.

In silence we waited. The woods had
taught Sally and me not to exercise
our feminine prerogative of speech
on all occasions in or out of season,
and it was characteristic of these
men that no one asked a question of
Créche as to his recent whereabouts.
It would all come out in time, and
there was plenty of time for that,
but not to get started.

George glanced twice up the bank
toward the cabin, which indicated
his state of mind, forhe never showed
emotion.

“Crosby’s with the boss,’ re-
marked our camp boy, laconically as
he too rested his paddle with the
motionless fleet.

Crosby was a teamster from Trois
Lacs. So this much we knew, our
canny Créche had not carried a hun-
dred pounds forty-five miles, but
had ridden in state. He had, how-
ever, a blotched and bleary look
which indicated loss of sleep and
bad rum.

Our host now appeared and con-
cealed whatever his feelings might
be with his usual genial expression.
Being a man of affairs, he did not

let a detail swamp the whole. Our
comfort was now assured, Créche
could be dealt with later, and it
really was a glorious day to start on
a pleasure trip. So his voice rang
out cheerily: “I tell you, Mrs. Nim-
rod, you will have need of that tackle
from your bundle to-morrow. We
will show you fishing that is fishing,
and you will have to hold up the
honour of the family and catch a
record breaker.”’

Bobbie’s generous heart was torn
with conflicting desires, his own
natural ambition to catch the “ big-
gest ever,” or for Sally to do so, or
for hisguest. Nimrod refused to fish
and I had only been led into angling
by the assurance that I should catch
a “whale.”

We halted at the end of the first
carry for luncheon, and then was
produced by our camp boy a neat
fabric of half-truths that would have
done credit to the most skilled news-
gathering reporter.

He had missed the bundle, yes—
he had felt it his duty at any cost to
find it. He had travelled until it
was dark. He was near that old

deserted shanty, so he went to sleep,
without supper, of course; was up
again at daybreak. He looked and
looked for it all the way to the River.
He was puzzled, for he was sure he
had noticed it on the wagon. It
was getting well on towards noon;
he had to have food, and besides he
might learn of the bundle being
picked up (clever Créche) so he
crossed the River to Trois Lacs.
He spent some time enquiring
(quite true), and knowing that
even if he found the bundle,
he could not get far on his
way that day, and being tired, he
decided to stay in “Trollaks” and
start at daybreak. This he did,
though a little late as he overslept
himself (twice clever Créche to tell
so much truth) and he had gone
about four miles when it suddenly
occurred to him that the road here
had a short cut, which was worse
travelling, but he might have taken
it, he did not rightly remember doing
so as the Cook was telling one of his
yarns about then. So he thought
he might take the short cut now and
see, and there, by “the head of the

blessed St. Stephen,” if he did not
discover that “divil of a roll” not
a hundred yards from the main road.
It had rained hard in the night and
the bundle was partially soaked in
spite of its waterproof canvas (alas
too true, poor me). He tried to
carry it, but it now weighed fully one
hundred and thirty pounds. He was
mighty strong but there were limits,
he would not carry that much forty-
five miles for any man “alive or
dead,’ not he, much as he would
like to please “the boss.’ So back
he went to Trois Lacs to get a team.
He found that Crosby was going to
haul some furniture to Te-vis-ca-bing
soon anyway, so he finally got Crosby
started that very day and he went
as far as the bundle, and saw it
reloaded. Then as he had done the
best he could, and could not hurry
matters any further, he thought he
might as well attend to a little bus-
iness in ‘Trollak.”” He promised
Crosby to meet him at the lumber
camp the following morning at sun-
rise, which he did, and here they
were, having come through in a
hurry.

* Why had he left Crosby the day
before?” Why he did not mind
telling, not a bit, not he. He
was not needed anyhow, so he
thought he would slip back and
take his girl to a dance. If he
wanted to do that and travel the
rest of the night, he guessed that
was his affair (thrice clever Créche,
the actual truth).

The story seemed plausible, in
any event what could Bobbie do
now? It was past, and we had the
satisfying present. How good it
was, that dinner under the trees! -

A camp-fire blazed a hundred feet
from the cook-fire, with a folding table
and camp chairs placed for dinner
between them. Oh the joy, the sweet
peace of the camper’s life! No prob-
lems come to vex him save the hour
for dinner. There is no world but
that of the bone and the muscle.
Kings may die, nations rise and
crumble, lives come in and go out;
it matters not. The rumble of the
straining world sounds not for him.
The iron horse comes not, nor does
that modern Ariel, the Marconigraph,
seek speech with him.

Tree and bird and beast, hot sun,
cold winds, rushing torrents, giant
rocks and mighty distances; these
are the gods he worships with pain
and fear, with strength and joy.

While dipping my hands in the
lake I reached over and kissed the
water, and the widening circles from
the touch took the message, ‘‘ There
is no spot in the whole earth where
I would rather be than here.”’

I never should have known the
whole truth about that bundle but
for the strategy of George. Drinking
in camp is, of course, tabooed; but
George saw that Créche had not
emptied the whiskey flask brought
from Trois Lacs, so he kept urging
the willing camp-boy to finish it as
the evening wore on. One by one
all went to bed except George and
the talkative Créche, whose tongue
now was running three ways at once,
English, French and Indian. Our
tent was close by and while Nimrod
snugly slept on his rubber bed, I,
wrapped in my recovered but still
damp blankets, heard the truth of
their disappearance.

Créche’s language was not print-

able but his thought was clear
enough. A few of the fragments
sufficed to lay bare the undisciplined
creature’s perfidy.

5 promised Toinette I’d come
—she’s la belle fille, such a shape—
prettiest foot on ze Ottawa, she’s
my girl—couldn’t have zat—Fran-
cois dancing with her, no by
why she’s soft as mush on him—I
said by ze head of St. Stephen, I'll
be zere—she laugh—skrrrrrch—but
Créche he savez a way, he dropped
zat bundle soft-like, didn’t want to
hurt it—made—shure it was hers—
he he, women hates to miss zeir
things—so as I’d be shure to have to
go back—savez? I made shure it
was zere all right, but Créche did
not bother it—no, no—he he—TI tell
you my girl was sprised to see
Créche—she gave me a warm wel-
come — and I fixed ze Frenchy.
Shrrrch—if I did keep ’em waiting
three days—let ‘em wait—by ze
head of St. Stephen, Toinette’s 2

But I had heard enough; without
remorse, without appreciation of his
treachery, proud of his tricks, what
could one do with such a cave

dweller? Thankful that he had not
given ‘“Toinette’’ many things in
the bundle that she would have
liked, I tossed the matter aside
and took up the thistledown trail.

pam M. '
(TU tN IW
(WN ae
VAN es

oinges MAD —
TTL ote o- 72 3 7 )
AUNT SY ies) |
AN SA
WEED

XV

CONCERNING A NEW ACQUAINTANCE
—THE MUSCALONGE

JHIS is the record of a
scoffer downed, a scep-
tic converted. To hold
one end of a line while
a small wriggling thing
=~ lis struggling stupidly
to get away at the other end, and
further complicated by wetness and
sliminess and sun-burnt nose, had
never appealed to me as either amus-
ing or worth the doing. To be
sure I knew that some persons prefer
syncopated music to classic, yellow
journalism to conservative, it being
largely a matter of education in

taste, and I was quite willing to
concede that I might be in the
syncopated yellow stage of angling,
and, like most syncopated yellow
lovers, had no desire for change.

However, fate in the guise of Bob-
bie, forced the education. Ona cold
grey day with an east wind, sharp as
needles, I was placed in the middle
of a canoe, a stone was in the bow,
and Bert in the stern, paddling. In
my hands was an eight-ounce steel
rod with a contraption on the cork
handle which was called “a patent,
adjustable, automatic reel.”” On it
was wound two hundred feet of
“three-ply, double-snelled Pierce
peerless suprema” line finished with
a “ruby red” hook, two feet of
“sloriosa’”’ gut, a_ three- dished
spooner, an additional “ Daisy fly,”
a ‘“merrivale sinker” and a “none-
such float.’”’ If you do not under-
stand, it is no matter, neither did I.

There was also a villainous looking
hook on a long handle, called a gaff,
and a stout stick to “finish him.”’
A fur coat and a foot-warmer were
the mollifying adjuncts.

I was expected to go slowly pad-

dling about, trailing this gaudy string
for all the long hours of this raw,
repellent day and evolve from it a
“happy time.”’

I let out line twenty, forty, eighty
feet, and reeled it up again. I caught
water grass, snags and even stones.
I broke the Pierce peerless line twice
and lost the Daisy fly. Two hours
went by in this sportive way. A
fine rain which “made ’em bite,’
permeated the atmosphere and our
clothing, and increased the sullen
dreariness. I was chilled through
and through and smiled sneeringly
at the possibility of there being a
Wagnerian method of angling. I
longed for the glowing warmth of
the camp-fire, but refused to go in
with a blank record. Fish had been
known to get on hooks, why not on
mine? It could get on, I mean bite,
even if I could not keep it. White
Lake was the home of the Musca-
longe, Sally had caught one, yea,
in that very place, that weighed ‘‘over
twenty pounds.’ It had taken a
good hour for her to tell about it
last night.

Five hours of this happy time had

passed and no bite. That time-worn
recipe for a sleigh ride must have
been created by an incipient angler,
‘“‘wrap up in furs, put the feet in ice-
water and sit in a snow drift.” Bert
pulled down his hat still further on
the wind side and remarked:

“They're most done biting for to-
day. (‘Most done’ forsooth, with
what had never been.) We might
go around this bay once more. It
looks a good place.”

Somewhere doubtless the sun was
setting gloriously, Phoebus’s chariot
was visible triumphantly pursuing
its brilliant western track, but here
on the little bay, edged with jack
pines, only deepening shadows told
of its progress. Conscientiously I
held the rod in the approved fashion,
and, to forget the aggressive discom-
fort, had sent my thought far away
to southern Italy to a certain moon-
lit marble terrace perfumed by
orange groves in bloom and musicked
by the voluptuous lapping of blue
Waves upon a glistening shore.

Suddenly a strong tug ran along the
line, and up my spine, then a short
tug sent a kindred electric thrill.

It was unlike anything I had felt
before, instantly every nerve was

alert. There was no need to be told: &X

—I had a Ddite at last!

Bert’s excited face was in front
of me.

“Hook ‘im well,” he cautioned.
“ Now reel—gently.”’

The line grew taut, I could not
reel.

“Ease him up, or you'll lose ’im,”’
coached Bert.

The reel hummed and whirred as
it fed out.

“Reel ’im up, or he will get too
much head,”’ now came the mandate.
I felt rather helpless. How was one
to tell what was going on under the
water?

I began to reel. The strain was
tremendous. It seemed as though
I must be towing the whale that had
been promised.

“He’s a whopper” announced the
expert, viewing my efforts critically.
“Must be twenty pounds. You'll
have to play him well. Now watch
—he’ll dash away any time. Be
ready to go with him. Quick—reel
out!”

The line spun through my fingers,
cutting the gloves like wire. Again
the laborious taking in line with
many a reel out, exciting but irri-
tating. I had long since forgotten
the cold, the rain or anything but
the unseen will that operated under
the veiling water.

At last I managed to coax that
muscalonge within twenty feet and
we both saw it. To me it seemed
almost as big as the canoe and to
land it with that tackle, absurd._

“He’s a gee socker,”’ cried Bert,
“and awful foxy. He’s working us
near the rocks. Don’t let ’im get
around one and cut the line——”

“Hurry, Bert and get the canoe
around the boulder!” I cried des-
pairingly. ‘Hurry, he is doing it—
Oh, pshaw!” and I collapsed in a
heap as the tension was suddenly
released and what was left of the
line floated to the surface. My
“biggest ever” had won.

I returned to the camp circle
empty handed but full of experience.
My education was progressing, I was
beginning to understand some of the
motives in this Wagnerian harmony

anticipation, combat,

—surprise,
despair.

The following morning found me
eager to learn more—exultation and
triumph for example; but that day
taught me only patience and per-
severance. It too was rainy and
cold and deemed to be “a bad day
for fish.”’

Then came the day of days.

Bert and I left camp early accom-
panied by a composite prayer that
we catch something, if only a “little
one.”’ The exhibition of so much
energy unrequited was beginning to
get on the camp nerves.

Bert worked the canoe along the
west shore of White Lake and back
again. It wasa clear day and noon-
day fishing was “no good,’”’ so we
returned to camp forluncheon. The
Cook only was in charge, all the others
had gone off hunting. The woods were
full of game, moose, deer, wolves and
small fry. There was a kind of
brooding reproof in the silence of my
solitary meal of canned stuff. The
camp relied upon me to supply fresh
fish and to make a record catch and I
had not contributed so much as a

minnow; instead, I was several Daisy
flles and gloriosa catgut to the
bad. I began to think of the after-
noon with that heavy do-or-die heart
clutch that prefaces the making of
a speech. What if I should fail

The Cook was telling Bert about
a wonderful fish which a “party he
guided had caught, a thirty-pounder’’
on a pin-hook or some such combina-
tion. Ruthlessly I interrupted him.

“Come Bert, let’s get to work.”

If only I could finish up the bus-
iness honourably and enjoy myself
once again in the unenlightened way
of a week ago before muscalonge
had entered my horizon.

It came, the reward, about five
o’clock in the shape of a sufficiently
big fellow. For two hours I had
reeled in, let out, given his head,
coaxed him away from rocks and
played him with what skill I had
acquired from my failures. The
tricks he tried to play, the many times
he almost cut the line, or snagged it,
I would like to relate, but spare you.
I was almost as much exhausted as
he when the big fellow was finally
brought to the boat and gaffed.

There is a fisherman’s rule, I
believe, that for a game fish, an
ounce of tackle to a pound of fish
is fair sport. I had caught my first
game fish with less than half of this
allowance. Nearly eighteen pounds
of muscalonge and exceedingly lively
weight at that, with an eight-ounce
rod and very light hooks and eyes—
I mean the gloriosa, suprema, none-
such adjuncts. |

And behold now the wonder: I
seemed to hold the Open Sesame and
the fish fairly begged to be caught.
A fourteen ‘pounder’ was . added
in another hour’s work, and a care-
less twelve-pound muscalonge got
on the hook before I could get home.
We put it back none the worse, as we
had enough food for camp use and
no wish to be called by a little name
of three letters that begins with h
and ends with g.

In this wise did I learn the angler’s
secret, and to faintly appreciate how
one might become enthralled with
the piscatorial symphony; and freed
from a self-appointed obligation, once
more returned to me the beauty of
an autumn evening. Again the

mournful call of the loon greeted,
and as we glided campwards every
little cove of the tree-shadowed
shore seemed to harbour some
thirsty animal that might mo-
mentarily step out of the dark woods
to the water.

SEVERAL THINGS ABOUT
MOOSE

=a l|AVE you ever tramped

e4\| through sodden woods
all day in the rain? If
not, you have indeed
missed something inde-
scribable. The water
laden branches send inquisitive show-
ers that tease, like the questions of
a prosecuting attorney, the places
that one cannot protect, and bur-
dened and clumsy with rubber cloth-
ing, one falls rather than climbs over
and around obstacles. After a time,
unless it is cold, one grows accus-
tomed to the general clamminess

and remembers only that it is a good
day to hunt. Then there are nodry
leaves to craunch and rustle under
foot and the wild things stay
quiet, unless disturbed, and if
they do ‘travel’ leave a legible
account of their doings in the
tracks.

It was the day after the musca-
longe episode, and having acquitted
myself honourably, though painfully
of fish, I was free to join Nimrod on
his daily prowls for what he could
see. Bert went with us carrying
a small back pack of midday food.

Our host had set forth early in the
morning with George to locate a
good camp ground, as he proposed
to move from Camp Muscalonge
still deeper into the woods where
now were rising the notes of the
moose. The last of September was
upon us. The moose calves were old
enough to take care of themselves,
and the lady moose, no longer averse
to society, were practising their love
songs to which the bulls lent no
ungallant ear.

That night we were going to ‘call’
for moose and we hoped to discover

the whereabouts of some big bull
who might answer our summons.

A good ‘caller’ is rare, even among
the guides, and our men had ob-
served Nimrod with only half-
concealed amusement as he procured
some birch bark, fashioned it into a
cornucopia, sewed it with roots of
_ black spruce, and finally, hoodoo
of all hoodoos, decorated it with
a big moose head!

Clifford, the best caller on the
Mangasippi, gave him the love notes
of the cow moose and the challenging
call of one bull to another. He did
this not as a teacher to a pupil,
but politely, without expectation of
result. At the cabin Nimrod had
diligently practised and soon revived
his former accomplishment, and now
that we were in moose country,
longed to show his skill. Bobbie
also had practised on Nimrod’s horn
and the guides openly sneered.

“That would drive all the game
out of the country.’’ George voiced
his opinion candidly, but Bobbie
only shrugged his shoulders. He
could afford to let them laugh, as
events proved.

It was a misty morning before
sunrise when the canoes stole out
from the landing at Camp Musca-
longe and took their several ghostly
ways, Bobbie’s west, Sally’s south,
and ours north toward the head-
waters of White Lake. The canoe
was light, Nimrod at the bow
paddle and Bert at the stern. An
hour’s silence, broken only by the
lilililiooo of the loon, and the dip,
dip, of the paddles brought us nearly
four miles to the boggy willow
marshes of the outlet. Beyond were
stretches of ragged pines that were
outlined only as black masses in the
half-light.

What a weird place it was, beau-
tiful and unreal as the shadow land
of poets. The silence was the silence
that bound the world before humans
were. It gripped one with a sense
of finality as though never could it
change, and yet of suspense, for
knowledge told that outside this
witched circle of water and trees
the world was in motion, the sun
was marking its allotted course, and
the animals too were astir, drawing
over the country their accustomed

diagrams that spelled quest for
food.

So portentous did the grey
silence seem, as we waited and
listened, that I longed for a release
from it. My breath came im
shortened gasps, and yet when
Nimrod raised the horn to his
lips and shrieked forth a moosely
summons, it seemed a profanation.
Another fifteen minutes of silence,
every second of which my imagin-
ation made a living picture of a huge
creature with eyes aflame and smoke
curling from his nostrils, coming full
charge down the runway at which
we waited, and dashing into the
shallow water straight for our canoe,
an avenging spirit scattering retri-
bution upon the hardy mortals who
‘thus dared to tamper with nature.
But the grey silence continued.

Nimrod sent another call of un-
earthly resonance echoing to the
outer world. It came back to our
magic circle mockingly. Slowly the
light etched detail into the surround-
ings. At the third call,I no longer
feared that the snorting avenger
would come, but that he would not,

or even a spike-horn to say “how
d’ye do.”’

Fifty minutes had gone by when
a noise like the snapping of a twig
in the woods sent an electric thrill
of tensest listening along the canoe.
But we heard no more. Doubtless
a bull had drawn near, also listening,
not quite sure, perhaps the voice was
a little strange.

Nimrod raised another call and
we distinctly heard a big animal
getting away as fast as it could.
That last call certainly had not been
right. It might have been too close
to the other, or it needed an addi-
tional note, or not so much, or was
too loud. Undoubtedly in some way
moose etiquette had been violated.

The day had come and with it
the necessity of another kind of
hunting—the stalk. Quietly, as ever,
we landed, turned the canoe bottom
up, for it was beginning to rain,
and searched about for the track of
our fugitive moose. Not that there
was any hope of seeing him, for he
would go miles before stopping, but
for information, a natural desire to
know his size. When we found it,

the track was that of a big bull and
after all not very much alarmed. He
had gone away quite leisurely and
as this was probably his home local-
ity, might be induced to return that
evening, under favourable circum-
stances. We found a runway evi-
| aaa in present use and followed
ar.

The rain was not energetic, but
pervading. We paid no attention
to it; we could not and go on.
There are two ways of treating dis-
comfort. Fight it and it conquers;
ignore it and it is subdued.

It is wonderful how a huge animal
like the moose can go through the
woods, between and under branches.
One could almost believe that he had
some device of folding up his horns,
as the Arab his tent, so easily does
he go anywhere the width and
height of his body will permit. The
trail was thick with moose sign.
Tramp, tramp, drip, drip, a misstep
and down into a muddy hole I went;
no matter, a degree or two more
of wetness. As Nimrod was help-
ing me up, a dozen pounds extra
of water-proof clothing not being

conducive to agility, he remarked to
Bert; “This is a queer hole to be
in the middle of the trail. See, there
are moose hairs in the mud. I believe
it is a wallow.”

Bert returned and the two exam-
ined the place, as carefully as experts
would a diamond.

It was an oblong depression, per-
haps four feet one way by two feet
the other, sloping off toward the
edge. It was in a bed of sandy clay
and showed the effects of much paw-
ing and fussing.

“Believe it is,’’ exclaimed Bert.
“Never saw one before. Heard of
"em often—and the last fellow here
was left-handed.”

“Left-handed?” I repeated, scent-
ing the picturesque.

“Yes ’m. Most animals are right-
handed, jest like us; but now and
again you'll run across a left-handed
chap.”

“How can you tell?”

“Well, partly, it ’s the side they
lie on when the horns are growin’
and partly it’s the way they use their
horns. Now, you see, that feller
who was here wasn’t very large,

probably had small horns. But he
whacked the bushes always to the
left. See? Have you ever noticed,
antlers is hardly ever reglar? Right
or left side is always bigger.
Now that’s according to whether he’s
right or left-handed. If he’s left-
handed the horn is nat’rally smaller
from being used more and broke
off -

“Why not bigger from being devel-
oped more?”

Bert looked at me pityingly.

“Don’t work that way.’ Nim-
rod, rapidly sketching, was non-
committal.

The rain had drizzled itself out
when we got back to the canoe at
dark. We decided not to ‘call’ at
the outlet that night, but to give the
big moose until morning to forget
his alarm, and besides, we wanted
to try ‘jacking’ at midnight.

Again the silent easeful passage
through the water, only the monot-
onous dip of the paddles as a young
moon hung itself between a mass of
fluffy clouds and a black horizon
line. Toward the north were strange
unstable lights silvering the sky, a

mere tag end of the aurora borealis,
but full of suggestion, like the low-
lidded eyes of a Buddha. It seemed
to push far away the merely physical
things, the cramped position, fatigue,
hunger and general soggy chilliness.

We were the last to arrive. Sally
had a thrilling tale about a cow-
moose and two calves, one a buck
with little nubbins of horns. She
had surprised this family group
quietly feeding on marsh grass in a
desolate place that had once been a
smiling forest full of arboreal life,
but which fire had reduced to a mass
of fallen timbers with a few naked
masts. A lumberman’s dam several
miles away had backed up the water
of a stream so that the whole ruined
region was submerged two or three
feet. Fire and water were not here
the rough jokers one must laugh
with, but had been converted
into destroyers by the ingenuity,
and for the benefit, of money seeking
man. And the victims, once glorious
age-old trees, still bore sad witness
to the power that had wrecked them
years ago.

Sally first saw the mother moose

and her young about half a mile
off and the place afforded so much
shelter for a silently moving object
that Arthur gradually pushed her
toward them, until not more than
fifty feet of marsh grass and water
lay between. There she hid and
watched, and more and more the
charm of this life so different from
her own, so uncomprehended by us,
held her in sweet excitement. It
was inspiring as when one comes on
a sculptured group by Claudian
standing on a pedestal amid other
beautiful things, but so compelling
attention by its surpassing grace of
line and modelling, that all else is
unnoticed, and one is translated to
another world where only the pure
tones of harmony are heard.

For some time the moose fed,
the only sound being a faint crunch-
ing of their jaws as the juicy grass
was gathered in. A lazy ear now
and again flicked off a fly; the cow
calf gave her back a comfortable
rubbing when opportunity offered
in the shape of a fallen log of con-
venient height. The bull calf being
snagged in the flank by a sharp

stick, and thinking his sister respon-
sible, made a retaliatory lunge at
her, suggestive of some very human
little brothers and sisters, which
shall be nameless. Sister promptly
got out of the way. Mother,
unconcerned, calmly continued to
scratch her head with her left hind
foot.

Soon after, however, her attitude
suddenly changed. She raised her
head in attention, gave two low
short grunts to the calves who also
became alert, and then rapidly
led them away from that peculiar
odour, which, being strange, it was
safe to assume was hostile. A faint
breeze springing up had disclosed
Sally’s presence, and her Claudian
was gone. Had it not really been a
dream? No, the memory of it was
too vivid.

As we all sat for a moment holding
the picture of the mother group in
our thoughts, my outward vision
took note of something not far off
in the darkness. It was a small
brilliant orange light that danced
in the air. It darted up and down
like a live thing—‘‘Look, what is

that?” and even as I spoke, Bert
realising what it was, ran along
“Broadway,” the trail that led to
our sleeping tents. The first tent
belonged to the Tevi and it was—
on fire! |

We all rushed toward it, but were
checked half way by a loud report,
then another.

“My God” cried Bobbie, “Stand
back! My box of ammunition—
there is enough to blow up the whole
camp! George, Arthur—BSert, stop!”
he yelled.

Hardly knowing what to do we
all halted except Bert. On he kept
unheeding and amid a fusillade of
exploding cartridges from Sally’s
shooting belt, he dashed into the
flaming tent, seized that box of
ammunition, containing several hun-
dred rounds, and dragged it forth
to safety.

It was a splendid act of courage
for him, an awful moment of sus-
pense for us.

George, who was checked but an
instant by Bobbie’s entreaty, was
already cutting ropes and tearing
down the blazing canvas. A few

cartridges from Bobbie’s bed where
he had thrown his shooting coat
before dinner, continued to explode,
and bullets flew about in a
scattering fire, until Nimrod could
appear heading his bucket brigade,
which he had immediately organised,
pressing us all into service. Every
available water holder was passed
along the line, from canvas buckets
to coffee pot and saucepans.

Fortunately the woods were wet
with the day’s drizzle. The wreck
of Bobbie’s luxurious canvas home
was bad enough, but a forest fire
was far worse. That we strained
every nerve to avert, and when at
last all was safe, and the Tevi could
take stock of the blackened remnants
of their belongings, we all rejoiced
that little permanent damage had
been done except to the tent, which
having been paraffine-coated to
make it further waterproof, had been
literally licked up by the flames until
there was nothing left.

A candle lamp left burning had in
some way slipped from its upright
position and started the blaze.

As there were to be two jacking

parties that night, and we had not
intended starting much before mid-
night we had wondered how we were
were going to keep awake, for usually
the lights on‘‘Broadway’’ went out by
nine o'clock. But the fire alarm had
furnished more than ample diver-
sion and it was after one o’clock
before Bert announced that the
canoe was ready and Nimrod and I
took the languid blessing of the Tevi,
whose interest in moose for that
night had given way to the necessity
of settling themselves in the supply
tent.

A jack, as every moose hunter
knows, is a lantern whose light can be
turned on or off at will. When a
moose, summoned by the siren love
call is heard coming, it is flashed
directly uponhim. The theory being
that the sudden flare of light fascin-
ates the big creature, he approaches to
investigate. He cannot, of course,
see the humans hiding in the black-
ness, and then is the moment for
the man and his gun.

Of all the perfidious tricks that
man’s superior intelligence plays on
the animal’s superior instinct, this

seems to be the worst. First to
entice the bull moose to one by
means of a love call on a horn, and
then to bewilder him by a great
blare of light, exposing him while
the gunner is in darkness and the
deed committed, is too much like
stabbing in the back. It is not even
“sport,’’ when an animal’s chance
for life depends upon the ability of
the gunner to hit a six-foot target
a few feet away.

However, we were to find that,
the gunpowder’ element being
eliminated, an infuriated bull moose
at close quarters is no mean ad-
versary.

We paddled swiftly to Big Dam
Lake, the place where Sally had seen
the moose family. It might easily
be a favourite resort for others, and
as this was the beginning of the
mating season, a suitable place for
some big bull to be reconnoitring.
The Tevi had expected to cover the
Big Dam Lake territory and we were
going to the outlet, but it occurred
to us, after we were started that as
they had decided to remain at home
we might as well go to what seemed

¢ C

to be the best place. The night was
dark and served our purpose well.
My carbine lay in the bottom of
the canoe. We did not intend to
use it, but I had long ago learned
not to go far in the woods without
a gun, if only to summon aid in case
of accident.

Bert held the canoe stationary by
thrusting a paddle into the sand of a
little beach that ran under a steep
bank. By the aid of the jack through
the clear water we could see many
fresh moose tracks of all sizes on the
sandy bottom. Undoubtedly it was
the end of a game trail.

It seemed a good place to try our
luck. Nimrod covered the jack and
got out his elaborately painted horn
of birch-bark and let off a long call.
Bert nodded approval. It had the
right sound. We were not surprised
nor disappointed that it brought no
response. These things take time.
Nearly an hour passed. It seemed a
whole night, every moment crowded
with nervous listening. The unimag-
inative persons we are told, miss
much of the joys of anticipation;
they also miss many wild visions of

impossibilities that they can well do
without.

After the fourth call came an
answer. It was muffled and inde-
terminate. Bert and Nimrod sig-
nalled that it could hardly be any-
thing else but a bull. Then some
distance off we heard a moose dia-
logue, a low call, an answering bull
grunt, then another grunt still far-
ther away. Then, much nearer, the
challenging call of one bull to an-
other. It was answered far away:
then silence.

I was greatly stirred by this wood-
land duet, but Nimrod and Bert
exchanged puzzled shrugs. Some-
thing seemed not orthodox.

Again we heard the challenging
call of the bull and again the answer,
much closer. Perhaps it was to be
our rare privilege to see two bulls
fighting for the lady’s foot or heart.

The intense listening and excite-
ment was so great that when the
report of a gun thundered out, I
almost jumped out of the canoe.
If the last trump had sounded I
could not have been more startled.
We knew of no other party in that

region. A second shot made the
first seem less uncanny and enabled
us to trace the direction from whence
it came. There was a tongue of
higher land that jutted into Big Dam
Lake. We were on one side of it
and across this mile strip came a
third shot.

“Tt must be the Tevz! They came
out after all,’’ exclaimed Nimrod,
even forgetting to whisper.

Our feelings were not entirely
guestly for the moment. That either
Sally or Bobbie would kill a moose
in that treacherous way, and that
in close season, made it necessary for
us to reconstruct our ideas of them,
and was sadly depressing. We could
not accuse them of deliberately en-
dangering our lives by shooting in
the dark so close to us, for they
did not know that we had taken
their territory; but it was strange
that they should come out that
night after all their refusals to do
so. Altogether, we felt uncomfort-
able. For the first time we had
struck grit in our friendship’s
cake.

Nimrod had the jack light trained

upon the shore eagerly scanning
every foot.

“By George, get out of this—
quick.’ Hewhispered shrilly to Bert.

I seemed to hear a thudding of
hooves and a snort, and then saw
coming along the trail out of the
gloom into the bar of light, a mad-
dened staggering creature that waved
its blades of horn like chiffon on the
wind.

It was then that Bert broke his
paddle in his haste to pull it from
the sand and nearly dumped us all
in the water in the path of that
onstriding giant.

“Put a bullet into him, before
he charges us,” hissed Bert as I
quickly passed him the remaining
paddle from the bow. I grabbed
the gun, but hesitated. I did not
want to kill the Tevi’s moose, or any
moose then, though it did seem a
difficult place. That wounded bull
was now just above us on the bank.
Infuriated with pain and anger he
thrashed about only waiting to make
sure of the exact position of his
enemy, represented by that madden-
ing light

The next instant the great black
bulk charged at us off the high bank
and crashed into the water along-
side, with a shower of spray that
nearly capsized us and put out the
jack with the jar. The momentum
sent our canoe rocking away from the
struggling creature. Bert did won-
derful work with the paddle, and not
an instant too soon, for one thrash of
those horns that were churning the
water to foam, would have been
enough to spill us and then we would
have been in a serious plight. Now
I was indeed ready to use the gun.
It was no time to dally. “But soon
it was evident that I need not
use it. That awful jump, I doubt
if he knew what he was doing, had
been the great creature’s final throw
at life. Weaker grew his struggles;
and the waning moon that. night,
rising above the black pine hills
shone, a huge red disc, upon a pair of
antlers that rose from the muddied
water almost like the gleaming teeth
of some nether world demon.
Quickly we paddled to meet the
Tevi and to tell them the sequel
of their moose. How wounded and

‘}

\
i}

ny

|

‘

il

seeking to get away, it had taken a
familiar runway which had brought
it to us—to another of those hateful
gleaming eyes at which it had
charged with all its failing strength.
We did not expect to be believed,
but the tracks in the morning would
show. Only why could they not
have waited until the law was off.
It was only a few days more.

We had nearly entered the little
cove where we had located the
shooting, when a canoe almost slipped
past us. The two figures in it were
paddling fast. It was evidently not
the Tevi.

“Good evening,” Nimrod chal-
lenged; “Are you looking for your
moose? It is around the point.”

The men rested their paddles an
instant.

“Allright, savez,’’ responded a gruff
voice, at which Bert said, “ Hello,
Bill, when did you come from Trol-
faks?®

To this came an extraordinary
answer, ‘““Humph, I suppose you
think it smart to talk, go ahead.
Who cares. I'll swear it was you.”

“Who is it?” I asked.

“Oh, Bill’s a head-hunter for
Beans’ taxidermist shop.”

In my relief that the Tevi had not,
in or out of season, decoyed and
butchered that great beautiful live
thing, I called out mischievously,
knowing it would be no easy task
to pull that hundreds of pounds out
of the water.

“You will find him stuck fast in
the mud, and it serves you right for
_murdering him that way out of
season.”

I think, but am not sure that this
feminine thrust was responded to
by a masculine swear, but our canoes
were rapidly separating.

Bobbie never has recovered from
the shock of our asking him to
believe that ‘“‘pipe-dream” of the
moose that charged the jack-light.
Sally, more open minded, or more
politic, gave a good imitation of
belief. As Créche had to be sent
back to Te-vis-ca-bing for another
tent, luckily there, we must still
delay a day or two in that region,
and, eager to prove our case, we
conducted the Tevi to the scene of
the tragedy.

But alas for the cause of* truth!
Our proofs had been trampled on
by the head-hunters in getting out
their trophy, and the subject of
jumping moose, or acrobatic moose,
almost moose at all, diplomati-
ically ceased to be a matter for camp
conversation.

“JEST TRAVELLING’ IN WATER
COUNTRY—CRECHE’S ULTIMATUM

=weray|| NCE in the Rockies a

‘a Mountaineer met our
packtrain, and, after
the customary saluta-
tion, “How dy,” pro-
pounded this enigmati-

cal question.

“Quite an outfit. Are you goin’
somewheres, or only jest travellin’?”
Nimrod debated this distinction
and finally left the decision to
his questioner.

“We are going into the mountains,
hunting.”

“Oh I see. Fest travellin’. Thought

perhaps you might be out on busi-
ness, prospecting or something. Well,
so long.”’

A thin veil of gloom hung over
the camp two mornings later and
it was not due to the chilly fact that
we had breakfasted by candle light
at five o’clock. We were to move
camp that day to the spot on
Beaver Lake that Bobbie and George
had decided was the very heart of
moose country. The Tevi, as well
as Nimrod and I, had had much
experience ‘“‘jest travellin’’”’ in horse
country. We knew its limitations
and its possibilities in the matter
of transportation of luggage. But
not so in canoe country. And un-
fortunately, as it proved, Bobbie
had become imbued with the idea
that one could transport a very
liberal allowance of ‘duffel,’ per
canoes.

“A big canoe holds a thousand
pounds, you know, and if one likes
a few extra things, it only means
running the portage another time,”
he said comfortably. This speech
was called forth by a suggestion
from George that it would be well

to wait another day and divide the
moving, as we did when establish-
ing Camp Muscalonge. This meant
delay and we had been delayed
enough already. Iron necessity
would call his guests away in an-
other week. Bobbie pointed out
that the first moving had been done
in “two easy days, and that there-
fore one hard day would do the
other? Wouldn't it?’

George thus challenged, did not
stand his ground. He merely re-
marked with a shrug, ‘“ You are the
boss.”” So what happened really
was his fault, for he knew such a
move to be an impossibility, and
should have said so.

The outdoor man, born and reared
in the open, will take chances any
time rather than incur the possi-
bility of being thought cowardly.
Is it a sort of fatalistic attitude
that springs from dealing with forces
stronger than themselves, stronger
in every way, save for the uncon-
querable will that makes humans
divine?

So we breakfasted before day-
light, and tried not to notice the air

of dogged reserve with which each
man worked. He knew it could
not be done but he was willing to
try, since that was what he had been
engaged for, and leave the issue to
fate. Créche, as usual the only
talkative one, expressed his mixed
ideas in equally mixed dialect.

‘‘Shure Mr. Tevis, mon. We'll try
ze thrick. Zere is no buck on Ze
Ottawa can carry more zan Créche.
Grace @ Dieu, je suis fort comme le
boeuf. Créche will show you what
a man can do to-day. I sucked
strength in wif my movver’s milk,
and her movver was an Indian prin-
cess who ie |

At this point the Cook threw at
him an empty water pail.

‘Here fill that, and work your
legs instead of your jaw for a while.”

There were no idle hands that
morning, and by ten o’clock we
actually had gotten packed up and
all the stuff moved across the Lake
to the first portage, which was
about a mile long.

It was there that Bobbie got his
first shock. Two of the canoes had
made a second trip. He had no

idea that our belongings would not
go into the five canoes. Sally at
the risk of being mobbed, suggested
that ‘‘like dough they seemed to
swell when needed.”’

‘“But after all, even if we do have
too much for the canoes, it is not very
serious. It will not take long to
run back on the water as we must do
on the carrys,’’ said our host.

It seemed easy to me—then. Bert
overhearing this remark smiled
grimly, swung a seventy-five pound
top pack onto his hundred-pound
back pack and trotted along the trail.
One by one, the men took up their
burdens adjusted tump lines and
disappeared. There was no hurry
for us. Bobbie estimated that each
man would have run the trail three
times.

Lading ourselves with guns, fish-
ing tackle, cameras, all the goodly
paraphernalia of sport, we four filed
along a trail which showed the hob-
nailed prints of George and Arthur,
the pointed shape of Bert’s American
gear, the oblong outline of Créche’s
moccasined foot, and the shapeless
tracks of the Cook, who had encased

his ‘‘left walker wounded in the
war’’ and now tortured by rheu-
matism, in wrappings of gunny
sack.

It was a jewelled morning. Delib-
erately we cast away carking care
and gave our senses to the exquisite
bit of the world about us. The sun-
light, brilliant and calm, dappled
through a grove of spruce and black
birch in great splotches of yellow,
seeking out the dainty arbutus that
spread its dark serrated leaves in
modest profusion, and flashing into
greater beauty the strange shape
and colours of the pitcher plant,
the orchid of the North.

The grove ended at the bank of
a stream which we crossed on step-
ping stones and forthwith entered
a vast clearing on which the sun
beamed its full noon rays unchecked.
A generation ago, it too had nour-
ished a proud forest of primeval
growth, but the lumberman’s axe
had smitten it away and the earth
had long since donned its resigna-
tion garb of waving feathery grasses,
’ scarlet and blue-fruited bushes, and
wide stretches of the free-flowering

bracken, now in autumn browns
and sun-dried sweetness.

In the tempting fragrance and
warmth of this we dropped to rest.
The men had all passed us on the
return trip and now coming toward
us was a big canoe, bottom side up.
The trim athletic grey legs under it
belonged to Bert. It passed with-
out comment. Another canoe equal-
ly large, came walking toward us on
sturdy brown legs in hobnailed boots.
It also passed in silence. Another
smaller canoe appeared on some-
what bowed legs and moccasined
feet. It did not silently pass. When
it got within hearing distance, it
began to puff and blow and finally
swung off its base altogether and
descended to the ground, revealing
Créche, who mopped his dripping
brow.

“You'll do well to rest, since ye’s
can. Le soleil brittle comme tous.
Il fera une bonne omelette de moi!”

“Can all the stuff be brought in
another trip?’’ asked the host.

Créche swung the canoe into
travelling position, carefully shifted
it to the proper balance, and then

flung out carelessly. ‘‘Shure! one
more——or t’ree or five;’’ and
went his way whistling a chanson
‘A la trés bonne, ala tres belle’’ which
stopped as soon as he was out of
sight.

At one o’clock we and our chattels
were occupying plenty of space at
the head of a small stream that led
into Big Dam Lake. The men had
run that portage five times each;
twelve miles already, half of it
heavily laden. Breakfast, eight
hours ago, long since had been for-
gotten. They must have food at
least. We were less than half way
and the ‘‘long portage”’ yet to come.
The muscles and veins on the men’s
necks stood out like whipcords and
their hands trembled from strain
and fatigue. But they denied being
tired, only ‘“‘hot and hungry.”

I have frequently observed that
the voyageur is ashamed to be tired,
but proud of being hungry. It was
four miles on Big Dam Lake.

“The canoeing would be a rest,”’
quoth Bobbie.

It was not a pleasant four miles.
Our canoe was undeniably top-heavy.

“Tt’s all right,’’ Bert reassured, ‘‘We
can keep it balanced when we get in.”’

By dangerously overloading the
canoes we managed to get all the
luggage aboard save ‘‘a few things
we did not need immediately and
could be sent for to-morrow.”

A jeering friend in a dream city,
called New York, had presented
me with two pairs of ‘‘ water wings.”’
I may briefly state for the benefit
of those who have never made the
acquaintance of these little objects,
that they are irregular-shaped bags,
like the map of North and South
America, joined by the Isthmus of
Panama. When inflated and placed,
the Isthmus across the body and the
Americas under the arms of a
person in the water, they are sup-
posed to keep said person from sink-
ing. When I watched Sally. crawl
into her canoe while three men held
it from capsizing and gazed awe-
somely at the subsequent “‘trim-
ming’’ and adjusting of its bulging
contents to make it ride even, I
forthwith handed her a pair of
aniline-pink water wings as a token
of my affection. She was inclined

to be trivial about my gift until she
saw a similar pair soaking in the
water beside me.

I mention this incident as it
occasioned the only shaft of amuse-
ment that pierced the gloom slowly
deepening upon the men. It was
like the odour of a bear’s skull that
Clifford had killed the winter before
and hung on a stick near the trail,
the pervasiveness of which had
fraught the lunch hour with un-
pleasant suggestion.

A horse with a load beyond its
capacity bucks it off or lies down.
A top-heavy canoe is like an un-
broken mustang. It follows no laws.
It turns and whirls and does queer
lurches that give one the unwelcome
feelings of a sudden up-shooting
elevator, and ours was withal so
cranky and unmanageable that only
Bert’s expert paddling again and
again, when we were almost over,
saved our possessions at least from
a watery annihilation. Of course J
was quite safe for had I not my
water wings? Ready for immediate
service, they trailed in the water, two
fat pink balloons, and I have no

doubt that they averted disaster,
like the possession of an accident
policy; for witness the misfortune
of the Cook, minus the “W. W.”
His canoe struck a snag, turned
turtle with a facility that was shame-
less and deposited that rheumatic
veteran in three feet of water with
his cooking utensils andfood. There-
fore, we were all concerned. Lucky
it was for us that it happened on a
sandy bar and that the food was
nearly all in tins and waterproof
bags.

This mishap did not tend to
disseminate ease in the overcharged
atmosphere of the party. As we
reached the landing of the long
portage a horrible odour greeted
us beside which the bear’s skull had
been as child’s play. Pestilence
and death seemed abroad. Nimrod
quickly found the cause—another
pleasantry of Clifford’s. As wolves
are the enemies of game, it was his
province as game warden to exter-
minate them. A grey wolf had been
caught in a trap, and in order to
make him a warning for his fellows
to quit the neighbourhood, Clifford

had suspended his victim from the
branch of a tree. This was months
ago. Few wild animals will go. near
@2Z an unusual object, especially with

Yy

aN
me

{
»

man taint on it, and there it had
remained undisturbed, given over to
slow decay and taking its revenge
by polluting the air for yards around.

It was to this distressing accom-
paniment that Bobbie reviewed
the situation. It was now four
o’clock. By the most cheerful reckon-
ing we could not hope to reach the
new camp ground before ten and it
grew dark by seven. To be sure
there ought to be a moon and “the
boys would have to come back the
next day anyway and could gather
up what things we lost in the dark-
ness.”” Bobbie did not want his
guests to suffer another day’s delay
in tiresome transit, since their time
was limited. To camp there was
impossible, the wolf claimed it all.
Therefore he decided to push on.

Again another pile was left to be
“brought to-morrow” and he judged
that three trips apiece would take
the necessities. Even that would
make twelve miles more for each.

f

(GA
M ZZ
é WG

The burden of possessions weighed
heavily upon us. I thought of Bert’s
story of the divided pockethand-
kerchief and felt that one would be
courageous to keep even the half
with the hole in it. The hole would
have been burden enough.

The long portage trail was rough,
hilly and boggy and obstructed by
fallen trees, but Sally and I hurried
along to “get away from the dead
wolf,’ we said. I dare say we felt
alike. Not inheriting the blood and
traditions of Indian priests, we did
not enjoy the idea of human sacrifice,
nor care to watch the efforts of our
guides with those ungodly packs.
Several times we had found it ex-
pedient to rest, light though our
pockethandkerchiefs were, and when
we reached the next water, the sun
was waning, somewhat earlier than
usual, as it was beginning to snow.

“The snow will make good track-
ing’ we said, trying to be cheerful.
This trail end was an impossible
place even for a one-night camp.
It was cut through a dense grove of
jack pines and down timber. There
was not even a shore. The steep

clay bank was fringed with alders
and dropped abruptly into the
water.

“We cannot stay here, that is
sure,’ puffed Bobbie after he had
thrown down a pack that was too
heavy for him and gotten his breath
a little, though he was still purple.
Nimrod now came staggering up,
pale and exhausted, with my bundle
of bedding. I was seriously alarmed
for him as he rested the pack on a
stump and thus let it slip to the
ground.

Sally surveyed the two heroes and
remarked that it might be well to
remember that we were there for
pleasure and not to kill ourselves,
whereupon Bobbie voiced his grow-
ing irritation. He was not angry
with Sally perhaps it is the duty
of wives, now and then to open the
husbandly safety valve, even though
they catch some of the steam
but he was a man accustomed to
successfully carrying through big
enterprises and this little muddle
was galling.

“T want you not to talk nonsense,
Sally. We are going on I say. I

gave George, as spokesman of the
boys, an opportunity to back out
last night. He knew that it could
not be done and did not say so.
Now they can take their medicine.”’

“c But ”?

“This is no time for ‘buts,’”’ he
called as he started back on the
trail, limping sadly.

“Bobbie, Bobbie, you will hurt
yourself. Come back!”

Too late, the irate Bobbie dis-
appeared and Nimrod followed, stay-
ing only long enough to light a fire
for us. It had to be a tiny fire in
the trail, as there was not a foot’s
space clear from logs and _ trees;
and Sally and I were left to await
developments.

It seemed a long time, we were
hungry and cold and depressed with
a sense of foreboding. At last the
Cook appeared, empty-handed. He
limped along slowly and sat down
on a log with his back to us. He
said never a word, but the fact that
he had “struck” was apparent in
every line of him.

Next came Arthur. He flung his
pack upon the ground and sat upon 1t.

Bert, immediately behind him,
slipped his huge pack off on a log
and slowly straightened himself to
an upright position. He slid down
the steep bank and into a canoe
where he could surreptitiously bathe
his head.

Each had the air of doing nothing
more, no matter what happened.
We all sat like graven images, so
motionless and quiet that a weasel,
shyest of creatures, actually played
about among us. It darted over
Sally’s skirt, and getting bolder,
over my foot. It sniffed the straps
of the roll under Arthur and ate
some bread crumbs that had
tumbled out of the Cook’s pocket
when he had put on his coat.

Nimrod and Bobbie, arriving to-
gether, at last broke the spell. Putf-
fing and panting, purple and white
they dropped their packs. Cer-
tainly neither had ever carried such
loads before, but they wanted to
show those men that it was not
such a task. Silently they stood and
read the message of silence that was
presented there in the snowy woods.

Then Nimrod started to chop

WE ALL SAT LIKE GRAVEN IMAGES

some wood for the fire thau sadly
needed replenishing, though no one
had offered to lift an axe.

Bobbie went from red to white
with anger. He opened his mouth
to speak and shut it again tight. It
was unthinkable that these men
would leave us stranded here in the
woods and with women in the party
too, and yet that ugly sullen silence
was ominous.

Fortunately, our mountebank of
a camp boy now came along puffing
vociferously, like an engine blowing
off steam. As usual he was pre-
paring a dramatic entrance. Down
came the pack with a_ great
flourish.

“Zere! Zat is ze last ounce that
goes on Nat Créche’s back to-night.
Not if you was ze Gabriel Angel or
ze devil himself! Zere’s man’s
work and zere is horse’s work. I'll
be no mule for any body. I'll give
you a day’s work, yes and two days’
work but I won’t be a pack horse,
not if I know it. Ill hut the trad
first! And the boys are with me—”’

One by one they nodded. There
it was, out——mutiny. Our host’s

face was a study. How he would
have liked to tell them what he
thought about it, but it seemed
wiser not. George had come up
during Nate’s tirade.

“Are you in this conspiracy too?”’
Bobbie asked of him, in true et-tu-
Brute style. George shrugged his
shoulders shamefacedly.

“We cannot possibly stay in this
trail and there is not room to put
up a tent,’’ said Bobbie severely
as though it was entirely George’s
fault, and perhaps it was. “It is
snowing and the ladies must have
some shelter; and I insist that they
get it.”

“We stay right here, or Nate Créche
does any way, and helps himself to
grub too—I don’t care who says
what ze

“Shut up you empty-headed me
but I will spare you Bobbie's re-
marks so long pentup. He stopped
shortly.

Swearing at them was no way
to treat men whose self-restraint
was worn thin by fatigue and re-
bellion; besides Bobbie was genuine-
ly sorry for them and for himself

and for the whole predicament, still
he could not give in.

George’s mental processes were
slow, but sound. He now made
speech, his drawl more pronounced
than usual, and to our infinite relief
pointed a way by which our host
could retreat with dignity.

“Tf I remember rightly, Clifford
has a winter shack somewheres on
this lake. He told me how to find
it. It might do for the ladies.”

“Very well, get the lantern and
we will hunt for it. Meanwhile boys,
Bobbie added diplomatically, ‘“‘you
all better help the Cook find some
food.”’

Hot soup has palliated many a
threatening situation, both domestic
and national, and it served its peace-
ful mission that night. The danger
of the abrupt termination of our
pleasure party was averted, although
Créche, who could not be verbally
suppressed when excited, said enough
in his spasmodic mutterings to make
it clear that the acid of rebellion
had almost destroyed the sense of
justice and it would not have taken
many ill-chosen words on Bobbie’s

part to have left him facing the
problem of desertion, “ladies or no
ladies.”’

But a wise general knows when to
surrender. Bobbie returned with
the welcome news that the little
log shelter had been “located” and
leaving the guides to rest as best
they could on the damp, uneven,
log-choked ground, we put our bed-
ding in two canoes and, like spirits
of the dark, stole across the tiny
lake, where a pale and watery moon
now shining through the thin snow
veil, revealed a ghostly object not
wrought by nature. A tiny dirty
place it was, hardly room for the
four of us on the floor, but we, in-
different to all but the claims of
tired muscles, and curtained by the
dark, crawled into our sleeping bags
and soon at least some of us were
vying with the wood borers in pro-
ducing rhythmic noise upon the
midnight air.

Sa ae HIOSE =early § October
GE y Ne days at Camp Moose
|oAG) OW were cold but delight-
q Fe ful. We were truly in
| the very heart of moose
country. Tracks were
everywhere and we had even heard
two cows calling at different times in
a little bay not half a mile from
camp. Just at dusk the first call
came thrilling through the air. It
seemed as though some magic power
had lifted the veil that shuts out
man from the four-foots, and, thus
revealed, the strange beauty of it
held me breathless.

-——=

Although the party was entitled
to four moose under the law, we
intended to take but one. Bobbie |
and Sally had each killed a moose
the year before, so again to the guest
fell the favour of depriving some
majestic creature of his life that his
head might bear witness of his glory
long after his allotted time had
passed.

I accepted the office of gun bearer
because Bobbie would have felt a
mooseless trip to be lacking a neces-
sary savour—and there was a cer-
tain wall space in an Eastern country
home that had long proclaimed itself
an appropriate setting for a “big
head.”’ Therefore if fate offered a
sufficiently large one I was to play
Diana.

In order to assist fate as much as
possible, daily we hunted and almost
daily saw big game. Twice had Nim-
rod vindicated the hoodoo horn by
calling out a bull moose on gallant
errand bent, and after inspection
each had been allowed to retire,
disappointed and suspicious, saved
by a too modest growth of armament.

After my second refusal to “shoot

situation to the Cook. He seemed
to feel it necessary to explain, for
his pride’s sake, as we came back
so often empty handed.

“She wants a gee socker or none.
No picayune headpiece need apply.
Mr. Nimrod can sure call ’em out
with that fool horn. That fellah
to-day was easy.. Could most have
clubbed him.”’

One morning the Tevi were going
on a still hunt for deer and Nimrod
preferred to accompany them. Bert
and I were off at daybreak on our
quest. We reached a little cran-
berry bog that pushed out from the
usual wooded shore. Wrapped in
a white mist we waited and listened
for something afoot on the game
trail that was near by. Slowly the
white mist became thinner, then
rosy, and the familiar day-time forms
took shape in shadowy blurred gar-
ments, that in time gently glided
from them. The silence too awoke,
performing that subtle change that
marks a sleeper’s return to conscious-
ness, though there be no motion of
the body. The penetrating early

anyway” I heard Bert sum up the >

sd
——

7

|
—=

chill departed and full morning
welcomed.

Beaching the canoe we started
through the dripping bushes, head
high, to explore this new region.
Bert, examining the plentiful tracks,
indicated—one does little talking—
that a big moose had gone along a
very short time before, was probably
in the neighbourhood. With great-
est care not to be noisy and with
the quickened nerves and breath
that always comes when stalking,
we came to a tiny lake, embedded
in the forest and on which the
shadows still lingered. The moose
tracks led around it but I stopped
to get breath. The excitement of
something impending seemed to
sadly interfere with it. I felt there
was moose very near.

I pointed to Bert to give a call
with the hoodoo horn. He was not
a caller and shook his head. A per-
emptory nod from me brought a
shrug of the shoulder, which meant
“very well, since you insist, I will
try.” He gave two low grunts that
a cow sometimes makes when a bull
is near,

ar cs ’
*» s 7

; is —
of a ~~ Ve
a? eae on EF | . / Px

ACROSS THE TINY LAKE LOOMED A MAGNIFICENT ANIMAL

Bert had not taken the horn from
his lips when I saw his body stiffen
with attention, and the next instant
I heard a low thudding that struck
straight to my heart. It could mean
but one thing, a heavy animal coming
toward us on a run.

Bert handed me the gun quickly.
An angry bull moose at close quarters
is not the safest form of entertain-
ment. The thudding stopped sud-
denly and at the same second burst
upon me a beautiful vision. Across
the tiny lake and above the low
willows loomed a magnificent animal,
head carried erect proudly he bore
two broad blades of conquest. I
even seemed to see the blazing
glances that shot out from his eyes.
A superb creature full of strength
and beauty and passion. At his
feet was the placid water doubling
his stature in its mirror, beyond
were the solemn masses of the forest,
and now the sun seized that moment
to surprise this secluded spot and
struck a fitting bar of gold across
the monarch’s head. One foot up-
lifted he paused listening for another
sound to guide him toward his goal.

He had expected to see his charmer
at the lake and was a little puzzled.

“Shoot, he'll go,’’ whispered in
my ear.

“Isn’t it too far?” I breathed.
An impatient shake of the head
answered. The moose had turned
and stood entirely revealed in the
sunlight. He threw up his head
perhaps a little suspicious at the
silence. ‘Quick, you'll never have
another chance like this!”

“Are you sure it is a big head,
Bert?” The look of disgust that
draped my guide from head to foot
caused me to raise the gun. But
it wobbled in every direction. I
could not hold it up. All strength
seemed to have left. Calling pride
to the rescue I managed to get it
into position, and, even, to aim
carefully and fire. As I did so the
great creature turned on his back
track having decided that it was
about time to go. He stopped as
the sound of the explosion and then
another went booming toward him.
The sounds were the only things
that did reach him, as the bullets
struck far short in the water.

“Quick, there is time for another, ”
but I could not, and the bull slowly
disappeared.

With voice still shaking with ex-
citement, I exclaimed, ‘Bert, I am
glad he got away!” at which speech
Bert sat limply on a wet hummock,
apparently deprived of all ambition.

“Glad he got away.” He re-
peated half to himself. ‘‘That does
beat all. I’ve seen ’em miss often
enough, but I never seen one glad
of it afore.”’

I had missed my ‘gee socker”
and forfeited the admiration of the
camp. But the reward was great—
a picture for all time that never fails
to thrill me with excitement of that
wonderful moment when Nature al-
lowed me to take another lesson
from her primer of the woods.

It afforded Bert some consolation
that his “party” had missed the
“dead sure thing,” because the gun
sights had been knocked out in
travelling: But I knew better. My
gun may have been sighted for
fifty yards and the distance two
hundred, the shots may have been
“dead line, all right, but terrible

short, both bullets went in the same
hole in the water” and so on. It
was not for me to materialise that
vision. ‘It was a fine head. Finest
head as I ever see,’’ and Bert sighed
as he savagely rammed the cleaning
rod down the barrel of my hapless
gun.

“The idea of hunting the critter
with a toy like that,’’ was the Cook’s
comment, looking with disfavour
at my 30-30 Winchester carbine.

“Don’t blame the gun,” I pro-
tested, cutting short these camp
excuses. “It has brought down big
game before and can do it again, if
handled right.”’

“Well, what do you think of that!”
was Bobbie’s comment; “‘misses her
chance and says she’s glad of it.
That is the nerviest tale I ever
heard. You want a moose, don’t
you?” he asked suddenly.

“Ye-es—If it is a big one.” I
was beginning to feel the burden of
my failure, popular opinion was
against me, and in two days we were
leaving.

“Then come with me,” said the
host. “George knows of a splendid

place on Daly’s Lake where a big
fellow has been seen.”

“Very well, I will be ready in an
hour.”’ It was then the middle of
the afternoon. I proceeded to ac-
quire as many warm things as pos-
sible, including a fur coat and a hot

, water bag, as sitting in a canoe

motionless for hours while it gets
colder and colder, is not the most
comfortable way of putting in time;
and leaving all detachable sentiment
with Nimrod for safe keeping, I
settled myself in the canoe with a
“now or never and you know you
want to” attitude of mind that
boded ill for any moose with worthy
antlers that was unlucky enough
to get within range.

The way to Daly’s Lake took us
past the scene of the morning’s
experience. Before reémbarking Bert
had made a little fire that I might
thaw out. He had carefully scat-
tered the brands as usual when we
left; although there seemed small
need of it as the woods were soaked
from recent rains and melting snow.

Now to my infinite chagrin, we
saw that some treacherous spark

had managed to maintain life, had
smouldered for hours and then burst
forth. There is no crime so black
in camp life—short of murder—as
“setting the woods on fire.” Bert
had taken all precaution, but how
convince the host of that when the
flames were crackling merrily and
spreading every moment? Fortun-
ately the mischief had but just
begun, and an hour’s hard work was
sufficient to extinguish every spark
beyond the possibility of a revival.

This disgrace coupled with the
disappointment already dealt the
camp by me added the finishing
touch to my present purpose.

Henceforth there was no pity and
no sentiment. My soul was no longer
open to the beauty of the evening.
It may have been beautiful, I only
remember that it was cold, and that
I sat in the middle of the canoe, gun
in lap, alert for a chance to use it,
as George propelled us_ swiftly,
silently to a little bay in Daly’s Lake
that was half choked by bog and
rank marsh grass.

The sun had set, but there was
plenty of half-light. I scanned the

sky, not to see the twinkling North-
ern Lights, nor the orange and violet
aftermath, but to calculate how
much more time one could hope to
have light enough to shoot by.

Bobbie took up the hoodoo horn
he had borrowed from Nimrod, and
made a call. I remember fearing
that it was hardly a good enough
imitation to summon a moose. It
might be more efficacious in driving
one way, and I desired above all
else that a moose should come and
be killed.

It might be an unfair advantage
for human intelligence to lure the
animal thus by his instinct, but it
was the usual method—away with
sentiment. Had I not left it behind
at the camp?

In fifteen minutes Bobbie gave
another call. It shrieked and bel-
lowed over the swale to the ridge
beyond—and—was answered. ‘This
time I was disturbed by no quakes.
[ gripped the gun—ready. In two
minutes we heard the bugle again
much closer. We could even hear
the crashing of branches. A _ bull
was coming, careless of noise, coming

—coming on the run. It was an in-
describable moment. That creature
coming—on—on nearer—and me
waiting to kill him, if I could.

Once the faint noises that told of
his progress, stopped And we won-
dered anxiously if it could have been
a bear we had heard. Or perhaps
the bull was waiting for another
call. But the slashing of bushes and
breaking of sticks began again, louder
than ever. Then we heard grunts!
He was coming—closer and closer—
awful moments, but I would not let
myself think. I simply sat there—
grim, tense, ready, until he should
burst into the open. When he did,
he seemed to fill the whole horizon.
I had no need to ask about the great
forest on his head which he tossed
about like feathers, as up and down
in the oozy, log-choked bog he on-
ward strode. Through the swale
straight toward us he came half-
way, and paused. A tighter grip
clutched my heart—now. I stood
up in the canoe, George and Bobbie
strained to hold it steady. I could
see him better thus over the marsh
grass. Eighty yards, perhaps, |

thought. The deadly muzzle of my
gun swung into focus on the great
glistening mud-splashed shoulder—
he turned his head from us, I remem-
ber being glad as I pulled the trigger,
that this lessened the chance of a
mis-shot hitting the horns ;

A most unholy joy seized me when
George cried!

“He’s hit! Give him another!”

This is no place for the horrid
details which I insist upon forgetting.
In a quarter of an hour it was over.
I was soaked in mud from waist
down, having repeatedly slipped into
the bog in my efforts to get to him
quickly and put the finishing touch,
so that he would not suffer. An
overwhelming sense of relief rushed
over me—unsportsmanlike, perhaps,
but blessed. The icy grip of murder-
ous intent relaxed and I felt once
more human.

The last of the half-light had gone
now. We could do little more until
morning, except to protect the pre-
cious head from prowling four-foots
and birds of the air. George’s vest
wrapped around the great square
nose was sufficient for the former, as

no wolf, coyote, or fox would go near
that human taint on the vest, and
my handkerchief tied on the highest
horn tip would serve to scare away
the latter. Even the fearless Whiska
Fan would hesitate to approach any-
thing so peculiar.

Thus in the dark we left what an
hour before had been one of the
most superb animals of the woods,
enjoying his birthright of life and
power and beauty, and now—a mag-
nificent set of antlers, the finest that
had been taken out of that region
in years, no longer his, but mine
and a thousand pounds of carrion
meat, a too royal banquet for the
wolves. Perhaps the scales balanced:
each must judge for himself.

I deferred a verdict as we felt
our course along the black and silent
waterways to camp.

Bobbie’s exultation was unalloyed
and infectious. His guest had up-
held the honour of the camp—we
had come there for moose; there-
fore moose we must get—and had
provided the fitting climax to the
trip.

Next morning when Bert saw the

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Mie er ee ee NS Oe reo

NI GUaadINS GNV HOUVNOW NATIVaA AHL LV daxooT AHS

head he appeared to be mightily
amused:

“So you got him, after all!”

“Got who?”

“Why that is the fellow you were
glad you did not shoot yesterday
morning. He was meant for you
all right. I told you he was a wonder.
There ain’t two heads like that in
these parts. I noticed that right
palm and split ear particular.”’

My emotions at this information
were varied. It was like finding
that one had strangled the ghost of
one’s first love. The previous act
of mercy was nullified—engulfed in
the present deed.

Also with the morning came the
Scientist with calipers and rule,
note-book and pencil. The much
interesting information “my moose”
furnished for the advancement of
knowledge has no place in this record
of experience and emotion, though
it helped to make the scales balance.

Nimrod also discovered, by her
autograph of course, that a lady
moose had visited this fallen mon-
arch of her realm; perhaps in the
moonlight had called gently, had

sniffed, advanced cautiously and
sniffed again in surprise—had snorted
then, with fear, and wheeling in her
path, had fled from the prostrate
form that never more would answer
to her summons.

For the last time we rose at dawn,
as we had done so many times before,
breaking ice in the water bucket that
stood waiting at the door, when a
far away sound held us listening. One
is always three-fourths ears in the
woods, as one is three-fourths eyes
on the plains.

“Tt is wolves” said Nimrod hurry-
ing into more clothes. They are
coming this way!

The broken noises were getting
louder and I could distinguish several
voicesinthe chorus of yapsand howls.

“It is their hunting cry” Nimrod.
interpreted excitedly. ‘‘They are
chasing something—a deer, surely,
by the way it travels.”

The din was now like a whole
menagerie let loose.

“The deer is hard pressed. The
wolves are gaining on it. Hear
them now!” The language of the
wolves was no mystery to Nimrod.

“Why her?” I asked.

“Probably a doe, she is not putting
up a very good fight. Listen, I
believe she is leading them right into
camp!”

If she did, it would not be the first
time we had known a wild animal
at the point of death from its ene-
mies, seek protection from the arch
enemy, man, and with us the trust
had never been betrayed.

The incredible racket of that pack
of hunting wolves about to close on
its quarry, was blood curdling. They
were not a hundred yards from us,
when, like the shutting of a door, the
hubbub stopped. The wolves had
discovered the trick and, not daring
to pursue farther, had slunk away,
disappointed, vanquished for that
time.

Having accomplished her: deliver-
ance, the deer took no unnecessary
chances with us, but sneaked off in
another direction.

We had seen nothing, but to those
who had ears and understanding, the
whole drama was as legible as a
printed book.

With this diploma from our “little

eo

nn

brothers,” to testify that although
we often slip back into the stone age
attitude, we do have, and frequently
use, the divine attributes of justice
and mercy, we turned our feet once
again toward the bricks and mortar,
toward the frills of life, desirable
and delicious, taxing and enervating.

On an Eastern wall hangs a beau-
tiful moose head with broad pal-
mated antlers and gleaming tips,
that like the magician’s carpet is
capable of transporting us at any
time back to the days in the open,
when blood ran through the veins,
quick and red, when we worked,
played, idled and rested with a vigour
and a joy that never comes else-
where.

Perhaps the scales weighed even,
after all.

——
i

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Nd

PART IV.

IN NORWAY

THE NEW HUNTING OF REINDEER—
WHEN I ATE THE CAKE AND
HAD IT TOO

ROUGH blood one

RN; may come to the light.
Nations have too often
shown us this imper-
fect way. Although
never an enthusiastic
murderer of animals, I, as already
confessed, had not been proof against
the temptation to secure a trophy
“big head”; yet may I claim the
grace of moderation in the face of
unusual opportunity. Out of nine
hundred and_ eighty-three deer
counted in three weeks in the Flat-

tops, nearly all within gunshot, I
had taken but one. Of five hundred
elk seen in the Jackson’s Hole dis-
trict, one; of eighty-six antelope in
the Shoshones, one; of eleven bears
in the Rockies, one; of a hundred
coyotes, none (for reasons). How
the alleged ‘‘fantail’’ and the moose
came to join the group, has been
duly set forth.

Always but an incident, not the
reason, for out-door living, to quote
an ancient saying, I had “no further
stomach” for killing; and when we
started for Reindeer land, I laid my
gun at the feet of this modern Nim-
rod, indeed “a mighty hunter before
the Lord” and became a devotee
of the New Hunting.

Armed with camera instead of
gun, one receives in equal lavish
measure the blessings of companion-
ship with woods and waters; one can
steal from the animal his every
beauty and yet leave him none the
poorer. This ideal hunting requires
all the skill of the old-fashioned
gunner and much ingenuity besides,
for an animal can be shot much
farther away than photographed.

And thus equipped we hied away to
Norway, Nimrod and I, the hunter
passion keen for our quarry, the
reindeer, the Norway caribou. To
wrest from it, if possible, not its life
but its manner of life; not its head
with its bony processes without,
but proofs of the mental processes
within.

Norway is a land of bare rocks,
bleak wastes, and silent waters. Its
charm gains slowly but, like the
people, is of enduring quality.

The uninviting uplands of dwarf
half-frozen vegetation seem to stretch
on to the world’s end, and yet the
houses are built small-footed and
broad-shouldered, as though land
were valuable, and of wood where
wood is scarce and stone is aggres-
sively abundant. The farm
buildings, their thatched roofs well
weighted with stones, huddle close
to form a bulwark against the winter
drifts, and often an extra barrier
against the Snow King is carefully
up-thrown. The saeter that shelters
solitary herdsmen of the rensdyr,
is a habitation merely, the next
remove from a cave dwelling, and

the farmers’ houses have evolved
but little.

Stern as their hotfjeldene, sturdy
as the little horses they rear, are
the people, fearless as t’ e wolver-
ine, and inheriting the silent depths
of their gloomy beautiful fiords.
They laugh, it is the sunlight on the
mountains, yet one does not forget
the half-year winter night. They
save, niggard Nature makes provi-
dent man. Every wisp of hay is
garnered and cured as one would
herbs, on a frame. The crop from
a grass patch no bigger than a city
back yard, tucked among the cliffs
high in the air, is sent down by
means of a hay-wire to the little
farm-house, itself clinging to the
mountain side with an air that some-
day it may forget and topple into
the deep waiting fiord beneath.

Those quiet fiords! the little cough-
ing steamer that daily bustles
through, bearing its human freight
from the outside world, like a bum-
ble bee before a brooding storm,
only enhances their silence. Be-
tween the fiords and stringing them
together, gem after gem, run kilos

and kilos of ribbon roads. Here one
takes no iron horse, but an open
carriage and rough-coated ponies;
and one travels at pleasure, the
summer is always light, midnight
or noon the majestic scenery is
unfolded with compelling beauty.

Thus for days Nimrod and I
travelled and came to Nystuen, back
of which on the uplands we were
to' hunt the reindeer. We had
carefully transported our weapons,
two cameras, and saved our ammu-
nition, so that we had several dozen
rounds of shots, and we longed to
“bag some game.” But the inhabi-
tants of Nystuen move slowly and
entertain an Oriental attitude to-
ward foreign women.

“Yes, there were reindeer back
on the hills, several thousand of
them. Yes, we could go to them.
Yes, Updal had come back only the
day before and knew where they
were, but better not go to-day,
perhaps to-morrow. Yes, there were
ponies to ride, but better wait.”’

This went on for several days
which Nimrod put in, however,
sketching a pulk-buk, a most moth-

eaten specimen of a tame reindeer,
and the harness and pulk, a boat
shaped sled. I took a ride in this
rensdyr pulk on the grass, there
being no convenient snow-patch, and
found it strange, uncomfortable loco-
motion.

The pulk is drawn by a single
thong; the reindeer is guided by
another thong, swung in the direction
one desires to go. There is nothing
between one’s low crouching self,
and some clicking free-flying hoofs,
but training and inherent courtesy.
Stories are not lacking, indeed, of
angered pulk-deer turning on their
drivers, whose safety depended upon
the agility with which the pulk could
be capsized with the driver inside.

Though absolutely wild, the rein-
deer herds back of Nystuen are kept
track of by a herder and his dog,
usually a sharp-nosed canine, wolfish
in colour and attributes. Together
they spend solitary weeks in the
region the herds favour, rendering
occasional service to a simla (mother
doe) protecting her rens kalv from
a wolverine or a venturesome bear
that may have been lured so high

by the hope of a dainty meal. Six
weeks the herder daily endeavours
to locate the reindeer, seeking his
shelter in one of the many saeters
that dot the hills; then he is relieved
by another youth equally hardy and
knowing not fear. Periodically some
lusty deer give up their lives that
man may live the fatter, the meat
being used as beef is in America.
Delicious we found it, when properly
prepared.

Indeed the reindeer is a host in
himself for the North Country
dwellers. They drive him, they
hunt him, they wear him, they eat
him and still remains the bloom of
his wild inheritance that pervades
the spirit of the people, their tra-
ditions and their literature.

The Spanish manana, the English
to-morrow, the Norwegian—never
mind—are synonyms, all mean post-
pone the evil. There was obviously
a hitch; at the end of a week
we got no nearer the reindeer
herds. Something was preventing.
I determined to discover what.
Half an hour’s work with the
interpreter, consisting principally

of silences, divulged the awful
secret.

Madam was to accompany her
husband, and in all Nystuen, a hamlet
of three houses, there was not a
side-saddle!

The next morning two buff-
coloured stocky animals with
roached manes and flowing tails
were waiting saddled in the stable
yard. Madam had declared she
cared not what the animal wore so
long as it would carry her. The
statement had evidently brought
welcome release from responsibility.
Gravely, Updal the guide, who was
to walk, presented a hand for assis-
tance in mounting. An English
jockey-pad about the size of a post-
age stamp, unfortunately not as ad-
hesive, was perched on a broad flat
back, two diminutive stirrups hung
from it and the girth was a piece of
hemp rope. A snaffle-bit was held
in the animal’s mouth by a piece of
twine and sheer equine amiability.
Without comment on either side, I
was assisted on to this circus-backed
steed thus panoplied for unpathed
wastes and gathering up the twine,

of different sizes knotted together,
that did duty for reins, started on
the long march back into the snow-
patched hills, hunting in its own
country, the swift-footed, wary
reindeer. |
At first we passed clumps of the
tasselated dwarf willow, and the
straggling ground Juniper displaying
its cheery red beads; ‘near the bogs
grew the white tufts of the cotton-
grass and, in patches, was a favourite
reindeer food, rensblomst, a short-
stemmed white flower shaped like
an overgrown buttercup. Then,
as one ascended came only an occa-
sional black birch, twisted and feeble
as a rickety child with the struggle
for life in its harsh home. One of
these harboured a hardy field-fare
that had nested and. brought
her brood almost to the flying stage,
when our coming threw her into a
state of wild excitement. She darted
back and forth over our heads utter-
ing a harsh cry and discharging at
us several volleys from her natural
weapon. Doubtless she had never
before seen an unwinged biped giant
so unpleasantly near, and though

Y)

My

(an.
i

Vabeld /

|

altogether uncalled for, her coura-
geous resistance must be judged from
her own standard. It was a pretty
exhibition of mother defence, while
the babies in the birch cheeped and
cheeped.

They were the last of the breath-
ing things; such a dead country! Its
talent of stones and moss wrapped
in a serviette of snow, and buried
—preserved but unproductive. On
and on we pushed for hours. Little
pools of melted snow rested in the
hollows, the tiny red cups of bugle
moss on stiff grey stems nestled
against the southern rocky surfaces,
which, somewhat chilly stoves, catch
and hold what heat there is. It was
approved reindeer country. Every
moment we scanned the distant
slopes for some moving object that
could mean but one thing.

The morning wore away, the after-
moon was nearly gone. Of course,
there was no dark to fear as the night
hours approached, but there were
other considerations, such as food
and rest and a glowing fire, those
“chill ancestral spaces” pall in time,
especially as the day had been one

long acrobatic endeavour to keep the
postage stamp on top of my charger.
Once he sneezed and lost his bit, so
careless of him, but with grave con-
cern the string was readjusted behind
his ears by the string man, who
was never far away.
Seven o'clock and still no sign.
Updal on a boulder had been looking
long toward the west; suddenly
he slipped down the east side and
motioned for us to dismount noise-
lessly and anchoring the horses with
stones, led an elaborate stalk to the
crown of a near hill. On raising
our heads over it cautiously, a great
sweep of desolation came in view.
At first I saw nothing different, then,
about a mile off a brown patch like
a dried leaf on a sheet began to move
zig-zag slowly then swiftly in a
straight line and disappeared. It
was my first glimpse of reindeer.
Over a thousand were in the herd,
Updal said, as we hurried forward.
They had been feeding and had not
become visible until passing over
the snow surface and they had dis-
appeared for me where the brown-
grey earth swallowed their colour

aN

WINS;
SH \\

Y

again. Fortunately, unalarmed they
were coming diagonally toward us.
I saw them again nearer and they
looked like maggots crawling swiftly
along.

Another hour of patient progres-
sion behind sheltering knolls and
boulders, when Updal motioned for
still greater care and to get ready to
‘shoot.’

The silence of that man-neglected
place was broken by a curious low
sound, like the noises of stiff paper
being crumpled, or of a Katydid
chorus muffled to pianissimo; this
sank away into the quiet, then began
again louder. Updal pulled us
still closer into the hollow where
we were hidden. The noises stopped
again. Quickly he urged us between
some boulders and around a little
knoll; then a wonderful vision pre-
sented itself, a great herd of grey-
brown animals with snag-like antlers,
suggesting a flooded forest, were
grouped between a lakelet and some
rock-walled steeps, a family party
at home in a most appropriate
reindeer drawing-room. Quietly
were they feeding, some drinking at a

A REINDEER DRAWING ROOM

grey-eyed pool, a simla was nursing
her kalv, a young white buk was
scratching his hardening horn with
a casual hind foot. Two nekker
were butting each other in youthful
play. We were admitted to the
mysteries of their wild life. So
fascinated, I almost forgot the hunt-
er’s duty, but quickly fired a shot.

The herd was drifting our way
and the wind was right, so we waited.
At forty yards I fired again and got
what proved a fine picture. Still
they came. Finally when one huge
buck was within twelve feet I snapped
again. The click of the camera
—always that mischievous click—
betrayed me, the buck threw up his
head, gave the loud alarm-snort.
Every head went up and snorted.
The herd wheeled about. Whiff!
the paper crackling of their hoofs
rippled from end to end as they
swayed to the right, to the left and
were gone. They did not seem to
walk or run, they simply went, with
a crash of little clicks that the hooves
made when raised.

They were gone; but they had
left the memory of their presence

and the unwarmed, unflowered coun-
try was desolate no longer. I had
seen the life it cherishes and as the
spirit of an owner pervades his room
though absent, this vast attic of the
world seemed a proper setting for
those mild-eyed silver-coated crea-
tures, descended from the North
Wind.

Carefully we carried our hunting
trophies back to Nystuen, an easy
matter, several hundred reindeer
had but the weight of a sheet of
paper; and although antiquities are
honourable, one time-worn adage
must be cast off, as a rensdyr casts
his winter coat, for we had managed
to ‘‘eat the cake and have it too.”’

S G=

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