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TUFTS COLLEGE LIBRARY. 

- PURCHASED WITH 

TERM BILL FUNDS. 













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T H F 

OUTING 

MAGAZINE 

SPORT ■ ADVENTURE 
TRAVEL ■ FICTION 



VOLUME LVIII 
APRIL — SEPTEMBER, 1911 



. pg OUTING PUBLISHING COMPANY^ 

y^SP 315 FIFTH AVENUE - - - - NEW YORK CITY '| 



bfy-73 



CONTENTS OF VOLUME LVIII 



APRIL— SEPTEMBER, 1911 



SPECIAL ARTICLES page 

Airedale, The, Biggest and Best of the Terriers Williams Haynes 730 

After the Rise. . .• Samuel G. Camp 478 

Baseball as the Players See It. Illustrated with photographs Edward Lyell Fox 143 

Best Paying Thing on the Farm, The 418 

Brown Bear of Alaska, The. Illustrated with drawings and paintings by the author 

Bel more Browne 259 

Brown Thrasher, The 720 

Calm Weather Sail Boat, The Lawrence La Rue 474 

Camp Supper, The Henry N. Holmes 608 

Canoeing in Eden. Illustrated with photographs Hulbert Footner 515 

Caring for the Clutch of the Automobile Harold Whiting Slauson 602 

Catching the Rainbow Trout, illustrated with photographs Francis R. Steel 482 

Census Man and the Cowboys, A. Illustrated with photographs Howe Williams 408 

Colorado, a National Playground. Illustrated with photographs .. Wm. McLeod Raine 202 

Conquest of No Man's Land, The. Illustrated with photographs. .. .Herbert K. Job 525 

Cowboy War, The • Arthur Chapman 498 

Cruising with the Yahgans. Illustrated with photographs. .Chas. Wellington Furlong 3 

Cut Pole, A- Illustrated with photographs Warwick S. Carpenter 238 

Dampier, Pirate, Explorer and Author John R. Spears 625 

Dog of To-day, The. Illustrated with photographs Henry E. Parker 449 

Ducks on the Rock. Illustrated with photographs Percy M. Cushing 654 

Draft Horses in America. Illustrated with photographs David Buffum 97 

Fishing the Binnacles. Illustrated with photographs George M. Johnson 25 

For all Kinds of Fishing Samuel G. Camp 686 

For the Short Light Trip. Illustrated with photographs Warwick S. Carpenter 284 

Floating Through the Ozarks. Illustrated with photographs. Charles Phelps Cushing 537 

Flicker, The 402 

Garden and Field at Twin flower. Illustrated with photographs by Julian A. Dimock. 

Helen Dodd 17 

Getting the Most Out of the Magneto Harold Whiting Slauson 348 

Going Light in Horseback Travel. Illustrated with photographs Dillon Wallace 714 

Gold Rifle Sights Again 586 

Harpooning the Tarpon. Illustrated with photographs by Julian A. Dimock. 

A. W. Dimock 394 

How to Build a Knockabout. Illustrated with diagrams Clay Emery 595 

How to Fish a Trout Stream Samuel G. Camp 103 

In the Trout Land of Idaho. Illustrated with photographs. . .Charles Stuart Moody 665 

In the Wilds of a Hoosier Creek. Illustrated with photographs. .Ralph H. Goodale 224 

Keeping the Motor's Lungs Clean Harold Whiting Slauson 211 

Keeping the Water Out of the Motor Boat Laxvrence La Rue 366 

Lafitte, the Last of the Buccaneers John R. Spears 242 

Landing the Black Bass Samuel G. Camp 563 

Learning to Fly. Illustrated with photographs Augustus Post 13J 

Learning to Swim. Illustrated with photog raphs Hrolf Wisby 449 

Length of Film, A. Illustrated with photographs by the author. .. .Percy M. Cushing 154 

Living off the Land Helen Dodd 557 



vi CONTENTS 

SPECIAL ARTICLES— Continued . page 

Lost Paradise, A Charles Askins 42 

Making a Home for the Motor Boat. Illustrated with photographs. .Lawrence La Rue 587 

Making Nature Help. Illustrated with photographs Ernest Harold Baynes 231 

Making of Tennis Champions, The Forbes Watson 371 

Measuring Your Gun Stock. Illustrated with photographs Edward C. Crossman 695 

Mixed Bag, A ' 119, 216, 376, 631 

More Power for the Motor Boat. Illustrated With photographs. .. .Lawrence La Rue 738 

Motor Car's Spark of Life, A Harold Whiting Slauson 92 

Muscle Maketh Man ■ Woods Hutchinson, M.D. 427 

Mystery of Automobile Transmission Harold Whiting Slauson 443 

New Ideas for the Motor Boatman Laivrence La Rue 116 

News of the Outdoor World 127, 254, 383, 511, 638, 764 

Racing in Small Sailboats. Illustrated with photographs L. de B. Handley 609 

Raiding with the Frenchmen John R. Spears 751 

Right Way with Fishing Tackle, The Geo. M. Johnson 221 

Route Sketching. Illustrated with drawings by the Author Horace Kephart 297 

Paul Rainey, Sportsman George Fortiss 746 

Photography's Debt to the Tree Tops. Illustrated with photographs. 

Charles Phelps Cushing 273. 

Ponies and Profits David Buff urn 701 

Putting on the Brakes of the Automobile Harold Whiting Slauson 689 

Saddle and Camp in the Rockies Dillon Wallace 

On the Road to Jackson's Hole. Illustrated with photographs 70 

The Tragedy of the Elk. Illustrated with photographs. 187 

The End of the Trail. Illustrated with photographs 319 

Saving our Fish Dillon Wallace 575 

Scarlet Tanager, The 169 

Sheppard, King of Middle Distance Runners Herbert Reed 334 

Shooting the Wily Snipe Frederick Arthur Dominy 683 

Stream That Always Laughs, The. Illustrated with photographs. ..N. C. Adossides 61 

Tarpon of Turner's River, The. Photographs by Julian A. Dimock. .A. W . Dinwck 353 

Trolling and Trolling Tackle Samuel G. Camp 306 

Trip that Failed, The. Illustrated by Geo. C. Harper /. Rudolf Ives 721 

Using the Shears to Help the Camera. Illustrated with photographs 

Charles Phelps Cushing 706 

Vireo, The 524 

What Is "Inside Baseball?" Illustrated with photographs Edward Lyell Fox 488 

World of Sport, The 124, 249, 379, 506, 634, 759 

FICTION 

Bad Medicine. Serial story. Drawings by R. W. Amick Hulbert Footner 

48, 176, 309, 418 

Blunderer, The. Drawings by Thornton D. Skidmore Nevil G. Henshaw 675 

Buck of the Bamboos. Illustrated by the author Chas. Livingston Bull 387 

For Bed and Board. Short Story Lloyd Roberts 302 

Fishing with a Gun. Drawings by Thornton D. Skidmore Stephen Chalmers 419 

Girl at Hughie's, The. Drawings by Neal A. Trus 1 ow K. J. George 465 

Inoculating Ed. Illustrated with photographs Carita Lemmon 29 

Jack Otto, Hero. Short story B. W. Mitchell 113 

Master Rogue, The. Short story. Drawings by Chas. Livingston Bull..../ 7 . St. Mars 161 

Prairie Chickens of Yesterday Charles Askins 756 

Ranch, The. Serial story. Drawings by S. H. Riesenberg. .Stewart Edward White 643 

Saint, The. Drawings by Charles Livingston Bull F. St. Mars 287 

Some Bears Arthur E. McFarlane 170 

Some Bears, But Mostly Parson. Drawings by George C. Harper. 

Percy M. Cushing 339 

Special Messenger, The. Drawings by Thornton D Skidmore. Charles Alden Seltzer 566 
Thief at Circle Bar, The. Short story. Drawings by Clarence Rowe. 

Charles Alden Seltzer 83 

Traitors, The. Drawings by Charles Livingston Bull F. St. Mars 547 

White Nightmare, The. Short story. Drawings by Chas. Livingston Bull.F. St. Mars 33 



CONTENTS vii 

VERSE page 

Call, The Cora D. Fenton 556 

Pools David Irving ic8 

DRAWINGS, PAINTINGS AND PHOTOGRAPHS 

Bear Hunter, The. Painting Belmore Browne 258 

Coal Devils on a Coal Tree. Drawing Charles Livingston Bull 130 

Fisherman, The. Photograph Clara B. Joyi e 713 

Great Big Moon at First, A. Pa'nting Charles Livingston Bull 514 

He Charged Into their Midst. Drawing Charles Livingston Bull 386 

Heart of the Deep Unknown, The. Photograph Ruth T. Colby 642 

International Polo Photographs 622 

It Fell with the Force of a Bolt. Drawing Charles Livingston Bull 2 

Life's at the Spring. Photographs Grace E. Mounts 403 

Oldest Games of All, The. Photographs 662 

On the Eighteenth Green. Photograph 464 

Royal Sport of Mountain Climbing The. Photograph 404 

Song of the Paddle, The. Photograph Jessie Tarbox Beats 737 

When the Trout are Rising. Photograph 103 

Where King Moose Lifts His Head with Antlers Crowned. Photograph. 

Ruth T. Colby 750 

Where Minnows Abound. Photograph Grace E. Mounts 365 





Illustration for " The White Nightmare " by Charles Livingston Bull. 
IT FELL WITH THE FORCE OF A BOLT. 




Volume LVIII 



APRIL, 191 1 



Number i 



CRUISING WITH THE YAHGANS 

BY CHARLES WELLINGTON FURLONG 
Illustrated with Photographs by the Author 




WIRLING around Cape Fro- 
ward, the southernmost tip of 
the mainland of South Amer- 
ica, now east, now west, 
through the Strait of Magel- 
lan, surge the mighty tides of 
the southern oceans, their huge combers 
ever battering against the mountain 
islands of the Fuegian Archipelago, and 
their icy currents swashing through 
them. 

Never were men more isolated than 
Magellan and his crews when they 
passed through the Straits on what, to 
me, stands as the most remarkable voy- 
age of exploration the world has known. 
Magellan undoubtedly took the archipel- 
ago south of the Straits to be a single 
land, perhaps the northernmost part of 
an Antarctic continent. 

On either side of the Strait, he saw 
camp and signal fires. To starboard the 
smokes of the big Tehuelches' fires rose 
in great black volumes from the dry 
mate-negro bushes, breaking the long, 
level line of the Patagonian pampas. 



To port, those of the wild Ona floated 
from the undulating northlands of their 
island. Then, further westward, among 
the steep, mountainous defiles of the 
Strait, on either side, the smokes of the 
treacherous canoe Indians, the Alacu- 
loops and Yahgans, were stenciled blue 
against the dank, somber woods which 
clothe most of the mountains of these 
islands to the height of a thousand feet. 

So Magellan called this land Tierra- 
del-Fuego — Land of Fire. However, 
there is a tradition that he really called 
it Tierra-del-Huomo — Land of Smoke — 
but that, on the return of the expedition, 
the sovereign of Spain changed it to 
Tierra-del-Fuego, saying, "Where there 
is smoke there must be fire." * 

My purpose in these parts was explo- 
ration and the ethnic study of those lit- 
tle known Amerinds who have almost 
disappeared, and about whom the world 

* Formerly the entire archipelago was called Tierra- 
del-Fuego, now this name applies to its largest island. 
The other most important islands hive their names, but 
the archipelago as a whole is known as Fuegia. 



Copyright, rqn, by Outing 



Publishing 
3 



Co. All rights reserved. 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



knows so little. One of my most im- 
portant expeditions was among the Yah- 
gan tribe, the southernmost inhabitants 
of the world. 

The focal point of civilization in the 
Territory of the Magellanes and in all 
southern Patagonia is that interesting, 
little straits settlement of twelve thou- 
sand inhabitants — Punta Arenas (Punta'- 
renas) — P. A., they call it there. As it 
is the Mecca of the Patagonian and 
Fuegian settlers, so it is the center of 
the most deserted territory of the dis- 
appearing tribes. 

Passing of the Aborigines 

The Patagonians (Tehuelches) have 
shrunk back to the high pampas, and no 
longer come to trade at Sandy Point 
(Punta Arenas) ; the Onas have re- 
treated, fighting the ranchers, to the im- 
penetrable mountain fastnesses of 
Tierra-del-Fuego ; the Alaculoops se- 
crete themselves in the western archipel- 
ago, rarely coming east of Cape Tamar, 
while the Yahgans, farthest south of all, 
are found only in the region of Beagle 
Channel and those lonely, dangerous 
reaches in the vicinity of Cape Horn. 

Hidden in a beautiful bay in Beagle 
Channel, far south of the Strait of Ma- 
gellan, framed by an impassable barrier 
of jagged, glacial-capped mountains, Ar- 
gentina maintains in this out-of-the- 
world spot a penal colony of murderers 
and felons, with its little mushroom set- 
tlement composed mainly of prisoners 
on parole and adventurers. This is the 
southernmost town in the world — Ushu- 
waia, they call it, retaining the old Yah- 
gan name of the place. 

Except for a couple of sheep ranches 
along the narrow camp at the base of 
the mountains on Beagle Channel, a log- 
ging camp or two, and a few adventur- 
ers, the storm-swept archipelago is in- 
habited only by the creatures of the deep, 
a limited variety of land animals, sea 
birds, and the roving Yahgans. 

Few vessels penetrate these regions, 
and I was fortunate to have been brought 
south, through special favor of the Ar- 
gentine navy, in their frigate-rigged war- 
ship, the President Sarmiento, on her 
annual cruise through those regions, and 



was dropped ashore at that isolated con- 
vict settlement. 

In Ushuwaia fortune still favored me, 
enabling me to charter the only boat at 
that time in the harbor, a heavily built, 
thirty-five-foot cutter, the Garibaldi, run 
by an Austrian named Beban. 

In this cutter he transports sheep from 
the ranches to Ushuwaia, for the con- 
victs, occasionally conveys miners and 
their supplies to the outlying islands east- 
ward, or goes south Ponsonby Sound 
way, and trades rum for hard-earned ot- 
ter and seal skins of the Yahgans. Some- 
times he — well, though Ushuwaia is in 
Argentine territory, the Garibaldi is 
registered in Punta Arenas and flies the 
one-starred flag of Chile. The Garibaldi 
carried a cargo of sheep below decks, and 
the filth and stench of the craft would 
have made a pigsty blush for shame. 

We started south in the gray, gloomy 
drizzle of low-hanging storm-clouds, as 
characteristic of Fuegia as its fierce winds 
and penetrating, humid cold, due to the 
snow- and ice-capped mountain ranges. 
Even in the middle of summer blinding 
snowstorms are often of hourly occur- 
rence, the dangerous winds prevailing 
from the north and south of west. 

Close-hauled, with dripping oilskins 
reflecting the dull light of the clouds, we 
shot through Murray Narrows with the 
current. The intricacy of these channel 
ways is hardly conceivable except through 
experience, and on the very latest ad- 
miralty charts most of the coast is not 
only imperfectly plotted, but there are 
still sections showing the undefined dot- 
ted line of unexplored coast. In these 
out-of-the-way channels and bays the 
nomadic Yahgan paddles his dugout 
canoe and pitches his wigwam on their 
shores. As he eats his staple meal of 
mussels, he chucks out the shells, cover- 
ing his sites with their glistening heaps. 
These kitchen-middens represent the ac- 
cumulation of untold generations of these 
canoe people, whom Charles Darwin 
first considered of such a low order of 
humanity. 

Their rugged, desolate land, ever hold- 
ing over them the possibility of star- 
vation ; their constant fighting against 
storm, cold, and disaster; their everlast- 
ing squatting, haunched in canoes, has 




THE BOAT IN WHICH MR. FURLONG CRUISED THROUGH BEAGLE CHANNEL. 
ITS GREAT LENGTH AND NARROW BEAM UNFITTED IT FOR ROUGH SEA. 



indeed made crude and distorted bodies 
which otherwise would be well-propor- 
tioned and comely. But these same ele- 
ments have also quickened their powers 
of observation, made them cunning, cau- 
tiously fearless and treacherous. 

It is often most difficult to locate these 
Fuegians. But there was none better 
able to do this than Beban, the lone 
trader of these parts. The chances were 
good for finding some of them on the 
shores of Rio Douglas, where a lone mis- 
sionary was ensconced, and so, two days 
after leaving Ushuwaia, we dropped 
anchor in the mouth of Douglas Bay. 
Beban, after setting the whole camp in 
a turmoil with his "aqua diente," shook 
me with his horny hand and sailed away 
for Picton Island. The Yahgans here 
were, some forty all told, feeding liter- 
ally, rather than figuratively, on the 
bread of life from the missionary's scant 
supply of stores. 

My work consisted in studying the 
life of these people and exploring the 
neighboring islands and the Rio Douglas 
in canoes and a narrow boat which had 
seen its best days. Among these Yah- 
gans there were many interesting indi- 
viduals, but old Asagyinges and his wife, 



shown in the accompanying illustration, 
serve as types. 

With three Yahgans in a canoe I fol- 
lowed up this little river and plotted its 
course. Shortly after leaving the camp, 
we passed half a canoe, split lengthwise 
from stem to stern, cast up on the beach, 
a reminder of a double murder perpe- 
trated in it the night before my arrival, 
and now, after their custom, it had been 
destroyed with the rest of the property 
of the deceased. 

Here and there were other abandoned 
canoes lying bleaching on the shores. 
For miles the tide was perceptible, until 
we reached a point where the river nar- 
rowed and became a stream. The reced- 
ing tide left the rocky bottom quite shal- 
low, and this, with the swift current, 
forced us to abandon going further with 
the canoe. Up to this point the Rio 
Douglas could be considered almost as 
much one of those narrow arms of the 
sea as a river. 

Leaving the Indians in charge, I 
pushed through the thick Antarctic 
beeches and underbrush, or waded in the 
river, some distance into the forest, far 
enough to feel sure that the river swings 
northerly, with its source perhaps in the 




Copyright. 1QI/, by C. If'. Furlong. 

ASAGYINGES .VXD HIS WIFE, TYPICAL FUEGIANS OF THE RIO DOUGLAS 

COUNTRY. 



region back of Woolya. There is also 
a possibility of some extensions or lakes 
along its course further up, but I found 
no indications of such. 

Certain sections of the Fuegian Archi- 
pelago abound with ducks and geese, and 
in their best feeding grounds, the lagunas 
(shallow lakes) of the northern half of 
Tierra-del-Fuego, they are found in 
countless thousands ; but along the coast 
they seem to be unusually wary of man, 
considering the few inhabitants and lone- 
liness of these parts. Rio Douglas 
abounded with beautiful upland geese, 
and on the way back I shot, at about two 
hundred yards, a fine specimen with my 
rifle. 

On our departure, near the camp 
old Asagyinges was peering at us from 
some long grass on the river bank. Later, 
up river, far behind us, another canoe 
stealthily followed under the shadow of 
the overhanging evergreen beeches and 
line a dura, then disappeared. On our 
way back, a bit of red complemented 
among the green foliage on the bank, 
and my field glasses revealed old Asagy- 
inges and his wife watching us from 
where they were hidden in the bushes 
with their canoe, all of which maneuver- 



ing was undoubtedly prompted by simple 
curiosity. 

The days spent in this camp, replete 
with hard w T ork and daily incident, 
passed rapidly. The Yahgans, when 
not squatting in their smoke-filled wig- 
wams with their numerous dogs or 
mourning over the recent dead, were oc- 
cupied with the simple affairs of camp 
life — the women gathering firewood and 
edible fungus, cooking their scant meals 
of mussels, fish, birds, or eggs, weaving 
baskets, and looking after the children ; 
the men occasionally assisted the women 
to gather wood, or hunted, made nets, 
spears, or canoes. 

My time was occupied making notes, 
sketches, and photographs. I took nu- 
merous hand and foot prints, measure- 
ments, and phonographic records of their 
speech, but neither the efforts of the mis- 
sionary or myself could persuade one of 
them to allow the taking of a plaster face 
mask. 

Securing the phonograph records 
proved most interesting, but it was not 
easy to induce these aborigines to talk or 
sing into this uncanny thing. A thing 
which sang back to them their own voice, 
shouts, embarrassed laughter, and even 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



the sound of their breathing, was to be 
approached with discretion. Some of the 
singers would break down in the middle 
with a hilarious fit of laughter or sud- 
denly run away altogether from the 
machine. 

The Yahgan responsible for the kill- 
ing of the two men in the canoe was the 
most difficult of all. Perhaps he associ- 
ated the returning voice with evil spirits, 
which to the Yahgan haunt forest, moun- 
tain, and sea, and undoubtedly prey upon 
the imagination of the evil savage no less 
than does an evil conscience on the mind 
of his white brother. With his father, 
this man had also taken part in the kill- 
ing of two white men recently on a 
lonely island in the archipelago. 

It was my desire to cross Navarin 
Island in a north-northeasterly direction 
from Rio Douglas, coming out north at 
a Yahgan camp at Mussels Bay on 
Beagle Channel, then to cross the chan- 
nel in canoes to Remolino, the western- 
most of the before-mentioned ranches, 
where I stayed between visits to Ushu- 
waia. But I could not persuade a single 
Yahgan to accompany me through the 
deep forests and over the snow-capped 
mountains. Perhaps, being canoe In- 
dians, they were indisposed and even un- 
fitted for hard land travel ; perhaps their 
superstitions raised up greater barriers to 
penetrating this land than Nature her- 
self. 

The only other apparent way to re- 
turn north was to wait here, for months, 
perhaps, for the Garibaldi, or venture 
alone with Yahgans by canoe in one of 
their clumsy dug-outs. These are fre- 
quently overtaken by disaster in a region 
of eales and fitful whirlwinds, known as 
williwaws, the terror of the small-boat 
adventurer. 

But, for a third time, fortune came my 
way. The long boat which belonged to 
the missionary was placed at my disposal. 
This craft was obtained from a wreck ; 
long, and of narrow beam, it was essen- 
tially a river boat, and quite unfitted for 
sea work. Old and half water-logged, 
it was in such a poor state of repair that 
its owner would not risk its further use 
to any extent, and understood that a new 
boat he had long since ordered was due 
to be left him at Ushuwaia. Arrange- 



ments were finally made with four Yah- 
gans to accompany me in this old boat to 
Remolino. 

The introduction of many of the white 
man's customs and ideas upon aboriginal 
and Oriental races must ever offend the 
taste of those who have the least sense of 
the fitness of things and the picturesque. 
The clipped hair and dull, ill-shaped, 
homely garb of the white man, when 
forced upon the aborigine, I believe, not 
only take away to some extent his self- 
respect, but certainly, to no small extent, 
his health. Pictures exhibited by many 
well-meaning missionaries of their aborig- 
inal proteges "before and after taking" 
clothes, as an evidence of improvement, 
are to me sad spectacles. Among the 
Yahgans, as among other tribes, clothes 
affect little the real character under- 
neath. The wearers look less like what 
they are- 1 — Indians, and more like white 
men. Why should we wish to make In- 
dians look like white men? 

"Christian" Names for Natives 

But here, too, at Rio Douglas, the In- 
dians who ostensibly accepted Christian- 
ity were given an English name by the 
missionaries, in place of the euphonious 
picturesque ones bestowed upon them by 
their parents, usually signifying the place 
where they were born. They were influ- 
enced, too, to disuse and forget the old 
name, which it was feared recalled their 
former pagan condition and associations. 
Two of my four Yahgans I knew by the 
English appellations of James and Bert, 
another Yagaashagan, and the fourth I 
do not recall. 

It was with much reluctance that 
James agreed to go, and then with the 
understanding that we should cross Bea- 
gle Channel well before we reached 
Mussels Bay, to which I agreed. On 
inquiring of the missionary the reason, he 
unwillingly told me that a few months 
before James was camping in an out-of- 
the-way inlet, just off Murray Narrows, 
on Hoste Island, with an Alaculoop and 
his wife. One day, without any apparent 
cause, James fired his shotgun _ point- 
blank at the Alaculoop, blowing his head 
off. The woman escaped in her canoe 
and, after James left, buried the body and 




THE GREAT GLACIER IN NORTHWEST ARM, WHOSE FALLING BERGS SEND 

GREAT WAVES ROCKING ACROSS TO THE OTHER SHORE, 

A MILE AND A HALF AWAY. 



paddled two days' journey to Mussels 
Bay, where she had friends. 

Though the Yahgans are without 
chiefs and are scattered much of the time 
in the hunt for food, yet they have cer- 
tain fundamentals of government. The 
coming of the woman and her charge 



were insufficient evidence, so, launching 
their canoes, they paddled way down to 
Hoste Island and verified her story. 

Then, as it is the Fuegian custom for 
the friends and relatives to take blood re- 
venge, James became a marked man, and 
he naturally had compunctions against 



IO 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



passing along the coast occupied by the 
Mussels Bay tribe. 

It was a beautiful morning when we 
pulled out of the Rio Douglas, and the 
sun gave a welcome warmth to the chilly 
air of regions which have recorded prac- 
tically a whole year of unpleasant 
weather and storm. We rounded its 
northern entrance and passed through a 
narrow channel between a point of land 
and a little island. The waters rippled 
gently against the massive, lichen-cov- 
ered rocks, out of whose crevices storm- 
bleached roots of Antarctic beeches, the 
line a dura and winter bark, occasionally 
poked and twined like great serpents ; in 
dank rich top soil, crowning their tops 
and upper slopes, were the trees them- 
selves — storm-beaten, twisted, and 
stunted, like the people trees of Dore's 
drawings. The weird and oblique shapes 
of those on the storm line, even in the 
peaceful quiet of this early morning, 
were full of potentiality of movement, 
and to obtain a sense of rest one had to 
look beyond into the thicker or more 
protected forest, festooned with light 
green moss, into which their gaunt arms 
reached. But, after all, in effect, we 
might as well have been running through 
some high-wooded islands off the coast 
of Maine: 

In Open Water 

We passed out into the broad reach 
of Ponsonby Sound. Far away astern, 
south, Packsaddle Island, Hardy Penin- 
sula, and the Wollaston Islands, which 
terminate in Cape Horn, stood out in 
filmy rhythm of blue silhouettes between 
us and the Antarctic Ocean. Between 
the Horn and the Antarctic continent 
sweeps Drake Strait, through the only 
latitudes where open water encircles the 
earth's surface without intersecting land. 

West, across Ponsonby Sound, Pacha 
Island humped up its dark, drenched 
shape like a mighty sea monster up to 
breathe, and stenciled in dark contrast 
against the distant, rugged slopes and 
snow-capped peaks of Hoste Island, the 
most irregular and indented island, I 
believe, in the world. 

But sifting over its jagged tops were 
clouds, the forerunners of those terrific 



Fuegian storms, and that dread of mari- 
ners, the "white arch." Nothing but the 
steady swash-creak of the long oars broke 
the silence or stirred the placid waters of 
the sound. 

There were two courses to Murray 
Narrows — to hug the shore of Navarin 
and follow around the lee of Button 
Island, or to hit straight across the open 
reach of the sound. It is rarely wise in 
these parts to go out on the broad reaches 
in canoes or open boats, unless the lat- 
ter are of high free-board and of the 
stanchest kind. But such a direct course 
would enable us to go through Murray 
Narrows that night with the current, 
and thus save a day. The chances were 
good for reaching it ahead of the storm, 
so we took it. 

Rarely is such a calm seen in those 
parts. The water lay still — a perfect 
mirror. Feathers from the down of kelp 
geese floated delicately on its surface, 
here and there strewn with whale spoor. 
Penguin, duck, geese, mollimauks, gulls, 
steamer ducks, and other sea birds, fed, 
swam, and dove in uncontrolled freedom. 
Beside me a monster sea lion thrust up his 
bristled snout, and, as he sported, shat- 
tered into atoms the mirrored reflection 
of that massive distant mountain, King 
Scott. Far away, a monster leviathan 
lifted from the briny depths to breathe, 
spurted his jet of water, which showed 
like a silver thread against the dark, 
mossy recesses of Button Island. Then, 
with a mighty dive, flung spray high in 
the air and sent great, ever-widening 
rings of disturbance softly spreading over 
the tranquil surface. He was well where 
he was, for it was not pleasant to con- 
template what one lash of his powerful 
tail might do to our boat. 

By late afternoon we had passed But- 
ton Island and were approaching the 
twist of the channel between Hoste and 
Navarin islands, known as Murray Nar- 
rows. One end of the storm had passed 
to south of us. We now had a fair breeze 
and set the small square sail. 

The Yahgans contented themselves 
with mimicking and ridiculing the birds 
and mammals about us. Now it would 
be a pensive, indignant, big, black shag 
whose importunate, disturbed dignity 
and lugubrious attitude they would mock 




THE EASTERN HALF OF THE FUEGIAN ARCHIPELAGO, FROM BEAGLE CHANNEL 

TO CAPE HORN. 

Dot and dash lines show Mr. Furlong's course on the Garibaldi. Dotted lines show his course with 

the Yahgans. 



and comment upon ; or, with loud shouts 
and waving of arms, they would scare 
on at an increased rate of speed an awk- 
ward-moving steamer duck, as, with its 
wings beating the water like paddles, it 
awkwardly propelled its scurrying flight 
into one of the many inlets. 

My position was at the tiller, and al- 
ways beside me on the stern sheets lay my 
rifle. With the wind, an hour more of 
current with us, and followed by slack 
water, we could get through the narrow 
turn in the channel, known as Murray 
Narrows, that night, and make camp 
somewhere on the north coast of Nava- 
rin, well west of Mussels Bay. The 
Yahgans were informed of this, after 
which they lapsed into a spell of moody 
silence, then gathered nearer together in 
low conversation. 

From the stern thwart, the murderer, 
James, leaned toward me, and in the ex- 



pression of those deep-set, wolfish eyes, 
could be seen things which caused me to 
grip my rifle stock as I inclined toward 
him. Yonder, he said, he had a camp 
where we must go for the night. I an- 
swered "no." By the fierce scowl which 
clouded the broad, flat face, it was well 
that my hand rested on my gun. Recog- 
nizing the place as being the site of the 
murder, I had no desire to spend a night 
in that obscure inlet, surrounded by dank, 
thick forests. 

These people are very susceptible to 
their surroundings, and here there were 
too many recent associations to stir their 
imaginations in unpropitious channels for 
me to experiment too far with the psy- 
chology of this particular crew. The 
boat was swung in a bit to see closer into 
the place, and then, to James's particular 
annoyance, we sailed by, and I headed 
cross current to the Navarin side. 



12 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



His apprehension was evidenced by his 
furtive glances ahead for strange canoes, 
and once, when a guanaco up on a hill- 
side suddenly let loose his idiotic-sounding 
neigh, his keen eyes snapped quickly in 
that direction. Without that wonderful, 
stoical self-control of the Yahgan, he 
would have been visibly startled. 

The clouds were now piling up fast 
toward our course. Luckily, we had a 
good breeze, for I doubt if the Yahgans 
would have rowed away from this point 



hand, cocked, and from my hip, pointing 
full at the breast of the third man, who 
sat amidships in the gap they had opened 
up, down which I looked at the barbed 
point of a heavy seal spear. His left 
hand lightly steadied the whalebone head, 
in their manner of throwing. But the 
man in front had moved a second too 
soon, for the weapon was poised in that 
preliminary position, but, thank Heaven, 
not drawn back. By way of subterfuge, 
he toyed with the loose end of a piece of 





















, 


. ; , '.■••;,. 




















_ T " 




" Lif-f" 


. 






, 




^ST" 














- = • 








„ ' 


^M 










^^-v- ' 


: , 




5- 

















USHUWAIA, 



SOUTHERNMOST TOWN IN THE WORLD. IT IS A YAHGAN WORD 
MEANING " MOUTH OF THE BAY." 



had it been necessary for them to use 
the oars. 

When in the field, it is remarkable 
how keen and subconsciously sensitive the 
mind becomes to every sound and sight 
about one, doubly so to anything visual 
or otherwise not in attune with what 
seems to be the natural order of things. 
While my attention was fixed on the fur- 
ther opening of the narrows, I was not 
unmindful of every movement of the 
Fuegians on the four thwarts in front 
of me. The nearer ones blocked my view 
of those forward. 

The first man scanned me closely, 
leaned carelessly to one side over the star- 
board gunwale, while the second lolled 
over to port. Before he had fully com- 
pleted this action my rifle was in my 



sinew about the spear head and shaft, as 
though to fix it. Then, slightly discon- 
certed, he put down the spear. It was 
too accessible for my peace of mind, and 
he was ordered to stow it away under 
the thwarts. 

We reached the turn, a scant quarter 
mile in width, and shot through the nar- 
rows, where for untold centuries has 
passed to and fro the canoe of the Yah- 
gan. It has passed here more often and 
in greater numbers, probably, than 
through any other one place of the Fue- 
gian Archipelago, for Murray Narrows 
is the only artery south of Tierra-del- 
Fuego which permits direct access from 
Beagle Channel to those islands and 
sounds south, which offer the Yahgan not 
only more in the way of his scant food 



CRUISING WITH THE YAHGANS 



13 



supply, but, what is more important, the 
furthest seclusion and protection from the 
white man. 

Had Nature projected that little, 
rocky, tree-clad point which we had but 
just rounded, a scant four hundred yards 
further across the little valley we had 
sailed through, raising here a mountain 
instead of depressing a valley, it would 
have greatly affected existing conditions. 
In that case, to reach the center of the 
southern maze, the Yahgans would have, 



from which this tribe has derived its 
name. 

But for these narrows, I do not doubt 
that the decimation of these people by 
contact with white men through this 
most accessible thoroughfare of Beagle 
Channel would have been greatly re- 
duced, and that to-day, instead of the 
small remnant of about a hundred and 
seventy-five, they would number several 
hundreds. 

But the narrows existed, to which fact 




MR. FURLONG S YAHGAN CREW. THE MAN IN THE FOREGROUND IS JAMES 
WHO KILLED THE ALACULOOP. 



perforce, to paddle their canoes a full 
hundred miles eastward, circling the 
rounded end of what is now Navarin 
Island, or double the distance about the 
jagged, stormy coast of what is now 
Hoste Island to the westward. In each 
case it would necessitate exposing their 
tiny dug-outs (averaging about sixteen 
feet in length, three and a half feet 
beam, and two feet free-board) either 
to the open reaches of the South Atlantic 
or Southern Pacific Ocean, which pound 
in upon the shores some of the most ter- 
rific seas of the world. 

The importance of these narrows as 
a Fuegian thoroughfare is also evidenced 
by the fact that in the channel on the 
Navarin side was Yahga, the most im- 
portant settlement in these parts, and 



I awoke very suddenly when a squall, 
without warning, dropped upon us from 
the highlands. Then the wind veered 
so as to force us to beat our way to the 
northern point of the narrows, Cape 
Mitchell. Here we encountered a strong 
head sea beating down Beagle Channel 
from the east. 

Few boats could head up Beagle Chan- 
nel in that sea; certainly not our craft, 
with its narrow beam, broken rudder- 
head, and poor condition, so the sail was 
lowered and the Yahgans, still sullen 
and moody, manned the oars, and we 
swung in a lee through a little archi- 
pelago. As we pulled through almost 
land-locked bays, only occasional wind 
gusts dropped over the hilly islands, giv- 
ing little idea of the weather without. 



H 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



At the head of the first bay I found 
the abandoned Yahgan camp site of Aca- 
matau, where was also a log hut and 
some fencing long since deserted by an 
adventurer. Landing here, we had an 
asado of mutton and some fresh spring 
water. Some seven or eight miles further 




Copyright, iqii, by C. IV. Furlong. 

TYPE OF YAHGAN AT ASSASAWYIA. 

westward, at another abandoned Yahgan 
camp site, called Assasawyia, I had heard 
there was a white man, the mate of a 
wrecked vessel, living with a Yahgan 
wife. Though with difficulty I got the 
men to continue further westward, As- 
sasawyia was preferable to spending the 
night alone with my four men under the 
existing conditions. 

Thanks to the long Antarctic twilight, 
there were still a few hours before dark- 
ness. Suddenly one of the Yahgans 
leaned over the gunwale and pounced 
upon one of those beautiful dark vermil- 
ion Crustacea, a lobsterlike crab, indi- 
genous to the Magellanes and known to 
the Spaniards of Punta Arenas as cen- 
tolla. They are delicious eating, tasting 
like lobster, though more delicate. These 
crabs measure as long as two and a half 
feet between outstretched claws, and 
often are found, like a myriad of other 



sea life, in that remarkable Fuegian sea- 
weed, kelp {fucus giganticus Antarc- 
ticus) . 

This kelp has been known to reach its 
long, snaky tentacles over a hundred and 
twenty feet from sea bottom to the sur- 
face, where it spreads out its broad leaves 
and pods. The avoiding of this kelp 
claimed our attention, for it grows in 
patches so thick as to sometimes check 
the passing of a boat, and it is an ill fate 
that awaits the swimmer, though near 
shore, who may be capsized in its meshes. 
This dull, yellow-green seaweed takes 
root from rocks, so serving as a good 
warning to those who cruise in these 
parts. To its long, finger-thick stems 
Yahgan women often make fast their 
canoe lines while fishing. Flocks of birds 
often alight on kelp patches, which paint 
the blue water with spots of dull yellow, 
green and amber. In a gale of wind the 
long-pointed, lifting, lipping leaves great- 
ly modify the action of the waves near 
shore, as we found when we rounded an- 
other point into the full force of the gale. 

In a bitter wind, which cut through 
one like a knife, now occurred for some 
two miles the most strenuous pull of the 
day — two long, hard hours of it before 
we brought under the lee of an island, 
given on both British Admiralty and 
American charts as a peninsula. This 
puzzled me somewhat, but the Yahgans 
gave me to understand that* in this inlet 
was Assasawyia, and we slowly felt our 
way in the thickening storm and prema- 
ture darkness, until, passing a slope of 
beach, the keen-sighted Yahgans per- 
ceived the loom of a dusky figure. He 
was a member of two Yahgan families 
living here. The white man, who had 
gone to Ushuwaia, seven miles across 
channel, had been held up by the gale. 

My outfit was carried up the slope to 
an end compartment of a three-roomed 
hut. As I entered, a squaw thrust her 
unkempt, black-haired head through a 
doorway leading to an adjoining room, 
then withdrew, and the door was closed. 
The Yahgan who met us on the beach 
had sighted us far up channel. Bringing 
me some water, this sinister-looking chap 
then joined the others in a near-by wig- 
wam. 

I piled a rough-hewn table and one of 




Copyriglit, JQII, by C. II'. Furlong. 

A GROUP OF PONSONBY SOUND YAHGANS IN WIGWAM OF BEECH BOUGHS. 
SECOND WOMAN FROM THE RIGHT WEARS A FACE MASK. 



my heavy camp bags against the outer 
door, and deposited the other across the 
door leading to the next room, when I 
noticed that it opened outward. In its 
center was a small hole, and I well knew 
that, if but for curiosity alone, there 
would be a Yahgan eye on the other side 
of it. So, out of range of it, I withdrew 
the stout rawhide lacing from one of my 
camp boots, doubled the middle into two 
half hitches, slipped them over the im- 
provised handle of the door, and made 
the ends fast to the handle of the bag 
below. Now only with difficulty, and 
not without awaking me, could either 
door be opened. 

Spreading my guanaco skins and blan- 
kets in the middle of the room, I blew 
out the candle, then quietly shifted my 
bed to the farther corner. This put me 
farthest from the doors, and would have 
deceived anyone who had been watching 
me, as to where I slept. This was by way 
of precaution, for they have an unpleas- 
ant habit in these parts and Patagonia 
of shooting through the house when they 
know where a man bunks. The wind 
and rain shrieked, beat, and roared, but 
I was soon asleep. 



The next day brought no cessation to 
the gale, which, during the night, shifted 
southwest and drove down from the Pa- 
cific all day, sending a mean, quick sea 
boiling through Beagle Channel. For a 
small boat these channel seas are perhaps 
the most dangerous known, particularly 
with wind against current. 

This blow literally tore off the waves, 
and foam-strewed their tops like streaks 
from a mammoth spider's silver web. 
The geese hunted during the day were 
unusually wary and took on the wild 
character of the storm. It is occasion- 
ally impossible for weeks at a time to 
cross Beagle Channel in an open boat. 
Time was of the greatest value, and as, 
in the late afternoon, the gale moderated, 
I decided to take a chance. 

In the Fuegian twilight the men car- 
ried the outfit to the boat and shoved off. 
Not, however, before I had reinforced 
the oar locks and, with a piece of beech- 
wood, securely wedged the tiller on to 
the half-rotted rudder head. Rough 
though it was, the waves were regular 
and the southwest wind in our favor as 
we raced along free, diagonally across 
channel, directly abreast Mussel's Bay 



!5 



i6 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



now, but well off shore. James's black 
eyes, furtively, constantly, scanned the 
coast of Navarin, where, less than three 
miles away, were men who some day 
would undoubtedly have his blood upon 
their hands. 

High up over the glacial, rocky crags 
of the regular, Nature-chiseled peaks of 
the Martial Mountains, angry dark vio- 
let clouds bulged over them from the 
northwest. The low-hidden, setting sun 
shot cold, silver shafts of actinic light 
radiating through them, here gilding 
their fringes with green silver, there sel- 
vedging them with saffron gold, which 
showed their edges in a double brilliancy 
through the clear, cold atmosphere of the 
Antarctic, where they lined against the 
blue turquoise of a single gap of sky. 
The whole cordillera of southern Tierra- 
del-Fuego, as it ranged westward, stood 
out in a great panorama of scintillating 
beauty. The white, snow-crowned, gla- 
cial-capped peaks caught the light on 
their western slopes and reflected it in a 
glistening sheen of pinks, their eastern 
shadow sides contrasted in dark blue 
green, merging lower down into deeper 
blues and the somber blue-violet shadows 
of rock and forest. 

The glow also caught in high lights on 
the coppered faces of the Yahgans, and 
glittered from their keen, dark eyes, now 
gazing fixedly toward the wondrous 
spectacle. They were concerned with 
certain lowered, faster-moving clouds, 
knowing well that shortly they would 
bring with them a very hurricane of 
wind, and they also realized only too 
well the unfitness of our craft to stand 
it. Far away and above us swiftly rolled 
down the sea of clouds, under it bore 
down the white yeast of a foaming sea 
of waves. 

The Place of the Williwaws 

From the north another danger threat- 
ened. Sweeping here and there cross 
channel were fitful, dreaded williwaws, 
those swirling miniature whirlwinds 
which suddenly drop down over the 
mountains with cyclonic force and sweep 
terrifically over the water, picking it up 
in aerial whirlpools and spinning the re- 
volving spray along in their courses. So 
tremendous is their force that they will 



cause an anchored steamer to surge at 
her chains or capsize an anchored sailboat 
under bare poles. I cruised later on a 
small vessel in Last Hope Inlet, whose 
pinnace was lifted bodily from the water 
by a williwaw, spun around a few sec- 
onds on its painter, like a top on a string, 
then shot below the water and sunk. 

Often the only warning one has of the 
approach of these, when near shore, is by 
seeing whole areas of trees falling on the 
mountainside like ninepins, so fiercely 
does the williwaw strew its path. We 
dodged these williwaws, and just be- 
fore the gale raced down on us, standing 
up and steadying the tiller between my 
knees, I obtained a photograph of that 
inimitable scene; not forgetting, how- 
ever, when I turned my back on the 
Fuegians, to keep cognizant of their 
movements. A blow with a heavy oar 
or a shove of a powerful arm would send 
me forever into the icy waters. 

Rush-h-h ! and the gale struck us. I 
headed the boat before it, then brought 
her up a little, for to make Tierra-del- 
Fuego it was necessary to quarter. Her 
sail, being stepped too far forward, 
coupled with her great length and nar- 
row beam, made her fail to respond 
quickly to her tiller and caused her to 
head too much into the wicked, short sea. 
The sudden changing of the wind against 
a southwest sea and a strong opposing 
current, when it first struck, stirred 
things into a veritable maelstrom. 

Never have I experienced a wilder 
sight ; the four Yahgans facing me were 
the very epitome of stoicism and grim 
courage. They sat firmly holding their 
places, clinching thwart and gunwale, 
their black hair blown and whifted by 
the wind. Their jetty, beady eyes, lit 
with the internal fire of self-control, 
watched the dangerous seas boiling down 
on our quarter from behind. Occasion- 
ally their eyes would shift to me; once 
Yahgaashagan's lips parted and a short- 
cut grunt issued through his glistening 
white teeth, warning me that an extra 
bad comber was bearing down upon us. 

Twice they visibly clinched their holds 
more tightly to keep from being thrown 
out, and fixed their gaze more intently 
upon me. How could any white man 
qualm before such splendid nerve and 



GARDEN AND FIELD AT TWIN-FLOWER 



17 



fortitude ? The vicious wave bore down, 
struck, turned, and twisted us, seem- 
ingly both ways at once, then, in a last 
spasm, threw the boat on her beam ends. 
Those were anxious moments when 
things hung in the balance ; less than a 
minute determined whether the passing 
wall of water would leave us mere 
specks, struggling for a few minutes un- 
til numbed stiff in the bitter, icy sea. 
With the greatest difficulty I held my 
position and handled the tiller. How 
we ever righted is a marvel, and, had I 
failed to have wedged the tiller head be- 
fore starting, this account would not 
have been written. 



In the darkness of the storm we even- 
tually made out the gloom of great moun- 
tains above us, and shot thankfully in 
under their lee. It was after midnight 
when we landed in the little bay at 
Remolino, the Lawrence's ranch, where 
I had previously made my home. The 
whole lot of shepherd dogs rushed like 
a wolf pack down upon us as we landed, 
growled, snarled, and yelped at the Fue- 
gians, but leaped about me and licked my 
hands in friendly recognition. I saw the 
Yahgans comfortably housed in a log 
rancho, and in half an hour was sleeping 
soundly in one of the most hospitable 
homes in the world. 



GARDEN AND FIELD AT 
TWIN-FLOWER 



BY HELEN DODD 



Illustrated with Photographs by Julian A. Dimock 




'E felt like children 
let out of school, 
when we came to 
the farm from the 
city. We worked 
furiously at our 
mud-pies, enjoying, with childish enthu- 
siasm, the feel of the soft, fresh earth. 

Although we sowed our garden seeds 
too thick and in furrows so deep that 
many of them did not come up at all, 
yet, through the generosity of Mother 
Earth, we had more than we could use, 
for plants, like children and animals, do 
well for the people that love them. It 
is not alone that we love the plants, but 
we love the garden spot. 

We chose it after watching the little 
boy and his cats go instinctively to the 
southeastern slope where they could 
earliest find a dry, warm playground. 
It is just beyond, where the big wood- 
land begins, that the first thrush sings 
in springtime, and from the top of the 
garden's black furrows the redwings, 
with liquid notes, bid us begin the work- 
ing of the soil long before the earth is 
warm enough to sprout seeds. 



When we have harrowed the garden 
soil, smoothed it, harrowed it again, and 
raked it fine, w T e lay out the central 
salad beds, plant the seeds that like the 
cool, moist springtime, and plan the ar- 
rangement of the whole. We all work 
together, planting the vegetables that 
later w r e will all eat together. The big 
little boy digs holes by the measuring 
stick for us to set out the plants from 
the seed boxes. The littler boy climbs 
the robin tree and tells us that Kitty 
Pats is chasing a chipmunk. 

The first year we planted our garden 
according to directions in the books, but 
we came to some grief because neither 
the grasshoppers nor the horse that did 
the cultivating behaved as the books said 
they would. The grasshoppers attacked 
the cabbages and cauliflower in their 
transplanted loneliness and ate them 
while my kerosene emulsion was drying. 
Three times one morning I sprinkled 
them with fresh emulsion, but the only 
cabbages to escape the grasshoppers were 
those whose leaves were destroyed by 
too much kerosene and grew again from 
the roots. 




o 
r 1 w 



20 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



We spaced all our rows three feet 
apart to allow for horse cultivation, as 
the bulletins advised. But Rastus pre- 
ferred to gauge his steps four feet wide 
and wouldn't lead straight. Then I 
tried riding him and so kept going 
straighter, but at a pace that made it 
hard for the Rebel to steer the cultivator 
among our precious squashes and cu- 
cumbers. Finally we came tearing out 
of the garden, Rastus in flying leaps 
with the cultivator at his heels jumping 
from side to side, despite the Rebel's best 
efforts to keep it straight. 

We inherited from the Massachusetts 
family garden a low-wheeled hand cul- 
tivator and, after Rastus had demon- 
strated the futility of his labor in the 
garden, we purchased another of the 
high-wheel type. It now takes no 
longer to do the closer work possible 
with hand cultivators than it had before 
taken us to do the necessary supplemen- 
tary handwork after the horse had gone 
over the ground. 

When we are tired we go down into 
the garden as to a refuge. We pull the 
weeds, prune and tie up tomato plants, 
rescue the peas blown from their trel- 
lises, thin the cucumbers and pinch the 
squash runners, dispatch each cabbage 
worm, and water the new lettuce and 
parsley. Pushing the wheel hoe is easier 
than sweeping, and dumping a wheel- 
barrow load of weeds into the pasture 
is a virtuous accomplishment. When 
the little boys' voices high in the robin 
tree mingle with the dreamy evening 
song of the wood thrush, we come up 
to the house, dusty, happy, and hopeful. 
Surely cultivating our garden gives more 
than any horse can appreciate! 

Then, too, the hand tools make pos- 
sible an arrangement of vegetables in 
orderly beds with flowers as accents and 
punctuations. Until we tried it, we did 
not realize how much more easily we 
could weed a long row of vegetables 
when it is broken up by sweet-smelling 
flowers that refresh the mind as well as 
the sense. The shade of the squash vine 
pergola in the middle of the garden, 
with hollyhocks as doorkeepers, positive- 
ly enables us to do a double stent. 

All through the summer we gather 
the vegetables when they are most de- 



licious. From the salad beds the littler 
boy brings me the crisp leaves of lettuce, 
and the big little boy a basketful of 
luscious ripe tomatoes that are served 
before they have a chance to think of 
wilting. Our cauliflowers are picked 
not more than half an hour before they 
are cooked, and Mary Cary, the calf, 
leans over the pasture fence for the 
leaves she knows are coming to her. 

The unexpected guest goes with me 
down into the garden and digs his own 
potatoes, collects his own corn, picks and 
shells his own peas, or gathers his own 
cucumbers, while his dinner waits on 
his diligence. But a visiting doctor, af- 
ter helping to harvest his dinner, tells 
us: 

"This is the only place where I can 
eat all the cucumbers I want without 
getting sick," or, later, there comes from 
a puzzled housewife : 

"What did you give John to eat? He 
declares he never had a more delicious 
meal in his life, and yet he cannot re- 
member a single thing he had to eat 
except cauliflower cooked in cream." 

Foolish one — we simply set John to 
gathering his own food with his own 
hands from the soil, and old Mother 
Earth gave him the appetite that she can 
bestow upon her children! 

During the season we two put in 
about fourteen full days' work in plant- 
ing, transplanting, cultivating, and 
weeding. This is in addition to the 
team work in the spring. During hay- 
ing time the garden on a one-man farm 
can have little attention. 

It is because we love the garden as 
a whole that even one injured plant 
calls out for care. When the big little 
boy comes up and tells me that two of 
the cabbages are withering, I go down 
and replace them. Or when he tells me 
that a tomato plant has blown over, I 
tie it up that nothing may mar the lux- 
uriant perfection of the whole. 

Because the garden is small enough 
for us to know it intimately and till it 
thoroughly, our work there quickly 
brought us rich returns. Not alone all 
the vegetables we could eat throughout 
the year, and many to give away, have 
we harvested from our garden, but also 
that personal acquaintance with the 




THE REDWINGS, WITH LIQUID NOTES, BID US BEGIN THE WORKING OF THE 
SOIL LONG BEFORE THE EARTH IS WARM ENOUGH TO SPROUT SEEDS. 



needs of the plants, that intangible 
something that makes them grow. 

In the fall the Rebel and I and the 
little boys harvest the crop of vegetables 
for winter. Pumpkins and squash for 
holiday pies and jack-o'-lanterns, beets, 
carrots, cabbages, and many other keep- 
ing kinds are put away in the cellar, so 
that all through the winter we eat of 
the summer sunshine stored away. 



Beyond the garden we give a half 
acre to potatoes and baking beans. These 
we plant in three-foot rows like corn 
and cultivate by horse-power. From 
these we gather, in a good season, more 
than we can eat in a year. 

Closely linked to the garden is the 
story of our wheat. For years we 
looked longingly back to the days of our 
grandfathers, when they raised, not 



22 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



only their "roughage," but flour and 
meal, too. We shall not rest until we 
do the same. We have grown the corn 
and oats our animals need, but grains 
for our own use are more of a problem. 

We have become accustomed to choos- 
ing the best cereals and meals from the 
city, and we enjoy the variety too well 
to cut it off for an idea. Yet we felt 
that we were not truly self-supporting 
until we could raise our cereals and 
have bread of our own growing. So 
we listened eagerly to the tales of the 
men whose days were numbered from 
that earlier time. 

"Raise wheat?" exclaimed one of 
them. "Why, bless you, we used to 
raise the finest wheat and make the best- 
tasting bread I ever e't. 'N' we could 
again, if we only thought so, but, you 
see, the West took grain growin' away 
from us, told us they could grow it so 
much cheaper we couldn't afford to keep 
it up. Then the smut came 'n' discour- 
aged lots of folks, so we jus' stopped, 
and even bought corn of the Western 
farms till silos came in." 

"Don't you think we could grow some 
if we took good care of the land?" 

"Why, of course you could! 'N' 
what's more, I tell you 'twon't be a 
great while before we'll all have to be 
growin' it, the way they keep raisin' 
prices." 

So we began to look for seed that 
would do well in this region and for 
the mill to grind it into flour. There 
is no mill now to "bolt" the flour, and 
only one in the region to make Graham 
flour. 

"Why not eat Graham bread, then? 
We like it, and if it's one of our prin- 
ciples to like what we raise then let us 
use more Graham than white bread." 

By asking questions of the old 
school farmers, we learned something of 
the needs of wheat, how much seed to 
plant, and were lucky enough to find 
some grown in our neighborhood. 

In the last corner of the home field 
we planted our wheat. When the faint 
green appeared on the surface of the 
soft ground we were afraid it might be 
grass or weeds, but, on our knees on the 
edge of the field, we could see that every 
green shoot was a tiny pipe, yellower 



green than grass, and when one was 
pulled we found the fat kernel of wheat 
burst open by the tiny pipe and a bunch 
of curving white rootlets still clinging 
to particles of sand. 

All through the cold, wet June we 
watched the green waves blow deeper 
over the little field. July came and we 
measured the stalks against our proud 
selves. August was kind and warm, if 
rainy, and we saw some heads appear. 

When the heads of grain were large 
and yellow spots showed in the field, we 
called in a passing neighbor to judge of 
its ripeness. 

"It's gettin' ripe," said he, "but 
where'll y'u git a cradle?" 

It was likely that many an old gar- 
ret contained a cradle, and at length 
we found one — shaky and rusty — in the 
shed chamber of an old house. We 
begged the loan of the tool for our reap- 
ing. At odd moments for a week, the 
Rebel "tinkered" it, and finally had a 
stiff, self-respecting tool. 

Once more we called in a passing 
neighbor to look at the grain. 

"Gorry! Don't it beat all how quick 
it gets ripe when it wants to ! 'Twan't 
mor'n a week ago 'twas as green as 
grass. How y'u goin' to git it in? 
Horses'd thrash it all out." 

"Oh, we'll have to have it cradled 
somehow. I've got an old cradle here. 
Didn't you ever cradle grain ?" 

"Why, yes, but it's mor'n twenty 
years sence I held a cradle. I'd hev' to 
practice some before I could go in an' 
do any now. You could learn to do it; 
it'd come lots easier to y'u 'n mowin' 
with a scythe. Where's y'r cradle?" 

We watched the old man's wide 
swing and low, almost squatting motion. 

"I believe I could do it," said the 
Rebel thoughtfully, "I believe I'll try it 
to-day." 

After the neighbor had gone on up 
the road he took his cradle to the wheat 
field. We could see his straw hat mov- 
ing slowly about the little field, and a 
visitor drove out to talk to him. They 
came back to the house together, and 
the Rebel said to me: 

"He thinks we'd get our wheat in 
earlier if I went up to the Hollow and 
got old man Bixby to cradle it for me. 



24 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



Do you suppose you could get Wood on 
the telephone and see if Bixby would 
come and cradle it for us?" 

But the man had gone for the day, 
and after our caller had gone, the Rebel 
commented : 

"Do you know I am really glad that 
man was not at home. I want to cradle 
that wheat myself, and I believe I can 
get it done before he comes home to- 
night. I'm going to try, anyway." 

Presently he came in, hot and thirsty, 
to stiffen another joint in the old cradle, 
and said : 

"Oh, I'm coming along. David might 
as well come out and bind up some 
sheaves. It goes better all the time. I 
tell you it's hot, and it takes a brand 
new set of muscles!" 

After dinner we all went out into the 
wheat field. The Rebel swung his 
cradle quite confidently, I raked the 
shining, yellow stalks into bundles for 
one little boy to bind with twisted 
bunches of wheat, and the littlest boy 
carried sheaves to stand in shocks. All 
the long summer afternoon we worked. 
The sun went lower, and we wanted 
so much to keep at our work until it 
was finished, that we allowed the littlest 
boy to go alone for the cows. 

He started bravely, the first time 
alone, and we watched his tiny figure 
disappear in the woods on the edge of 
the big pasture. He was gone a long 
time and the sun sank until the shadow 
of the barn lay across the garden. At last 
we heard his welcome shout as he drove 
the bunch of cattle through fehe sugar 
woods. Down the path under the big- 
fringed birches they came, Linnea first, 
with her solemn great eyes wondering 
at our work on the other side of the 
wall, then her daughters in single file, 
all questioning us, and the yellow-haired 
boy calling exultantly: 

"I got 'em ! Did it help you get in 
the wheat?" 

Of course it did. And still we raked 
and bound and stacked. Often I stopped 
to squeeze out some of the yellow 
kernels, and I ate them as eagerly as 
the little boys who could hardly keep 
away from it. 

The wheat was left in the shocks for 
a week or more to dry. 



Late in September the "threshers" 
came. They finished the oats first, and 
talked a good deal about the wheat. 
One man had helped thresh wheat when 
he was a boy, but the others had never 
seen wheat grown, and did not know 
how the machine would do it. All were 
interested in the idea of making it into 
flour. When the grain began to pour 
out of the trembling machine we stood 
around, looking at the brown stream, 
as if it were a current of life itself. 

Those bins of precious grain were a 
loadstone. We went often to look at 
it, and everyone who came to the farm, 
old hands and younger men, were silent 
as they watched the handfuls of kernels 
slide through their fingers. One of our 
neighbors stood in the barn door hold- 
ing his restless horse, while we showed 
the grain to his brother. 

"Wheat?" he said in a lower tone, 
and a hush followed. Then he said, 
pleadingly, like a child : "Won't you 
hold this horse a minute so / c'n see 
that wheat?" On the barn floor he 
spied some unthreshed stalks. He eager- 
ly squeezed out a few kernels and ate 
them as we had done that day in the 
field. 

Two months, they told us, it would 
take for the grain to harden sufficiently 
to grind. In those short months our 
splendid autumn weather had come and 
gone, and the first snow lay on the 
dusty roads. It was on the heavy sled 
we carried the wheat to the mill at West 
Ephesus, ten miles away, the only mill 
left in the country that can make flour. 

The little boys and I took the long 
drive as a pilgrimage of joy. We did 
not realize how long it would take the 
horses to walk that distance, and we had 
hoped they could sometimes trot on the 
snowy road, but the travel in the cold 
had made hard sledding of the snow and 
sand mixed together, and it was a steady 
upgrade. We went beyond the region 
where everybody knows us, or the horses, 
and many curious glances came to our 
unusual appearance. Hereabouts a 
woman rarely handles a team alone, and 
we could not tell everyone it was the 
wheat we carried that made us gay! 

It was almost dark when we came to 
the gristmill, under a steep hill, down 



FISHING THE BINNACLES 



25 



which I steadied my team with the voice 
they depend upon in a tight place. 

When I had told the miller about 
"putting it through twice," and how fine 
I wanted the wheat cracked for our 
breakfast mush, I slowly turned the 
long sled around in the creaking snow 
and headed for home. We had gone 
over the roughest of the road and were 
congratulating ourselves on the better 
traveling, when the horses told me some- 
thing was ahead of us. Around a curve 
in the road, under some hemlocks we 
saw a lantern appear, and, coming near- 
er, I saw an old man moving slowly in 
the soft snowy ruts. As we passed I 
said something about the hard sledding, 
and his astonishment showed in his voice 
when he said : 

"Ain't it dretful late to be out?" 

According to his code, probably, 
women and children are safe under roofs 
at night. I didn't dare tell him how 
much longer we were going to be out 
in the dark. All of us were relieved 
when we reached the main road and 
could trot a little on the downgrades. 
Familiar scenery helped the miles to 
pass, and we were soon in sight of the 
lights of home. 

The initial expense of the wheat was 
three dollars for a bushel and a half of 



seed. This we shall not have another 
year, for we raised enough to keep our 
own seed, or to sell some and buy better 
seed. The threshing cost us sixty cents 
after the oats were finished, and the 
gristmill charge was seventy-five cents. 
We have stored away a year's supply 
of cracked wheat for breakfast cereal 
and two barrels of flour which would 
cost us at the local or city stores at least 
fifteen dollars. 

Our labor? It has been a labor of 
love. The land is plowed and harrowed 
anyway, in the regular rotation. And 
what does preparing a half acre cost 
when horses and tools and man are here 
on the place? One morning's sowing 
and harrowing, one happy day in har- 
vesting, and a pleasure drive to the mill. 
For it we receive food for hearts as well 
as bodies. 

So the rich flavor of the Graham 
gems at breakfast, the bread that has so 
"much to it," the brown mush of our 
growing remind us of our good times 
from early spring to that cold winter 
night, and the "wee brown loaves " that 
have gone to our friends, all carry with 
them the hope of our springtime, the 
happiness of our summer, the richness 
of our harvest, and the inspiration of 
our winter. 



FISHING THE BINNACLES 

BY GEORGE M. JOHNSON 

Illustrated with Photographs by the Author 




ID you ever stalk trout, 
doing a serpentine through 
the grass, knowing that 
the faintest suggestion of 
your presence would ab- 
solutely spoil your 
chances? Did you ever cast lying flat 
on your side in the meadow, and bring- 
ing your fish from a pool thirty feet 
away? You have done all this if you 
know what it is to "fish the binnacles" — 
fish them successfully, I mean. And if 
you never have taken trout from the bin- 
nacles, you should remedy that lack of 
experience at the earliest opportunity. 



Concerning the word binnacle, Web- 
ster has this to say: "A subdivision of a 
main stream of a river, as a small pond, 
a mill race, or a secondary channel." As 
to the derivation of the word, he says: 
"Probably from Dutch hlnnen within, 
inner, and kil channel." In the ter- 
mination we see the same source as in 
many other words of Dutch derivation ; 
for example, Catskill, Beaverkill, and 
others. The word is used locally, being 
confined, so far as I know, to certain 
parts of New York State, where it is em- 
ployed among trout fishermen. 

Along the course of any brook it is a 



26 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



common thing to find small "runs," 
which, flowing into the main channel, 
mingle their cold spring waters with the 
larger stream. If the brook's course is 
through a meadow country, these small 
runs may here and there widen out into 
quite respectable pools, which are known 
as binnacles, or spring-holes. In some 
cases a run may provide but one pool 
throughout its course, but it is not at all 
exceptional to happen upon a "string"' of 
binnacles, where several pools, each con- 
taining a good supply of trout, are con- 
nected with the main stream and each 
other by a trickle of spring water. 

In the early season, when the water 
of the brook is cold, the spring-holes con- 
tain practically no trout of respectable 
size, but as the stream water becomes low 
and warm, vast numbers of trout work 
their way up the cold runs to the deeper 
pools. These pools vary in size, but 
average fifteen to thirty feet in length, 
ten to fifteen in width, and have a depth 
of one to three feet. Any trout fisher- 
man knows that where a cold spring 
empties into a brook is a good place to 
fish, but many have probably missed a 
veritable bonanza of trout by neglecting 
to explore the tributary, which seems too 
tiny to afford any fishing worth their 
while. 

The spring-holes are usually not at all 
in evidence unless one is looking for 
them, as they may often lie a hundred 
yards or more back from the main chan- 
nel. In one case I followed up a run 
swarming with baby trout for half a 
mile, until, at its very head waters, it 
widened out into a pool containing a 
number of good fish. 

The most important feature in fish- 
ing the binnacles is caution, and the an- 
gler simply cannot exercise too much of 
this. Of course, the fingerlings may bite 
under alrffost any circumstances, but the 
binnacles' shelter much worthier game 
than these, to deceive whom "is an art; 
and an art worth the learning." It is 
easy to account for the remarkable wild- 
ness of these fish, for the extreme clear- 
ness of the water and absence of any 
ripple make it doubly easy for sharp-eyed 
fontinalis to spot his foes. In this con- 
nection it is interesting to note that they 
never seem especially eager to rise on 



windy days, when there is a ripple on 
the water to help conceal the angler. 
Then again, as long and accurate casts 
must be made, the wind is an additional 
aggravation. 

I don't believe that a person who has 
never fished for trout under these condi- 
tions can realize how excessively wild 
they are. Frequently, the mere drop- 
ping of a cast of flies upon the surface 
will send them scurrying under the 
banks. And if you wish to start a first- 
class panic, just walk up and look into 
the pool. But after such a scare it is no 
use fishing for an hour or two, for they 
are never in a hurry about composing 
their startled wits. 

The most approved method of captur- 
ing the binnacle trout is to use grasshop- 
pers for bait. During the latter part of 
the summer the meadows are naturally 
swarming with hoppers, and many of the 
ill-fated insects hop their last hop into 
the gullet of a hungry trout. Here 
comes another interesting fact. In the 
early morning, while the meadows are 
wet with dew, the grasshoppers are in a 
benumbed condition and far from lively. 

If you fish with grasshoppers at that 
time the trout's mental process will 
work somewhat along this order: "Huh! 
Grasshopper, eh? Well, blast my spots, 
but it was careless of him to fall in when 
the grass is so wet he couldn't jump a 
foot. I guess you'll have to excuse me." 

Even if the trout doesn't express his 
ideas exactly that way, the result is the 
same, anyhow. But let the sun come 
out and warm up the meadows. Then, 
when the hoppers are gayly hopping, if 
you present the lure in the right way, so 
that it doesn't fall on the water with a 
splash like a scared muskrat, there will 
probably be a vigorous response. 

The base and vile earthworm is ac- 
ceptable to the binnacle trout only upon 
certain occasions, chiefly cloudy or drip- 
ping days. Flies are usually not so suc- 
cessful as bait, though it is only fair to 
confess that most of my attempts with 
flies have been in the late summer, at a 
time when the fish were not overenthu- 
siastic on the fly question anywhere. 
The little trout in the spring-holes — the 
four- and five-inch fellows — will rise to 
bait or fly with delightful impartiality, 




A THRILLING HUNT FOR HOPPERS IN THE BACKGROUND. 



but to score on the wise old chappies 
there's nothing like a succulent hopper, 
offered about the middle of a warm, 
sunny morning. 

Binnacle fishing is found at its best 
where several runs occur close together, 
offering a string of pools. Here the an- 
gler may fish one hole after another, 
not remaining long enough in any one 
place for the fish to become seriously 
alarmed. Then, by the time the last pool 
in the string is fished, the first will be 
ready again. While the angler does 
not cover so much country as in brook 
fishing, there's nothing particularly easy 
about it. At the end of the day the en- 
thusiast's knees will be worn to a fraz- 
zle and the protesting muscles will be 
filled with all sorts of weird kinks, a re- 
sult of remaining in various cramped 
positions. 

But the game is worth the candle. 
Often, at the tail end of the season, a 
brook may seem cleaned out and hardly 
worth the bother of fishing. The 
chances are nine out of ten that the trout 
have retired to more comfortable quar- 
ters up in the spring-holes. It is sur- 
prising how many trout will be crowded 
into one small pool. In a string of six 
binnacles which I fished over several 
times during the past season there were 
probably fully three hundred trout of 



legal size and countless numbers of 
smaller ones. 

Several years ago I spent a whole 
morning fishing one binnacle. This was 
the boss pool of them all, though a very 
difficult one to fish because of overhang- 
ing branches. I fished in a decidedly re- 
cumbent position, some twenty-five or 
thirty feet from the water. My total 
catch for that binnacle was twenty-seven, 
and when through fishing I walked 
up and looked in, wondering if I had 
stripped the pool. Well, not by a con- 
siderable majority! The place was lit- 
erally alive with trout, some of them 
"old busters," and I am positive that one 
hundred is a conservative estimate for 
the number of trout left there. 

Unfortunately, this pool is now harder 
to fish than ever, for some farmer has 
considerately (from the tf4mt's view- 
point) felled three or four trees into the 
water, making it a paradise for-^sh, but 
the reverse for fishermen. Of '^course, 
while making the catch above referred 
to, I was not fishing steadily. After tak- 
ing four or five fish I carefully retreated 
and gave the others fifteen minutes or so 
in which to quiet down before resuming 
operations. 

Naturally, where a brook comes 
tumbling and piling down a steep, boul- 
der-filled bed, there will be nothing 



28 



INOCULATING ED 



29 



doing in the binnacle line. The binnacle 
is strictly a product of the meadows, 
and just so sure as your run follows a 
course through some hayfield, so surely 
will you find one or more of these small 
pools hidden away in the grass. 

To keep on the right side of the 
farmers it is generally prudent to leave 
the spring-holes alone until the hay is 
cut. For some mysterious reason the 
average farmer has a deep-rooted preju- 
dice against the angler who wallows 
around in his hayfield. If the punish- 
ment for such unrighteous behavior was 
confined to the guilty fisherman alone, it 
wouldn't be so bad, but the disgruntled 
farmer is only too apt to lump all fisher- 
men into the class of undesirable citizens 
and post his land — a calamity second 
only to some such disaster as breaking 
your handmade split bamboo. 

There is one other tip which it is wise 
not to overlook when seeking to lure the 
trout from his cozy hiding-place in the 
spring-hole, and that is the little runs 
themselves. Trout are more or less con- 
stantly working up these streamlets from 
the main channel, or changing their 
headquarters from one binnacle to an- 



other. It is, perhaps, "a - far cry from 
trout fishing on the average brook to 
dropping your two- or three-foot line 
down through the coarse meadow grass. 
But the trout are there, and you won't 
find it any too easy to induce them to 
come out, either. 

The binnacles offer great chances for 
studying the habits and nature of trout. 
Too bad old Izaak couldn't have given 
us a disquisition on this subject. I can 
well imagine that it would make a very 
pleasant addition to the Complete An- 
gler. But — well, may you soon know 
the joys of binnacle fishing! 

If you do your part, the chances are 
that you'll return home richly laden. 
Yet, if the tangible results are wanting 
— for you know that fontinalis is very 
finical at times — may you still be able to 
appreciate those other joys — aside from 
the mere matter of dead fish — which a 
day on the stream should bring us. Wal- 
ton knew all about this, and if you are 
a student of Walton, as every angler 
should be, you may remember what he 
said — that angling "has a calmness of 
spirit and a world of other blessings at- 
tending upon it." 



INOCULATING ED 

BY CARITA LEMMON 

Illustrated with Photographs by the Author 




'E must lead him 
gently. If we try 
to rush him, he may 
develop a pseudo 
case, and we want 
him to catch the real 
thing. I'd like to make him a member 
right now, but we want to be sure he has 
it. I wish it was the first of October 
instead of the last." 

"That's it, Jack," we agreed ; "there 
isn't much time. Still, it's been a mild 
autumn so far, and he may catch it yet. 
We have him interested, and there's 
no telling how soon a germ will hop into 
his system." 

We, the members of the Campingitis 



Club, were discussing Ed, a right good 
fellow. So good, that we yearned to in- 
oculate him with the only disease that is 
conducive to health, to wit, campingitis. 
We all have it. Jack was smitten years 
ago, when he began to paddle his own 
canoe; Bert was born with it. Bill 
caught it by contagion from a rabid case, 
and the germ entered Cooky's feminine 
soul one day while two small trout were 
browning over a camp fire in the hills. 

So we were kind to Ed. We told him, 
with our fingers crossed, that his knack 
with a chafing dish would make camp 
cooking easy. We mentioned the con- 
venience of air mattresses and collapsible 
ovens, and things that could be packed 



30 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 




AT THE FOOT OF THE HILL. 

in his little Elmore. We gave him to 
read articles about the joys of camping 
with an automobile. We tenderly en- 
couraged his budding enthusiasm until it 
blossomed like the rose. 

Then, during a time of warm Indian 
summer, we determined to apply the 
virus. We felt that a good day in the 
woods might well accomplish our desire. 
At the Shack the rustling leaves were 
ankle deep, the jays called overhead, and 
distant sounds of farm creatures would 
come faintly up to us from the valley be- 
low, as we sat on the bench in the sun 
with our backs against the cabin. 

Up there we had seen an occasional 
grouse, and a crafty old fox chuckled at 
the traps we set for him. Thirty years 
ago, another old fox lived down in the 
valley and grew fat on innocent game. 
Once he caught our trusting parent; 
baited a trap with three acres of wooded 
hillside and took him in, and a tithe of 
all he possessed. Nor did the bait ever 
benefit said parent. Yes, it was a blow 
to father. But when the disease sot Bill, 



after he emerged from the 
cowboy delirium, he took 
to the woods, and we fol- 
lowed him. 

There, with others un- 
worthy of mention, we 
labored mightily, accord- 
ing to our tastes, with 
axes, hatchets, and ham- 
mers, and there Cooky 
won her sobriquet. So 
the Shack was built, and 
the Campingitis Club was 
born into a happy exist- 
ence. Then Ed came to 
town, raw material, clay 
for us to model. 

His automobile was 
what troubled us; for, 
though the way to the 
Shack was easy for our 
horses, wise and crafty 
with Western training, it 
was not exactly a boule- 
vard, though it did begin 
well. After a few miles 
of pleasant going through 
the valley, the road turns 
sharp to the right, and 
starts up a long, rough, 
humpy hill. An insignificant village ter- 
minates that hill much as the head of a 
brontosaurus ends the horror of his spinal 
column. If you pause on the highest ver- 
tebra, so to speak, and look about, one of 
the most impressive views east of the 
Mississippi will meet your eyes. 

But midway on the hill beside a water 
trough, a little roadway entered the 
woods, and, staggering among rocks and 
gullies, led at last to the Shack. We 
agreed it would be hard going for Ed's 
car, but we thought he might make it. 
Certainly he was ready to try. 

He had bought "some duffle," he said, 
which we had examined with dubious 
admiration. Jack, who lived nearest him, 
was to help pack this and "some grub" 
under the seat of the automobile and 
guide Ed to the scene of action. We 
telephoned them at the appointed hour 
that we were ready, and then we started, 
riders three, Cooky, regardless of form, 
jogging comfortably on her rabbit-headed 
little Texan ; Bert, straight and supple, 
in calm certainty that his horse did not 



INOCULATING ED 



3i 



know anything bad enough 
to unseat him; Bill, a lit- 
tle stiff, more of a trooper 
still than a cowboy, in 
spite of his hackamore, 
and, Heaven forgive him, 
spurs five inches in the 
shank, with rowels sug- 
gestive of a buzz saw. 

Now, the sun did not 
come out warm as on the 
preceding days, and as we 
started to climb the hill a 
fitful breeze, unpleasantly 
suggestive of the northern 
Atlantic, began to make 
itself felt. By the time 
we reached the water 
trough the sun was quite 
gone, the wind was steady, 
and it did not require 
much imagination to pic- 
ture the impressive view a 
mile or two ahead become 
merely a stretch of bleak 
country, the sunny dignity 
of the mighty river turned 
to leaden dullness under 
the cold, gray sky. We 
looked at each other ap- 
prehensively, fearful for the success of 
our day. 

The horses presently turned from the 
trough and entered the trail of their own 
accord. At a certain spot they started 
directly through the woods up a steep 
little rise, a short cut to the hitching rail. 
Then, horrid moment, we blinked and 
looked again, and sounds of wrath and 
dismay were borne away on the mocking 
wind. Our cozy little Shack, that we 
had built ourselves, chopping the trees, 
trimming, cutting them in lengths, notch- 
ing, heaving them into place in the sweat 
of our brows and "the water of our blis- 
tered palms — the Shack was a heap of 
ashes and charred stubs! 

As we looked at the ruin we were 
amazed to the point of silence. We re- 
membered all the good times we had had 
there, and our hearts sank. We were 
quite upset. 

A shout broke in on our silence. "Ed !" 
we exclaimed. We had forgotten him. 
But it was Jack. Wide-eyed, we saw 
him coming. 




A GLIMPSE OF THE RIVER. 

"What the — " he gasped. 

"It's burnt down," we said. 

"And Ed— Oh, Lord!" 

"Where's Ed?" 

"Oh, the car is stuck in a rut a quar- 
ter of a mile back, and Ed won't leave 
her. What could happen I don't know. 
We got her out of two other holes, and 
nearly upset once. Got some paint 
scratched and one of the hubs, and Ed 
mashed a finger. He told me to toddle 
up and bring you fellows back. He says 
four of us can lift her out, but I don't 
see the use coming any farther. I 
thought we'd make up for his trouble 
when we got him here, but — " 

We stood there looking sadly at him, 
while the wind shrieked through the 
woods and a few stinging pellets of sleet 
struck our cold faces. We were hungry, 
too. 

"What are we going to do?" he fin- 
ished. 

"Let's build a fire." This from Bert. 

"Yes, and bring up Ed's duffle and the 
grub. We'll take turns holding hands 



32 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



with the 'bubble' and have something to 
eat, anyway." 

A relief party was dispatched to Ed, 
and when the duffle, the grub, and the 
green one were with us, we began at 
once to prepare lunch. Ed's "Oh! I 
say, fellows, this is hard luck!" was sym- 
pathetic enough and his only comment on 
the situation. 

Table trimmings had gone up in the 
blaze, so we ate with pocket knives and 
twigs, while the wind seasoned the food 
with ashes and dead leaves. The horses 
grew restive, and finally began to rear 
and strike at each other with their fore 
feet, so that one of us had to run over 
at intervals and quiet them down. With 
the aid of his collapsible oven, Ed 
achieved some humps of dough with tan 
points. He said they were biscuits, and 
insisted on having them photographed at 
once. 

"But make as short an exposure as 
possible," he requested, as he held them 
up. "They are even heavier than they 
look." 

Well, we kept some of it for the keeper 
of the "bubble" and took it down to him 
where he was curled up in the lap robes 
under the lee of the hill. After the boys 
had shouldered the little car out of the 
last of her troubles and we were on the 
clear road again, Ed gave her the "high," 
we let the restless ponies have their 
heads, and ignominiously fled toward 
home comforts. 

We all had supper together that even- 
ing — a famous supper — and when we 
were comfortably seated round the big 
wood fire afterwards, we were ready to 
meet our disappointment fairly. Of 
course, we felt that we had not demon- 
strated the joys of camping to any no- 
ticeable extent. Ed had furnished what 
little fun there was. We were grateful 
to him and wondered what he really 
thought about it. While we pondered, 
he removed his pipe and spoke. 

"Fellows," he said, "I'd like to give up 
going to Lakewood and spend a couple 
of weeks rebuilding the little old Shack. 
Of course, I'm a duffer," he continued, 
"but I think I could worry a tree till it 
fell down. The car is no use on that 
road ; I couldn't carry an axe on horse- 
back — I'd have to camp. I saw a sleep- 



ing bag at Abernethy's that I coveted. 
What do you think?" 

For the second time that day our emo- 
tions silenced us. Somebody said after- 
wards we were like the ass that was torn 
between two haystacks. If we did not 
let Ed go, he might lose interest in the 
whole matter by spring. If we did let 
him, two days might end it. 

Bert took the role of counselor. "Ed, 
you realize it is not exactly the best time 
of year to go camping, but of course you 
could try it. We have axes and all that, 
but you would need a sleeping bag. We 
could get you started all right the end 
of the week." 

"I'll drive you up, Ed." 

"Lend you my tent." 

"Ed, we certainly would elect you 
president of the Campingitis Club!" 

Thus speech was restored to us. 

Well, at the close of a bright Sunday, 
we left Ed pretty snugly fixed, with a 
clear idea of how to do the work — left 
him alone to meet the test. 

Ere the first uneventful week was 
over, Cooky's pony threatened to deposit 
her in the scenery when he saw the sad- 
dle coming toward him. Every day she 
brought word of stiffened muscles, but 
unflagging enthusiasm, and our hopes 
soared high. The next Sunday it turned 
cold, and Monday it snowed; began in 
the forenoon, and by dusk it was three 
inches deep. Then it stopped, and a nip- 
ping wind rose and shrieked all night. 
Tuesday it snowed again, hard. "To-day 
will settle it," we telephoned each other. 

Jack and Bert came home from the of- 
fice with Bill. We thought to bolster 
up our sinking hopes in their company. 
Also, if Ed had given up, and was walk- 
ing down, ours was the nearest house. 
We were just sitting down to dinner, 
when we heard the tramp and stumble 
of tired feet on the steps, the door opened, 
and there was Ed ! 

"Had enough, old man?" 

Then Ed's slow smile began, spread, 
and radiated, and he drawled, "Well, a 
warm bed does sound pretty good to me 
— but I need to take a horse up there to- 
morrow. The last logs are cut, but I 
can't drag them through this — " We 
were on him with a shout. Ed was in- 
oculated ! 







THE POLECAT WATCHED THEM. 



THE WHITE NIGHTMARE 



BY F. ST. MARS 



Illustrated by Charles Livingston Bull 




N one side was a wood, and 
because it was of spruce- 
fir it was thick with low- 
hung boughs in place of 
brushwood, and was filled 
with a thicker silence. 
On the other side was a slithery slope, 
like unto the roof of a house for steep- 
ness, dotted with many boulders that 
seemed to hold their places by a special 
dispensation of Providence only. Then, 
lest any find the scene too cheerful, came 
a beast of strange aspect, and stood twixt 
wood and slope. 

They said this beast came from a hole 
in a "cairn" on the mountain. Perhaps 
— but he looked as if he came from a 
place much deeper than any hole. Na- 
ture had given him a long body of won- 
derful twistfulness, then, forgetting 
what she had done, added legs two sizes 
too short. Then she went away, and 
Satan, coming along, finished the job. 



He added a head — surely no one save 
he could have evolved such a head — that 
had a sharp muzzle, and upright, round- 
ed, short ears, a head shaped like a 
wedge, and gave to it an expression 
genuinely diabolical. For color he chose 
a grim brown-black. Later he added an 
unquenchable thirst for something much 
less innocent than water and an odor 
which would spoil the best appetite for 
a week. Finally, lest all the wild folk 
turn and abolish it, he struck fear out 
of its composition and added teeth like 
stilettos set on end. 

Men called this tragedy a polecat, 
and then, as if to contradict the title, 
placed it at the head of the weasel tribe, 
where it stands to this day. 

Six grouse — red grouse — burst over 
the place like shells and dropped in a 
heap over a heather-mantled ridge. The 
polecat watched them. There are many 
things worse than grouse to eat and very 



33 



34 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



many things easier to catch, for an old 
cock grouse knows all that anyone can 
teach him about keeping out of harm's 
way, and a bit over. Polecats, however, 
are not met every day — or every year, 
for the matter of that — and their ways 
of hunting are not those of every wild 
hunter. 

He moved to that ridge. I say 
"moved" because the gait of a polecat is' 
— well, the gait of a polecat. It is 
all his very own — and the rest of his 
tribe's. It is not walking, or running; 
galloping would not describe it ; nor is it 
a canter. It resembles the going of a 
snake, as much as it resembles anything 
at all. 

The grouse were feeding well in the 
open, having no desire to feed anything 
else in their turn, also they kept there. 
There was no chance of their working 
nearer as they fed. And the polecat — 
twisted among the twisted stems of 
heather — anathematized them from afar. 
That occupation did not — as it does with 
some people — prevent him from think- 
ing, however, and the result was about 
the strangest sort of polecat those grouse 
ever clapped eyes upon. 

He turned acrobat, that polecat, and 
contortionist, and many other things 
that are without a name. What the 
grouse saw was a twisting, twining, 
twirling, tottering, tumbling, trembling 
tom-fool of a thing, and, being grouse, 
they were forthwith eaten up with curi- 
osity — and they stayed. That the en- 
tirely unknown and unaccountable ap- 
parition was drawing nearer with every 
contortion did not strike them. 

They simply stood and stared, a fat- 
cheeked, fowl-like stare, and the pole- 
cat, who was temporizing — and extem- 
porizing — calculated each display to 
bring him at least an inch closer to his 
prey. It was hard work, and it was also 
quite a close thing as to which would 
give out first, the birds' curiosity, or the 
polecat's breath. 

Followed a jump, a squawk, a great 
confloption of feathers, and the grouse 
came back to things earthly with a jerk. 
Five of them shot into the distance 
and one of them shot into — oblivion. 
The polecat had him by the neck, and 
when a polecat gets his teeth that way 



the owner of that neck may as well say 
his prayers very quickly indeed. Then 
that polecat dined after the manner of 
his kind, which means that he took so 
little that it seemed a pity to have killed 
the bird at all, and certainly not worth 
all that backaching trouble through 
which he had gone. 

Now, when you have just jumped flop 
into the dinner of a grouse family and 
have forcibly, not to say roughly, de- 
tained one member of that family for 
your own dinner, you expect to lose the 
pleasure of their company for at least 
a day. Therefore, when that flock come 
back from over the superb, tumbled, 
rolling riot of mountain, hill, and 
heather, and drop like stones within ten 
yards of you, you naturally want to 
know what on earth, or under it, has 
gone wrong with nature. The polecat 
yanked his flat head around and looked 
at those grouse as one would look at a 
madman, and the grouse said never a 
word, but flattened, and looked — not at 
the polecat, if you please, but at the sky. 
There was the rub. 

They looked at the sky instinctively 
because they were birds, and the animal 
did not. Why he did not I cannot tell 
you, nor can anyone else. It is a fact 
that animals seldom look up, and the 
reason for such an omission is, as yet, 
beyond the knowledge of man. 

Then it seemed as if a small-sized 
riot had begun on the giddy slope afore; 
mentioned. Some one on that slope was 
using language quite unfit for print, 
chattering obscenely, and the sound ap- 
peared to have electrified the polecat. 
Round jerked his snaky head, and, after 
the head, flung the sinuous body. It 
was as if some one had cried "Murder!" 
In a flash he was over that ridge, pound- 
ing along at his indescribable leaping, 
rippling double. He knew that voice, 
you see; had good cause to know it, for 
it was the voice of his mate. 

He found her, and she was a sight to 
make one hold one's breath. Her face 
was the face of a bad dream, no less, 
and her eyes shone red — wickedly, fiend- 
ishly red — like rubies with a fire behind 
them, and she jibbered. Round her were 
gathered her two young, and I give you 
my word those young were not beauti- 



THE WHITE NIGHTMARE 



35 








ful, but workmanlike — very 
workmanlike. 

Now that polecat had left 
his mate with three young, 
not two. The third ? Where 
was that third baby horror? 
The wind imitated the 
sounds of a low tide on a dis- 
tant beach. A jay screeched 
from somewhere in the wood, 
a harsh, annoying screech. 
A raven croaked, an odd, 
snoring croak of evil omen, 
.from a neighboring boulder. 
But they gave no answer to 
the dumb question. 

Then the polecat dropped 
his nose and hunted as a 
hound hunts, with all a 
hound's keenness of smell 
and twice its cunning. He 
was slow, perhaps, painfully 
slow, but — well, ask any 
mountain hare as to the sure- 
ness of his tracking, and, if 
it does not faint at the men- 
tion of his name, it will tell you that his imprints of his son's paws, and all four 
tracking is sure as death itself. of them could have been placed within 

He picked up the trail of his lost son the imprint of that huge claw, the claw 



PASSED ONE AFTER THE OTHER DOWNHILL. 



in the wood, followed it to the slope, 
threaded it to a bush under which a 
stream was born, and then — nowhere. 
It just went out, died, as if the owner 
had taken unto itself wings and flown 
away. This kind of thing is not custom- 
ary in the wild, you understand. It is 
a canon that if you follow a beast's trail 
long enough you come to the beast. Nor 
can any animal very well miss the trail 
of a polecat, for the scent of these ani- 
mals is a very shocking stink. Yet the 
old polecat flung up his head quite sud- 
denly and finally. His son had appar- 
ently sauntered into Spookland. 



of a bird without a doubt — but, ye gods, 
what a bird ! 

However, since the son had gone, and 
the unknown slayer had gone (taking 
the son with him, one presumes), and 
the grouse and blackcock and ptarmigan 
had gone — to sleep — and the sun was 
evidently just about to go, there was 
nothing for a polecat to do but to go too. 

He went, that polecat, very silent and 
very angry and doubly watchful, through 
the deepening gloom, and the mist, that 
lived in the ravines and hollows and 
damp places by day, rose up and swirled 
about him. Owls came out and hooted, 



It was a little thing, perhaps, no more barked, shrieked, or snored at him, ac- 

than a claw-mark in the soft earth where cording to their species. A heron flapped 

the stream — that nature had destined to homeward, shouting at the night his 

be a mighty river farther down — trickled rancorous, bad-tempered shout, and the 

forth, but it explained — well, everything, badgers — low, gray shadows in the mist 

The sight of it turned the polecat to — passed one after the other downhill, 

stone, and the setting sun turned him to on secret errands bent, 
blood-red stone, with bronze where the Then nature suspended in the void a 

creases were, and the result was a pic- great, round moon, shedding a light all 

ture that a painter would have given a the more brilliant because of the mist, 

year of his life to copy faithfully. Be- strange though this may sound to a 

side the mark of this claw were the round townsman. And the polecat put up a 



36 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



hare. 'Twas a small matter, to put up 
a hare. There were plenty of them in 
this place, the finicking, limping blue 
hares of the mountains. He dropped 
his head, picked up the trail, and gave 
chase with a dumb persistence that 
looked bad for that hare. 

There was no hurry about this beast. 
It is never he who is certain that hur- 
ries. The end was known to him al- 
ready, and to the hare; at least, they 
thought it was, for when a polecat fixes 
to the trail of a beast he might just as 
well be fixed to the beast's throat for all 
the chance it has of getting away from 
that grim pursuer. 

You know how a hare can run, with 
or without cause; how she eats up the 
miles, as a child eats up sweets, and 
walks into the background before you 
are aware. That hare did not. If a fox 
had given chase, she would have slid 
into the next county without thought, 
but the fox would have hunted full 
speed and lost the scent or given up in 
disgust. 

This thing, this low, slow horror, 
this polecat, moved no faster than a man 
might trot slowly, but he would stick to 
the scent till the Day of Judgment or 
dawn came to stop him. This the hare 
knew. She knew that no speed would 
disgust him, and she was equally certain 
that she could not "stay" till dawn — or 
the Day of Judgment, either, for the 
matter of that. Therefore terror seized 
her like unto a palsy, turning her blood 
to water, weighting her limbs with lead, 
numbing her, and dropping her speed 
till a terrier, aye, even a dachshund, 
would have laughed at it. 

Then something unforeseen hap- 
pened, and for the second time that 
night the polecat stopped dead on a trail 
that stopped, if I may be pardoned for 
using the word, deader. For the second 
time that night, also, he flung up his 
head quite suddenly, whimpering an odd 
little whimper — almost of anguish, it 
seemed — on a trail that died into the 
earth, or air, and went out like a snuffed 
candle. And for the second time that 
night, too, he found himself staring at a 
claw-mark, huge, forbidding, uncanny, 
the footprint of a bird, it seemed, in 
every way identical with the one that 



had cut his son's trail — and his life — 
off short in the beginning. 

There was something oddly stupid in 
the way the polecat stared blankly at 
that claw-mark, for an animal at a loss 
for the reason of a thing is either oddly 
stupid, or frightened, and a polecat, so 
it seems, cannot be frightened. He 
knew, he must have known, that before 
him was the claw-mark of a bird, yet, 
even then, he did not for some seconds 
look up, so strong is this habit — curse 
one might almost call it — that is laid 
upon all the four-footed ones. 

About this time the polecat became 
aware of eyes, two in number, not 
smaller than a marguerite, and they 
were on fire, those eyes, so that they 
flashed, and in them was the cruelty 
and cold ferocity of several fiends. Be- 
hind the eyes was something, he could 
not tell quite what, a shadow, a spook, 
a great white shape or spirit or ghost, 
which flapped and flapped and never 
said a word. 

The polecat is a slow beast as the 
wild folk go, and fear was eliminated 
from his composition by the — never 
mind. He had, however, as much love 
for his own life as any of us, perhaps be- 
cause he and death so often met. 
Therefore he became a contortionist 
and acrobat for the second time, with 
the tables reversed, and found himself — 
goodness and himself alone knew how 
he got there — behind a boulder. 

From the boulder to a heather-patch 
was the matter of a leap, and from the 
heather-patch to the "cairn" of stones in 
the spruce-fir wood where he lived, the 
matter of about the fastest thing in run- 
ning — or whatever he called his peculiar 
gait — that he had ever found it neces- 
sary to put up. He did not look round 
once. Indeed, he had quite enough to 
do to keep his feet in the blind smother 
of herbage, but once he felt something 
fan the back of his neck and it was as 
the breath from the grave. 

Next evening, after the fox had de- 
parted on business, but before the 
badger had shoved his gray snout out 
of the "cairn" — it had many lodgers, 
that "cairn" — the polecat went forth to 
appease a terrible hunger. He went 
first, however, to drink from a stream 



THE WHITE NIGHTMARE 



37 



that meandered chuckling, always 
chuckling, through the cathedral shades 
of the wood. The sun had almost 
burned out as he lifted his flat head and 
turned to go. 

Then his eyes fell upon something 
about a yard away. It was a smudge, 
an unclean blot, the spot where a bird 
— presumably a grouse which had come 
to that place for water — had been vio- 
lently done to death. Such sights are 
not uncommon in the wild. Beasts 
must live, and they are not all made 
alike, but — and here the polecat re- 
lapsed into cover as if he had been fired 
at — this particular blot had by the side 



all glistening to flash back the silver of 
the silver moon. In that hour he fed as 
a king feeds, with all due regard to the 
sensation his appearance created along 
the bank. 

All members of the weasel tribe love 
to cut a figure, I think; to rouse the 
town, as it were; to know the terror of 
their own name. The rabbits and the 
voles — water and field — were hopping 
about with fright, and the moorhens, 
and coots, and others of the river birds 




THE FOX HAD DEPARTED ON 

BUSINESS. 



of it the claw-mark of a bird. The 
polecat knew what that meant, or rather 
he did not know, but would have liked 
very much some one to tell him. It was 
the same claw-mark as the one he had 
beheld the night before, and it could not 
be considered a good omen for the be- 
ginning of a night's hunting. 

There was a river not far away, 
broad and flat-bottomed; not particular- 
ly fast, as hill rivers go, but shallow 
and haunted by the lordly trout. Into 
this river the polecat slid, not indeed as 
to the manner born, but as to the man- 
ner trained. The trout is no flat fish 
to be walked up on a flat bottom. He 
lies head to swell, and he sees you first 
every time. There is no bluff about the 
trout. He throws his stake on speed, and 
in nine cases out of ten the quickness of 
the fish deceives the eye. 

The polecat put up such a trout, cut 
him off from open water, headed him 
into a shallow, and, after half-an-hour's 
fancy dancing, so to speak, landed him 



were dancing can-cans of horror; while 
the rats, the rowdy, low ruffians that 
haunt every river front, turned fairly 
giddy with fear, and went about yam- 
mering insanely, as if dazed — all be- 
cause they had seen, and, worse still, 
smelt that double-dyed slayer, the pole- 
cat. They knew it was he, because al- 
though the moon — who is the mother 
of shadows — may even deceive the 
quickness of a trained wild eye, there is 
no mistaking that deadly, sickly, con- 
centrated essence of stink, which is pe- 
culiar to the polecat, and — thank 
Heaven — to him alone. 

All at once the whole company 
"froze," became stiff and rigid with a 
very sudden rigidity. It was as if a 
Voice had bidden them be still, and still 
they were as death. There are two 
kinds of fear in the wild. One produces 
movement and sound. The other pro- 
duces stupor. Evidently the latter, and 
greater, fear was at hand. 

The polecat did not deal much in 



38 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 










LANDING HIM ALL GLISTENING. 

fear himself, save to dispense it, but he 
had never dispensed fear like that. 
Then something fell with a thud out 
of the night, fell and was still. The 
polecat crouched, his little red eyes fixed 
upon the thing, a dim blotch among the 
grass blades, but the thing did not get 
up and walk away as he expected. It 
had done with movement forever. 

Then the water birds, who had been 
the first to crouch, got up and went 
away, very quietly and without remark, 
almost as if they held one claw up to 
their beak. The rabbits and the rats 
followed, faded back into the shadows 
that had given them birth, and they, 
too, said nothing at all. And the pole- 
cat was alone, alone in all that half- 
suggested, silent world, where the moon- 
light showed so little and the darkness 
hid so much. 

It was the curiosity which is part of 
the heritage of the weasel tribe that 
prompted him to get up and go to look 
at that dim Something lying huddled in 
the silver grass. He stood a yard away 
and sniffed — one sniff only. 

If a galvanic battery had been at that 
moment under his feet he would have 
— well, acted as he did. Every hair on 
his body sat straight up, and under it the 
loose skin rippled, and the sound that 
came from his mouth was not the sound 



of ?. sane animal at all. 
He swore strange and ter- 
rible things in a sudden 
wild jibber, executing the 
while a mad dance for 
the space of one minute. 
Then he went, not slowly, 
and quite blindly, into the 
night, still jibbering as 
one who is in pain, or 
mad, or both. 

And the thing which 
lay on the ground never 
said a word. It was a 
young polecat — his young polecat; and 
on its shoulder lay a single feather, a 
large, soft feather, white with the 
whiteness of snow. No wonder he jib- 
bered, that polecat. Imagine one's only 
daughter descending from the clouds, 
and for the best of reasons offering nei- 
ther explanation nor apology for the 
miracle. If anything was needed to 
complete the surprise, that feather smelt 
as the claw-mark had smelt, had come 
from the same bird, or spook, or devil, 
or whatever it was that sailed about the 
night sky and worked unholy miracles. 
It was to be presumed that that same 
spook thing had carried off his young 
one and dropped it by chance while 
passing above him ; at least, that seemed 
the most natural theory. 

After that the thing became a night- 
mare, and a bad one at that. Those 
wretched claw-marks seemed to haunt 
the polecat wherever he went, till he 
almost came to look for them. Every- 
where in the soft ground they showed, 
and always where some bird or beast 
had been violently done to death and 
eaten on the spot. 

One night, while loafing along a 
string of marshy pools where the re- 
splendent wild duck was wont to feed 
— and feed him, upon occasion — he be- 
came aware of a small-sized riot open- 
ing up from the mist-hung darkness of 
the largest pool of all. Something was 
in trouble there, so that it squawked 
aloud in a wild and public-spirited fash- 
ion. Three wild duck got up from the 
place and whizzed away above him, and 
he knew by the whistling of their wings 
that they had had a mighty scare. 

Followed a great snarling, and after 



THE WHITE NIGHTMARE 



39 



the snarling a series of surprised and 
terrified yelps. They were the sounds 
that a fox might make in a trap, per- 
haps. This the polecat knew, but he 
knew, also, that there were no traps 
anywhere near there. 

He approached that place through a 
tunnel that the otters used among the 
reeds. In the middle of that tunnel he 
met something in a hurry. It was 
swearing horribly, that thing, and it ran 
blindly into the polecat, so that they 
rolled over together, fighting like cats. 
It must have been an otter. At least, 
that was the impression that the polecat 
had, but whatever it was, it scrambled 
to its feet on the instant and vanished 
down the tunnel, still stumbling dazed- 
ly, still swearing thickly. 

As for the polecat, he got up and 
continued his path of investigation, 
spitting out fur as he went. Next mo- 
ment another thing burst into the tun- 
nel, yelping as it came, and there was 
no pleasure, but only a great and very 
fresh fear in the yelp. The polecat 
flattened against the wall of the tun- 
nel this time, watching the filmy green 
eyes of the thing anxiously, for he 
feared it was mad. It passed, brushing 
his fur all along one side and reeking of 
bad odors, and he turned and saw by 
the tail of it that it was the fox who 
lodged in the same "cairn" he patron- 
ized. He was a hard old fox, not given 
to panic, and had not run from anything 
save dogs for many years. 

It seemed to the polecat that as he 
reached the pool a white and shadowy 
something floated away over the reeds, 
but it made no sound, though it was of 
immense size. It was but a suspicion 
of a glimpse he had of it, and it did not 
come back. 

He found where the otter had come 
up out of the oily black water and 
fallen upon the wild duck; the couch in 
the reeds whence the fox had watched 
and sprang out at the otter; the mud 
on the lip of the pool, all plowed and 
spattered, where the two had held a 
fanged argument. Then — and then he 
turned and went away quickly. The 
thing that had eaten the wild duck — 
the bunched feathers were evidence 
enough — was neither fox nor otter, but 



the unknown bird whose claw-marks 
were all around. He understood then 
the conduct of the other hunters and 
knew why they were streaked with 
gashes such as might be made by many 
small stilettos. They had been so fool- 
ish as to argue with the white night- 
mare, a mistake on their part not likely 
to be repeated. 

The polecat removed to a hill-farm, 
small and rude and squat. He was in 
a hurry to feed and get back to his 
"cairn." Something was wrong with 
the wild to-night. Everyone crept about 
with fingers on their mouths, as it were, 
and if any crossed the open, they did so 
at the gallop, with their eyes on the sky. 
He could hear the snorting of the lean 
red does, concerned as to the welfare of 
their fawns, as they moved uneasily 
about the higher slopes. 

He could hear the whistling "when, 
when, when, when" of wild ducks' 
wings stampeding about the sky, and the 
full, wild, ringing alarm note of the 
curlews, the tocsin of the wild, pealed 
incessantly from every hill. Once it 
seemed to" him that he heard the snort- 
ing of a horse, but when he reached the 
post there was no horse there, nor ever 
had been, but a vixen passed him, going 
like the wind, and she was not pleasant 
to look upon, and in place of hoof- 
marks, he found — Oh, murder! — those 
unspeakable claw-marks. 

Then he hurried to the fowl-house 
of that farm, and got in by some mi- 
raculous contriving of his own, and 
slew a fowl quickly, much to the dis- 
gust of a stoat who was planning the 
same coup. He fed after his fashion — 
his ruby orbs gleaming in the darkness, 
which was full of blundering, half- 
awake fowls — and removed again with 
speed. At the entrance he ran up 
against something that was coming in, 
and it turned and opened its mouth to 
squeal, but he leaped at its throat and 
choked the cry that would have given 
him away. It was a rat. 

There was a clap like thunder as he 
took the gap in the rough yard-wall at 
a bound, and a hail of leaden shot splat- 
tered the lichened stone slabs behind 
him. That is the worst of fowls and 
pigs; they simply will not die quietly, 




CHOKED THE CRY THAT WOULD HAVE GIVEN HIM AWAY. 



but scream till some one, or death, or 
both, arrives to stop them. Apparently 
the farmer had heard them, and had 
fired from the bedroom window at the 
long low shadow of the polecat as it 
crossed the yard. At least, that was the 
supposition, but the polecat did not go 
back to see. 

Instead, he heard the snorting of that 
horse, which wasn't a horse, again, pro- 
ceeding this time from an inky black 
smudge of fir trees, and he arrived home 
hot and desperate an hour before dawn, 
wondering how he got there. The 
"cairn" was deserted at this hour, for its 
inhabitants, who were all beasts without 
the law, carried on business under shad- 
ow of night only. 

The polecat family's own particular 
den seemed hollow and lonely, and, 
knowing that his wife would not be 
back till dawn, he lay down just within 
the mouth of the hole to wait. In 
times of peace he would have slept 
where he lay, but he was ill at ease this 
night. 

The tocsin of the curlews still pealed 
from hill to answering hill, and the 
blackness, now that the moon had gone, 
was terrifying. A gray shadow, long 
and low, grew out of the void and faded 
into the "cairn." Another shadow fol- 
lowed. 'Twas the badgers almost an 
hour before their time. Something blew 
past with a snort, and a gleam as of a 
dim lamp marked the passing of the 
light rump of a roe-deer. Behind came 
a second, and they were in a hurry, 



fearful and highstrung, ready to shoot 
off at a tangent at a whisper. And the 
roe is the last of the wild folk to be- 
come flurried. 

A suspicion of faintest gray hazed the 
east, and a rock about ten yards away 
grew into a rock instead of a crouching 
goblin which the darkness had made it. 
Dawn was at hand. And straightway 
there rose up out of the dirt the lean, 
slinking, raking figure of the fox. He 
had come home, like the badgers, long 
before his time, and he had come on his 
belly, and went to ground as if he 
thanked Heaven for the favor. And 
the polecat, watching with his wicked 
snaky head erect, knew by these tokens 
that the shadow of the white nightmare 
— and the same was the claw-mark mys- 
tery — lay heavy and mysterious upon all 
the wild. 

No blackcock announced dawn on 
the rock near by, as was his custom on 
other mornings. No jays shattered the 
silence with harsh, unseemly gibes. No 
grouse slung themselves in whirring 
showers across the valleys. No heron 
sailed up out of the black woods into 
the caldron of the fiery sunrise, into 
which it was his wont to beat slowly 
until the glare engulfed him. All these 
things were missing this morning — and 
so was the polecat's wife and her young 
one. Only the everlasting tocsin of the 
curlews beat to and fro without pause. 

At last the polecat stood up and 
moved stiffly away into the spruce-fir 
wood. A cry, half-stifled by distance, 



40 



THE WHITE NIGHTMARE 



4i 



had come to him on the lap of the dawn 
wind. It was not a nice cry, a thin 
high chatter, but it was the cry of a 
polecat for help, and it is one of the 
rules of all the weasels that that cry 
must be answered in person and at 
once. They are not, from the human 
point of view, desirable beasts, nor is 
there anything lovable about them, but 
they will rescue a comrade from a foe 
if they can, even if their own life pays 
forfeit — and that in itself is not half 
bad. 

He found the giver of that cry, and 
it was his wife. Beside her was their 
only and half-grown son. Both were 
carmine stained about the back, looking 
as if they had tried to crawl under some 
barbed wire, and they were in trouble 
so that they made obscene noises at 
nothing at all. 

He was wondering in his dull animal 
way what they had imagined they were 
fighting, when his eye fell upon that 
which had once been a grouse, and be- 
side it — help ! — was that unmentionable 
claw-mark. That explained it all. The 
attitude of the wild folk, the tocsin of 
the curlews, the silence, the — 

A shadow fell athwart the sun. His 



eyes lifted, and he was still. Above 
him, poised on vast flapping wings, 
which contrary to the custom of all 
wings, made no sound, was a bird, and 
it must have been twenty-six inches 
from head to tail if it was an inch. It 
was white as the snow, that bird, cruel 
as the snow, silent as the snow, and it 
was literally muffled from big round 
head to tiger-taloned claws with layers 
upon layers of feathers. 

Then it fell, fell with the suddenness 
and force of a bolt, and the polecat 
went down under it with a yell. What 
happened under that white heap, amid 
the terrible grappling claws, no one 
knows, for the heap choked suddenly 
and collapsed in coughing, white whirl- 
wind. 

"It was a snowy owl from Russia," 
said the keeper to me. "I found it lying 
dead on top of a dead polecat. The 
polecat's jaws were locked tight in the 
owl's throat, in a blind, accidental 
death-grip, and two other polecats ran 
away as I approached." 

Which lucid statement, you will al- 
low, explained everything about the 
mystery, that in the wild had become 
known as "The White Nightmare." 




A LOST PARADISE 



BY CHARLES ASKINS 



N the fall of a time about sixty- 
years ago, Captain Asians, of Lex- 
ington, Ky., was riding through 
northern Mississippi on a horseback 
tour from his home to New Orleans. 
On his right was a big brick build- 
ing, colonial style, which with a little 
pretension might have been called a man- 
sion. Red oak, pine, and chestnut min- 
gled over the broad lawn that extended 
down to the "big road," where a heavy 
iron gate, with posts of stone and a great 
arch above it, stood invitingly open. 
Hedges of boxwood, neatly trimmed, 
bordered the drive and the walks, while 
various semi-tropical trees grew about 
the yard. 

Behind the house was a vineyard of 
native grapes and a fine orchard of 
peaches, apples, and pears. Some dis- 
tance below a rambling barn squatted 
over the ground, with a thoroughbred 
sorrel colt or two looking longingly over 
the fence. The doors of a huge cotton 
shed were open, displaying bale on bale 
of cotton, and near by the rough-hewn, 
skeleton arm of a horse-power cotton gin 
were going round and round under the 
motive power of a couple of white mules, 
while the negro boss shouted orders to 
half a dozen busy blacks. 

With a Kentuckian's appreciation of a 
beauty somewhat foreign to his own 
State, the captain enjoyed it all as he 
settled his saddle nag to a slow walk. 
When almost opposite the gate, a young 
mulatto boy came rushing down, waving 
his arms for the horseman to stop. The 
captain drew rein to see what was 
wanted. 

"The majah says foh yuh to stop, 
sah." 

"Who the deuce is the majah, and 
what does he want with me ?" 

"Don' know, sah. 'Spec' he wants talk 
to yo' all. Majah is Mas'er Jim." 

Somewhat annoyed, for he wished to 
reach a certain point that night, the cap- 
tain rode up to the house, where the 



major met him with an air of mock in- 
dignation. 

"Now," he said, "what the devil do 
you mean, ridin' past my house without 
stoppin'?" 

"I was in a hurry to reach Spring- 
dale to-night, majah; promised to stay 
with a friend, Colonel Bolivar." 

"You won't get theah to-night, I tell 
you that, suh. I'll send a nigguh down 
to invite him up this evenin', and tell 
him you'll not be theah foh a week, 
suh." 

"Oh, but I expected to be in New 
Orleans in ten days," protested the 
horseman. 

"The deuce you did ! Well, you'll not 
be any nigher in ten days than you ah 
now, suh. From Kaintucky?" 

"Yes, suh." 

"I knowed it by your hoss. Been in 
the ahmy ?" 

"Yes, suh." 

"I knowed it by the way you set your 
hoss. What wah ?" 

"Black Hawk and Mexican wars. 
Captain Kentucky Rifles." 

"I knowed it. Now, wouldn't you 
have played hell, ridin' past heah with- 
out payin' yo' respects. I am Majah 
Gordon — Mississippi Volunteers ; suved 
through the Mexican Wah, suh. Light 
captain. Sam, you Sam! Take this 
gentleman's hoss to the bahn and rub 
him down until evuh haih is dry, then 
feed him. 

"Come in, captain. Bring your rifle 
right in with you. I see you ah very 
careful with it, and it looks a good one. 
I have a Joe Manton or two myself, suh. 
Don't apologize foh the dust. The 
ladies ah all gone to town, anyhow, God 
bless 'em. Ike, Ike! Damn that nig- 
guh, he's nevuh heah when I want 
him! 

"Bring us a couple of toddies and a 
smokin' jacket and paih of slippuhs fo' 
the captain. You've got the Kaintucky 
foot and ankle, suh, and the shoes will 



42 



A LOST PARADISE 



43 



fit if the coat is a little tight. My wife 
is from Louisville, captain; the finest 
women and hosses in the world." 

The mollified captain made no fur- 
ther show of reluctance about staying, 
and the two gentlemen settled down to 
their toddies while discussing war, horses, 
and field sports. The major brought 
out his guns — a big-bored Mississippi 
Yager, which he had carried to Mexico, a 
powerful-looking ten-gauge, which he 
called his buckshot gun, and a pair of 
highly engraved fowling pieces, made by 
the celebrated Joe Manton, with long, 
slender barrels, light in weight, possessing 
locks that were tuned up like the strings 
of a violin. 

The latter were evidently the pride 
of their owner, who was surprised that 
the captain seemed unable to appreciate 
the beautiful arms at their true worth. 
Finally, the traveler admitted that he 
had never fired a smoothbore a hundred 
times in his life. 

"What!" asked the major, "did you 
nevuh shoot buids on the wing?" 

"Never shot a bird," asserted the cap- 
tain, "except to clip the head of a prairie 
fowl or turkey now and then, and, while 
I have hit a few flying, it was mostly 
luck. We don't think much of a shot- 
gun in Kentucky." 

"I know you don't, and it's a mistake, 
suh. You have somethin' to luhn, and 
had bettuh be about it. Theah is no 
spo't like wing-shootin'. Why, I would 
no mo' shoot a pa'tridge on the ground 
or a duck in the watuh than you would 
ride to a race meet on a mule. And 
theah is no othuh country like Missis- 
sippi for game in the whole Union. That 
was why I wanted you to stop and enjoy 
a few days' shootin' with me." 

"Haven't you any deer or bear?" 
queried the Kentuckian. "I brought my 
rifle, expecting to do some hunting down 
below Vicksburg." 

"Oh, lawd, yes, plenty of deah and 
beah, but I mostly leave them to the nig- 
guhs and for a chase with the houn's. A 
big buck is lyin' right now in that tall 
slough grass you see through the win- 
dow ; you can try the rifle on him in the 
mawnin'." 

"So you leave the rifles and the deer 
to the niggers?" asked the captain, some- 



what ruffled. "I don't agree with you, 
suh, in that. There is no finer game 
alive than a Kentucky deer, not even a 
buffalo or an antelope, and I have shot 
them all. It is nothing short of sinful 
waste, too, major, feeding them to the 
niggers. We tried that in Kentucky; 
that and shooting them for the hides, and 
now venison is becoming very scarce. 

"Letting a black become skilled with 
a rifle, while your own young bloods go 
piddling about with a salt shaker is dead 
wrong, too. No nigger of mine is going 
to shoot a rifle ; it is the weapon of a sol- 
dier and a gentleman, suh. Catching 
rabbits, coons, and birds may be all 
right, but shooting a rifle at a noble beast 
like a deer — confound it, what are you 
all coming to?" 

"Softly, softly, captain; there is only 
one nigger hunter on the plantation, and 
he shoots only to fill up hungry pots that 
are always empty. Deah is cheapuh 
than poak, though the black imps grum- 
ble a good deal at havin' to eat it. There 
will be whitetails in the swamps, too, a 
thousand yeahs aftuh we have quit pull- 
in' trigguh. 

"As for lettin' 'em eat my buids, I 
don't like to use the whip, but if I caught 
one of the rascals catchin' a pa'tridge 
I'd have the overseer skin him. Why, 
there are five hundred blacks on this 
plantation, and if I allowed them to 
trap buids the dear little brown fellows 
wouldn't last a year. I tell you that 
shootin' them in the fashion of Forester 
and Lewis is the spo't of a king. And 
theah is many a bevy on Gordon Place, 
too; why, the greatest duke in England 
nevuh saw such shootin' as we have heah. 
Only last season Colonel Fontaine, of 
New Ahlens, and I shot a match to see 
who could bag his hund'ed brace the 
quickest. We shot from hossback, with 
spare guns and a man to load. We be- 
gan at nine, and, knowin' the groun' bet- 
tah than he, I finished at twelve — thuhty 
minutes ahead of him." 

The unconvinced captain shook his 
head at the idea of such shooting being 
called sport. "I'll tell you what I'll 
do," he declared ; "there are pigeons in 
those woods?" 

"A million of them on Blackoak Ridge 
now if theah is one." 



44 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



"Well, I will shoot you to prove which 
has the better gun — your Joe Manton 
against my Kentucky rifle; five gallons 
of Bourbon against as much of your rare 
wine; you to take your birds singly on 
the wing, while I kill mine like a rifle- 
man — the man who first scores his hun- 
dred wins." 

"Done! The whisky is mine. But, 
not to take advantage of you, I will or- 
duh and present to you anothuh Joe 
Manton like mine, for you will want it 
next season, when we will shoot the 
match all ovuh again. What is it, Sam ?" 
as the stableman came in. 

"Ole Massa Big Geo'ge is comin', 
sah." 

"Oh, yes, I forgot to tell you, captain, 
we ah goin' to have a little game suppah 
to-night — that was anothuh reason I was 
jus' boun' to have you stop — and I have 
asked my neighbo' and friend, Big 
Geo'ge, ovuh to help eat it. I nevuh can 
enjoy a squaih meal without Big Geo'ge. 
You know how much bettah a cuhcus is 
when you take c. ten-yeah-old boy, or a 
theatuh with a fo'teen-yeah-old miss — it 
is the same with eatin' ; he fuhnishes the 
enthusiasm, the honest zest that causes a 
runt pig to eat as much as a two hund'ed 
poundeh. When you have swallowed 
until you think theah is danguh of split- 
tin' down the middle, you look at Geo'ge 
jus' gittin' unduh way and staht right in 
again. But heah he comes. Sit still and 
watch him." 

The floor shook as a huge figure strode 
in. His chin was buried in folds of flesh, 
which extended up to his eyes, half con- 
cealing them. His head almost touched 
the ceiling, and his immense legs swung 
around one another as he walked. Look- 
ing neither to the right nor left, he went 
straight to the table, lifted the bottle of 
wine, smelled it, and then he exploded: 

"Damme, what's this stuff? Like to 
kill me joltin' ovuh heah in that damn 
carryall, and then try to pizen me. 
Where's the applejack?" 

"Presently, presently; Geo'ge, my old 
friend, Captain Askins, of Kaintucky." 

The big planter greeted the captain 
pleasantly and without any show of sur- 
prise at the presence of a stranger. "It's 
just one of the majah's devilish tricks," 
he said, "tryin' to see if I wouldn't swal- 



ler his mis'able grape juice befo' I 
knowed it. Have a drink with me, cap- 
tain," as the brandy appeared. "No? 
Your very good health, suh. Now, Jim, 
tell me about the suppah." 

"Everything done to a tuhn — been out 
to see about it myself. If you insult 
Aunt Sally by suggestin' any changes 
she'll scald you." 

"Git the wild tuhkey hen I sent 
ovuh?" 

"Yes, suh. How in thunduh did a 
lazy ole — " 

"Stuff it with oystehs? Maryland 
oystehs, now, I tell yuh — none o' them 
devilish little Mobile pimps. An' cran- 
behies from Juhsey? — I wouldn't tech 
one of them Michigan behies." 

"The behies are from Noo Juhsey and 
the oystehs from Maryland, suh." 

"Good ! The wild pigeons wuh 
wrapped in brown papuh, coated with 
white clay, and roasted in the ashes? — 
brown papuh, now, heah me, no damn 
Yankee noospapuh will do fo' a pigeon ; 
they taste of it." 

"Nevuh feah, Geo'ge, it's brown pa- 
puh, and the buttuh is best Louisville 
cream-made." 

"Pot-roast the teal with strips of Mis- 
sissippi, aco'n-f ed bacon ? — no cussed Illi- 
nois sow-belly, mind ye." 

"Shot the po'keh in the woods myself, 
Geo'ge, and cut the strips as thin as a 
knife blade." 

"Got the robin pie just right this time? 
You played the devil with that pie once 
— an English pie, suh, with nothin' but 
buttuh in the crust — yo' didn't put any 
blackbuids in this time, yo' young scoun- 
d'el, to think / couldn't tell blackbuids 
from robins — fifty robins, no mo', no 
less, picked dry and laid out to freeze 
befo' bein' drawn?" 

" 'Tended to it all myself, suh." 

"Yuh briled the pa'tridges on hick-ry 
coals? — no cussed oak flavuh foh me, 
suh." 

"It was sho' hick'ry, Uncle Geo'ge, and 
the Irish potatoes are roasted in the 
ashes with theah jackets on, and the oys- 
teh soup is rich enough to beah the 
weight of yo' spoon." 

"Oystehs! Now I got ye. I knowed 
a rattle-brained young devil like you 
would fohget somethin'. Did yo' make 



A LOST PARADISE 



45 



the oysteh relish with cayenne peppuh 
and celery, thickened with the stewed 
hahts and livuhs of meadow lahks 
chopped fine?" 

"Aunt Sally did that — just as you 
showed huh. And the eggnog is made 
of cohn whisky from Kaintucky" — with 
a bow to the captain. "Captain, this 
suppuh is to be entiahly of Mississippi 
buids. Anothuh time we will have one 
of lahguh game — vanison, beah stake, 
possum, rabbits, and squir'l soup. With 
the buids we would have nothin' but 
light drinks, home-made and impohted 
wines, and coffee, except for Big Geo'ge, 
who won't drink 'em, so we have eggnog 
and hot milk punch to-night. Eve'y- 
thing is ready, Brother Geo'ge." 

"Good, good ; what the hell yo' wait- 
in' foh, suh? I am goin' to live a hun- 
d'ed yeahs yet, and eat all the time." 

The pie was very much to the captain's 
taste, but he could not forbear saying: 
"I am 'most ashamed to eat these little 
songsters. One spring I had the rheu- 
matism, and the only thing that cheered 
me for weeks was a couple of robin red- 
breasts singing under my window and 
hopping about the lawn. They are cer- 
tainly good eating when cooked so, but 
I shall never shoot one." 

"Don't worry, my deah captain," said 
his host. "There are millions and mil- 
lions of 'em down heah. I have stood at 
one spot and, with two men to load, shot 
away ten pounds of sixes in one evenin' 
as they came in to roost in the sage. Bar- 
rin' the pigeons and the blackbuids, theah 
is no feathud game on ea'th so plentiful 
as the robins. Watch Big Geo'ge. 'Eat, 
drink, and be merry, for to-morrow you 
may die.' " 

"Here's to your scuppanon wine, ma- 
jah; I'll take a keg of it back to Lexing- 
ton with me after we have finished with 
the pigeons to-morrow." 

"And I'll teach you how to shoot a 
Joe Manton, nevuh feah." 

"Don't drink so much, yo' two young 
devils; how can yo' all appreciate the 
flavuh of this meadow lahk and oysteh 
relish?" 

Captain Askins was my father. More 
than forty years later I visited the major, 
now Colonel Gordon, a mellow and 



sweet old man, living alone on the old 
plantation, except for a daughter of Aunt 
Sally and her husband, who kept house 
for him. My father had paid annual 
visits to the major before the war, and I 
went down for a quail shoot, not quite 
prepared for the changes that had taken 
place in forty years. 

The "Big House" was weather-worn 
and old, with one wing shot away dur- 
ing the war. A regiment of Federal 
troops had camped in the yard and felled 
the oaks for firewood. The frame of the 
horse-power gin was lying prone. The 
barn and the cotton shed were gone. No 
vestige of the negro quarters remained, 
but about over the plantation were a few 
darkey cabins, half hidden among the 
pines. In place of the broad cotton 
fields, only little, irregular patches here 
and there were in cultivation. 

The dear old man was honestly de- 
lighted to see me when I told him my 
name. 

"Come in, come in," he said, with his 
time-worn face aglow. "You look like 
yo' fathuh, boy, only not quite so much 
the soljuh. But I am glad you have a 
fowling piece in place of the rifle. I 
have nevuh liked a rifle much since they 
made two holes in me durin' the wah. I 
have a good gun myself, but it's gettin' 
old and rusted, like its owner, suh, and 
the Joe Mantons were buhned in the 
bahn. I do not shoot much any mo'. 
The spirit is willin', but old legs are not, 
and game is hahd to find." 

"That is a bit disappointing, colonel. 
My father used to tell me of the old 
times, and I thought we would have one 
more game supper in memory of him. 
Pardon me for doing it, but I brought 
you down a demijohn or two, just as he 
told me that he used to do before the 
war." 

"No apologies, my son. You were 
bawn one of us, and I know you will un- 
duhstand. Gordon Place will do its 
best to entertain you, and the present is 
most acceptable — most acceptable from 
the son of my old friend. I am real sorry 
about the shootin', but you know I 
haven't seen a pigeon in twenty yeahs, 
and the robins and doves have taken to 
migratin' futhuh west. I have not seen 
a wild duck now in three seasons. But 



4 6 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



theah is a bevy of pa'tridges back in the 
garden among the grapes. 

"I told the dahkies that if I caught 
one of 'em shootin' these buids I'd put a 
'blue whistler' through him, and I guess 
the rascals believed me. I like to heah 
the little chaps whistling. They wake 
me in the mawning just as they used to 
when I was a boy. Take yo' dogs and 
go through the vines, and you'll soon 
have 'em up. Then theah ah some rob- 
ins in the pines back of the house, and I 
have seen a flock of lahks in the weed 
patch where the bahn used to be." 

"Hold on, colonel, for heaven's sake. 
I wouldn't shoot your pet birds any more 
than I would you." 

The charming old face lightened. 
"That's like your deah fathuh, boy; he 
hated to shoot anything that had luhned 
not to feah him. But, really, those are 
the only buids I know about the planta- 
tion. You might find a few pa'tridges 
in the edge of the swamp, where the nig- 
guhs are too lazy to hunt. I regret that 
I cannot go with you to-day, but I have 
only one hoss now, and I want you to 
ride him. Puhhaps to-morrow my rheu- 
matism will be bettah or I can borry a 
mule from old Sam." 

I searched all the afternoon with a 
pair of good setters, and managed to se- 
cure half a dozen quail by hard work in 
the heavy cane of the creek bottom. The 
colonel beamed as he smoothed down the 
plump little birds with the loving hands 
of an old sportsman, then stepped back 
to admire them, all laid out in a row on 
the table. I persuaded him that I was 
highly pleased with the day's shooting, 
though the great old place was almost 
denuded of animal life. 

I marked the spot where my father 
killed the big buck with a single ball as 
it sprang from the rank slough grass. 
The yellow sedge covered the hill of the 
"robin's roost," as it had forty years be- 
fore, but as the sun grew low no birds 
came stringing in. Not a mudhen nor 
a muskrat broke the waves of the slum- 
bering little lake. No gray squirrels 
helped the wind to shake the nuts from 
the shellbark hickory trees. The rab- 
bits must have slept deep in the ground, 
for I saw none. The solitary yellow- 
hammer ceased his drumming when he 



heard my footsteps among the pines; the 
jays stole silently away and hid in the 
dense cedars. The feathers of a cardinal 
strewed the ground, but I saw none upon 
a living bird. 

A flock of three larks rose wild and 
went far away, darting and twisting. 
The scattered quail were afraid to call. 
The only music was the dirgeful singing 
of the west wind in the pines. 

I encountered three parties of blacks 
of from half a dozen to fifteen out shoot- 
ing in gangs, but they avoided me and I 
kept away from them. They were shoot- 
ing continuously, at what I could not 
say, but they were in a widely scattered 
line, and their wealth of dogs must have 
combed the cover with fine teeth. In 
the late evening their whereabouts could 
be noted by the curling, white smoke 
from the burning sedge. 

"I am greatly pleased, my boy," ex- 
claimed the colonel. "That is mo' buids 
than I have been able to shoot any day 
this two yeahs. I regret that we can- 
not have them for suppuh ; Sally says the 
only delicacy we will have is chidlins. 
You know pa'tridges ought to ripen at 
least two days." 

"Colonel," I said, "I met three differ- 
ent parties of negroes out shooting to- 
day. There seemed to be one constant 
banging of their guns. Is there no way 
to stop that? I suppose they are partly 
responsible for the scarcity of game." 

"Entirely responsible, suh. I doubt if 
our own people shoot as much as they did 
befo' the wah. Our young men have had 
to leave the plantations to try to make a 
living in town. With the few days' 
shooting they can find time for there 
would be more game in Mississippi than 
there ever has been since the Cherokees 
went west. We played ouah game, son ; 
played hahd ; we lost, and this is paht of 
the price we have to pay. 

"The only way to stop it would be to 
fohbid the blacks owning fiahahms, and 
the Constitution of the United States 
will not puhmit that. I might run 'em 
all off the place, but I am too old to work 
it myself; I couldn't pay the taxes; the 
old plantation would change hands, and 
the next ownuh would bring them all 
back an' tuhn 'em loose to do as they 
pleased. You cannot shoot a niggah fo' 



A LOST PARADISE 



47 



killin' a buid, or stealin' yo' bacon, or 
robbin' a henroost, and the State has 
enough to do without prosecutin' all the 
blacks in the South. 

"Why, if one of my people was ar- 
rested foh shootin' my own buids, I 
should have to go up and pay his fine or 
beg him off. If he went to jail, I should 
have to divide my meat and bread with 
his family until he got out to tend his 
crop. The Government might regulate 
'em, but we cannot." 

"I hate to see changes in the South 
my father knew, colonel — the country of 
the wild pigeon, the wild turkey, the 
quail, and the deer. In all the world 
there is no country like it used to be and 
there never will be again. Still, I fancy 
it looks quite the same; the same pine 
groves that are always green, the sedge 
as yellow, and the cotton fields as white." 

"Yes, my young friend, it looks the 
same, just as the man who has been sud- 
denly killed may be smiling in his last 
sleep. But the old South is dead, though 
still smiling, and the new South is yet 
unbohn; what it will be like I do not 
know ; it cannot mattuh much to you and 
me — to any who like the wild things that 
can nevuh come back. The quail are 
gone; the wild fowl gone; in ten yeahs 
mo' the robins, redbirds, meadow lahks, 
thrushes, even the blackbirds will all be 
killed and eaten. Kismet. It is the fate 
of the South — the price that must be 
paid — now no more like the old South 
than the Desert of Sahara is like the 
South of your father and of me." 

"I fear there is much of the Indian in 
you, Colonel Gordon. Your heaven 
would be a heaven of wild things that 
you might hunt and chase." 



"You are only pahtly right, my boy, 
for I should not caih to kill them now. 
I see where we were wrong, where we 
set an example that these children of 
Africa were boun' to follow. But if I 
could only heah the mocking-bird sing- 
ing again; see the cardinal balancing on 
a cedah twig, the robins coming in to 
roost, the pigeons feeding in the pin- 
oak trees, the bronze gleam of a gob- 
bler's breast; hear the whistle of the cock 
quail in the wild-pea field, feel the shrill 
whir of a wild duck's flight, see the 
ghostly flitting of a wild buck's flag as 
he fled through the black woods — that 
would be heaven enough for me; heaven 
enough for me without killin' a single 
one; heaven enough to know that all of 
them were still with me — still alive." 

"Colonel Gordon, there are many of 
us who would go to that good land with 
you. We are traveling over this earth 
to find it now — breaking family ties, for- 
getting love, deserting friends, freezing 
in the Arctic, dying in Africa; search- 
ing, searching for a heaven where the 
wild things live undisturbed. They call 
us sportsmen and think we go to kill, but 
they do not know and cannot under- 
stand." 

An expression of infinite pathos came 
over the rare old face. "Son of my old 
friend, I have lived all too long. A few 
years more, and theah will not be a spar- 
row or a wren to turn the leaves that 
drift ovuh me up on the hill. When my 
time comes theah will be only the black 
crows left to call taps ovuh me and the 
grisly bird of the dead, sitting silent on 
the gaunt and naked limbs of a withered 
pine. I have lived too long — all too 
long." 




BAD MEDICINE 

BY HULBERT FOOTNER 
Illustrated by R. W. Amick 



CHAPTER I 



The Gathering Storm 



^H E REVEREND 
RICHARD SAUN- 
DERS, M.D., lifted the 
latch of the Moose River 
store, and ducked his tall 
head under the lintel. A 
warm, pungent odor of groceries, raw 
skins, and kinni-kinnick assailed his nos- 
trils. Within, the low, log-ribbed room, 
with its deep, smoky shadows, was like 
a painting blackened by time. A single 
small lamp, with a tin reflector, supplied 
all the light there was; heaped every- 
where were the staples of the North, and 
the furs already taken in exchange, while 
many of the trader's dark-skinned cus- 
tomers squatted on their heels on the 
floor. 

Bags of flour, sides of salt pork, and 
bolts of flannel cloth comprised the chief 
stock, with a meager line of luxuries on 
one shelf, and a tiny showcase of cheap 
jewelry. A vivid note of color was sup- 
plied by a row of last summer's "Indian" 
millinery, which remained hanging from 
a rafter because times were bad. 

It was mid-afternoon in the first week 
of December, and darkness had already 
fallen. The breeds had come in to meet 
the mail. It arrived at Moose River 
once a month — when it got through. 
This was the Christmas mail and the 
first in two months, for in November, 
between seasons, the trails were always 
impassable. 

Parson Dick, physical and spiritual 
guide alike to this community, was a 
ruddy and cheerful young man, with a 
broad frame well able to withstand the 
rigors of the North, and the bluest of 
blue eyes, whose open look was like a 
beam of light in dark places — obviously 
a visitor to be hailed warmly — but a 



curious thing happened. When he en- 
tered the store a silence fell abruptly on 
the breeds, all the dark faces stiffened 
into blank casts of human features, and 
the air became charged with a subtle an- 
tagonism like coming thunder. 

The men showed it in various ways; 
St. Jean Bateese, a kindly old man, 
averted his head with a look at once 
deprecating and obstinate; Coquenoigan, 
a hulking youngster, merely looked his 
stupidest; and Jack Mackenzie, an un- 
wholesome-looking breed with whitey- 
blue eyes rolling strangely in his swarthy 
face, scowled at Dick openly. As for the 
women, they stared straight in front of 
them with eyes as bright, unwinking, 
and expressionless as the eyes of fowls. 

Young Dick glanced around this cir- 
cle of wall-eyed redskins, and his stout 
heart sank. He had worked so hard 
with them — and this was his reward! 
For some time past he had been aware of 
a smoldering animosity, but this was the 
first open and defiant manifestation of it. 
He searched himself for the reason, but 
in vain. He had given them of his best — 
sympathy, kindness, and a painstaking 
effort to understand. To have a mys- 
tery to contend with is sufficient to ap- 
pal the stoutest. Parson Dick felt ter- 
ribly alone. 

The trader, St. Pierre Fraser, seemed 
to be his one friend there. "Hello, Par- 
son Dick!" he cried heartily. "What's 
the matter with your prayers? Ain't 
took in but five fox, nine link, and two 
marten in a week!" 

St. Pierre was likewise a breed, but 
light-skinned. He was a few years older 
than Parson Dick, lithe and good-look- 
ing in his dark way. His black eyes had 
an odd, uncanny brightness, which for 
the most part he kept veiled, and there 
was a mocking line at either side his thin 
mouth. St. Pierre had been educated 
"outside," and was distinguished from 



48 




AT THIS MOMENT THE CHEERFUL YELPING OF AN APPROACHING DOG TEAM 

WAS HEARD. 



5° 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



the others by better clothes and a worldly 
air. 

Dick was on his mettle to hide his dis- 
couragement from his people. "All in 
good time, St. Pierre," he answered 
good-humoredly. 

"Well, look out we don't all starve be- 
fore they begin to draw," St. Pierre 
said. 

"Perhaps the fox, the link, and the 
marten have been offering up prayers 
on their own account," suggested Dick 
whimsically. 

"Well, a white man's prayers sure 
ought to shout down the little varmint 
on high," returned St. Pierre. 

Dick turned to the scowling Macken- 
zie. "What's the matter, Jack?" he 
asked. 

"My wife 'ongry, my children 'ongry," 
muttered the breed. 

Dick looked at the trader. "Can't 
you help him out?" 

St. Pierre shrugged. "He's down for 
fifty skins already." 

Dick gave a low-voiced order, and 
St. Pierre weighed out pork and flour. 
Jack's eyes gleamed, but the others looked 
on with the utmost indifference. While 
the package was making ready St. Jean 
Bateese drew his old blanket around 
him, not without dignity, and stepped to 
the counter. 

"That will be for me, St. Pierre," he 
said, ignoring Dick. 

"I ordered it, St. Jean," said Dick in 
surprise. 

. The old man's eyes narrowed to two 
inimical slits. "The man's wife is my 
co'sin," he said stiffly. 

Dick was aware that every pair of 
black eyes was fixed on him with the same 
hard look. In the face of such open and 
united animosity, any further attempts 
to conciliate would only have shown 
weakness. He had the dreary sense of 
the man faced by the shape of failure, 
but he kept his colors flying. 

"Just as you like," he said quietly. He 
pulled out his pipe and filled it uncon- 
cernedly. The situation was a difficult 
one for him. To stay in the store only 
made matters worse, but to leave it 
at such a time would be to acknowledge 
defeat. 

St. Pierre relieved it. "You'll find 



the old woman at the other end of the 
house," he said casually. 

The excuse was a good one; more- 
over, Dick felt a mighty desire for the 
society of his own kind. But if the 
breeds were bent on sending him to Cov- 
entry, at least he was not going to let 
them see that it affected him ; with a 
serene brow he nodded to them all 
around, and made his way through the 
storeroom to the trader's living-room. 

There his reception was very differ- 
ent. Mrs. Croome and Ralph were at 
supper. The old woman jumped up in 
unaffected gladness and seized his hand 
in both of hers. 

"Parson Dick, the sight of you is 
good for sore eyes," she cried. Her 
son's greeting was cooler. "Sit right 
down!" cried the old woman. "I knew 
you'd be here, and I brought fresh bread 
and butter, cold roast moose, and a wild 
cranberry pie." 

At the sight of her some of the hard, 
anxious lines smoothed out of Dick's 
face. He did not intend to inflict his 
troubles on her. "Old woman," he said 
lightly, "you're a magician ! Fancy, out- 
side bread and real cow butter within 
hail of the Arctic circle !" 

She bustled about him, filling his 
plate. "You are the magician," she said; 
"you imported the cow." 

Parson Dick was the kind of man who 
instinctively cracks a joke when things 
loom blackest. "I and others," he cor- 
rected. "I don't know how the cow en- 
joys it up here; maybe she's lonesome — 
but none of the rest of us regrets the 
deal. There isn't a man in the North 
wouldn't ride two hundred miles any 
time to let his teeth sink into the old 
woman's bread and butter!" 

"Gammon!" she cried, affecting great 
scorn. 

The old woman, as everyone called 
her, was no more than five-and-forty, 
but hard work and anxiety had added a 
good fifteen years to her looks. She was 
a meager little body, worn fine like old 
gold, sharp and quick in her ways as a 
weasel. Her hair, snow white, was drawn 
back into a tight little knob, and she wore 
a red flannel waist, a short skirt of coarse 
woolen material, and hobnail boots — 
with it all she had the look of a lady. 



BAD MEDICINE 



5i 



The old woman's tongue was like a 
whip lash, sparing none — her heart had 
come out of the crucible of suffering, the 
pure metal. Only she and Parson Dick 
knew what each was to the other in that 
lonely land. 

While Dick ate he chaffed her af- 
fectionately, diverted from his black 
thoughts by her sharp, good-natured re- 
torts. More than once he tried to draw 
the boy into the talk, but without suc- 
cess. Ralph was a singularly handsome 
lad, with the proud, free look natural to 
wild youth, but he had lately reached 
the age of acute egotism and self-con- 
sciousness. He had never been "out- 
side," and, like the breeds, he was sul- 
lenly conscious of his disadvantages, and 
the easy banter of his elders only made 
him more dumb. It was only in the na- 
tive cabins that the poor lad felt thor- 
oughly at his ease. 

"May I smoke?" asked Dick at last. 

"You, Parson Dick!" cried the old 
woman derisively. "One would think I 
was a lady!" 

"So you are, old woman," he said. 
"The first lady of my parish, and that's 
two hundred miles from end to end." 

He lighted his pipe. 

"I suppose you are looking for a let- 
ter from your daughter in this mail?" he 
said diffidently. He did not care to let 
her see how dear this subject was to him. 

The old woman's face shone as with a 
light from within. "This is the Christ- 
mas mail!" she exclaimed. "I shall get 
a photograph of her, and something that 
she has made me herself!" 

"To be sure !" said Dick wistfully. 

The old woman scampered to her 
grub-box and drew out a card from her 
old reticule. "Here's the last picture — 
I brought it along to compare," she said, 
thrusting it into his hands. "Ah, your 
manners wouldn't be wasted on her, 
Parson Dick! Isn't she the prettiest and 
stylishest little lady your eyes ever rested 
on?" 

Dick had already learned this pictured 
face by heart. It was his dream o' win- 
ter nights. In the midst of unremitting 
work and discouragement a man must 
have something to beguile his heart with. 
"She's more than pretty," he said grave- 
ly. "She's lovely!" 



"And writes me the sweetest letters !" 
said the old woman. 

"How long is it now since you've seen 
her?" he asked. 

"Eighteen years," she said simply. 
"I've never been out since we first came 
in, you know. Ralph was a year old and 
Annis five then. I couldn't bring them 
both into the wilderness, so I left her 
with my husband's sister. They are 
well-to-do. Annis has been to the best 
schools and moved in society, Parson 
Dick." 

"How was it you and your husband 
happened to pick on this place?" he 
asked. 

"It was the year of the Minitaw gold 
rush," she said reminiscently, "and he 
thought we could get through this way, 
his geography being poor. Well, here 
we stuck, and he decided to settle. He 
saw a fortune in it. He was an optimis- 
tic man." 

"Eighteen years!" said Dick won- 
deringly. 

"We didn't do well," the old woman 
went on in a matter-of-fact tone that 
concealed much. "He fell sick, and at 
last he died. Then there were debts to 
be cleared, and Ralph kept in the mission 
school — and traveling is expensive. So 
I never got out. Lately I've hesitated — 
the girl has been doing so well, and I 
don't want to thrust an old scrub of a 
mother on her." 

"Nonsense!" he said. "She'd be 
proud of you!" 

"Parson Dick, my dear, you're a sim- 
ple goose!" cried the old woman tartly. 
She jumped up to hide the feelings that 
threatened to betray her. "Well, well, 
the mail will be here directly, and I 
must pack the grub-box! When you 
journey out, Parson Dick, you shall go 
to see her and bring me a full account." 

Pie shook his head. 

"Why not?" she demanded. 

"I'd be afraid," he said. 

"Afraid?" she echoed. 

She was struck with his youth fulness. 
His expression, as he looked at the pic- 
tured face, was much the same as a 
child's who looks through a barred gate 
at a blooming garden. 

"A sub-Arctic missionary mustn't 
think of such things," he said a little 



52 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



harshly. "A failure ; a rank failure, at 
that," he added bitterly to himself. 

Meanwhile, in the other end of the 
house, a kind of witch's broth was brew- 
ing. The breeds, impenetrable in the 
presence of white men, could talk their 
own guttural tongue fast enough when 
by themselves. St. Pierre, apparently 
engaged on his books, took no part in the 
discussion, but in reality he followed it 
closely, and, when the opportunity of- 
fered, he let fall an offhand word or a 
suggestion that acted like a subtle poison 
in the childlike hearts of the breeds. 
For weeks he had been injecting it, drop 
by drop, until they were ripe for any act 
of madness. The famine and the sick- 
ness that raged among them played into 
his hands. He never needed to show his 
game; completely at the mercy of his 
superior intelligence, they did not even 
suspect whence the promptings to evil 
issued. 

To those already in the store entered 
a middle-aged native, stout and well- 
braced as an oaken cask. White man's 
blood showed in his florid cheeks and 
curly black beard. He had a look of 
greater capacity than any man there ex- 
cepting St. Pierre. This was Aleck 
Whitebear. As St. Pierre's emissary, 
he had a knowledge of the world, and 
he could read and write. 

"Well, Aleck?" cried the trader. 

The newcomer angrily threw a bundle 
of little pelts on the counter. "Yah, 
mus'rat!" he snarled. "Walk all day, 
traps empty, snares loose, wolf get my 
colt!" 

He was followed by a handsome, 
wild-looking lad of fifteen, in whose 
veiled eyes there was something lacking. 
Without taking the least notice of any- 
one, he went to the stove and, squat- 
ting, held out his hands to the warmth. 

"Man can't trade on mus'rat," said 
St. Jean Bateese oracularly. 

"This is worse than last year," put in 
St. Pierre. 

"One bad year people poor; two bad 
year people starve," said St. Jean, wag- 
ging his head. 

"Bad medicine!" muttered Coque- 
noigan. 

St. Pierre, with a sudden thought, 
looked at Aleck's son. "What does Joe 



say?" he suggested, with a sneer too 
subtle for the natives to apprehend. 
"Sometimes the simple speak very wise. 
Joe, where is the fur gone?" 

The suggestion met with instant 
favor from the superstitious breeds, who 
saw in the boy's filmy eyes something un- 
earthly and mystical. 

Joe, finding all eyes on him, scowled, 
and, like the wild thing he was, looked 
for a hiding-place. "Joe no tell," he 
muttered. 

"Answer, fool!" cried his father 
harshly. 

St. Jean Bateese held up a restraining 
hand. "Let him be," he said. He shuf- 
fled over to Joe, and, producing a worn 
little bag containing his "medicine," 
gravely rubbed his forehead with it. 
"Speak," he said kindly. 

The others waited in a breathless si- 
lence, with intent eyes on the boy. 

Joe, intuitively apprehending what 
they wished him to say, spoke it in order 
to be let alone. Sweeping the shock of 
black hair out of his eyes, he said, with 
graphic, illustrative gestures: "Fur gone 
outside, white man's country. Weasel 
tell Joe him see houses tall as spruce 
trees — Wah! Wah! — and fire wagons 
go quick as wild duck fly!" 

A breath escaped the assembled breeds 
like the hiss of a great serpent. They 
moved uneasily, like tethered animals, 
and scowled toward the other part of 
the house. St. Pierre exchanged a rapid 
glance with Aleck Whitebear. St. Jean 
Bateese received the boy's nonsense as 
an inspired communication. A kind of 
ecstasy seized on the old man. Drawing 
himself up and extending a shaking arm, 
he began to harangue them. His voice 
was hushed at first and trembling with 
passion. 

"It is true, my brothers! Two years 
ago, before Parson Dick came, there was 
plenty. Every man had credit at the 
store, and there was bacon and flour and 
tea and tobacco for all. The women 
were fat and good-natured, the men 
were strong. Ye were your own mas- 
ters then; there was no white man but 
Duncan McPhatter, who is married to a 
squaw, and Ralph Croome, who is a 
boy. Then comes Parson Dick from the 
outside with his white men's laws — what 



BAD MEDICINE 



53 



do we want with white men's laws? — 
ye must not drink fire water, ye must 
open the window of your house in the 
winter, ye must wash yourselves every 
day! He say he want to make us good 
— good hunters? — there is nothing more 
to hunt ! Good for what, then ? — good 
for white men's slaves!" 

The words meant little to them; it 
was the old man's shaking, tortured 
voice that stirred them beyond endur- 
ance. His voice broke on the last words, 
ending in a shrill cry. It had an elec- 
trical effect. A wail answered from the 
women, the men muttered deep. 

St. Jean was not yet through. He 
quieted them with an imperious gesture. 
"Parson Dick offers us gifts when we 
are hungry," he went on with ironic hu- 
mility — like many of his race, St. Jean 
was a born orator. "How is it he has 
credit? Has he any fur to bring to the 
store? No! The white men send him 
credit from the outside. They send him 
first to make us tame. 

"He has driven the link, the marten, 
and the fox away, so we are poor and 
weak. Soon all the white men will come 
and drive us from our land ! Do you 
ask me for proof that Parson Dick has 
strong medicine? This it is! No man 
among ye can look in the middle of his 
eyes!" 

A hoarse groan broke from all his 
hearers; clenched fists were shaken, and 
dark faces — many of them gaunt with 
hunger, or marked with disease — worked 
passionately. Coquenoigan sprang to his 
feet. 

"But I can strike him in the back," he 
hissed. He held out his hands to St. 
Pierre. "Give me long knife, and I do 
it to-night!" 

St. Pierre was not ready for this. The 
fire he had so carefully nourished now 
threatened to escape him. He looked up 
from his cash-book with the coolness 
of the evil one himself. "Fool!" he 
drawled, "and bring the redcoats up 
from Fort Somervell on us!" 

The words acted like a shower of cold 
water on the fiery temper of the breeds. 
They shrank back abashed, and the men 
looked at each other, awaiting the next 
voice of authority. They talked con- 
fusedly and indecisively. Finally, St. 



Jean suggested that all the people come 
to his shack. His ecstatic fit had passed. 

"Let us make a white man's plan be- 
fore we strike," he quavered. 

They trailed out of the store. When 
St. Pierre and Aleck Whitebear were 
left alone, they looked at each other and 
laughed. 

"It's working pretty well," said the 
trader, coolly enough — but his eyes were 
blazing. 

"St. Pierre, you're a devil!" cried the 
simpler man wonderingly. 

St. Pierre threw off all pretense of 
disinterestedness. "You go with them," 
he said. "I can't show myself in this. 
It's 3'our job to blow on these coals and 
keep 'em hot till we're ready to use 
them." 

"Why not now?" asked Aleck. 

St. Pierre looked away, knitting his 
brows. "I'm not ready," he muttered, 
more to himself than to Aleck. "There's 
a lot to be done. I can't risk a failure. 
The boy must be married to a breed girl. 
That will secure him to us and make a 
break between his mother and Parson 
Dick. She's his last friend. Then — 
we'll see!" 

Aleck was startled by this glimpse into 
the mysteries of St. Pierre's conscious- 
ness. "What do you expect to get out 
of this, St. Pierre?" he asked wonder- 
ingly. 

The most secretive of men is obliged 
occasionally to unburden his breast or 
suffocate — especially if, as in this case, 
vanity has a large share in his scheming. 
St. Pierre unveiled the full fires of his 
terrible eyes. 

"I will be the master here, as I was 
before," he cried. "What's more," he 
added, "I hate them; hate them all!" 
He struck his breast. "I'm a red man! 
They're too strong for me to fight in 
the open. I'll stalk them. I'll strike 
from behind. They taught me in their 
schools. Let them beware how I use it 
against them. Oh ! they'll get me in the 
end, I know, but I'll have my pleasure of 
them first! They shall dance to my 
fiddle!" 

Later, St. Pierre was walking slowly 
up and down inside the store, with bent 
head, thinking hard. From beneath his 
lowered lids his eyes shot forth a queer 



54 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



gleam of pleasure — the gratification of 
the successful plotter. It was sweet to 
him, the only sweetness he knew, to be 
the power that molded and swayed the 
simple natives, all unknown to them, 
and all his faculties were concentrated 
on that end. 

At the sound of the latch he straight- 
ened like a released bowstring, and 
turned his ordinary bland, mocking face 
toward the door. A slender native girl 
came in from outside. Two great braids 
of black hair hung over her shoulders, 
and there was a tinge of deep rose in her 
dark cheeks. 

"Aleck say you want me," she said 
stolidly. 

For a while, St. Pierre affected to ig- 
nore her. "Marya," he said suddenly, 
"do you want Ralph Croome to marry 
you?" 

A gleam of pain showed in the girl's 
eyes, quickly covered by the usual walled 
expression. "I like him moch," she said 
sullenly. 

"Don't you want him to marry you?" 
persisted St. Pierre. 

"I wish him good," she said. 

"Isn't it for his good to be with you 
all the time, so you can work for him and 
be his wife?" 

She began to weaken. 

"He is strong and clever," St. Pierre 
went on. "We want him to be one of 
the people." 

Marya hung her head. "Yes, I want 
him marry me," she said very low. 

"Sure!" said St. Pierre, "and I'm go- 
ing to help you. This is the way to win 
a white man. Tease him, make him 
mad, make out you don't like him at all. 
Keep him at a distance — never forget 
that; keep him at a distance until you 
have his promise fast." 

Marya's eyes glistened. "I on'er- 
stan'," she said a little breathlessly. 

St. Pierre went to the door of the 
storeroom and set it ajar. Coming back, 
he said : "He's in the living-room. Come 
here and speak loud to me; laugh. He'll 
come in." 

Marya, instantly comprehending, put 
her head through the door, and laughed 
affectedly. "Go along, you St. Pierre!" 
she cried. "Wat foolishness you tell 
me!" 



Sure enough, Ralph presently crossed 
the storeroom, and bent his head to look 
under the low doorway. St. Pierre at 
the same moment discovered an errand 
outside the store. 

The boy came in. "What was he say- 
ing to you ?" he demanded scowling. 

"Wat do you care?" said Marya. 

"I'll make you tell me!" he cried. 

"How?" she asked, with inimitable 
impudence. 

Ralph, taken aback, rapidly suc- 
cumbed. "Marya!" he cried reproach- 
fully. 

It was the old, old game. She mocked 
his entreaties, until he was fairly beside 
himself — and the ignorant lad thought 
this was love. 

"Marya, why do you treat me so?" he 
pleaded. "You know I'm crazy about 
you." 

She abruptly changed her tactics. 
Snuggling close to him, she whispered, 
all softness: "Then marry me." 

"There's my mother," he stammered. 
"She'd starve." 

Marya, with a cool shrug, left him. 
"Then keep away from me," she said. 

"I can't," he said brokenly. "I am 
thinking of you day and night!" 

Turning, she came swiftly back and 
wreathed her soft arms around his neck. 
"Me, too," she whispered. "I want you 
so bad ! Marry me, Ralph, and I am 
all, all yours." 

His eyes widened in a kind of horror. 
"Oh, you little witch ! You little witch !" 
he murmured — but he did not thrust her 
away. 

When St. Pierre returned to the store 
he affected not to notice the youthful 
pair, but went behind the counter and re- 
opened the cash-book. 

"Ralph, buy me a ring," Marya whis- 
pered. 

St. Pierre looked up quickly. "What's 
this, a ring?" he cried, with a gladness 
genuine enough, though it did not rise 
from friendliness. He came from be- 
hind the counter. "Well, Ralph, you've 
done it at last ! Count on me for a bag 
of flour! Shake, old boy!" 

Ralph, with a miserable, sheepish grin, 
allowed St. Pierre to take his hand. 

"The ring," wheedled Marya at his 
other elbow. 



BAD MEDICINE 



55 



"Sure, she must have a ring," said St. 
Pierre, leading the way to the show- 
case. 

Ralph tried to speak, hesitated, and 
gave it up. "Give her what she wants," 
he said. 

As Marya proudly turned the brass 
circlet on her finger, the old woman's 
voice was heard, calling Ralph. The boy 
whirled about, showing a face of horror. 
"For God's sake, St. Pierre, don't tell 
her — yet!" he cried. 

"Sure, we don't want to have any 
trouble," St. Pierre said soothingly. 



CHAPTER II 

The Passenger 

AT eight o'clock the mail had not 
arrived. When they had almost 
given up hope of its getting 
through that night, Duncan McPhatter 
and his wife arrived, bringing word of 
the mailman. He had spelled at their 
place for supper and was close behind 
them on the trail. Parson Dick, Ralph, 
and St. Pierre were in the store at the 
time ; the old woman was within, prepar- 
ing for the homeward journey. Since 
afternoon there had been no further sight 
nor sound of the breeds. 

Duncan made the announcement in a 
casual tone that the mailman was bring- 
ing a passenger on his sledge. An ex- 
plosion in the store could scarcely have 
caused his hearers greater astonishment. 
In a year their visitors from outside 
could be counted on the fingers, and at 
this season the coming of a stranger 
was unprecedented. The three men re- 
ceived the news characteristically — 
Ralph incredulously, Dick hopefully, St. 
Pierre, though he hid it well, with alarm. 
The success of his plans depended on his 
complete knowledge of every element in 
the little community. Any outside fac- 
tor was likely to wreck the whole edifice. 

"Company man? Missionary? Po- 
liceman?" they guessed in turn. 

"No-o," drawled Duncan to each 
query. Duncan was a lean, elderly 
Scotch trapper, "smoked" like a redskin. 

"What else could bring a man up here 
at this season?" exclaimed Dick. 



"Did I mention it was a man?" 
drawled Duncan, thoroughly enjoying 
the sensation he was creating. 

"Not a woman !" cried Dick. 

"Indications pointed that way," said 
Duncan dryly. 

St. Pierre looked relieved. He held 
the sex in contempt. "Some breed who 
has married South, coming up to see her 
folks," he suggested offhand. 

"Didn't strike me thataway," said 
Duncan. 

"Good Heavens! Not a white wo- 
man!" cried Dick. 

"Nancy thought so," said Duncan, 
with a nod toward his wife. "Showed 
all her teeth first go!" 

The three men were struck silent. A 
white woman ! There was a spell in the 
words that caught at their heartstrings. 
St. Pierre felt it no less than the others ; 
he was largely white, too, though he af- 
fected to deny it. 

Ralph was the first to recover him- 
self. "Ah! He's stringing us!" he said. 

"Look at Nancy's face," said Duncan. 
"There's confirmation strong as holy 
writ. 'Taint my fault a white girl 
spelled with us to-day. Just the same I 
have to buy Nancy two silk hankies at 
God knows how many skins each, just to 
square myself!" 

At this moment the cheerful yelping 
of an approaching dog team was heard. 

"See for yourself," said Duncan. 

In an instant the store was deserted. 
A minute later the mysterious traveler 
entered the room alone. No one had 
ventured to speak to her yet. They 
were busy pumping the mailman for in- 
formation. At first she presented to the 
eye only a shapeless bundle of furs and 
woolens, with nothing of herself visible 
but a pair of bright eyes and two spots 
of scarlet cheek. The eyes roved over St. 
Pierre's rude stock full of wonder and 
interest. Removing her wrappings layer 
by layer, she presently revealed an urban, 
girlish figure clad in the perfection of 
simplicity — strange apparition in the 
Moose River store! She had bright 
brown hair and gray eyes under dark 
brows. The unforgettable thing about her 
was her offhand, valorous air, quaintly 
compounded of the fearless child and the 
experienced woman of the world. 



56 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



The room remaining empty, she be- 
gan to explore, pushing open the door 
of the storeroom and looking within. 
From the further room she heard sounds 
that drew her on. In the living-room, 
the old woman was packing her grub- 
box at the table, humming to herself ab- 
stractedly in a high key. Hearing a 
slight sound at the door, she looked 
up sharply, and, seeing the girl standing 
there, stopped short, petrified with aston- 
ishment. It was as if one should, in the 
midst of one's kitchen tasks, look up and 
see a shining angel standing on the 
threshold. 

In the wide-eyed look of the little old 
woman, with her coarse clothes and her 
worn face, there was something infinitely 
brave and piteous. The girl's eyes 
slowly filled with tears, but she smiled, 
too, smiled wonderfully. 

"Mother!" she said softly. 

The old woman went as white as 
chalk and her hands stole to her breast. 

"Don't be frightened," murmured the 
girl. "It's only I, Annis." 

The old woman passed a hand over 
her eyes, as if she doubted her sight. 
"Annis! . . . Annis!" she murmured, 
awestruck. 

The girl held out her arms. With a 
strange, loud cry, the old woman sud- 
denly cast herself into them, flinging her 
own arms around the girl and clipping 
her fiercely. "My baby! . . . Oh, my 
baby!" she cried brokenly, over and over. 

They sat side by side on a bench. It 
was some time before the old woman's 
speech became coherent. She clung to 
her new-found treasure as if she ex- 
pected her momentarily to be snatched 
away again. 

"What a sweet woman's voice," she 
murmured. "Can it be my own child, 
or am I dreaming? You feel solid! 
However did you get to this place?" 

"Came with the mail," Annis said. "I 
wrote a month ago to warn you." 

"No mail in November," the old wo- 
man said. "The ice road isn't formed." 

Every moment she broke afresh into 
delighted praises, much to Annis's em- 
barrassment. 

"Ah! my sweet, remember I haven't 
seen a white woman but twice in eighteen 



years — and they were as homely as 
hedge fences!" she cried. 

Annis caressed her anew. 

"Can you understand what it is never 
to have had a woman friend?" she went 
on. "Never a woman to unburden your- 
self to, sick or well ! Oh ! how I've hun- 
gered and thirsted for you, my daughter !" 
Her tone changed comically: "But you 
shouldn't have come. What made you 
come ?" 

"I wanted to see my mother." 

"Well, here she is!" said the old wo- 
man grimly. "What do you think of 
this rusty old piece of goods ?" 

Annis kissed her. "I think you're 
lovely! Just like your letters." 

"Just the same, I'm a terrible old hag, 
my lambie," said the old woman sadly. 
"Summer and winter here in the North, 
scratching for a living. Remember, if 
you find me ugly and hard and coarse, 
it's been a terrible hard life!" 

Annis affectionately stopped her 
mouth, but the old woman still struggled 
to tell the worst about herself. 

"I have the very devil of a temper," 
she went on. "I'm a perfect shrew — 
storming around the house ! I swear !" 

"So do I, sometimes," said Annis, 
smiling. 

The old woman sat very erect. "An- 
nis Croome!" she said severely. "Well, 
you'd better not let me hear you, that's 
all ! I'll send you to bed— I'll— " 

Annis gathered her in her arms. 
"You dear, funny little mother!" she 
murmured. 

Later Annis explained to her mother 
in more detail how she had made the 
trip. 

"It was quite easy," she began. "I de- 
cided to come three months ago, though 
I said nothing about it at first. I wrote 
to the Hudson's Bay commissioner at 
Prince George asking how to get to 
Moose River. He answered that his 
company had no post here ; that the near- 
est was at Fort Somervell. The infer- 
ence was that a settlement where there 
was no company post was no fit place for 
a lady. But I didn't care. I wrote 
again, asking how to get to Fort Somer- 
vell, and I kept on writing, until at last, 
in self-defense, he wrote that the wife of 
the police inspector there was going up 



BAD MEDICINE 



57 



to join her husband as soon as the snow 
road formed, and gave me her name." 

The old woman was still dazed. 
Every now and then she turned inquir- 
ing eyes on the girl, and fearfully stroked 
her cheek. 

"I came with her — Mrs. Forshew," 
Annis continued. "Her husband had a 
little caboose built on a sledge with beds 
and a stove, and the two of us were as 
comfy as possible. We had a trooper to 
protect us. We were sixteen days on 
the trail, seeing new sights and hearing 
strange tales. We had the time of our 
lives. At the fort they told me the 
mailman was a safe protector the rest of 
the way — and here I am!" 

The old woman was gazing at her 
sadly. "Yes, here you are!" she 'mur- 
mured doubtfully. 

"Why do you say it that way?" asked 
Annis. 

"Now you're here you can't get away 
again until the steamboat comes up the 
river next summer." 

"But I didn't come all this way just 
to stop a week or two." 

The old woman patted her daughter's 
hand and chose her next words care- 
fully. "You see, my pet, there's never 
been a white girl — not to say a pretty 
white girl — in the country before. You 
see — the chances are in favor of there 
being — trouble." 

Annis hung her head — and presently 
raised it again. "Doesn't that depend 
mostly on the girl?" she asked. "Be- 
sides, we have Ralph." 

"Oh, Ralph!" exclaimed the old wo- 
man, with a despairing gesture. She 
told Annis what she knew of the trouble 
there. 

"There's a breed girl, Marya Sasher- 
mah. I'm afraid he'll end in a tepee and 
make me grandam to a dozen yellow 
brats!" 

"A breed girl!" exclaimed Annis in 
strong horror. 

His mother, of course, rushed to his 
defense. "You can't blame the poor lad ! 
He's never seen a white girl of his own 
age. How should he know any better? 
It's just Nature working." 

"Perhaps Parson Dick will know 
what to do," suggested Annis thought- 
fully. 



It was the old woman's turn to look 
astonished. "What do you know about 
Parson Dick?" she demanded. 

"Parson Dick is well known in the 
East," said Annis, with sparkling eyes. 
"There was a magazine article about him 
— how he cures the natives' bodies and 
saves their souls; how he built a little 
hospital and a church with his own 
hands; how he travels night and day in 
all weathers! He's a hero!" 

"A hero ! God bless my soul !" cried 
the old woman with scorn. "Why, he's 
my best friend!" 

Annis smiled. "What is a hero, 
dear?" she asked. 

The old woman was nonplused. 
"Why, a hero's a prince or a general on 
horseback, or in a book — but Parson 
Dick! Why, I know him like myself!" 

"Well, hero or no hero, I want to 
meet him," said Annis. 

The old woman looked at her and 
sadly shook her head. "You, too !" she 
said. "Bless my soul, who would be a 
mother!" 

The living-room was yielded by tacit 
consent to the mother and daughter. In 
the store, while the mailman, Duncan, 
and Duncan's wife sat coolly having a 
snack, the three young men waited for 
their introduction to the amazing visitor 
in great trepidation. The ordeal loomed 
worse than they expected — they had 
learned she was beautiful. The effect 
of a beautiful woman, the first to grace a 
lonely settlement, may be likened some- 
what to that of a flaming brand in a hay- 
rick. 

St. Pierre's thin, closed lips and veiled 
eyes masked a furnace within. His ex- 
citement showed in his inability to keep 
still ; he sidled ceaselessly from counter 
to door and from door back to store- 
room. He surreptitiously slicked his hair 
in front of a mirror and retied his cravat. 
He had seen her; she was beautiful, and, 
therefore, dangerous. She threatened all 
his plans. This was true, but not ex- 
actly in the way he told himself. The 
fact was that, at the first sight of her 
fair skin, his blood had taken fire, and 
the conflagration was hurrying him he 
knew not where. He was no longer 
capable of planning coldly. 



58 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



Parson Dick sat on a bale of furs, 
looking before him with a white, set 
face. His state of mind was less com- 
plicated. At first it had seemed too 
good to be true that the lady of his 
dreams had come to cheer him in the hour 
of his greatest discouragement. But 
hard upon that had followed the 
thought: this is no place for her; we 
must get her away. He resolutely put 
aside the thought of self and set about 
steeling himself to resist her charm. 

The boy, Ralph, looked as if he 
wished he were any place else. He had 
no conflagration to fight, but certain 
late acts of his, which he regretted any- 
way, now looked hideous to him in the 
presence of a beautiful white, woman. 
And he saw no way of escape from the 
consequences. 

The old woman called Ralph in first. 
The meeting of brother and sister was 
not a success. At the sight of the radiant 
girl from outside, the tall lad could only 
twist his cap in an agony of diffidence. 

"Can't you speak?" demanded the old 
woman sharply. 

"This is no place for the likes of her," 
muttered the boy. 

"I'm strong and able to do my share of 
work," said Annis. 

The boy's secret remorse found vent 
in surliness. "You can't trap or set a 
snare or shoot," he said gruffly. "You 
can't make skins where there are none." 

"Ralph, think shame to yourself!" 
cried the old woman. 

"I'm not ashamed," he said defiantly. 
"We've had trouble enough to scratch 
along without having a fine lady to 
feed!" He turned on his heel, and left 
the house. 

The old woman was in great distress. 
"Don't you mind what he says, my 
sweet! I'm glad to have you, whatever 
betide. He was never like this before. 
There's a poison working in his blood !" 

"What did he mean about feeding 
me?" asked Annis anxiously. "I have 
plenty of money." 

"Ah, my dear, money is of no use up 
here," said the old woman. "We must 
have skins or starve!" 

St. Pierre, who had been loitering in 
the storeroom, came in with a significant, 
offhand air. The old woman, observing 



him with a secret uneasiness, introduced 
him to Annis with the best grace she 
could muster. 

St. Pierre bowed with an exaggerated 
deference. "It is a great privilege to 
have such a charming visitor," he said 
smoothly. 

The blaze of admiration in the in- 
scrutable black eyes roused Annis's indig- 
nation. At the same time his devilish 
aplomb struck a little chill to her breast, 
though she would not confess it to her- 
self. She greeted him coolly, averting 
her head and shaking out her skirt as an 
excuse not to see the extended hand of 
the trader. 

St. Pierre uttered a light laugh in 
which Annis heard a threatening note. 
"You will find many things different in 
the North, Miss Croome," he said. 
"For instance, storekeepers are looked 
down on in your country. Up here we 
are more important members of the 
community." 

"My father was a storekeeper in the 
East," said Annis. 

St. Pierre betrayed no consciousness 
of a rebuff. He bent his fiery eyes full 
on her. "Let me show you this country," 
he said in a deeper voice. "I can tell 
you of the old days when the factors 
traveled in great state, and about the red 
people still farther back." 

His enthusiasm, genuine enough, 
caused Annis a strange uneasiness. She 
thanked him noncommittally. St. Pi- 
erre transferred his attentions to the old 
woman. He pressed a package of Cey- 
lon tea on her — a precious luxury. He 
went to get it. 

"He's insolent, mother!" said Annis 
indignantly. 

"Careful, dear," said the old woman 
anxiously. "All the food in a hundred 
miles is under this roof, and I'm deep, 
deep in his debt!" 

Parson Dick, in equal degrees dread- 
ing the meeting and longing for it, fi- 
nally went into the living-room. The 
sight of Annis caused him to catch his 
breath — she was so much more beautiful 
than he had expected. The photograph 
had charmed his imagination ; the bright- 
eyed, warm-blooded reality struck a 
blow at his heart. He gazed at her in 
a maze of pleasure and pain — the same 




i-^i-e:^^^:. .— .. -jl, ..i;:—;. ^»- -.. ,...:,, ,„„'.,;.&. 



THIS IS PARSON DICK, SHE INSTANTLY CRIED, APPROACHING WITH 
OUTSTRETCHED HAND. 



6o 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



look, intensified, of the boy outside the 
locked gates of the garden. 

"My daughter," said the old woman 
proudly — and yet a little wonderingly 
still, as if she could hardly believe her 
own words. 

Annis turned and saw him. "This is 
Parson Dick," she instantly cried, ap- 
proaching with outstretched hand. 

The old woman was smitten by a 
sudden pang of jealousy. "Yes, that's 
your hero," she muttered to herself, 
turning away. 

Dick's heart leaped. He had not pre- 
pared himself to resist such frank friend- 
liness in Annis, nor had he counted on 
the effect of holding her hand in his. He 
took fire at the touch and forgot his 
doubting and his sacrifices. 

An instant communion was estab- 
lished between the two. To Dick it 
seemed as if the slender, swimming fig- 
ure filled a great and aching void in his 
breast, and to her, fresh from civiliza- 
tion, Dick, in his hand-to-hand struggle 
with the raw forces of Nature, was like 
the first man. They stood beside the 
table talking, blue eyes straight to gray. 
For the moment they forgot the old wo- 
man, who sat, lonely and miserable, on 
the bench, giving a pathetic and yet 
laughable exhibition of childish, hurt 
feelings. 

"I love it up here!" Annis cried; "the 
bigness, the simplicity of life, the work 
there is to be done ! For the first time 
in my life I feel as if I were fully alive !" 

"But you shouldn't have come," Dick 
said. "You should have thought of us. 
How will we ever endure our lot after 
you have gone?" 

"Does Parson Dick make compli- 
ments?" she asked. 

He shook his head. "It's true. It 
would be like a blind man who gets his 
sight back, only to lose it again." 

There could be no doubt that he meant 
it, and Annis was more pleased than she 
cared to show. "Why should I ever go 
back?" she said. "This is a better life 
than I knew before. Besides, my mother 
stays here." 

To have her there always! Dick's 
brain reeled at the thought. "Then the 



North won't be the North any longer," 
he murmured. 

They sat down by St. Pierre's fire. 
Annis held out her arms to her mother, 
but the old woman's heart was still sore 
and she would not join them. She 
moved about the table, spreading a sup- 
per for Annis with a wholly unnecessary 
amount of bustle. 

Themselves was the fascinating and 
inexhaustible subject of Annis's and 
Dick's talk. Each had the secret feeling 
that he had been waiting for years to 
meet the other, and the slightest happen- 
ings of the time between were therefore 
charged with importance to them. An- 
nis required to be told all about his 
work and volunteered her services as co- 
adjutor in the parish on the spot. 

"I am not making the triumphant 
progress you seem to think," he said 
sadly. "In fact, lately I have been going 
backward fast. There's some hostile in- 
fluence blocking me at every turn." Up 
to now, Dick had carefully guarded the 
secret of his discouragement, but it was 
sweet to confess it to her. 

"Has anybody got a grudge against 
you?" asked Annis thoughtfully. 

"Possibly one called Aleck White- 
bear," said Dick. "He made his living 
smuggling in whisky to the natives, and 
I stopped it." 

"Was he alone in the business?" asked 
Annis, with a flash of intuition. 

"No; St. Pierre profited largely from 
the trade," Dick admitted. "But St. 
Pierre has told me many times how glad 
he is that I broke it up. St. Pierre is the 
only friend I have among the natives." 

Annis leaned toward him a little, look- 
ing at him with the hint of a smile — 
there was great tenderness in the look, 
too. St. Pierre, returning from the store 
with the old woman's tea, was just in 
time to see the look and the smile. He 
stopped in the doorway, and his face 
slowly blanched to the color of muddy 
ivory, his lips parted painfully, and he 
drew a long breath between his clenched 
teeth. 

And so the devil's favorite herb, jeal- 
ousy, was added to the poisonous stew 
already on the fire at Moose River. 



(To be continued) 



THE STREAM THAT ALWAYS 

LAUGHS 



BY N. C. ADOSSIDES 

Illustrated with Photographs 



T is seldom that a sportsman, no mat- 
ter how widely traveled, has an op- 
portunity these days of walking into 
virgin American territory and find- 
ing that he has really arrived ahead 
of the press agent, the real-estate 
boomer, and the railroad folder. I had 
such an experience a few months ago 
and found, besides a hidden rhododen- 
dron paradise, a good mountain friend, 
who taught me that I knew slightly less 
about the gentle art of angling than I 
thought I did, and taught another mem- 
ber of our company, who claimed to 
know vastly more than I, that he really 
knew next to nothing. 

There is joy in dropping a fly in a 
pool where another had fished strikeless 
by the hour and landing speckled beau- 
ties that tire one's wrist before the land- 
ing net slips under them. It is that joy 
— mean though it may be — that I chiefly 
remember when I think of that particu- 
lar all-claiming friend. As for him, I 
have in mind several occasions when he 
suffered all the distress that a bedecked 
and troutless angler feels when a small 
boy with traditional willow and worm 
and a burden of beauties looms upon his 
horizon. 

You have all met the kind of angler 
who does his brave work with the rod at 
the camp-fire breakfast before the boats 
have been brought out and the landing 
nets put into play. I want to tell of 
this one because he heaped my own short- 
comings upon me so vigorously before the 
time came to open the lids of our baskets 
at nightfall. And where it happened — 
well, it surely is only a matter of days 
or weeks before the press agent will ar- 
rive at our little rhododendron retreat, 
so that might as well be spoken of also, 
reluctantly, though, and with a fervent 
hope that the first of the vanguard of 



sportsmen who will enter will be real 
lovers of the sport and will find therein 
as much of the pure joy of fishing as it 
was my portion to enjoy. 

The unspoiled country, then, is in 
North Carolina, where the Blue Ridge 
Mountains separate Tennessee from the 
Carolina country. The reason it is un- 
spoiled is merely that the men who have 
sought sport for pleasure have followed 
the course of empire westward, and a 
thousand trails lead to the Yellowstone 
and Jackson's Hole and up the Arkansas, 
to one that turns aside into the South. 

As is the case nearly everywhere else, 
the natives have too much to do to care 
for the wild freedom of a day with a 
trout pole. They haven't the pressure 
of skyscraper office on their minds and 
the clangor of the city pavements is not 
to them a familiar noise, sounding the 
knell of vacation joys. So those who 
knew this wild gem, which bears the 
modest name of Linville, were all un- 
aware of its charm for others than them- 
selves, and what few sportsmen have 
found it have been careful to guard the 
secret. 

My discovery of Linville came through 
a Scotchman whom I met in New York 
at a dinner party. He was a lover of the 
woods and an intelligent one, too, but 
his stories of the beauties of Linville, 
and, above all, of the fish of Linville, 
sounded unreal — too much like the sto- 
ries of forty per cent profits and one hun- 
dred per cent increase in bond values to 
which one must sometimes listen at 
Metropolitan dinner tables. 

But the manner of my Scotch friend 
was convincing, and in the face of his 
vast experience afield it was not for me, 
who had few great wilderness journeys 
to my credit, to discount his claims. 

So, somewhat dubiously, I invested my 



61 



62 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



precious vacation season and set out. 
"Go and see 'The Little Stream That 
Always Laughs,' " was the admonition 
from my friend that I recalled as we 
wound slowly over the circuitous route 
that led to our destination. I looked, 
and as I looked I marveled. A year be- 
fore I had summered in the canyons of 
the Far West, making my bed beside 
Trail Creek, where it springs from the 
glaciers of the Grand Tetons, and din- 
ing on the sage hens of Swan Valley, 
along the Snake. I had fished there, too, 
in water so swift that one hardly dared 
venture out above his knees, filling my 
basket with the Hoback trout of four 
and five pounds apiece, with a fighting 
pull all their own that one must learn 
by losing many lines and breaking count- 
less leaders. 

Mountains Without Equal 

But this was unique and different. I 
do not know how to put it into words, 
but I thought of the mountains of my 
native country, and there was nothing to 
suggest a similarity. In Scotland I had 
found the Argyles and the Northumber- 
land chain very beautiful; Mr.-. Blanc 
and the Jungfrau had left memories of 
majesty and imposing heights; the Tyrol 
had seemed picturesque and inviting. 
But these high altitudes about Linville — 
it is the only mountainous spot I have 
seen where there is such an infinite vari- 
ety of exquisite qualities, each with a 
separate power to charm, producing the 
sportsman's paradise of which we all 
may dream and few of us may reach. 

From Johnson City, Tennessee, where 
we left the main line from New York 
for a mountain-climbing narrow-gauge 
road, we made our way upward very 
slowly to Cranberry station, a mining 
town, below which the panorama al- 
ready was taking on the characteristic 
look of the Blue Ridge country. 

Another railroad, still narrower in 
gauge, carried us from Cranberry to 
Montezuma, and that was a railroad 
ride for the gods! The road was built 
for lumbering, and with due respect to 
its owners and managers, I may say quite 
truthfully that if" suggests much more a 
toy train in a recreation park than a real 



agency of transportation, especially when 
it takes its task quite seriously and bends 
itself to the labor of climbing the steeper 
grades and skimming the edges of moun- 
tain chasms. 

As our toy train proceeded out of 
Cranberry, rising higher and higher in a 
spiral runway toward the clouds, we 
caught glimpses farther afield with every 
turn, now a view of a precipice seeming 
to lead down indefinitely almost from the 
roadbed's edge, and now a glitter where 
a mountain brook tumbled from the for- 
ested ridge tops. 

The constant surprises which made the 
three hours consumed in getting to Mon- 
tezuma station seem a mere trifle, even 
to an office-weary New Yorker, contin- 
ued without abating in the least after we 
left the lumber road and began our drive 
by carriage over the ridges to Linville. 
Swinging around one particularly beau- 
tiful curve there came suddenly before 
us one of the rarest of mountain views — 
not of picturesque valleys seen from 
aloft, but of mountain tops seen as far 
as the eye can reach from one a little 
higher than the rest. 

In the midst of this great field of cliffs 
and crags and wooded ridges, stood 
Grandfather Mountain, third highest 
peak of the Alleghanies and the Blue 
Ridge system. Our driver told us that 
it was only 6,000 feet above the sea. I 
recalled the peaks of more than twice 
that height I had seen and I thought 
how little, after all, the mere altitude of 
a peak in measured feet has to do with 
the splendor with which it may impress 
those who behold it. 

I am telling in detail of the way the 
Linville scenery caught my eye, for 
whoso goes there will find the pulling 
power of its charms as strong as any that 
may come from the fishing in lake or 
river. 

Our streams we caught our first sight 
of just at sunset, when I was nearly 
frozen, not having dreamed, as I left 
New York in the midst of a sweltering 
afternoon, what a difference in climate 
a few hours of travel could bring about. 
The thermometer, during the three 
weeks I was in the mountains, registered 
mornings and evenings from 40 to 45 
degrees, and never, on even the hottest 



THE STREAM THAT ALWAYS LAUGHS 



63 



days, climbed higher than 75. Its rec- 
ord, I was informed, was 86 degrees, 
reached in the summer of 1907. 

I made it my first business, my frozen 
toes having been thawed out at a log fire 
in the tiny, cabinlike hotel, to inquire 
about a fisherman guide. Zach Garland 
was the man who came in answer to my 
inquiries, and I found him a native of 
the mountains, who, had he been trained 
in the misfortune of using his pen, might 
have written volumes on the wisdom, 
cunning, and indefinable eccentricities of 
his much-loved trout, which he, with all 
the world, was quick to class as lord 
among fishes and ruler of the mountain 
brooks ! 

"How are they biting?" I asked. 

"Depends on your flies, sir, as to the 
brooks," he answered, with hardly a 
touch of the typical Southern drawl. 
"But down in the lake," he added, 
"they're taking anything from a hayfork 
to a coachman, and they bite like all gee- 
hosafat." 

The cheering quality of this news to 
one whose angling arm was sadly out of 
trim, and who felt correspondingly nerv- 
ous in new territory, was immediately 
dimmed by the announcement that quite 
a group of men had come the night be- 
fore, all bent on fishing in the lake and 
bragging as to their infinite skill. 

"The lake for me," I said, "at least 
until I have the joy of really landing 
some beauties, for I don't want to take 
all my fun out in fine casting." I 
wasn't very strong on artistic casting, 
anyway, and I had seen too many fisher- 
men mess their sport on unfamiliar 
streams to feel any sense of courage or 
bravado. 

When I asked about bait I was told 
that worms were not in fashion either 
with the fish or the successful fishermen, 
and that my guide had some flies of his 
own devising that he thought would 
make an immediate hit with any fish in 
the country. Our next conference was 
about rods and reels and different 
strengths of line, and we made the usual 
preparations of the fisherman who is 
building great hopes on the morrow. 

As we busied ourselves with the tools 
of the game, our cosmopolitan compan- 
ion, who was later to impress himself 



upon me so vividly, made his first ap- 
pearance. His first remark was about 
the six-pound trout he had landed in the 
upper Columbia, and the Green River 
trout as long as his leg that broke his 
rod before he got it ashore. To cap the 
climax of the story, he told how he had 
landed it, despite a broken rod, without 
landing net or gaff. No stream in the 
Union had failed to deliver its tribute to 
his art and skill — at least, that was the 
way he remembered it. 

Some of his brave words made me even 
more doubtful as to myself than I had 
been before, but when he began to offer 
promiscuous advice to my guide, I no- 
ticed that the latter dropped out of the 
conversation and gave his whole atten- 
tion to his lines and leaders. His silence 
was effective, and the Cosmopolitan An- 
gler soon left us. 

Then Garland turned to me and re- 
marked : "He seemed to know it all, but 
did you ever see that kind of a fellow 
catch anything smaller'n a sucker, and 
that about five foot ten?" 

I hadn't the courage to agree with 
Garland, but I hoped his diagnosis was 
correct. 

First Fins for Garland 

Next morning, as we made our way 
to the lake's edge through fern-trimmed 
mountain paths, Garland remarked that 
if I wasn't particular about casting while 
it was still early and was particular 
about not letting our friend's boat over- 
show ours in size of catch, it might be 
well to let him try out his flies first while 
I handled the paddles. The morning 
was fine, calm, and still, with a little 
southeast breeze. Garland gave our 
canoe a shove and leaped in, and I ap- 
plied the paddle noiselessly. The canoe 
leaped forward to the stroke, and I, a 
tired, office-broken, and office-weary busi- 
ness man, was afloat on Lake Kawana, 
with rhododendrons blossoming every- 
where along the shores. 

"You see those ripples over yonder in 
the bay?" Garland said. "Row for them, 
for that's where the trout'll be feeding 
this time of day — right at the head of the 
ripples." 

And so we made our way through still 



64 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



waters, Garland casting as we moved 
along. It was the casting of an artist. 
I was admiring the mountain glow that 
was all about and drinking in its glory 
when I saw Garland's whole body stif- 
fen in attention and his light rod bend 
under a heavy pull. 

"If I land him," he remarked, as the 
fish showed above the water and disap- 
peared as he rushed away while Gar- 
land gave him all the line he wanted ; 
"if I land him, those other folks can't 
show first fins, anyhow." 

"How does he pull? Is it a big one?" 
I shouted, feeling the blood rush to my 
own finger tips and a sudden disdain 
come upon me for the paddle. 

"Twenty inches at least — sort of 
teacher to the school he's running with, 
maybe." 

"Why don't you hurry him in? 
What's the use of risking him after 
you've got him hooked?" I was losing 
all semblance of composure. 

"A tired fish comes up an awful lot 
easier than one with some fight still in 
him, and it's many a fine fellow that's 
jerked off right at the net at that." 

Garland was strong for his own 
method. It was merely to keep his rod 
pointed sharply upward and then to 
watch the bend in the tip of it. As it 
straightened a bit when Mr. Fish came 
to the end of his harder lunges, Garland 
went at him with the reel, gathering in 
the slack as fast as it would come. 
Then there would come another rush, 
and the rod tip would bend under the 
strain of it. Garland would ease away 
with the line, toying with his captive as 
a cat with a mouse. It was easy to see 
he feared impatience mere than loss of 
time. 

I was ready with my net and stood 
motionless, too sure of my guide's skill to 
seem impatient, and yet counting the sec- 
onds as if they were hours. I watched 
the line wind itself round and round on. 
Garland's reel, intermittently at first, 
with frequent reversals, and then gradu- 
ally gaining in bulk until the reel showed 
almost all its original size. Off in the 
water, splashing it up in a great fury, 
appeared our captive, lashing blindly 
with his tail, but so firmly held by the 
taut line and the hook in his upper jaw 



that his mouth was wide open, and I 
knew that he was being drowned. 

Almost docile he was when I slipped 
the net under him and felt the weight 
of his body against the meshes. Twenty- 
two inches was the length of him, and he 
was long and lean — the fighting breed, 
and not the fat and flabby loafer that 
comes easily to the landing net. 

Of course there was no such thing as 
my sticking to the paddle while Garland 
caught the fish.. It was my turn now. 
I seized my rod, nervously gathered the 
slack line in my left hand, and made a 
try. My first cast was fully half the dis- 
tance of Garland's average, and, for all 
my determination to be cautious, my first 
strike tore the hook away from the fish, 
and I had only a momentary thrill of 
anticipation. 

Strikes and Little Else 

My second strike I handled more 
gently, and got him halfway to the boat 
before he was free. Then, four times 
there were strikes of which nothing came, 
my line being instantly freed, and I 
learned a lesson over again which all of 
us learn on our first trip out. I had neg- 
lected to inspect my hook after my first 
fish had got away. When finally I 
thought to do so I found that the barbed 
tip had snapped off. It was a thing one 
would not notice except on careful in- 
spection, and I have no doubt it accounts 
for many a fisherman's failures. 

With a new hook I succeeded in land- 
ing a small fellow without power enough 
in his fins to make even my rough hand- 
ling of him fatal. It was odd that with 
all my previous experience I had yet to 
learn to be patient and suit my speed of 
reeling to the fish's fighting condition. 
In two hours we had caught fourteen 
trout, varying from nine to twenty 
inches, our first fish proving to be the 
largest of the day, and, in fact, of the 
whole three weeks I spent in and about 
the lake country. 

As luck deserted us gradually — Gar- 
land said it was because the fish were fin- 
ishing breakfast and settling down for 
their noon siesta — a strange boat drew 
into our territory, in the bow of which 
we descried our beblazoned friend, of 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 




ZACH GARLAND, PASTMASTER 
OF THE ROD. 

whose prowess I had had more than a 
little fear. He was casting as he came, 
working with obvious nervousness, and 
reeling in after each cast far too rap- 
idly to make his fly any temptation for a 
suspicious trout. 

"How's luck?" Garland called out to 
him, and there was a world of irony in 
his smile. Glancing down at our fine 
catch, I was glad that, after his brag- 
ging, he had not found us quarryless. 

"Rotten," he answered. "Nothing 
doing except with little ones I was 
ashamed to keep." 

His line was in a tangle from careless 
casting, we observed, as we paddled to- 
ward the river mouth, determined to give 
him full sway over the ripples which had 
now quieted down until not even hungry 
trout would visit them in the hope of 
finding food. 

"It's so fine a day," said Garland, 
"we'll try the river from the falls up. 
They bite mighty strong along there 
sometimes in the afternoons." 

From noon to sunset, in an entirely 
different kind of fishing problem, we 



reveled, while our baskets filled slowly 
toward our respective limits — twenty- 
five fish. Garland had his string by five 
o'clock, and I had seven more to catch. 
At six o'clock I had only two to go, and 
Garland suggested a quiet little pool 
close by the hotel where the ripples at its 
lower end ran over a pebbly bottom, a 
favorite playground for trout after sup- 
pertime. 

"They'll be there for a dollar," he 
said, "and we can snag a couple of 'em, 
at least, so we can both go home with a 
full catch." 

When we reached the place we were 
surprised to find there our Cosmopolitan 
Angler, to whom we had abandoned the 
lake. He had fished Linville River 
downward from the lake while we had 
been going up. 

"Still no luck?" queried Garland. 

"Only five," he answered, opening his 
basket with an air of deep gloom. We 
watched him cast a time or two, and then 
I threw in my line, straining every effort 
to imitate as well as I could the dexterity 
of my guide. For a time my friend and 
I dropped our flies into the same spot al- 
most, our lines touching at times, our 
flies striking the water not more than a 
foot or two apart. 

It was rare sport. There came over 
me an uncontrollable desire to land a 
fish right at his very feet and hold it 
there until I had been fully repaid for 
all the uneasiness he had caused me by 
his brave manner in the early morning. 
And I had my chance to do it. It was 
a little fellow, only nine inches long, but 
fair-sized as brook trout go. He came 
up out of the water on my first jerking 
of the line as I felt him strike, and 
flopped almost ashore. There was no 
chance of his getting away, but I said no 
word of triumph ; it wasn't necessary. 

"What kind of a fly are you using?" 
Garland asked, as the gloom on the other 
man's face deepened. 

"At first I used the coachman, and 
then I tried everything I had — reds, 
blacks, whites, blues, and yellows. Now 
I'm using a red and white." 

"And scaring the fish to death. Bet- 
ter try 'em with something that looks a 
little like the critters they've seen before. 
It'll help powerful." 



THE STREAM THAT ALWAYS LAUGHS 



67 



And with that we left him, still cast- 
ing and still reeling in without results. 

"If he had acted halfway white this 
morning," Garland said, "I'd have told 
him what to do ; but when a rooster gets 
as anxious as he was to crow he wants 
to be mighty certain whose barnyard he's 
in." 

Our greeting at the hotel was a 
chorus: " How did you do it? " 

"Fishing; just fishing," was Garland's 
only answer. 

If the day's mark had humbled our 
fisher-of-a-thousand streams as far as we 
were concerned, it had not lowered his 
crest before the dinner guests. To them 
he laid his stories on thicker than ever, 
ranging the world over instead of only 
the North American continent. His prize 
story was of catching crocodiles with 
native babies for bait. Having more 
need of sleep than of his tales, we left 
him entertaining the others, and awoke 
in the morning thoroughly refreshed for 
a second day's experience. 

"Say, old man, will you tell me where 
the fish bite best this time of day?" our 
friend called out to Garland as we were 
leaving to fish the Linville River up- 
ward to the Grassy Ridge. 

"Yes," Garland answered dryly. 
"Wherever they happen to be when they 
feel hungry." 

In a little while we were working the 
river, I going ahead of Garland, but in 
spite of myself rather than through any 
intent, leaving him more than half of the 
available supply. He cautioned me often 
to cast for the head of the ripples, since 
it was morning, as I would find the fish 
feeding there just as I would find them 
playing in the bottom of the ripples at 
night, and asleep in the center of the 
pools at noon. 

By ten o'clock I was well ahead and, 
finding the scenery too beautiful to re- 
sist, I sat down on a rock, lit a cigar, 
and lost myself in the singing of the 
wind in the tree tops and the swaying 
of the luxuriant growth of flowers, the 
white, pink, and yellow petals still glis- 
tening with the dew, although the sun 
was well up in the heavens. 

A sign on a nearby tree caught my 
eye. "Boone, 9 miles," it read, and my 
thoughts went back at once to tales I 




A RELIC OF PIONEER DAYS. 

had read of a pioneer's wonderful work 
in this wilderness while my own ances- 
tors were busy in distant Greece, toiling 
and hoping for a country that had lost 
an ancient prestige, and was not yet ready 
to regain it. 

I tried to picture the vision and the 
dream that had drawn the men of that 
day westward and was peopling my for- 
ests with red Indians and buckskin-clad 
heroes, when suddenly Garland came 
upon me. 

"I caught twenty," he said. 

"And I ahead of you caught only 
four," I admitted, with some little 
shame, yet glad to know that I was 
learning, even if slowly. 

"We know the Boones," he went on, 
when I pointed out the sign to him, "and 
down the Linville Gorge, at Banner Elk, 
there's still a lot of 'em living. We call 
'em 'Boonins,' and they're a mighty 
scrappy lot, settin' much store by their 
great-granddaddy Daniel." 

I could hardly believe I had come so 
close upon the pathway of the westward- 
bound empire. "I can show you," said 
Garland, "over by Grandfather Moun- 



THE STREAM THAT ALWAYS LAUGHS 



69 



tain, the very place where Boone camped 
and fought the Indians. There's more 
yarns about him in these parts than you 
could count in a coon's age." 

But there were too many fish still to 
be caught for us to waste our time 
dreaming of pioneer heroes. Taking to 
the stream again, we soon worked our 
way to the forks of Linville River, where 
two streams lead upward to the heights 
of Grandfather Mountain. That was 
the end. Each fork was small and so 
steep that hardly any trout would want 
to leap its way along, the pools being far 
between and of no size. A third stream, 
Grassy Ridge, offered some possibilities, 
but we found it overhung with laurel 
and crossed by many fallen logs, so that 
there was no chance for the free play of 
either rod or line. We became entan- 
gled in the underbrush, swore at the 
fallen trees, and finally abandoned our 
fishing to enjoy the beauty of the hidden 
brook, which lavishly repaid us for our 
effort to pass along its banks. 

"'The Stream That Always 
Laughs,' " said Garland, as we lunched 
at noon, drinking the cold water that 
flowed like nectar from the mountain 
top. 

"The Stream That Always Laughs!" 
I remembered the words of the gentle- 
man to whom I was indebted for all this 
celestial joy. "You must be sure to go 
and see 'The Stream That Always 
Laughs.' " 

"The Indians gave it that name," 
Garland explained, "and a little ahead 
of us is the 'Pool of the Daring Maid.' " 

I wanted to see it, and upward we 
climbed till we had reached Grand- 
father Mountain's very crest. It was a 
wonderful sight that met our gaze as 



we looked downward, and I christened 
the place in my mind "The Yosemite 
of the East." Anyone who goes there 
I am sure will find all the witchery of 
the California wonderland, save only the 
sequoias, and perhaps the steepest of the 
cliffs. 

I hoped, as I stood on Grandfather 
Mountain, that my vacation would last 
all summer. But it didn't. Three weeks' 
tramping and fishing in those Carolina 
mountains I was destined to have, and 
then a telegram called me back to my 
office ; it is the way of all the office-worn, 
and of course I had to travel it. 

Coming from my room with my be- 
longings packed for departure, I encoun- 
tered in the hotel hallway a young Ken- 
tucky belle, to whom the Cosmopolitan 
Angler had been paying particular court. 
At that instant there joined us a Civil 
War veteran, commander in his time of 
a Confederate brigade. 

"How's our friend?" I asked them, 
and they both laughed. 

"My dear suh," said the general, "he's 
right out there at the pond at this min- 
ute, suh. He has been fishing for frogs 
all day long with rod and reel, and he's 
positively exterminated our whole sup- 
pi} 7 . He's bringing them in by the bas- 
ketful." 

I looked the way the general pointed, 
and there, sure enough, was the fisher of 
many streams. He was busy with the 
frogs, crawling on the ground, hiding 
for a moment behind a bush, and then 
jumping forward with a shout of tri- 
umph. He had found, at last, a sport 
to which his capabilities were equal, and 
he was happy. And so I left the Cos- 
mopolitan Angler and "The Stream 
That Always Laughs." 




. . .. ^s^^tu^m »p a 




BOOTHS FERRY ACROSS SNAKE RIVER AT THE LOWER END OF THE GRAND 

CANYON OF THE SNAKE. 



SADDLE AND CAMP IN THE 

ROCKIES 

BY DILLON WALLACE 

Illustrated zcith Photographs by the Author 

ON THE ROAD TO JACKSON'S HOLE 




EFORE history began, an an- 
cient lake, called by geolo- 
gists Lake Bonneville, cov- 
ered a great portion of what 
are now the fertile fields of 
northern Utah and southern 
Idaho. Lake Bonneville was a fresh- 
water lake two thirds as large as Lake 
Superior, a thousand feet deep, with an 
outlet to the north toward Snake River. 
Growing aridity of climate dried Lake 
Bonneville away until all that is left of 
it now is Great Salt Lake, t the "Dead 
Sea of America," some eighty miles in 
length and forty miles in width, with an 
extreme depth of fifty feet, and lying 
4,210 feet above sea level. 

Through Baron La Hontan the world 
first heard of Great Salt Lake, in the 
year 1689. In 1820 Mr. Miller, of 
John Jacob Astor's fur company, visited 



its shores. It was seen and reported 
again in 1825 by Mr. John Bedford, 
and again in 1833 by members of Cap- 
tain Bonneville's expedition. Later, Kit 
Carson and some others of the adven- 
turous trappers, who penetrated this far 
wilderness, saw the . lake. But the first 
attempt at scientific exploration was 
made by Fremont, under the guidance of 
Kit Carson, in 1843, when, by means 
of a leaky folding India-rubber boat, he 
visited with Carson and some other mem- 
bers of his party what is now known as 
Fremont's Island, but which he himself 
named Disappointment Island. 

This was a land of deepest mystery 
and romance in those early days. Trap- 
pers had brought out to the world mar- 
velous tales of the wonders of the great 
lake. Birds that attempted to fly over 
its surface, it was said, fell dead. Ear- 



70 




HOW THE MEN OF THE UNITED STATES GEOLOGICAL SURVEY LIVE 

IN THE FIELD. 



lier reports told of strange, weird peoples 
inhabiting its shores, of cities of fabulous 
wealth and grandeur built upon moun- 
tainous but fertile islands. 

The old myths have been dispelled ; 
the old trappers and their romantic lives, 
Pocotello and his marauding Indians, the 
struggling pioneer and settler, have all 
given way to the new reality — comfort- 
able living and civilization. Salt Lake 
City stands on what was once the bot- 
tom of Lake Bonneville, whose foam- 
crested waves rolled a thousand feet 
above her present streets. 

The abundance of game that was 
found here by the pioneer has largely 
gone, also, and the sportsmen of to-day 
are greatly interested in the preservation 
of what remains, and not only the city, 
but every town and hamlet in the val- 
ley, has, in proportion to the population, 
an unusually large number of men de- 
voted to rod and gun. For example, Salt 
Lake City has an organization known 
as the Hot Air Club, formed to discuss 
and devise means for the better protec- 
tion of the diminishing game. The mem- 
bers of this association are well-informed 
business and professional men intensely 
interested in game protection, who be- 
lieve that the conservation of game and 
fish should be taken out of the realm of 
politics and established on a scientific 
basis. 



When they first came together the 
politicians facetiously dubbed them the 
"Hot Air Club." The club promptly 
adopted the name and bear it with honor. 

Allied with the Hot Air Club are 
eleven other game protective associations 
spread out over the State. A large pro- 
portion of the members of these allied 
clubs have been sworn in as deputy game 
wardens, to serve without pay, and 
through them many violators of the 
game laws have been apprehended dur- 
ing the past year. Their efforts, however, 
have been chiefly directed toward the 
education of the people in the preserva- 
tion and conservation of fish and game. 
They are teaching and demonstrating 
that here is a valuable resource of the 
State, and the people are learning to ap- 
preciate it. 

The Hot Air Club, with its allied as- 
sociations, is probably doing more in the 
way of practical education along these 
lines, and in real game protection, than 
any other similar association in the coun- 
try. It is making its power felt, and the 
facetious politicians are humbly recog- 
nizing this power. 

When I was in Salt Lake City the 
members of the club were interested in 
several concrete and flagrant violations 
of the game laws which had come to their 
rotice. A man at Morgan, Utah, had 
hilled thirty-three pheasants, which are 



71 



72 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



perpetually protected by law, and sev- 
eral days before the opening of the 
prairie chicken season had killed twenty 
chickens. So safe did this fellow feel in 
a political "pull" which he believed he 
possessed, that he was openly boasting of 
what he had done and defying prose- 
cution. 

One member present had just re- 
turned from Strawberry Valley, where 
he had found the half-decayed carcasses 
of fifty chickens and five ducks, all killed 
out of season. Tracing the matter 
down, he learned who the vandals were 
that had killed them, and that these fel- 
lows had shot so many more birds than 
they could have used under any circum- 
stances, or could have carried away, that 
those found by the sportsman had been 
abandoned. 

The club had also under consideration 
several streams that had been "shot" in 
violation of law, and were endeavoring 
to collect evidence against the guilty par- 
ties, or at least to have the suspected 
ones watched and caught red-handed. . 

Work that Counts 

The commission, too, is urging ade- 
quate fines for infringement of the laws 
— not merely nominal fines, as in some 
States. For instance, during 19 10, fines 
of one hundred dollars for each deer 
killed out of season were levied in sev- 
eral instances. 

These organized efforts of the Utah 
sportsmen to protect game are already 
being rewarded by a material increase 
in deer, and Mr. Fred W. Chambers, 
State Game and Fish Commissioner, re- 
ports at last that antelope are increasing 
in Kane, Washington, Grand, San Juan, 
and other southern border counties. I 
may add that my personal investigations 
and reports given me by sportsmen in 
various parts of the State bear out this 
statement. From these reports, I am also 
inclined to believe that there is a slight 
increase in mountain sheep. 

Neither is Utah neglecting her trout 
streams. She has established several 
hatcheries, and last year, from these 
hatcheries, planted 4,379,000 eastern 
brook, German brown, and rainbow fry, 
and 5,197,000 native fry. I spent the 



summer of 1907 in Utah, and, compar- 
ing the reports of catches during that 
season with those made me when I was 
again on the ground in 19 10, I should 
say that there is a marked improvement 
in the streams. 

The sportsmen of Utah were greatly 
agitated over an epidemic among ducks 
and other water fowl on the marshes con- 
tiguous to Great Salt Lake. It was es- 
timated that at least a quarter million 
ducks, as well as innumerable geese, 
plover, snipe of various species, and even 
some sea gulls, lay dead on these marshes, 
and they were still dying by thousands. 
I visited the lake, and the stench at some 
points from putrefying flesh of birds can 
only be described as awful. The gun 
clubs were not to open, and no shooting 
was to be done during the season. 

Some of the dead ducks were sent to 
the Division of Pathology, of the Bureau 
of Animal Industry, at Washington, 
D. C, and Dr. J. R. Mohler, Chief of 
the Division, reported, after an exami- 
nation of the specimens, that death was 
due to intestinal coccidiosis. Dr. Moh- 
ler's report stated that the ducks were in 
good flesh and the viscera apparently 
normal, except the intestines, which pre- 
sented throughout the entire length 
more or less extensive areas of inflam- 
mation. Microscopic examination of the 
intestinal contents revealed immense 
numbers of coccidia in various stages of 
development. 

There were many theories as to the 
source of infection, but the one generally 
accepted, and undoubtedly the true one, 
was this: The Jordan River is the de- 
pository of Salt Lake City sewage. 
Near the point where it empties into the 
lake it spreads out into a wide and shal- 
low mouth. The season had been an 
unusually dry one, the river was low, 
and wide mud areas had been left par- 
tially uncovered and strewn with sew- 
age, upon which large numbers of ducks 
were constantly feeding. 

The fact that ducks fly long distances 
in a few hours probably accounts for the 
fact that many ducks were dying in 
other sections, north and south of Great 
Salt Lake. If this was in fact the source 
of infection, the remedy is undoubtedly 
to dredge the channel near the mouth of 



74 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



the Jordan. This would carry all sew- 
age directly into the lake, instead of 
spreading it over the mud flats as at 
present. 

My two horses, Heart and Button, 
were fat and frisky and in splendid 
shape when I saddled Heart, packed 
Button, and turned northward, en route 
to Idaho and Wyoming. My course 
took me directly through Salt Lake City 



The near-by mountains, where they 
spread to make room for the valley, were 
splotched with green and yellow; where 
they draw together again, on the oppo- 
site side of the valley, the intervening 
autumn haze had tinged them a delicate, 
opalescent blue and purple. 

Though the days were filled with 
balm and sunshine, the nights were grow- 
ing cold, and every morning now the 




THE MEMBERS OF THE SURVEY OFF FOR THEIR DAY S WORK. 



and Ogden. Ogden Canyon, with high, 
perpendicular walls, rushing river, and 
wood-clad corners, is one of the most 
picturesque spots in northern Utah. At 
one point a stream of water gushes out 
of the rocks several hundred feet above 
the river and is lost in mist. 

But the canyon is too near civilization 
to be permitted to retain its wild and 
primitive natural beauty undefiled. 
Painted and plastered over the walls of 
Ogden Canyon one's eye meets such leg- 
ends as, "Use Pillbox's Sure Cure Rem- 
edies" ; "Walkfast shoes give comfort" ; 
"For elegance of form, wear Madam 
Fuzyhead's Corsets" ; "Learn to dance 
at Professor Littlewit's Academy," and 
so on, ad infinitum. 

It was October, and the warm sun 
shone down upon the valley beyond Og- 
den Canyon through an Indian summer 
haze. Here lay the little village of 
Huntsville and some scattered ranches. 



ground was stiffened with frost. Hoar 
frost lay thick upon everything, spark- 
ling in the first rays of the rising sun, 
when I rode out of Huntsville in early 
morning. My trail led up the valley 
and into Beaver Creek Canyon, en route 
to Bear Lake, Idaho. At Salt Lake City 
I had been warned that I should find the 
country around Bear Lake covered with 
snow, and the frosty air at this lower al- 
titude gave strength to the prophecy as 
to the country farther on. 

Presently ranches were left behind 
and the trail turned into the canyon to 
follow its magnificent trout stream, 
tumbling down over a rocky bed. Beaver 
Creek had considerable volume where 
the trail entered the canyon, but as it 
ascended it gradually shrank into a mere 
rivulet trickling from some springs. Be- 
yond this the diminishing trees disap- 
peared and presently, above the canyon 
on the summit of a ridge dividing two 



SADDLE AND CAMP IN THE ROCKIES 



75 



watersheds, even willows and shrubs 
gave way to sagebrush. 

The main road here is a wood road, 
which drops over the ridge and sends 
branches into some three or four canyon 
lumber camps. The direct road for Bear 
Lake turns to the left and is little used. 
At midday, on Beaver Creek, I passed an 
outfit consisting of a teamster with a 
heavily loaded wagon of lumber-camp 



tunately, we had not gone far when a 
camp fire glimmered through the trees, 
and a few minutes later I rode into the 
circle of its light, where three men 
lounged with their pipes. It was Lew- 
is's camp, and I received a hospitable 
greeting. 

Lewis's lumber camp was situated in 
a national forest reserve, and the gov- 
ernment had ordered all tree cutting 



r , ~ ' 


^^ 




***»»■ ^^-^^^igui^ - 




- 



SHACK FOR TRAVELERS AT HALFWAY, PREUSS MOUNTAINS. 



supplies and a man in a buggy. The lat- 
ter was a lumberman named Lewis, the 
former one of his men, on the way to 
Lewis's camp in Skunk Creek Canyon. 
Mr. Lewis invited me to spend the night 
at his camp, where he told me forage 
could be had for my horses. 

The sun was low when I passed the 
Bear Lake trail and followed down the 
other in the hope that good luck would 
lead me to Skunk Creek Canyon. The 
several branching trails rendered the se- 
lection of the right one uncertain, but 
presently, when I found a brook flowing 
out of a canyon, I took a chance on its 
being Skunk Creek and turned up the 
canyon, deciding to follow it a reason- 
able distance and then, if nothing devel- 
oped, bivouac for the night. 

It was twilight when I reached the 
brook, and it soon grew so dark in the 
canyon that I was compelled to rely on 
Heart's instinct to keep the trail. For- 



stopped. Some logs of a previous year's 
chopping were still on the ground, and 
Lewis had established this temporary 
camp to clean them up and discontinue 
operations in accordance with the terms 
of the edict. His loggers were just com- 
ing in to haul the logs already cut to a 
portable sawmill which the three men 
with whom I stopped were then engaged 
in setting up. The only buildings yet 
erected were a makeshift barn, a small 
shack, and an open shed. 

The sky was heavily clouded when 
Lewis and his teamster joined us at nine 
o'clock that evening, and a little later a 
gale was sweeping up the canyon. I 
spread my blankets under the open shed, 
and before I fell asleep felt the first 
flakes of a coming snowstorm on my 
face. When I arose at dawn the fol- 
lowing morning a thick blanket of snow 
covered me, and nearly four inches had 
fallen during the night. The storm had 



76 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



passed, however, though the morning 
was raw, with fleeting clouds scudding 
over the sky and a cold, penetrating wind 
blowing, a chilliness that even the daz- 
zling sunlight that followed did not 
modify appreciably, as I pushed my way 
up the canyon. 

Travelers over the mountain ridge are 
rare at any time, and all day long, be- 
yond the lumber camps, I picked my 
way over unbroken trails through snow- 
hung firs, up and down ravines or across 
wind-swept open spaces, and saw no sign 
of human life — or any kind of life, in 
fact, save a fox track or two, a few rab- 
bit tracks, and now and again a squirrel. 
This disappointed me, for there are deer 
here, and the lumbermen told me I 
should in all probability see some of 
them, or at least their signs, in the fresh 
snow. Bear, too, were said to be fairly 
numerous, and I had hoped to see a 
track, for they were still abroad. 

Beyond the ridge somewhere in a val- 
ley was the little settlement of Wood- 
ruff, and with neither compass nor defi- 
nite trail to guide me, I took the general 
course in which my map — a very imper- 
fect map, I had discovered — said Wood- 
ruff lay, avoiding, as best I could, gulches 
and canyons. From one high point I had 
a magnificent view of the snow-clad 
country to the northward — timbered 
areas, wide stretches of valley and plain, 
and rugged mountain peaks. 

With the Geological Survey 

Traveling was slow. The horses' feet 
balled badly and they slipped and slid, 
particularly on steep down grades, in 
anything but a reassuring manner. At 
mid-afternoon I crossed a wind-swept 
reach of the open country, and then be- 
gan a gradual descent. Presently the 
snow was left behind, to the relief of 
myself and the horses. Here, as we 
dropped into the head of a canyon, sev- 
eral prairie chickens were started. Fol- 
lowing the canyon to its mouth, I passed 
an abandoned ranch, on the banks of a 
brook which coursed down a narrow val- 
ley into which the canyon opened, and 
near sunset glimpsed a group of tents 
which I recognized as a government out- 
fit. I rode up to them and hallooed, and 



two or three men answered the call. It 
was a United States Geological Survey 
camp, they told me, and, in answer to my 
inquiries, said Woodruff was six miles 
away, straight ahead, too far to go that 
evening, and invited me to stop with 
them for the night. 

The camp was in charge of A. E. 
Murling, a veteran in the department, 
and with him and his assistants the even- 
ing spent here was a particularly pleas- 
ant one. They were making the first 
geological survey of the region. The 
day before my arrival they had descended 
from the higher altitudes, and had thus 
escaped the snow that I had encoun- 
tered. 

All of these forest-covered mountains, 
with open, grassy parks, were formerly 
richly stocked with elk, deer, antelope, 
and bear. A few elk remain, but all the 
antelope have been killed, deer are far 
from plentiful, although bears are said 
to be fairly numerous. I did not see one 
deer track in the fresh snow. The sur- 
veyors told me that they had seen some 
earlier in the fall, as well as bears. 

As for the birds, the natives about 
Huntsville, and in that region generally, 
believe protective laws are unjust and 
that they have a moral right to shoot 
when they please; and they do shoot a 
great many chickens, and sometimes other 
game, out of season. Several of them 
boasted to me of having done so, and 
one showed me a chicken he had just 
killed. 

The brook, the headquarters of which 
I came upon in the valley where the 
engineers were encamped, was Birch 
Creek, emptying a little way below the 
engineers' camp into Twelve-mile Creek, 
a tributary of Bear River. I followed 
these creeks down to Woodruff, thence 
turned northward along Bear River to 
Randolph over a high ridge, and down 
Laketown Canyon to the little settle- 
ment of Laketown, at the canyon's 
mouth and at the head of Bear Lake. 

Practically the only settlements that 
have yet found foothold in Rich County 
are Woodruff, Randolph, Laketown, 
Meadowville, and Garden City, the last- 
named village lying on the west shore of 
Bear Lake, close to the Utah-Idaho State 
line. Randolph, with a population of 




.- . -jam 




A SHEEP HERDER S WAGON IS FITTED FOR LIGHT HOUSEKEEPING WITH 

COOK STOVE AND BED. 



six hundred, is the county seat and the 
largest and most important settlement in 
the county. The houses are chiefly of 
hewn logs, and this is the construction 
used in Rich County generally. 

While the county is large in area, it is 
for the most part mountainous, and the 
land adapted to agriculture is practically 
confined to Bear River Valley. The 
crops are almost exclusively hay and 
grain. Isolated from railroads, it still 
flavors of the frontier, and the traveler's 
imagination is not taxed very greatly in 
an attempt to picture it as it appeared 
in the days of the early fur trappers, 
when Kit Carson and his companions 
trapped beaver along Bear River and 
chased Indians into the mountains. The 
valley lies at a mean altitude of 6,500 
feet above sea level. Its climate is, there- 
fore, too cold for successful fruit culture 
or general farming, and to this, no doubt, 
is due its tardy development. 

One of the most delightful surprises 
of my journey met me just before emerg- 
ing from Laketown Canyon, when sud- 
denly, at a turn of the road, Bear Lake, 
stretching away between rugged moun- 
tains as far as eye could reach, and the 
little settlement on the lake shore in the 
foreground, surrounded by green and 
framed by canyon walls, flashed up be- 



fore me as suddenly as a lantern view 
appears upon the canvas. 

There is a road on either side of the 
lake. That on the west leads to Garden 
City and Idaho settlements beyond ; that 
on the east is little traveled. The lat- 
ter is the nearer route to Star Valley, 
Wyoming, and I chose it, both because of 
this and because, as I looked down the 
lake, it appealed to me as the more at- 
tractive, with precipitous mountains 
crowding it on the one side, the waves of 
the lake washing it on the other. 

Bear Lake is one of the most beautiful 
lakes in the West, and therefore in the 
world. The water has a greenish tinge 
and is so clear as to be perfectly trans- 
parent. The pebbly beaches reach down 
with a gentle slope and are washed white 
by the pure waters. Innumerable wild 
fowl hover above or float contentedly 
upon the bosom of the lake. Trout by 
thousands may be seen where streams 
empty into it. Had the sage brush on 
the mountains paralleling it on either 
side been fir trees, it would have been 
a counterpart of some of the Labrador 
lakes that I have known. 

Morning came frosty, with a cloudless 
sky, and was followed by a day perfect 
beyond compare. My ride down the 
shore of Bear Lake atoned fully for every 



78 




BOOTH S HOUSE AT THE ENTRANCE TO THE GRAND CANYON OF THE SNAKE 

CLOSE TO THE FERRY. 



disagreeable feature of the trip that had 
gone before. Halfway down the lake 
I crossed the State line into Idaho, 
though there was nothing to indicate its 
position. At the little ranch at Turn- 
pike, which I reached at half past four 
in the afternoon, hot sulphur springs 
boil out of the mountain base, and the 
water runs down in steaming brooks to 
join the lake. 

With a native of the ranch I walked 
down along the beach sands to see the 
sun set in sublime effulgence of red, pur- 
ple, and yellow beyond the mountains on 
the opposite shore. The man was a poet 
and a dreamer. He had a most deliber- 
ate manner of expression, which accen- 
tuated his peculiarities. He had spent 
his life in this region ; beyond a bit of the 
surrounding mountains and near-by wil- 
derness, he had seen nothing of the 
world. 

"Every evenin' I come down here," 
said he, "t' see th' sun go down an' th' 
sky light up with bright colors, an' I 
think I'd like t' see th' other countries 
th' sun lights when it leaves us. They 
must be lands of great beauty t' reflect 
such colors in th' sky, for th' sky, I takes 
it, is just a big mirror. Maybe, though, 
it's not earthly lands, but heaven, that's 
reflected. An' what wonderful people 



must live there, for they sure must be fit 
for th' land, or th' Almighty wouldn't 
let 'em stay." 

We walked down to the beach again, 
at his suggestion, to see the lake by the 
light of a brilliant moon. The moun- 
tains threw black shadows upon the near- 
shore waters, while bejond them rip- 
pling waves glistened and sparkled to the 
base of rising shore line opposite; while 
far up the lake the star-sprinkled sky 
came down to meet the sparkling waters. 
The only sound was the lap of waves at 
our feet, and the bark of coyotes in the 
hills behind the ranch. 

"I often wonder," said my friend, 
"what the world is like outside of this, 
and th' big ocean with waves as high as 
these mountains. I've never seen none 
of th' world exceptin' some of these hills 
and canyons, and Montpelier. Montpe- 
lier's a big place, an' they have all sorts 
of contraptions there. You'll hit th' 
town to-morrow. I don't care much 
about it. Th' folks seem different. 

"I was some interested in wagons that 
run without horses — watcher call 'em I 
don't remember. One of 'em tried to run 
down here in th' summer, and got stuck 
just above in th' sand. I'd like t' go and 
see what there is in th' world, for I expect 
there's a heap bigger places than Mont- 



79 



SADDLE AND CAMP IN THE ROCKIES 



81 



pelier, with a heap of strange things they 
don't have there. But," he added, after 
a pause, "I expect I'll never see anything 
but just this round here, an' it ain't so 
bad, I reckon, with its sunsets and moon- 
lights." 

From Montpelier, the seat of Bear 
Lake County, and a local metropolis with 
2,500 population, I turned to the north- 
east, through Montpelier Canyon, past 
Thomas's Forks — not a town, but a fork 
in the river; there are no settlements 
here — and thence across the Preuss 
Range. At Montpelier I had crossed 
the railroad, and there left it behind me. 
Montpelier is the nearest railway point 
for the settlements in Star Valley, Wyo., 
across the Preuss Range, the first one 
fifty miles away and some of them a 
full hundred miles. 

Supplies are hauled over the moun- 
tains to the settlements by freighters 
driving two, four, and sometimes six, 
horses. Comparatively light loads are 
necessarily carried, for the mountain 
grades are steep — at some points even 
precipitous — and the road is not always 
good. In the canyon I met two of the 
freighters, and beyond the ridge several 
others. 

This, too, is the route of the mail 
stages. A station is maintained by the 
stage company some two miles beyond 
the summit of the pass and high up in 
the mountains, where tired horses are 
changed for fresh ones by passing stages. 
This is known as Halfway House, and 
a stage driver is always in charge. Trav- 
elers are not entertained here with beds 
or food, but one's horses will be cared for 
if one is prepared to pay three or four 
times the charge usually made for hay 
and grain in settled localities. Such ex- 
cessive charge is justified by the necessa- 
rily large expense incurred in hauling 
forage so far. It was at Halfway House 
that I planned to halt for the night. 

Well up the canyon are some aban- 
doned mining claims and cabins, though 
each year the owners visit them for a 
short period and do the assessment work 
required by the law to hold them. Poor 
men, most of them are, and for lack of 
funds they have never been able to de- 
velop their claims sufficiently to put them 
on a paying basis. Some time in the 



hazy, mystic future they believe the holes 
they have dug will reward them richly. 

Each believes that King Solomon's 
mines, with their fabulous wealth, were 
nothing to what his will prove to be 
some day, for the prospector is an op- 
timist and a dreamer. I never yet met 
one who was not quite certain he was 
destined to "strike it rich." The last of 
these before beginning the steeper ascent 
of the pass is a tumbledown cabin and 
barn, where some one had unsuccessfully 
attempted ranching and mining in con- 
junction. It is known as "Giveout" — 
very suggestive and appropriate. 

Close to Giveout I encountered a great 
herd of sheep, which the shepherds told 
me they were taking to Boise for the 
winter. In their course over the pass 
they had swept all grass and browse be- 
fore them, making it quite impossible for 
the traveler to find a suitable place for 
his horses to graze for even a single 
night. I thought a good many hard 
things about sheep many times in the 
course of my journey. Cattle and horses 
eat the grass. Sheep not only eat it, but 
tramp out the very roots, and destroy it 
for all time. 

In the Trail of the Sheep 

A grassy park, this year capable of 
supporting many animals, will be trans- 
formed by a bunch of sheep, in a very 
short space of time, into a verdureless, 
barren waste. This destruction applies 
not only to grass, but to small shrubs, 
and when the heavy rains come, the soil 
of hillsides, swept clean of grass and 
shrubs, is loosened by a thousand hoofs, 
the top soil is washed away and the land 
is left unproductive permanently, or for 
an indefinite period. 

This is what is taking place in all of 
our forest reserves, and the price of wool 
and the price of lamb and mutton are 
going up. The sheep barons hold the 
situation in the palm of their hands. 
The government charges them a nominal 
price for the privilege of grazing herds 
on public lands ; they have grown to feel 
that they own these lands and send up a 
cry of horror at any hint that their priv- 
ileges be curtailed. Many of the wealthy 
sheep men of to-day began a dozen years 



82 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



ago with practically nothing. They 
grew rich at the expense of the public. 
In many instances the government had 
better have voted them a competence, for 
the large overstocking has ruined the 
ranges for many years for any purpose, 
where a moderate stocking would have 
preserved their value. 

Not only have wide territories been 
thus rendered valueless for either cattle 
or sheep grazing, but absolutely unin- 
habitable for antelope and elk. Had 
reason governed the sheep men and gov- 
ernment officials concerned in this, wide 
areas that to-day will not support a 
grasshopper might have still held herds 
of domestic sheep, as well as wild ante- 
lope and elk. This applies to much of 
the public land in national forest re- 
serves through which I rode, from south- 
ern Utah to Montana. 

Into Wyoming 

Beyond Giveout the road rises steadily, 
and at last abruptly, to the summit of 
the pass. Quaking aspens, pines, and 
firs cover the mountain sides, and the air 
is sweet with forest perfumes. From the 
summit one has a magnificent view of 
surrounding mountains, overtopped by 
snow-capped peaks. 

Halfway House lies in a romantic hol- 
low, at the head of Crow Creek, a tribu- 
tary of Snake River. There are three 
log stables, a cabin where the stage driver 
lives, and another log cabin where trav- 
elers camp. There is no woman within 
many miles of the place. I stabled and 
fed my horses, cooked my supper, and 
then spread my blankets on the earthen 
floor of the unoccupied cabin. 

There are really two Star Valleys, the 
Upper Valley and the Lower. Between 
the two the hills crowd in to form a short 
canyon. These valleys are devoted al- 
most wholly to cattle raising. The alti- 
tude is too great and the climate too cold 
for any other than hay and grain farm- 
ing. Here below the Preuss Range I 
crossed the line into Wyoming, in the 
Upper Valley. Crow Creek, where it 
enters the valley, has developed into a 
stream of considerable volume. 

In the Upper Valley I came upon a 
light prairie schooner and one forlorn 



man, who told me that he and his part- 
ners, who were looking for suitable land 
to locate and homestead, had halted for 
noon, picketed one horse, turned two 
others which they had loose, and while 
they were catching trout for dinner the 
picketed horse had broken loose and all 
the horses had disappeared when they re- 
turned from fishing. He "reckoned th' 

hull d outfit had lit out fer Og- 

den," where they came from, and his 
"pardner was chasin' 'em ahoof." I had 
not seen them. 

At the lower end of the valley are 
some remarkable hot springs — quite as 
remarkable as some of the lesser ones in 
Yellowstone Park. One group of them 
covers several acres, and side by side are 
springs of cold water and boiling water. 
Steam escapes from several fissures un- 
der considerable pressure and with much 
noise. 

In the canyon between the two valleys," 
where the canyon widens, a ranchman 
has run some irrigation ditches, and here 
I saw a notice of which the following is 
an exact literal transcription: 

"Parteys or Parson Driven Sheep over 
this Ditch and Damas it they Will Be 
Prasicute a carden to Law." 

At the junction of John Day's River 
with the Snake River, at the lower end 
of the Grand Canyon of the Snake, 
Booth's Ferry, across the Snake River, is 
situated. Jackson's Hole may be entered 
from the west either by way of the 
Grand Canyon of the Snake, or farther 
north over Teton Pass. I chose the form- 
er route as the least traveled, and di- 
rected my course down the lower Star 
Valley to Booth's Ferry. 

This was the third day after crossing 
the Preuss Range, and all day, save with 
a few brief intermissions, the rain fell 
in a steady downpour. It was growing 
dusk when I reached the ferry. The 
ferryboat was on the opposite side of 
the river — a scow, made fast to an over- 
head rope stretched from shore to shore. 
It was guided with a tiller, and the cur- 
rent furnished motive power to propel 
it. I shouted, and presently the ferry- 
man appeared, crossed the boat for me, 
and carried me and the horses safely 
over. The man's name was Rogers, and 
he and Booth, two bachelors, lived here 



THE THIEF AT CIRCLE BAR 



83 



in a little log cabin, with one room and 
a loft. It was pouring rain, and they in- 
vited me to stop with them until the 
rain ceased. I accepted, turned Heart 
and Button loose to forage, cooked my 
supper on the cabin stove, and spread my 
blankets on the floor. 

I had received many warnings about 
the trail through the canyon, which was 
said to be particularly dangerous. Sev- 
eral horses, I was told, had fallen from 
it into the river, hundreds of feet below. 
Booth and Rogers confirmed these 
stories, particularly with reference to a 
stretch known as the Blue Trail. A 
short time previously, they told me, a 
forest ranger's horse had been lost here, 
and though very little traveled, several 
horses, they asserted, were lost every year 
in attempting to cross it. 

It was described as only a few inches 



wide, hanging upon the edge of a cliff, 
and of blue clay, which, when wet, is 
exceedingly difficult for smooth-shod 
horses to keep a footing upon. The men 
agreed that it would be unwise to enter 
the canyon until the rain ceased and am- 
ple time had been allowed for the trail 
to dry. Upon this advice, I decided to 
accept their invitation to remain at the 
ferry the following day, even though the 
rain ceased in the night. 

Isolated as they were, and rarely en- 
joying any companionship other than 
each other's and that of an amiable dog, 
my advent was a welcome break in the 
monotony of their life. And I was glad 
to stay with them, for they were both 
men of the early frontier type — a type 
that one rarely sees these days, and only 
meets occasionally in such secluded spots 
as this. 



(To be continued) 



THE THIEF AT CIRCLE BAR 

BY CHARLES ALDEN SELTZER 

Illustrated by Clarence Rozve 



= ^HE sun had reached the 
peaks of the mountains of 
the Hogback range, and 
its rays were touching the 
snow caps and shedding 
broad white shafts into 
the basin where the cattle were feeding. 
Presently the white shafts dimmed, tak- 
ing on hues of saffron and violet, blend- 
ing these with newer colors that slowly 
appeared. The sun sank lower and a 
slumbrous haze rose mysteriously toward 
the sky, like a gauze veil of many colors, 
melting and fading and glowing until 
the darkening shadows appeared over the 
foothills and began to steal far out into 
the basin. 

As the shadows reached his pony's 
hoofs and a slight breeze began to rustle 
the dried mesquite of the basin, Dave 
Thompson, the Circle Bar owner, urged 
his animal closer to the range boss, who 
stood at one of the wheels of the chuck 



"I reckon I'll be goin'," said Thomp- 
son. "Me an' Jane have been ridin' 
most of the day, an' she'll be gettin' 
some tired." 

"She's a right brave girl, to be ridin' 
all day," observed the range boss ad- 
miringly. 

Thompson smiled. "Just like her 
mother," he returned. He urged his 
pony about, rode twenty feet, and then 
returned. "I reckon you're keepin' Luke 
Lynch with the wagon — like I told 
you ?" 

The range boss laughed shortly. "It's 
pretty hard to keep track of Luke," he 
said, "especially when Miss Jane's 
around." 

Thompson fidgeted. "That's the worst 
of havin' a good-lookin' man in the out- 
fit," he said. "Tryin' to keep a girl from 
takin' a shine to a man like that is worse 
than tryin' to get enough water durin' 
a dry spell." He gazed gravely at the 
range boss, his eyes lighting with a sud- 



8 4 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



den suspicion. "Where's Luke now?" he 
questioned. 

"He's workin' down the crick," re- 
turned the range boss, wheeling away 
from the wagon and peering in the di- 
rection of the river. For a moment he 
stood, his hands shading his eyes. Then 
he smiled furtively, his back to Thomp- 
son. "That's him comin' now," he in- 
formed Thompson. "An' — well — thun- 
deration! He's with Miss Jane!" 

Two ponies with riders had just ap- 
peared from one end of a narrow draw 
not a hundred yards from where Thomp- 
son and the range boss stood. They 
came on slowly, talking in low tones. 
Once, while they continued to approach, 
the young woman's voice rose in laugh- 
ter. Thompson's face wreathed into a 
scowl. 

The riders came slowly up to the 
wagon — a young woman of twenty, who 
looked strikingly graceful on her pony, 
and a tall young puncher, lithe, pictur- 
esque, whose face wore a broad grin. 

The puncher dropped from his pony 
and came forward to the wagon, stand- 
ing near the range boss. The latter 
slowly closed one eye at the young man 
and shook his head with an almost im- 
perceptible negative motion. 

"Dave was thinkin' Miss Jane had got 
lost," said the range boss. 

The young woman laughed. "Luke 
said dad would be worried," she said. 
She blushed as she looked at the young 
puncher. 

Thompson's lips straightened. "Dad 
ain't worryin' none," he said. He turned, 
throwing a sharp glance toward his 
daughter. "Your mother'll be waitin' 
supper." 

He ignored Lynch and nodded coldly 
to the range boss. Then he spurred his 
pony away from the wagon, halting at 
some little distance and looking back just 
in time to see Lynch take Miss Jane's 
hand and squeeze it, the range boss look- 
ing on with a smile. 

Thompson said no word to his daugh- 
ter during the five-mile ride up the river 
trail to the ranchhouse, but several times, 
as her pony traveled close to his, he no- 
ticed that her eyes shone very brightly 
and that her lips were wreathed in a ten- 
der smile. At supper he watched her 



closely, and, after the meal was finished 
and the young woman was in the kitchen 
washing dishes, Thompson drew his wife 
into the best room and talked long and 
earnestly to her. A little later he called 
Miss Jane in. 

"Jane," he said quietly, "day after to- 
morrow me an' your mother is goin' over 
to Bill Deming's place, just the other 
side of Las Vegas, for a visit. His place 
ain't very big, so we can't take you along, 
like we'd like to. But we don't want 
you to stay here alone. So we've decided 
that you could go over to your Uncle 
Raymond's place for a month or so. 
You c'n start in the mornin'. I'll have 
Wes' Cole ride over with you." 

Miss Jane's eyelashes suddenly 
drooped, and a flush swept slowly over 
her face. Thompson did not see her eyes 
flash with a swift understanding. When 
she looked up there was a smile on her 
face. 

"Of course, I shouldn't like to stay 
here alone. It would be unbearable. 
And there is always fun over at the 
Two Diamond." 

She was suddenly at her mother's side, 
kissing her. For a moment Thompson 
stood looking at the two, and then, with 
a smile of satisfaction over his daughter's 
ready acquiescence, he turned and went 
into his office to pore over his accounts. 

At dawn the next morning Thompson 
walked down to the gate of the horse 
corral, where Miss Jane was watching 
Wes' Cole saddle two ponies. He found 
his daughter deeply chagrined over the 
discovery that her favorite horse, Silver, 
a big, rangy white, had gone lame during 
the night. But she was having another 
animal saddled and was patting Silver's 
muzzle affectionately when Thompson 
reached the gate. 

"Silver has gone lame, daddy," she 
said, as her father came up. "I want you 
to take good care of him while I am 
gone." 

"I'll have him taken to the box stall 
an' let Jiggs tend to him. He'll be all 
right when you come back." 

An hour later Thompson and his wife 
stood at one end of the wide gallery, 
waving their hands at the departing fig- 
ures of Miss Jane and Wes' Cole. After 
the figures had disappeared over a swell 







LOOKING BACK JUST IN TIME TO SEE LYNCH TAKE MISS JANES HAND 

AND SQUEEZE IT. 



Thompson turned to his wife, whose 
eyes were moist. 

"I hated to lie about goin' away to 
Deming's," he said, "but I reckon there 
wasn't any other way. She'll forget 
about Lynch in a month." 

The mother looked lingeringly at the 
spot on the crest of the swell, beyond 
which her daughter was riding. 

"Perhaps," she said, with a little catch 
in her voice. 



II 



Through the range boss the follow- 
ing morning word reached Luke Lynch 
that he was wanted at Thompson's of- 
fice in the ranchhouse. He caught up 
his pony, saddled, and was ready to 



mount, when the range boss came close 
to him. 

"I don't know what's comin' off," said 
the range boss, "but I'm tellin' you what 
I think. It's this: The Ol' Man was 
sort of put out to see you with Miss Jane 
last night. I'm lookin' for develop- 
ments." 

Lynch grinned broadly. "I reckon I 
won't be any surprised — whatever he 
does," returned Lynch. "He's a right 
wise daddy, but he ain't got all the 
cards." 

He was gone before the range boss 
could answer, riding loose and loping his 
pony easily. 

It was late in the morning when he 
rode up before the Circle Bar ranch- 
house and dismounted at the office door. 



85 



86 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



He strode unconcernedly over the thresh- 
old, halting when he reached the side 
of Thompson's desk. The latter was 
awaiting him. 

"Set down," directed Thompson. 

"Thank y'u." Lynch made no effort 
to comply. "Y'u wanted to see me," he 
said. 

"Yes." Thompson absently fingered 
some papers. Then he looked up and 
caught Lynch'-} gaze. The latter's face 
was a trifle pale; Thompson's reddened 
slightly. "I reckon you know my daugh- 
ter Jane?" questioned Thompson. 

"You didn't need to ask that," re- 
turned the puncher. 

Thompson smiled grimly. "No; I 
didn't need to ask. Not after what I 
saw last night. But I'm lettin' you 
know that I've had my eyes open. I 
reckon you've got some sort of an under- 
standin' with Jane?" 

The young puncher flushed. "There 
ain't nothin' ever been said in words," 
he said slowly. 

Thompson sighed with relief. "I 
reckon it ain't so bad, then," he ob- 
served. He spoke more frankly. "I'm 
sorry things has turned out like this. 
I've seen that you're a pretty good man. 
But you ain't just the sort that I'm pick- 
in' out for Jane to marry. I'm thinkin' 
to find somethin' better'n a puncher for 
her. I've sent her over to the Two Dia- 
mond for a month, so she'll kind of for- 
get you. An' I'm givin' you your time 
now. I'm sort of sorry that I've got to 
part with you, but there ain't any other 
way." 

He reached into a drawer and drew 
out a handful of double eagles. "You've 
got quite a lump comin'. Six months. 
I expect you'll strike another job before 
long." He rose and extended a hand 
toward Lynch. "That's all, I reckon," 
he concluded. "You might as well make 
up your mind to be decent about this. 
You ain't never goin' to be my son-in- 
law." 

Evidently Lynch had decided to be 
"decent." He grinned genially. "I've 
been listenin' to you," he said. "I ain't 
been hurt none by your palaver. Some 
dads has got gall enough to think they 
c'n stack the cards on a girl an' get away 
with it. Such dads forget that they was 



young onct themselves. I've hearn tell 
that your wife's dad tried the same 
deal." 

Thompson reddened again. "I reckon 
Jane's told you about that," he said. 
"But I reckon what's happened to me is 
my business," he added coldly. 

"Shore," returned Lynch, as he 
walked to the door; "it shore is your busi- 
ness. An' I reckon that my business is 
my business, too." 

He went out and mounted his pony. 
Five minutes later Thompson saw him 
loping his pony slowly down the river 
trail in the direction from which he had 
come. 

HI 

Three weeks later the range boss 
rode up to the ranchhouse to make a re- 
port. He found Thompson in the of- 
fice. For a time the talk was about the 
condition of the cattle and the details of 
their well-being. Then the range boss 
leaned back in his chair and narrowed his 
eyes at Thompson. 

"I was ridin' down the crick yester- 
day," he said. 

Thompson looked up, and caught a 
strange expression in the range boss's 
eyes. 

"Well?" he questioned. 

The range boss continued slowly. "I 
was down at Turner's Flat, where that 
nester was two years ago. I looked at 
the shack he built." 

Thompson nodded. "I recollect," he 
returned. 

The range boss's lips parted in a fur- 
tive grin, which he concealed with the 
palm of one hand. "That shack has been 
fixed up," he continued. "There's an- 
other nester in it." 

Thompson's lips straightened and his 
voice was cold. "I reckon you talked 
some to him?" he asked. 

The range boss grinned. "Yes, some," 
he returned. "You see, I happened to 
know him. It's Luke Lynch. Been nes- 
terin' there ever since you fired him." 

Thompson cursed recklessly. "The 
damn cuss!" he concluded presently. 
"That's the reason he acted so quiet 
when I give him his time!" 

The range boss looked soberly up. 



THE THIEF AT CIRCLE BAR 



87 



"He always was a quiet sort of a cuss," 
he said ; "deep an' quiet. You never c'n 
tell which way that kind'll jump. Their 
actions are sure hard to anticipate." 

"I reckon he's just an ornery sneak!" 
fumed Thompson. 

"I always thought he was on the 
square," said the range boss, his eyes 
drooping eloquently. 

"On the square nothin'!" declared 
Thompson, with a sardonic laugh. "Call 
a man square who's tryin' to sneak his 
boss's daughter?" 



"That's just what it is," agreed 
Thompson heavily. "But I reckon he 
ain't goin' to stay long in that nester's 
cabin, now that I know he's there." 




YOU MIGHT AS WELL MAKE UP YOUR MIND TO BE DECENT ABOUT 
THIS. YOU AIN'T NEVER GOIn' TO BE MY SON-IN-LAW." 



Thompson's lips twitched. "Was he 
tryin' to do that?" he questioned, his 
eyes widening with surprise. "I seen 
him with her a good bit, but I thought 
mebbe .it was just a false alarm. An' 
you sent him away for that! An' you 
sent Miss Jane away so's he wouldn't get 
a chancst to talk to her any more ! An' 
now he's gone an' took up that nester's 
shack, thinkin' to be near Miss Jane in 
spite of you. I'd call that defyin' you." 



"You reckonin' on runnin' him off?" 
said the range boss, his cheeks swelling 
in an effort to suppress something. 

Thompson banged a fist heavily down 
upon the desk top. "I won't have him 
nesterin' on this range!" he declared. 

The range boss rose to his feet. 
"Well, now," he said, "I reckon Luke'll 
be some surprised when you tell him 
that." He went out, and then, return- 
ing, stuck his head in through the door- 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



way. "I think you ought to know this," 
he said quietly. "Yesterday, when I 
was talkin' to Luke he said that you'd 
know what he meant if I'd tell you for 
him that he was mindin' his own busi- 
ness." He grinned into the vast arc of 
sky as he turned toward his pony. 

An hour later, Thompson rode down 
the river trail, his lips set in deter- 
mined lines. Some time later he came 
to a bend in the river, where the buttes 
broke off sharply and revealed a broad 
flat, through which the waters of the 
river spread over a broad shallow. A 
small cabin was to be seen well back in 
a grove of cottonwoods, and some cattle 
grazed by the water. Thompson saw a 
man riding near the cattle and spurred 
his pony toward him. It was Lynch. 
Thompson's face was red as he came 
clqse enough to be heard. 

"You figgerin' on stayin' here long?" 
he questioned. 

Lynch sat quietly in his saddle, re- 
garding his old employer with a quiet 
grin that broadened at Thompson's ques- 
tion. 

"I'm mindin' my own business," he 
said. "I reckon you c'n do the same 
thing." 

Thompson ignored the suggestion. 
"I've rode over to tell you that I don't 
want you nesterin' on this range," he 
snapped. 

Lynch's quietness fell away from him 
like a cloak. He leaned forward in the 
saddle, alert and watchful, his lips droop- 
ing into a sneer. 

"I reckon I ain't carin' a heap what 
you think," he returned. "Give you a 
chancst an' you'd want the whole earth. 
But I've got a hand in this game. I'm 
mindin' my own business — like you told 
me you was mindin' yours. You don't 
need to stay here wastin' your time. You 
ain't scarin' me none." 

"I'd give you five hundred in cold 
cash to get — " 

Lynch grinned coldly. "If it was five 
thousand that you wanted to give me it 
wouldn't be enough," he said. "I ain't 
sellin' nothin'." 

Thompson's face was white with the 
anger that he was trying hard to repress. 
"I've offered you your chancst," he said, 
his voice quivering. "Hereafter there 



ain't goin' to be any sentiment holdin' 
me back." 

"Correct," sneered Lynch; "senti- 
ment's a poor thing to tie to. I ain't 
thinkin' of doin' any mushin' myself — 
with you. I'm startin' now to tell you. 
Don't you come monkeyin' around my 
cabin. An' don't go for to try an' prove 
that I'm rustlin' any of your cattle." He 
tapped his holster significantly. "I've 
got a gun here that's yearnin' for to 
speak to you — to tell you that you've 
acted plum mean. But you ain't goin' to 
act mean any more." 

Thompson sat silent for a moment, 
contemplating the puncher with frown- 
ing eyes. Lynch's gaze was steady; in 
his eyes swam a mysterious, puzzling 
light. The corners of his mouth seemed 
to twitch with a saturnine curl. His 
whole lithe young body seemed to radiate 
confidence. He seemed not to be in ear- 
nest, yet there had been a threat in his 
words. 

Thompson's eyes snapped with de- 
cision. He touched the spurs to his 
pony's flanks and rode a little distance. 
Then he turned. "I'm warnin' you to 
get off this range," he said coldly. "I'm 
givin' you one week." 

Lynch watched him until he disap- 
peared beyond a rise. Then he rode 
slowly down toward the cabin in the 
grove of cottonwoods, his face wreathed 
in a broad grin. 



IV 

"I reckon by this time Silver must 
know he's a pet," observed Jiggs, the 
puncher who had been selected by 
Thompson to look after Miss Jane's 
horse during her absence. "I never seen 
the boys take such an interest in any 
horse." 

In the gathering dusk Thompson was 
watching Jiggs as the latter curried the 
white, slender-limbed animal. "Miss 
Jane ought to be home to-morrow," he 
said; "it's been a month since she went 
away to the Two Diamond." 

Jiggs looked up from his currying. 
"You got rid of Luke Lynch yet?" he 
questioned. 

"Damn Lynch!" flared Thompson. 




JIGGS LOOKED UP FROM HIS CURRYING 
LUKE LYNCH YET ? " 






YOU GOT RID OF 

HE QUESTIONED. 



Jiggs smiled evilly. Six months be- 
fore, when Jiggs had come to the Circle 
Bar, he had tried to take Luke Lynch's 
measure. He could still remember his 
surprise when Lynch had shown him 
that he was "man size." And in Jiggs's 
soul still lingered a burning desire to 
"get even." He looked up again, his 
eyes glittering. 

"I reckon there ain't any better way 
to damn a man in this here country than 
to have him ketched stealin' a hoss," he 
said. 

"Talk sense," sneered Thompson. 
"How's anyone goin' to get Luke Lynch 
to steal a horse? Give him a chance to 
steal a man's daughter, an' he'll jump 



at it. But steal a horse ! Lynch is some 
loco, I reckon, but he ain't no such fool 
as that." 

Jiggs smiled significantly. "I didn't 
say he'd steal a horse," he said. "I reck- 
on you didn't git me right. There's 
some difference between stealin' a hoss 
an' bein' ketched stealin' one." 

"I don't reckon that I get you," re- 
turned Thompson. But he showed his 
interest by edging toward Jiggs. 

Jiggs stood up, the currycomb still in 
his hand. "Miss Jane is comin' home 
to-morrow," he said softly. "First thing 
she'll do is to look for Silver. I reckon 
she'd be some disturbed if Silver was 
gone." 



9 o 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 




WHAT S THE USE OF TALKIN , 
ANYWAY," HE SAID. 

"She sure would," agreed Thompson. 
"But—" 

"An' if she found Silver'd been run 
off by Lynch I reckon mebbe she 
wouldn't think so much about Lynch 
after that." 

Thompson clinched his hands to steady 
himself. He began to see what Jiggs 
was hinting at. 

"An' the boys think a heap of Miss 
Jane an' Silver," continued Jiggs. 

" That's right," agreed Thompson, a 
little more positively. 

"An' if they found Silver in Lynch's 
corral they'd be pretty apt to git some 
riled," resumed Jiggs. "Then I reckon 
you know what'd happen." 

Thompson's lips came together grimly. 
"I reckon you ain't got any love for 
Lynch?" he said. 

"Him an' me's bosom frien's," re- 
turned Jiggs ironically. 

Thompson turned on his heel and 
walked away. But presently he returned. 



His eyes glittered coldly and his lips 
were set with decision. 

"Jiggs," he said evenly, "it's only ten 
miles to Lynch's place. There ain't been 
any moon for three or four nights, an' I 
reckon there won't be any to-night. I 
don't mind tellin' you that if I could find 
a man who could keep his head shut an' 
could get Silver into Lynch's corral to- 
night, I'd fill one of his hands with 
twenty-dollar gold pieces." 

Jiggs dropped his currycomb and 
reached out his hand. "Shake," he said. 
"You ain't goin' to have much of a job 
findin' a man like that. One end of 
Lynch's corral butts up against a right 
smart cottonwood. That's a handy place 
for Silver to get into the corral." He 
smiled with anticipation. "An' that Cot- 
tonwood's sure a fine place to hang a 
hoss thief." 



V 



An hour before dawn the following 
morning the Circle Bar wagon outfit was 
rudely awakened by Thompson. The 
latter was laboring under great excite- 
ment. 

"Silver's gone!" he informed the range 
boss, as that person approached him with 
a question. 

The range boss was surprised. "Who 
do you reckon got him?" he questioned 
in return. 

"There ain't anyone around except 
Lynch," returned Thompson. "An', 
though I ain't exactly in love with Luke, 
I wouldn't think he'd steal Silver — bein' 
as Silver is Miss Jane's horse." 

The range boss contemplated Thomp- 
son gravely. "There ain't been any 
strangers around?" he questioned. 

Thompson shook his head negatively. 

"None of the boys is missin' ?" 

"None." 

The range boss turned to the men who 
had crowded around and gave the curt 
order to "saddle up." Then he turned 
to Thompson. 

"I hate to think it of Luke," he said, 
his voice tingling with regret, "but if 
he's gone an' stole Silver he ain't no bet- 
ter'n any other hoss thief." 

Dawn was just breaking when the 
Circle Bar outfit, led by Thompson and 



THE THIEF AT CIRCLE BAR 



9 1 



the range boss, loped their horses down 
the river trail, out upon the flat where 
Lynch's cabin could be seen, and down 
to the gate of the horse corral.' Silver 
was discerned immediately and whinnied 
with delight when Thompson approached 
him. He was bridled and led forth. 
Then the outfit straggled down around 
the corral fence toward Lynch's cabin. 

When within a hundred feet of it they 
saw Lynch come out of the door. He 
stared at them for a moment and then 
moved a few feet from the cabin toward 
them. Grimly silent, the outfit sur- 
rounded the puncher. Several of the 
men nodded shortly. 

"I'm thankin' you for comin' over to 
see me," said Lynch, 

"You needn't," declared Thompson. 
"You ain't got anything to be thankful 
for. We've just got Silver back. Found 
him in your horse corral." 

Lynch's face whitened. "Silver in my 
corral?" he questioned, his gaze wander- 
ing around the circle of faces for con- 
firmation of Thompson's statement. His 
voice took on an awed note. "I reckon 
you don't mean Miss Jane's Silver?" 

Several of the men nodded. 

"I didn't think you'd do it, Luke," 
said the range boss in a low voice. His 
eyes rested pityingly upon his former 
friend. 

"What made you do it, Luke?" ques- 
tioned another man, who stood well back 
in the crowd. 

"Why — why — hell!" exploded Lynch. 
"You fellows make me tired. I reckon 
you think you're damn smart, tryin' to 
fool a fellow that-a-way! I don't know 
nothin' about Silver, except that v he's 
Miss Jane's horse/' His face wrinkled 
slowly, as he repeated, "Miss Jane's 
horse." 

"Yes," said Thompson, "Miss Jane's 
horse. Remember that. Silver is Miss 
Jane's horse. An' he was found in your 
corral not ten minutes ago. I reckon 
there won't be any nester around here 
this time to-morrow." 

Lynch was looking at Thompson with 
slowly narrowing eyes. For a man who 
was about to be hanged he exhibited very 
little fear. As his eyes continued to nar- 
row the wrinkles in his face grew deeper. 
Finally he grinned broadly. 



"I reckon I heard you say that that 
there Silver horse belongs to Miss Jane?" 
he drawled, speaking directly to Thomp- 
son. 

"Correct," agreed the latter. 

"Do I understand you to say that Sil- 
ver belongs to Miss Jane alone — that 
you ain't got no claim on him at all?" 

"Silver belongs to Miss Jane," de- 
clared Thompson sententiously. "I 
reckon she'll be some surprised to know 
that he's been found in your corral." 

"She sure will," agreed Lynch. His 
grin grew wider. "I reckon you fellows 
has lost some good sleep, gittin' up so 
early to come over here," he said, closing 
an eye deliberately at the range boss. "A 
man can't very well steal a horse that 
belongs to him, c'n he?" 

Thompson sneered. "That there pal- 
aver ain't goin' to help you none," he 
said. 

But Lynch ignored him and, turning, 
faced the cabin. At that instant a wom- 
an came out of the cabin door, stand- 
ing before it and watching the group of 
men with a smile. She came toward the 
men, beaming. Hats came off; the range 
boss smiled ; Thompson's jaws opened 
wide. 

"It's Jane!" he gasped, hanging to the 
pommel of his saddle. "What in — " 

But by this time Lynch had seized 
Miss Jane by the hand and had drawn 
her close to him. 

"I'm introducin' you to Mrs. Luke 
Lynch," he said. "We was married two 
days after Thompson give me my time. 
I rode right over to the Two Diamond 
an' got her, and we got tied up over in 
Cimarron. There wasn't any weddin* 
cards. But I reckon the weddin' is legal 
anyway — Mrs. Lynch is over age and 
I've had my eye-teeth cut for a right 
smart while." 

He turned to Thompson. "I'm glad 
you had my wife's horse brought over to 
her, father-in-law. She'll need it, ridin' 
over to the Circle Bar to see you an' her 
mother. An' I won't have to buy none." 
He grinned broadly, holding out a hand 
toward Thompson, while Mrs. Lynch 
smiled. "Father-in-law, ain't we goin' to 
get your blessin'?" 

Thompson turned and slowly surveyed 
the circle of grinning punchers. 



92 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



"I ain't sayin' nothin'," he said, as he 
slowly slipped down from his pony and 
approached Mrs. Lynch. "What's both- 
erin' me is this: When I asked you the 
day I give you your time if there was an 
understandin' between you an' Jane, you 



said there'd never been anything said be- 
tween you in words. I reckon you lied 
about that?" 

Lynch leaned over and kissed his wife 
full on the lips. "What's the use of talk- 
in', anyway?" he said. 



THE MOTOR CAR'S SPARK 
OF LIFE 

BY HAROLD WHITING SLAUSON 



iHE spark is to a gasoline 

motor what his heart is to 
a man, and to the ignition 
system can be traced many 
of the ills to which an 
automobile is heir, from a 
complete "balk" to intermittent skipping 
and muffler explosions. Delicate as much 
of the ignition apparatus may be, how- 
ever, the average owner can make his 
own replacements and adjustments, and 
the results, measured in terms of per- 
sonal satisfaction and improved running 
on the part of the motor, will more than 
compensate for any time or trouble that 
may be spent on the job. 

Gas engines of the early days were de- 
signed with the "hot-tube" system of 
ignition, which, although it produced 
combustion in the cylinder, was bulky 
and incapable of retard or advance, and 
was in no way suited for use on an auto- 
mobile motor. The invention of dry 
batteries solved the difficulty to a certain 
extent and made possible the use of elec- 
tric ignition on practically every gas en- 
gine, and although storage batteries and 
magnetos are improvements that have 
since replaced the earlier forms of cur- 
rent supply to a certain extent, nearly all 
of the old cars and many of the new 
machines are equipped with modern dry 
cells. 

The average dry battery, when new, 
should give a current of from twenty to 
thirty amperes, and should have a pres- 
sure of ii volts. These measurements 
may be made by means of a pocket volt 
and ammeter, which should be part of 
the equipment of every autoist whose car 



uses dry batteries, and tests should be 
made frequently. When any battery 
fails to deliver more than six or seven 
amperes, that cell should be discarded, as 
it will serve only as resistance in the cir- 
cuit and will do more harm than good. 

The cells should be connected in 
series; that is, with the positive of one 
wired to the negative of the next, and so 
on; in this manner the amperage of one 
and the voltage of the total set will be 
obtained. Six cells to a set have been 
found to give about the best service, and 
if two sets are used, each on alternate 
trips, one will be given a chance to re- 
cuperate while the other is at work. A 
dozen batteries used in this manner will 
last much longer than would be the case 
were one set switched on until worn out 
and then the other connected in its place. 

It is almost impossible to determine 
the length of time that a set of dry bat- 
teries can be used, as the life of the in- 
dividual cells will vary to a great extent, 
but when connected in the manner de- 
scribed above, a dozen batteries have 
been known to run a car over five thou- 
sand miles. This is no criterion, how- 
ever, as the next set, used under almost 
identical conditions, may run out before 
the five-hundred-mile mark has been 
passed. It should be remembered, when 
testing old batteries, that it is the am- 
perage that will be reduced, while the 
voltage of each cell will remain practi- 
cally constant. 

Those of us who remember demon- 
strations in the physical laboratory in 
high school or college will call to mind 
the experiment with frictional electricity 



THE MOTOR CAR'S SPARK OF LIFE 



93 



in which a current was made to pass 
from one point to another through an air 
space several inches across. We were 
told then that the resistance of the air 
was so great that a pressure of about 
twenty thousand volts was required to 
force a current of electricity across a gap 
an inch wide. This means, then, that 
the ordinary high-tension current, as 
used in the ignition system of the jump- 
spark motors, has a pressure of from ten 
to twenty thousand volts, for the spark 
will often jump an inch in the open air. 

The increase from the nine-volt cur- 
rent at the batteries to one of several 
thousand at the spark plug terminals is 
brought about by the "step-up trans- 
formers," or coils, generally located on 
the dash of the car. Each coil consists 
of two windings, one of coarse wire, 
known as the primary, through which 
the current from the batteries passes, and 
the other called the secondary, which con- 
sists of many turns of fine wire. The two 
windings are insulated from each other, 
but the current passing through the pri- 
mary "induces" another current of a high 
voltage in the secondary. 

This voltage bears a relation to the 
pressure of the primary current, and is 
proportionately higher as the number of 
turns in the secondary is greater than 
those in the primary winding. There is 
a corresponding decrease in the amper- 
age, or amount of current, however, so 
that a current from a set of six dry bat- 
teries, when transformed to a pressure of 
ten thousand volts, would be reduced in 
amount to about -^ of an ampere. 
Although a current of this nature can 
make itself felt most decidedly, it is ab- 
solutely harmless so far as physical in- 
jury is concerned. 

In order that this current shall be in- 
duced in the secondary winding, it must 
be interrupted so that it will "pile up," 
or form a "surging," as it were. These 
interruptions are brought about by the 
vibrator, or interrupter, which is placed 
in the circuit, and is generally located on 
the top of the coil. An iron core, around 
which the coil is wound, becomes a tem- 
porary magnet when excited by the cur- 
rent, and this pulls down the armature, 
or vibrating tongue of the interrupter. 

This armature is so arranged that the 



current is broken as soon as it is pulled 
down, and when this happens, the iron 
core loses its magnetism and the vibrator 
springs back into place, where the con- 
nection in the circuit is reestablished and 
the same operation is gone through with 
again. The same principle is applied in 
the design of the "nonvibrating coil," 
but in a transformer of this type, the cir- 
cuit is broken but once for each spark 
at the plugs. The vibrating coil, on the 
other hand, interrupts the current so 
rapidly when the connection is made 
through the timer, that a pronounced 
buzz is set up that can often serve as an 
indication of the proper action of this 
part of the ignition system. 

Curing Imperfect Contact 

There is a tendency for a small arc, or 
flame, to be formed at the points of con- 
tact on the armature each time the cir- 
cuit is broken, and this results in the 
generation of a considerable amount of 
heat. Consequently, small platinum 
buttons, which have high heat-resisting 
powers, are placed at the points of con- 
tact between the armature and the frame 
against which it rests and through which 
the current passes. Although these plati- 
num points will withstand a great 
amount of heat, the continual formation 
of the slight electric arc will eventually 
pit them and make perfect contact im- 
possible without a readjustment. 

It is this imperfect contact of the vi- 
brator, due to pitted or worn platinum 
points, that is often the cause of irregular 
running of the motor, even when the 
spark plug, in the open air, seems to de- 
liver the required blue-violet flame. By 
removing the armature, or vibrator, and 
the contact screw against which it rests, 
the platinum buttons, or nubs, may be 
smoothed over with a piece of fine emery 
cloth, thus removing all pit marks and 
corrosions. This will admit of perfect 
contact when the armature and contact 
screw are again placed in position. 

In replacing these parts, care should be 
taken to make certain that the two plati- 
num points "register," or are set so that 
one will have its* entire surface directly 
against that of the other when the arma- 
ture assumes its normal position. The 



94 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



adjustment of the tension of the arma- 
ture and the set screw to which the con- 
tact screw is attached is an important 
one, for upon this depends not only the 
amount of arcing that will result when 
contact is broken, but also the quantity 
of current used for each spark and the 
consequent life of the batteries. 

The adjustments should be made so 
that the armature will rest about T V 
of an inch away from the core of the 
magnet, and the tension should not be 
too tight, and yet it must be sufficiently 
stiff to allow the vibrator to spring back 
readily with no "lag," as soon as the cir- 
cuit is broken. When the proper ad- 
justments are obtained, a constant, busi- 
nesslike buzz will be given off that 
should not change in tone until the cur- 
rent is stopped. By alternately making 
and breaking the circuit and noting the 
readiness with which the vibrator re- 
sponds, a fairly accurate adjustment of 
the mechanism may be obtained. 

On extended touring, it is a good idea 
to carry along one or two extra arma- 
tures and contact points, provided the car 
is equipped with the old style of ignition, 
but these will not serve to repair any 
breaks in the coils themselves. It some- 
times happens that a coil becomes worn 
out, or "broken down," through exces- 
sive use, and in this case rewinding is 
necessary. As a rule, however, a coil 
that is burned out is useless, and it is far 
the better plan to purchase a new one 
in its place than to spend time and 
money endeavoring to repair the old. 

The vigorous, one-tone buzz from a 
coil is only an indication of the proper 
adjustment of the vibrator and good con- 
dition of the windings and batteries, and 
is no proof that the entire ignition sys- 
tem is in working order. In fact, the 
proper sound will be given off from the 
coils when there is no spark whatsoever 
at the plugs, for a short circuit in the 
wires or at the plug terminals will allow 
the current to pass through the windings 
and will operate the vibrator in the or- 
dinary manner. It is consequently nec- 
essary to test each plug occasionally by 
laying it on top of the cylinder and ob- 
serving the nature of the spark at the 
electrodes when the circuit is completed 
through the switch and timer. 



Care should be taken not to allow the 
wire leading to the plug to come too near 
the cylinder, as otherwise the current 
will make its return by this route and 
there will be no spark at the proper end 
of the electrodes. When the plug is set 
properly and is in good condition, a 
bright, blue-violet flame should be seen 
jumping across the space between the ter- 
minals of the electrodes when the circuit 
is completed. A spark that is not par- 
ticularly vigorous in the open air may 
not be formed at all in the engine cylin- 
der on account of the greater resistance 
offered to the passage of the current in 
the highly compressed charge, and this 
must always be taken into consideration. 

Length of the Spark 

The air space across which the spark 
jumps should be about as wide as the 
thickness of a ten-cent piece. Unless the 
batteries are very strong, a distance 
greater than this thickness will cause the 
motor to miss occasionally on account of 
the high resistance offered to the passage 
of the spark; while if the electrodes are 
too close together, a sufficient area of 
flame will not be presented to the charge 
to cause perfect ignition. 

The exhaust gases from an imperfect 
mixture in the cylinder, or the use of too 
much oil of an inferior quality may cause 
the end of the plug to become covered 
with a carbon deposit that will interfere 
with the formation of a proper spark. 
The same emery cloth with which the 
platinum points of the coil armature and 
contact screw were polished may be used 
to good advantage on the sooty terminals 
of a spark plug, and by rubbing thor- 
oughly both surfaces across which the 
spark jumps, much better results will be 
obtained. But it may happen that the 
carbon deposit has been collected in the 
hollow space inside of the plug and has 
formed a bridge connecting the two elec- 
trodes. 

As carbon is a much better conductor 
of electricity than is the air, the current 
will follow this easy passage from one 
electrode to the other, and this short cir- 
cuit will thus prevent the formation of 
a spark across the air gap at the proper 
end of the plug. By standing the plug 



THE MOTOR CAR'S SPARK OF LIFE 



95 



on end and filling the hollow space with 
kerosene, the carbon deposit may be loos- 
ened so that it can be removed easily 
with the small blade of a knife, and, sim- 
ple as this operation may seem, it is often 
the means of transforming an apparently 
useless cylinder into one that is the "hus- 
kiest" and most vigorous of the entire 
motor. 

With a high-tension current, there is 
a continual battle between the pressure, 
or voltage, which tries to find the short- 
est and easiest way back to the opposite 
pole, and the insulation of the coil, wire, 
and plugs, which is endeavoring with 
equal firmness to confine the electricity 
within its proper channels and force it 
out to the end of the plugs where the 
spark should be formed. When the cur- 
rent wins and breaks down the confines 
of the insulation, there is a short-circuit 
formed and a consequent absence of 
spark at the plug. If this break in the 
insulation occurs between the two sepa- 
rate electrodes in the body of the plug, 
the latter is ruined and may as well be 
thrown away. 

Oil, grease, and gasoline are enemies 
to even the best of rubber coverings or 
insulations for high-tension wires, and if 
a bundle of these wires is exposed to the 
action of the hydrocarbons, it will not 
be long before a serious "leak" will be 
found in the secondary circuit. If the 
high-tension wires run near any metal 
of the motor, the current will be almost 
certain to penetrate any partially disinte- 
grated insulation, and consequently the 
two precautions to be observed in this 
connection are to run the high-tension 
wires at a distance of a couple of inches 
from the motor, and to keep oil, grease, 
and gasoline away from their coverings. 

Inasmuch as there are several causes 
that would produce imperfect insulation, 
it is a good precaution to carry a roll of 
insulating tape in the tool kit. If a leak 
is found in the high-tension wiring, a 
few wrappings of the insulating tape will 
serve to confine the current within its 
proper bounds for an indefinite period, 
or until new wire can be obtained. 

The most satisfactory and dependable 
form of current producer for ignition 
purposes is the magneto. By means of 
this, a very small part of the mechanical 



energy of the motor is transformed into 
the electric current, and a continuous 
supply is thereby obtained whenever the 
engine is in motion. The majority of 
magnetos, although called "high-tension" 
machines, generate the current at the low 
pressure of from nine to twelve volts and 
then step this up to the required voltage 
by means of a coil, as in the case of dry 
or storage batteries. 

High Tension Magnetos 

Some magnetos are manufactured, 
however, in which the step-up windings 
of the transformer are included in the ro- 
tating armature of the machine itself, 
and these are bona-fide high-tension mag- 
netos, as the original current is generated 
at the proper voltage without the Inter- 
vention of a dashboard coil. Most of 
these magnetos of both the so-called and 
bona-fide high-tension type belong to the 
alternating-current class. That is, there 
is no constant flow of the current in one 
direction, and the positive and negative 
poles are continually changing from one 
terminal to the other. 

Inasmuch as the spark will only be 
formed in machines of this type when the 
armature of the magneto is in a certain 
position, the magneto must be connected 
to the motor by means of positive gearing 
in order that the relation between the 
armature and pistons of the engine will 
always be the same. If there were no 
positive connection between armature 
shaft of magneto and crank shaft of 
motor, the spark might be desired in a 
cylinder at a time when the armature 
was in a position at which no current 
could be delivered. Consequently, it is 
out of the question to consider attaching 
an alternating current magneto to a 
motor by means of belt or friction drive. 

If it be desired to attach a mechanical 
current generator to a motor not already 
so equipped, and if there is no room for 
the installation of a gear that will mesh 
with any of those driving the cam, timer, 
or pump shafts, the direct-current mag- 
neto will solve the difficulty. This is a 
magneto having a special form of arma- 
ture and "commutator," by means of 
which a constant flow of current is main- 
tained in one direction, thus forming 



9 6 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



well-defined positive and negative poles 
in the circuit. Such a magneto will form 
a spark when the circuit is closed at any 
position of the armature, and it may con- 
sequently be driven with no constant re- 
lation to the speed of the crank shaft or 
position of the pistons necessary. 

This, then, is the machine that will 
come to the aid of the motorist who de- 
sires to convert his car into an automo- 
bile having magneto ignition, and in 
some types the installation of such a sys- 
tem is very simple. Magnetos are built 
that are driven by a belt from the front 
of the motor, but probably the most satis- 
factory forms are those that are con- 
nected to the fly-wheel of the engine by 
means of a friction pulley. In the latter 
case, the magneto may be placed by the 
side of the cylinders of a vertical motor, 
or on the crank case if the engine is of 
the horizontal type, and the automatic 
governing arrangement used in connec- 
tion with the friction pulley will prevent 
the armature from being driven beyond 
its most efficient and safest speed. 

With the ordinary form of magneto 
is generally embodied both the timer and 
distributor, the latter of which makes 
necessary the use of but a single coil for 
any number of cylinders. With the or- 
dinary forms of battery ignition, a sepa- 
rate coil is used for each cylinder, and 
the timer is driven by a shaft geared to 
the cam shafts or crank shaft of the 
motor. There are, however, several sat- 
isfactory distributors which enable but a 
single coil to be used for any number of 
cylinders, even when battery ignition is 
employed. But, whatever system is used, 
the timer will need to be cleaned occa- 
sionally with gasoline or kerosene and 
repacked with clean oil or grease. 

The brushes and commutator should 
be wiped thoroughly, and care should 
be taken to see that there are no rough 
corners or edges which will come in con- 
tact with any moving part. In old motor 
cars, the timer may have become so worn 
that the spark will not occur at the 
proper point in the travel of the piston, 
and in this case the ignition should be 
retimed. This is not a particularly dif- 



ficult operation, and it can be performed 
in a comparatively short time, as follows : 

Set the timer handle in its central po- 
sition and place the spark plug on top of 
the cylinder, so that the time at which 
the circuit is closed can be readily ob- 
served. Insert a long-handled screw- 
driver or iron rod in the spark-plug open- 
ing and turn the starting crank until the 
rod is raised as far as possible, indicating 
that the piston has reached the top of 
its stroke. If the switch has previously 
been thrown on and the timer is prop- 
erly adjusted, the spark should occur at 
the top of the stroke. 

It should be remembered, however, 
that the spark only occurs at the top of 
every alternate stroke in a four-cycle 
motor, and consequently it should be 
made certain that it is the power stroke 
on which the test is being conducted. If 
the spark occurs too early or too late, 
the set screw securing the commutator to 
the timer shaft should be loosened and 
the commutator turned forward or back- 
ward until the connection is made at the 
proper time. The fly-wheels of many 
motors are now marked to indicate the 
position of the crank shaft at which igni- 
tion should occur in the various cylin- 
ders, and in this case the spark plug will 
not need to be removed in order to de- 
termine the top of the stroke of each 
piston. 

Although a good magneto will stand a 
great amount of hard usage, it is in real- 
ity a delicately adjusted and finely con- 
structed instrument, and it is not recom- 
mended that the amateur should 
endeavor to make repairs. The only 
attention a magneto should require is the 
application of a few drops of oil to the 
armature bearings once every five hun- 
dred or a thousand miles, and if any 
trouble should develop from other causes, 
it is far better to return the machine to 
the factory for inspection than to run the 
risk of having it utterly ruined by in- 
trusting its overhauling to anyone but 
an expert. In fact, the motto of every 
manufacturer of high-class magnetos is, 
"If any trouble develops, return the in- 
strument to the factory immediately." 




A TEAM OF FANCY DRAFT HORSES. ALL FOUR ARE WELL-BUILT, ACTIVE, AND 

EASY IN THEIR MOVEMENTS, WITH GOOD LEGS AND FEET WHICH ARE 

KEPT WELL UNDER THEM. THE FREEDOM FROM LONG HAIR 

ON THE LIMBS, WHICH ARE UNTRIMMED, IS NOTICEABLE. 



DRAFT HORSES IN AMERICA 

BY DAVID BUFFUM 
Illustrated with Photographs 



^HE draft horse, more than 
any other, is an evolution 
— o r, more properly 
speaking, a modification 
— of the horse as nature 
formed him, brought 
about by the necessities of man and his 
skill as a breeder. He is a far greater 
departure than any other from the orig- 
inal type. For the horse, in a state of 
nature, is never very large ; he is formed 
for speed and for living on a grass diet, 
and his first adaptation to man's uses was 
doubtless in the carrying of compara- 
tively light burdens and in traveling 
with a speed rather greater than less 
than that which he first possessed. 

But the draft horse has little speed; 
his chief use is in the moving of heavy 
burdens, and he is more dependent than 
other horses upon a grain diet. He is 
also so much larger and of such different 
characteristics and general appearance 
that, when compared with a horse of 
racing or carriage blood it is difficult to 
realize that both sprang from the same 
source. 



This striking difference between the 
draft horse and all other types must 
always be considered if we are to under- 
stand fully his possibilities and limita- 
tions. In all other types, however modi- 
fied to suit such different uses as riding, 
driving, and racing, the development has 
been mainly along the lines of the ani- 
mal's natural traits and qualities — as his 
speed, endurance, and beauty of contour. 
Even in coach horses, which have often 
to pull a considerable load, this holds 
true. But the draft horse is so modified 
as to serve a totally different purpose 
from that which nature intended, and 
size and strength, rather than speed, en- 
durance, and grace of outline, have al- 
ways been the chief things aimed at in 
his development. 

This great change is very often as- 
cribed wholly to the art of man. But 
it is well to remember that the art of 
man alone, without the right environ- 
ment, could never have brought it about. 
The draft horse is peculiarly the product 
of the temperate zone, and then of only 
its comparatively level and fertile sec- 



97 




GRAY PERCHERON STALLION, OWNED BY W. S., J. B., AND B. DUNHAM. 



tions. In the far North, in a mountain- 
ous country, or in the tropics, his de- 
velopment would have been impossible; 
nor can he, even now, be bred in such 
regions and made to retain his standard 
size — a fact that should always be kept 
in mind by all who contemplate breed- 
ing him. 

Now, in departing so far from the 
purposes of nature, in bringing about a 
change in the animal in which not only 
the skill of man, but the influence of 
soil and climate, have been pressed into 
service, there have been certain great and 
unavoidable losses — for it must be re- 
membered that the loss of grace, of ac- 
tivity, and of endurance at other gaits 
than the walk, have all been incidental, 
and were not matters of intention with 
those who developed him. It was simply 
that, if all these things had been consid- 
ered, it would have taken a great deal 
longer to breed him to his present size, 
if it could ever have been done at all ; 
and so, in making size and strength al- 
ways the chief aim, much had to be sacri- 
ficed, and other qualities were lost along 
the way. 

With his increase of size also came a 
greater coarseness of structure, most no- 



ticeable, perhaps, in the feet, which never 
average as good as those of road horses. 
But the defects of conformation we so 
frequently see in draft horses, such as 
upright shoulders, long backs, drooping 
rumps, and ill-proportioned limbs, were 
never an evolutionary necessity ; they 
came about through the insane striving 
of the breeder for great size, to the sacri- 
fice of everything else, and should not be 
tolerated in a draft horse any more than 
in any other. 

With these facts in mind, we can bet- 
ter judge what a good draft horse should 
be. The best draft horse is the one that, 
with the needful size and strength for 
an animal of his type, is most truly a 
horse, and not a lumbering equine mon- 
strosity. He should be active and easy 
in his movements, of a cheerful, lively 
temperament, and compact and hand- 
some in build. As regards the points of 
his conformation, there is a very com- 
mon idea that he should be judged by a 
different standard from that which is 
applied to road stock. But, if examined 
critically, the well-formed draft horse 
will be found to possess the same points 
of excellence that characterize a good 
road horse, combined, of course, with 




TWO BELGIAN STALLIONS OWNED BY W. S., J. B., AND B. DUNHAM. 



those modifications of conformation 
which the purpose for which he is in- 
tended have made necessary. 

To put it in a little different way, he 
should be judged first as a horse, and 
then as a draft animal. For instance, the 
draft horse is wide in the chest and his 
legs wider apart than in a good carriage 
horse. But, in addition to this breadth, 
he should have the depth of chest that is 
a good point in all horses. He should 
also have the strong loins, short back, 
and slanting shoulders that go with all 
good horses, and his limbs should be well 
formed, clean, and flat. That they can- 
not be as clean and flat as those of a 
thoroughbred signifies nothing, and is no 
argument against the standard to be ap- 
plied, for again the type of horse must 
be taken into consideration and the limbs 
as clean and flat as his greater coarseness 
of fiber will admit. It is needless to say 
that a horse, of whatever type, should be 
homogeneous throughout, and the limbs 
of a thoroughbred under a draft horse 
would be sadly out of place. 

It need hardly be said that in the rais- 
ing of draft stock it is always most profit- 
able to produce the best. For, barring 
the greater cost of good foundation stock, 



it costs no more to produce a good horse 
than a poor or indifferent one, and his 
value is much greater. In fact, medi- 
ocrity in horseflesh is a thing that there 
is little profit and no interest or satisfac- 
tion in producing. The latter considera- 
tion can no more be ignored by intelligent 
farmers than the former, for the produc- 
tion of the best draft horses, like the 
best of any other kind, calls for skill and 
attention to detail and knowledge of the 
principles of breeding — matters that are 
always of absorbing interest and that 
bring pleasure as well as profit into the 
business. 

Breeders of road stock sometimes speak 
slightingly of the skill required to pro- 
duce draft animals, but every intelligent 
breeder who has raised both kinds knows 
that this contemptuous viewpoint is un- 
just, and usually arises from not realiz- 
ing the fact that the production of the 
best of anything, whether road or draft 
horses, or oxen or pigs, or fruit and 
vegetables, is never easy. It cannot, of 
course, be denied that the road horse is 
the higher type of the two. But his pro- 
duction is also a matter of greater risk 
and anxiety, and more care and pains are 
required for his proper breaking and 



99 



100 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



training. Not all men have the right 
qualifications for raising him success- 
fully. To a great many farmers the 
draft horse, with his lesser liability to 
accident, his more even disposition and 
temper, and the greater ease with which 
he can be broken and fitted for market, 
offers a more inviting field. 

Draft Horse no Fool 

I would not be fair to the draft horse 
if I did not mention one matter in which 
he is very often misjudged — his intelli- 
gence. A very common impression 
among those who are not acquainted with 
him is that his tractability aid the ease 
with which he is usually broken to har- 
ness are owing rather to a sort of ox-like 
docility than to his ability to understand 
what is required of him. But in a life- 
long experience with horses of all kinds, 
I could never perceive that the draft 
horse was one whit less intelligent than 
other equine types. 

Indeed, if there is any difference, it is 
the other way, for the draft horse, being 
by temperament more free from nervous 
excitability, his mind is usually in better 
condition to absorb instruction and to 
comprehend what his master requires of 
him. Fire-engine horses, which, though 
not of the most pronounced draft type, 
are, nevertheless, much more of the draft 
type than any other, are a good exem- 
plification of this. 

The farmer who wishes to raise draft 
stock has two distinct ways open to him, 
and both are good. If he has good judg- 
ment and a right understanding of the 
requirements of the case, he can select 
large, handsome mares of unknown 
breeding and breed them to a pure-bred 
draft stallion. It is highly important 
that the stallion be strictly pure-bred, a 
good representative of the breed to which 
he belongs, possessing, individually, good 
points throughout. 

A great many very fine draft horses 
are produced in this way, and it should 
be remembered that, when sold for other 
than breeding purposes, pedigrees count 
for little. The horses sought for pulling 
a coal truck or a fire engine must be, in- 
dividually, what is wanted, and if they 
fail in this vital requirement, the fact that 



they are Percherons or Clydesdales will 
not help them one iota. In fact, all geld- 
ings, of whatever type (and more than 
half of the horses sold in the market are 
geldings), must stand solely upon their 
individual merits, and mares that are 
used in the same way must be judged 
very largely by the same standard. 

But, while this holds true as far as 
stock that is sold in the market is con- 
cerned, it is blood that tells in its pro- 
duction, and the farmer who can afford 
to buy pure-bred stock on both sides may 
be sure that it will prove a good invest- 
ment. Apart from the chance that this 
gives him to sell some of his stock for 
breeding purposes, it makes him more 
certain of the quality and uniformity of 
all his stock than he can ever be when 
using mares of unknown breeding. 

In buying pure-bred animals, however, 
he should never depend too much upon 
the mere fact that they are pure-bred, 
but should select them with just as much 
reference to their points as individuals as 
if he were buying common stock. Fail- 
ure to do this will surely result in dis- 
appointment — and disappointment, too, 
of a peculiarly heart-sickening kind ; for 
there are few more depressing agricul- 
tural sights than an animal having a 
long, recorded pedigree, and yet failing 
in the very points that such distinguished 
lineage should promote. It is true that 
the progeny of a pure-bred animal that 
has not the best of points will frequently 
revert or "take back" to ancestors that 
had better ones, but to depend upon this 
possibility is taking much too long a 
chance. The reversion, too, is just as 
likely to be to inferior ancestors as to 
superior ones. 

Animals that are themselves individu- 
ally good and that also trace back through 
individually good ancestors are the kind 
to buy for breeders. For it will be read- 
ily seen that, however good a breed may 
be, if care is not exercised in the mating 
in each generation, the offspring will, as 
a rule, fall below the general average, 
and the breed will deteriorate. 

It is hardly my place here to say which 
of the draft breeds is the best. The 
Percherons are the greatest favorites, 
and it may be doubted if there is any 
better breed. But there is no reason to 




THE TWO OUTSIDE HORSES IN THE TEAM REPRESENT A VERY FINE TYPE OF 

DRAFT HORSE. THEY ARE COMPACTLY BUILT BUT ARE FREE FROM 

CLUMSINESS, EITHER IN APPEARANCE OR ACTION. THEY HAVE 

GOOD FEET AND LEGS AND CLEAN, LIVELY LOOKING HEADS. 



believe that there are not others equally 
good ; other things being equal, the 
breeder had best be guided in his choice 
by his personal preference. But, before 
buying, he should carefully examine the 
stock that is in keenest demand for prac- 
tical purposes in the open market, and 
see if the breed of his choice conforms 
to it in characteristics and general type. 
I would also caution all against breeds 
that are excessively hairy on the legs. 
Not only is this an unsightly and un- 
equine feature, but it serves no good pur- 
pose, and — what to the breeder is still 
more to the point — it is unfashionable in 
the market. For the fashion in draft 
horses has improved of late years, and the 
fancy teams that we see in the cities are 



more trappy in their movements and 
look more like horses and less like pigs 
or elephants than those of a few years 
ago. 

It is the fashion to have draft horses 
excessively fat when offered for sale in 
the market. So universal is this cus- 
tom that there seems to be no help for 
it, though it is greatly to be deplored. 
It serves no good purpose, as far as the 
use of the horse is concerned, for this 
soft fat, which is put on when the horse 
is idle or practically so, must all be 
worked off and a good, hard flesh worked 
on before he is of much use for hard 
service. It also conceals, to some extent, 
bad points in conformation, and a pair of 
horses that are quite deficient in good 



102 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



points, if only of large size and closely 
matched, will, if excessively fat, often 
sell very well in the market. 

This is not as encouraging as it might 
be for the man who is taking pains to 
raise good ones, but he may console him- 
self with the fact that, however good a 
disguise fat may be, no amount of it can 
make a poorly put up horse look quite as 
well as one that is well formed and 
"horsey," nor can he, any more than his 
competitors, afford to despise such fac- 
titious aids as may make his horses sell 
better; condition, grooming, close match- 
ing, and so handling his stock that it will 
"show well," all count. But, other 
things being equal, the reward is, as it 
should be, to the man who raises the best 
horses. 

All of our breeds of draft horses, with- 
out exception, have been imported from 
European countries ; not one has been de- 
veloped on American soil. This, in view 
of our achievement in the development of 
the American trotter as a distinct breed, 
may at first seem strange, but the cases 
are by no means similar. All through 
the earlier years, and until a compara- 
tively recent date, in this country, there 



were very few horses bred expressly for 
draft purposes, and the majority of those 
that were needed for heavy work were 
simply selected for their size and strength 
from the ordinary rank and file in the 
market. Thus a great many of them, 
except in size, did not differ very greatly 
from the road type, and among them 
were often found many very excellent 
roadsters. 

The finest draft teams of forty years 
ago would look light and of decidedly 
different type if placed alongside of our 
best specimens of draft stock at the pres- 
ent day. When heavier horses were 
needed, we found in the European breeds 
what we wanted, all ready-made, and 
there was no need, as with our trotters, 
to develop a breed of our own. There 
is still room for much improvement, 
however, and as the true standard to 
which the draft horse should conform 
becomes more fully realized by breeders, 
the raising of stock of this kind will 
doubtless attract a greater degree of skill 
and attention, and we may reasonably 
expect to see more representatives of the 
draft horse as he should be — a draft ani- 
mal, but still a horse. 




HOW TO FISH A TROUT 
STREAM 



BY SAMUEL G. CAMP 



Illustrated with Photographs by the Author 




SSUMING that the 
prospective trout fish- 
erman is properly out- 
fitted for fly casting 
for brook trout, and, to 
some extent, familiar 
with the correct method of casting; and 
further assuming that he has arrived at 
the chosen waters where, even if the 
ouananiche is not leaping crazy for the 
fly, there is the possibility of taking a 
fair number of brook trout, there re- 
mains the rather important question of 
how to go about it. As a matter of 
fact, there are several methods of pro- 
cedure, all calculated to produce fairly 
satisfactory results, but some, it would 
seem, to be properly preferred on the 
typical trout stream and the average oc- 
casion. 

First of all one must decide whether 
to fish up or down stream. This is a 
pretty important question and one into 
which enter a large number of deciding 
factors, too many to discuss fully here. 
It may be said safely that the custom of 
most seasoned American fly fishermen, 
when fishing the typical swift-running 
trout streams of this country, is to fish 
downstream. Latterly, as the result of 
the taking up to some extent by Amer- 
ican anglers of the English practice of 
dry-fly fishing, upstream fishing is done 
here — and positively advised — by those 
who have perhaps allowed their enthu- 
siasm for the dry-fly method to blind 
their better judgment. Downstream 
fishing was practiced and advised by such 
men as "Thad" Norris, William C. 
Harris, W. C. Prime, and other veteran 
anglers and angling writers, who wet 
their flies in many and widely separated 
waters; and I am strongly inclined to 
believe that this, as a rule, is the best 



method to follow on the average trout 
stream. 

The swift-running stream should al- 
ways be fished "down." However, if 
the stream is a placid and slow-running 
one, with only here and there short 
reaches of fast water, it may properly 
and, on occasions, even preferably be 
fished "up," as an instance when the wa- 
ter is very low and clear. In any case 
it is always well to fish a pool from the 
foot as well as from the head. 

But fishing downstream does not 
necessarily mean that the angler should 
cast the flies always in the direction of 
the current ; in fact, that is the very 
thing to be avoided. The best way to 
fish the flies is to cast across the current 
of the stream. Wade slowly and quiet- 
ly down the stream and cast flies diag- 
onally across it — if the stream is a very 
wide one cast straight across at right 
angles to the current — toward the op- 
posite bank. 

Then, holding the rod in the right 
hand and the line in the left, the left 
hand grasping the line about midway 
between the reel and the first rod guide, 
allow the flies to be swept downstream 
by the current practically in a semi- 
circle, keeping a taut line by stripping 
it gradually in through the guides with 
the left hand, and clipping the line 
stripped in against the handgrasp of the 
rod between the first and second fingers 
of the right hand. Fortunately, this is 
not half as difficult and complicated as 
it sounds, although it does require some 
practice ; and it is the very best way to 
handle the cast of flies in the average 
stream. 

A closely approximate simulation of 
the appearance and action of the nat- 
ural fly by the artificial is, of course, 



103 




BROWN TROUT OFTEN LIE IN THE EDDIES ON THE UPSTREAM SIDE OF 

A BOULDER. 



the theoretical basis of fly fishing for 
trout — this is not so as regards certain 
bass and salmon flies — and is, as far as 
possible, the end to be attained. The 
fly caster's success on the stream is in 
direct ratio to his skill in nature faking 
with a trout fly. Wherefore the angler 
should cast across the current, when 
wet-fly fishing downstream, and should 
never — if he believes at all in the eternal 
fitness of things, and, what is more to 
the point, if he would like to catch a 
few good trout — cast straight down- 
stream and then drag the flies up against 
a current which would defeat the ef- 
forts of the best canoeman who ever 
handled a paddle, to say nothing of the 
feeble struggles of a helpless insect. 

The beginner at fly fishing, possibly 
mindful of the fact that in imitation of 
the natural insect lies the fly fisher's 
success, but generally at a loss as to 
just what constitutes exact imitation of 
the actions of the natural fly on the wa- 
ter, usually pursues the worst possible 
course in managing his flies by "skitter- 



ing" or "buzzing" them over the surface 
of the stream, thus, as it seems to him, 
imitating in the most highly satisfactory 
manner the frantic efforts of a ship- 
wrecked insect to escape a watery grave. 
Not only will the beginner skitter the 
flies across the current, but he will often, 
sometimes religiously at every cast, drag 
them directly upstream as well ; it seems 
hardly necessary to say that the natural 
fly is rather rarely observed to do any- 
thing of the sort. 

If the next time the novice goes fish- 
ing he will take pains to note the way 
of the natural fly on the water, he will 
discover the fact that usually the nat- 
ural fly floats with the current; while 
the wings may flutter, the fly always 
goes with the current, taking the natural 
trend of the stream, sensitive to each 
little side-eddy, eventually finding lodg- 
ment in some patch of floating foam, 
some quiet little bay under the bank, or 
sometimes it will succeed in taking wing 
again. 

The moral of all this is to allow the 



104 




A GOOD PLACE IS WHERE THE STREAM HAS WASHED THE SOIL AWAY 

FROM TREE ROOTS. 



flies to float naturally with the current, 
with the least possible "drag" or re- 
straint from the line consistent with a 
line sufficiently taut to take immediate 
advantage of a rise, and to avoid as a 
plague any perceptible and pseudo-imi- 
tative twitching and fluttering of the 
flies. The fly caster cannot imitate the 
fluttering wings of the natural fly as it 
follows through the current, but he can 
imitate, and very closely, the floating or 
submerged body of the fly in both action 
and appearance. 

If the angler casts with the right 
hand, it is always well to keep to the 
left bank looking downstream, as con- 
sistently as possible; of course, if the 
casting is done with the left hand, he 
should wade down along the right bank. 
This is in order that the back cast may 
be over the water rather than over or in 
the direction of the brush of the stream 
side, thus eliminating to a very material 
degree the chance of hanging up the 
flies. This, naturally, does not apply to 
the ambidextrous fly caster. Wade 



slowly, disturbing the stream bottom as 
little as possible lest the current carry 
down warnings of your advent, and keep 
out of sight. It is axiomatic that two 
things are fundamentally imperative for 
resultful fly fishing, viz. : Keep your 
temper and keep out of sight. Watch 
the back cast very carefully and do not 
try to cast too long a line. 

Fine tackle and ability to cast exceed- 
ing well, also due familiarity with the 
best stream fly-fishing methods, are of 
no possible practical use unless the 
angler has a fair working knowledge of 
the habits and habitats of the brook 
trout. Even as the still hunter, who, 
although a good shot at a target, knows 
little about the habits of the game he is 
pursuing can never be successful ex- 
cept by virtue of chance and good luck, 
so the fly caster, however skilful, who 
lacks fish sense, cannot hope to catch a 
trout save on an occasional and excep- 
tionally lucky cast. Luck, indeed, is a 
factor in fly fishing quite as much, pos- 
sibly more, as in other outdoor sports. 



i°5 



io6 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



but there is positively no luck, no ele- 
ment of chance whatever, in the way 
an expert fly caster "spots" a likely 
looking trout "lie" and proceeds forth- 
with to make connection with the resi- 
dent thereof. 

Our native trout, the speckled brook 
trout, the brown trout, and the rainbow 
trout, all are fast-water fish, instinctive- 
ly seeking the rapids and riffles and the 
pools below the falls and swifter reaches 
where the water is highly aerated. 
When found in the stiller places, such 
as quiet pools at the foot of rapids and 
falls, they will usually lie at the head 
or foot of the pool near the inrush of 
the falls or rapids above or in the in- 
creasing current at the outlet. 

Only Little Ones in the Riffles 

Early and late in the season only 
fingerlings, as a general rule, will be 
found on the riffles. When the stream 
is still very cold, while "snow broth" is 
still running and for a little time there- 
after, the best fish are usually taken in 
the stiller and deeper reaches of the 
stream. Late in the season also, when 
the water has grown very warm, the 
trout seek the deeper and cooler por- 
tions of the stream where there are 
spring holes and at the influx of little 
"feeder" brooks whose waters are of a 
lower temperature than those of the 
large rivers. 

In mid-season fly fishing the riffles is 
at par. At this time one should fish all 
the water and with all possible thorough- 
ness, drifting the flies over every eddy 
and whirl in the current which appears 
as if it might hold a trout; it is almost 
impossible to describe such places, but 
the seasoned fly fisherman will recognize 
them at a glance. Where large boul- 
ders stand out above the current, work 
the flies over the still places just below 
them. Brown trout often lie on the up- 
stream side of a boulder rather than in 
the lee below. Other good places for 
trout are where the stream has washed 
away the soil from the roots of trees, 
or where it has worn out a cave be- 
neath an overhanging bank; also in the 
vicinity of submerged logs and brush 
and where, in the bends of the stream, 



"flood trash" and patches of floating 
foam collect. Remember that the hard- 
est places to fish hold the best trout. 

Trout habits and the best ways to fish 
for trout with the fly are more or less 
matters of locality. For this reason it 
is always the best plan when fishing a 
new stream to seek the company and 
advice of some one of the local angling 
talent. Often this will save the angler 
on strange streams from vainly whipping 
by the hour waters locally well known 
to be barren of trout ; sometimes, as a 
result of various conditions such as pol- 
lution of the stream, or over-fishing 
without restocking, the very best-looking 
water is at the same time the very worst 
place to fish. One should also take the 
advice of local fly fishermen — if he has 
reason to believe that they are men of 
experience — in the matter of what flies 
to use both as regards pattern and size. 

Other things being equal, whether or 
not the fly caster will have much suc- 
cess will depend measurably upon the 
flies he elects to use, and in what man- 
ner they are fished. The two extremes 
in the methods of presenting the flies to 
the fish are represented by the English 
method of dry-fly fishing, in which an 
artificial fly dressed in exact imitation 
of some natural insect, with erect wings 
and waterproofed with paraffin, is cast 
dry, that is, floating above a trout 
which has previously been seen in the act 
of rising to the natural fly, and the 
method of fishing the orthodox wet fly 
considerably submerged, say, from three 
to ten inches. Between these extremes 
are numerous variations, the normal 
one, of course, consisting in fishing the 
wet fly practically floating or only a lit- 
tle submerged. 

Early in the season, while the water 
still holds the chill of winter and the 
stream is fairly high, it always pays best 
to fish the flies somewhat submerged. 
At this time the angler should cast across 
the direction of the current, as above de- 
tailed, and allow the flies to go with the 
stream without endeavoring to keep 
them on the surface; this will result in 
their sinking from three to twelve inches, 
the depth varying according to the swift- 
ness of the current. 

This is by far the most effective meth- 







IN MID-SEASON FLY FISHING THE RIFFLES IS AT PAR. THE 

PHOTOGRAPH SHOWS THE METHOD OF USING THE 

LEFT HAND TO STRIP IN THE LINE. 



od of fly fishing when at any time the 
stream is high and dark colored and the 
water is low in temperature. Under 
these conditions trout will take a sub- 
merged fly when nothing at all can be 
done by surface fishing in the usual 
way. Fairly large flies should be se- 
lected for this sort of fishing, at least 
number eight, and they should be bright 
in color, flies, such as the coachman, 
silver doctor, Parmachene belle, "Wick- 
ham's Fancy," and others having some 



striking and easily seen color in either 
body or wing. 

When the stream is normal as to 
stage of water, temperature, and color, 
a coincidence of favorable conditions, by 
the way, not of very common occur- 
rence, surface fishing with wet flies of 
average size and subdued coloration, 
the various hackles and palmers (the lat- 
ter are to be preferred, as the method of 
tying the hackle along the shank of the 
hook causes the fly to float better), the 



107 



108 THE OUTING MAGAZINE 

cow dung, Beaverkill, Cahill, queen of the fish, and this occurs very infrequent- 
the waters, and others, is most sue- ly, at least the trout will not be pricked, 
cessful. and in all probability will rise to a sub- 
When the season is nearing its close sequent cast. But if the strike is de- 
and the streams are low with a corre- layed the fish will drop the fly on dis- 
spondingly high temperature and the wa- covering its artificial nature and will 
ter is very clear, the only consistently not come again. 

successful fly fishing is done with either Once a trout is fastened play him 
the very smallest sizes of wet flies, easily, not forcing the fight until he is 
midges, tens and twelves, fished fine and fairly well played out, meanwhile, if 
far, or with dry flies. Very fine lead- possible, getting below the fish so that 
ers must be used, and the flies should when the time comes to use the net the 
be of modest coloration, grays and current will float the trout over the net 
browns, and should be fished dry with and not away from it. Then kill the 
the least possible submergence. fish at once, preferably, if you are wad- 
Strike at the first suspicion of a ris- ing, before taking it off the hook. Al- 
ing trout, not too strenuously but quick- ways kill the fish immediately, both as a 
ly, with a snappy backward motion of matter of prevention of cruelty and for 
the wrist. If the angler strikes so the sake of an orderly and good-looking 
quickly as to take the flies away from creel of trout at the end of the day. 



POOLS 

BY DANIEL IRVING 

"D Y the bridge of the Firehole River, 
Where it goes to the Yellowstone, 
Lies a beautiful, cavernous, amethyst pool 
Paved white with horn and bone. 

And far in the hectic city, 

In a canyon of dull brownstone, 
Leans a woman whose cavernous, amethyst eyes 

Hold skull and marrow bone. 

Now the bones in the Firehole River 

Sleep deep, and warm, and well, 
But the bones in the brownstone canyon picked 

Rot restlessly in hell. 



WHEN THE TROUT ARE RISING 

Photographs from W . H. Ballou 




TWOS COMPANY IN FISHING ONLY WHEN EACH GIVES THE OTHER ROOM 

TO CAST AND PLAY. 




A MOMENT LIKE THIS CANNOT BE MEASURED IN TIME OR BOUGHT FOR 

MUCH FINE GOLD. 



JACK OTTO, HERO 

BY B. W. MITCHELL 




"E lolled about in the 
tent killing time and 
trying to make dis- 
comfort less uncom- 
fortable. The rain 
and sleet rattled on 
the tight-stretched canvas. The flaps 
were thrown back, and in front of the 
tent blazed a huge fire that sent grateful 
little thrills of warmth to our chilled 
marrow. Every now and then Jack 
Otto dived out into the whirling storm 
and threw great logs on the blaze. The 
cayuses stood with drooping heads and 
dripping backs, the picture of misery and 
resigned grief. For attitudes of infec- 
tious sorrow nothing can equal a ca3^use 
or a rooster in the rain; if you want to 
be cheerful in a storm, never look at 
either. They simply radiate woe. 

The downpour leaked abundantly 
from a leaden sky, the gale howled 
among the balsams, and the clouds de- 
scended and blotted out the mountains. 
Everybody tried to be cheerful by recall- 
ing some worse fix he had been in. It's 
a good method, and I cordially recom- 
mend it. 

"It's pretty tough to be in a hole when 
you get yourself in," commented Jack, 
as we discussed our "worse fixes," "but 
when some bloomin' ass gets you in, and 
you have to get yourself out and him, 
too, it's a blue sight tougher." 

"There's no telling," he continued, 
"what a man can stand until it comes 
to him. It was more years ago than I 
care to count, and I was engaged as chief 
packer for a Government survey in the 
James Bay country, a continent's width 
from here. Yes, I've knocked about a 
good bit up here, one ocean to the other. 
Now, if you want to find engineers that 
know it all, get young chaps just out of 
college and on their first Government 
job. 

"The two we had must have had 
courses in everything from weather to 
woodcraft, for we couldn't tell 'em a 
thing. They had never been in the Big 



Woods in their lives, but that didn't 
make any difference. They even did 
their own outfitting, and it was weird. 
I took one look at what they had laid 
in and then I went at once to the chief, 
Hurlston was his name, and I said: 

" T beg your pardon, sir, but I've been 
over the stuff and you'll need about two 
hundred pounds more bacon, and you've 
no extra socks for the men.' 

" 'You're engaged as packer. I'm do- 
ing this outfitting,' he snarled. 'Go and 
make up the loads.' 

"I ought to have had sense enough to 
throw up the job then and there, but I 
didn't. I got the loads fixed up and we 
started. We went in from Sudbury 
early in May, fifteen men all told in the 
party, including the surveyors in com- 
mand, twelve white men and three In- 
dians in five canoes. This fellow Hurl- 
ston was the chief and his assistant was 
a youngster named Nuttall, a little de- 
center -and less headstrong, but utterly 
unfit for any responsibility in the woods. 
We were in Geological Survey work, 
and I will say those fellows took us hus- 
tling; they knew the professional side of 
their job. 

"We hit up the Little Wahnapitae 
River, crossed the Height of Land by a 
fierce portage over the terrible rock out- 
crops and dense short timber at the head 
of Montreal River, and got to where the 
water ran north. It was all pack-strap 
work here. Those two fools would take 
eleven of us, traveling light, and go on 
their survey duty every morning, leaving 
only two men to move up all the stuff 
and canoes and have camp ready for the 
night. It was grueling work, and we 
didn't always get through ; then we were 
well cursed by Hurlston, who knew as 
little about transportation conditions in 
that country as a cayuse knows about 
Heaven, never hearing it mentioned to 
him and being so often consigned to the 
other place. 

"We pushed across some bad muskeg 
country, wading knee deep in the bog 



"3 



ii4 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



with hundred-pound packs, till we 
reached Lake Chanantri. Here the meat 
gave out, as I'd told Hurlston it would, 
and we were on the country for game; 
and there was precious little of it, al- 
ways the way when you need it most. 
At one camp we couldn't get what was 
left of the supplies through the awful 
muskeg for three whole days, and the 
fellows nearly starved. 

"There were only a couple of rifles in 
the party, and the best men took them 
and went off to hunt. The others laid 
around camp, too hungry and weak to 
work, and right into camp walked a 
big caribou, took a look around, and 
walked out again as cool as you please. 
It was a heartbreak for those poor, hun- 
gry fellows, but the next day, by work- 
ing twenty-four hours straight, we man- 
aged to get up with the flour, and they 
at least had bannock. 

"Instead of turning back, that infernal 
idiot took the canoes down the Chanan- 
tri River and made the head of Lake 
Abitibi and the Chippewa Indian village 
there. I'm no quitter, but a train in the 
Big Woods is like a snake; it crawls 
slow, and it crawls on its belly; we're 
all slaves to a pig and a grain of wheat. 

"We managed to get some meat in 
the village after a long pow-wow, and 
then the Indians took the outfit clear 
down to the foot of the lake, a hundred 
and ten miles, to the Abitibi River. We 
shot down the Abitibi like a streak of 
lightning; there were forty miles of it 
flat rapids. No trouble there to get the 
outfit to camp site by evening ; the canoes 
were always way ahead of the survey. By 
this time it was near the first of Novem- 
ber, and there was frost in the air, and 
plenty of it. Everything was calling 
'Winter' to every man of us except that 
precious pair. 

"They made us cut across country to 
near the mouth of Moose River, an ut- 
terly useless hike. The men were in de- 
plorable plight. We had no socks at all, 
not a snowshoe, nor any way to make 
them. The dense forest had torn our 
clothes from our backs. Our trousers 
were made of gunny sacks, and it was 
every man his own tailor. We wore 
gunny-sack turbans instead of hats and 
had our feet wrapped in the sacking. 



And then that Heaven-forsaken fool or- 
dered us back to the foot of Abitibi to 
wait for him and Niven, while they went 
on to Moose Factory. Then I had to 
talk out. 

" 'Mr. Hurlston,' I said, 'this is mad- 
ness. Winter is just on us, and if it 
comes, we're all dead men. We haven't 
the equipment, and you know it. You 
can't march naked men through the Big 
Woods in winter.' 

" 'Shut up, you coward,' he hurled 
back. 'You don't know anything about 
the weather. You're only soldiering on 
your job. There'll be fine weather for 
a month yet. This is a Government 
party, and you're under my orders. Get 
back to the lake and wait. I'll start 
when I'm good and ready.' And off they 
went to the Factory. 

"We hiked it back to the foot of Abi- 
tibi, portaging most of the stuff, for the 
men were in no condition to track the 
canoes in those ice-cold rapids. We 
made it in two days. The weather was 
still fine, but the stars fairly shot sparks 
at night up in the black sky, and you 
could hear the Lights crackle and hiss. 
Hurlston got into camp on the fourth 
day. 

"'Pack up, men,' he ordered; 'we 
start to-morrow. All in a blue funk 
now, I suppose.' The factor had prob- 
ably been telling him a few things, but 
he couldn't resist being ugly to the last. 

"It was fearfully cold that night, and 
I wasn't surprised, only struck dumb, 
when I heard Toosa, one of the Indians, 
call out in the morning, 'My God, lake 
he freeze; he come snow!' You know 
how winter comes in the North Woods, 
One hour it isn't winter at all ; the next, 
you can't see ten yards through the 
snow. It's all so sudden and so silent. 

"Far as you could see over Abitibi it 
was one glittering crust of ice. The sky 
was lead-gray, but the silent sift of the 
snowflakes hadn't started. Then a howl- 
ing gale came down and broke up the ice, 
and when the wind calmed, which it did 
by a miracle on a rising temperature, a 
dense fog settled on the tossing lake. It 
was our last chance, and we started out 
in the canoes, steering by compass and 
dodging the sharp ice cakes as best we 
could. The fog was like a blanket, and 



JACK OTTO, HERO 



ii5 



when three or four hours out, Toosa, 
who was paddling one canoe, called to 
me, 'No go right. Me know. Medicine 
needle no good.' 

" 'You stay in line,' I ordered. You 
see, I was giving orders now ; our smart 
Alecks had reached the end of their 
string. But you can't order an Indian, 
and Toosa cut loose with his canoe and 
two men, following what they call the 
Indian instinct for direction. Me for a 
compass; it beats instinct a mile. 

"Toosa brought up on an island, where 
he insisted on stopping, kindling a fire, 
and wasting precious hours cooking grub. 
After dinner they pushed out again, and 
they hadn't gone a quarter of a mile off- 
shore when a sharp pan of ice cut the 
bow out of their canoe, and they were in 
the icy lake where big cakes of ice were 
tossing like playthings. Toosa was 
drowned, a sort of retributive justice, I 
suppose, but the two white men gained 
the island, more dead than alive, made 
up a fire from the embers of their dinner 
fire, and dried out. Every bit of food 
had gone with the canoe, and there they 
were, marooned on an island in the mid- 
dle of Abitibi at the outbreak of winter, 
with neither food nor clothing. 

"They stayed three days there, eating 
roots and twigs and keeping up the fire. 
Then an Indian happened to come to 
the island to trap, and took them off, 
bringing them to the head of the lake, 
where they fell in with a search party I 
had sent back in the hope that Toosa had 
managed to land, for I had held up the 
retreat to make sure. We were so bad 
off then that a day or two more would 
make no difference. 

"The reunited party hurried on, trav- 
eling by the rivers until even they froze 
over in the bitter cold. Then in our 
summer clothing, and little of that, we 
made toboggans out of the canoes and 
tramped on in the snow, through spruce 
and jack pine and hemlock as dense as 
they can grow, and over frozen muskeg 
which cut our feet till you could track 
us by the red footprints. There Fred 



Deane gave out. I was in the lead 
breaking trail, and the fellow in the rear 
— you know who — left him on the snow 
to die. When camp was pitched I no- 
ticed Fred's absence. I went right up 
to Hurlston, and I said: 

'"Where's Fred Deane?' 

" 'Fred gave out,' he whimpered; 'he 
told us he was done, and said just to 
leave him.' 

" 'And you did it, of course,' I yelled 
at him. 'Well, you hear this, Hurlston : 
fourteen live men pull into the settle- 
ments or fourteen dead ones lie here in 
the snow, unless a man dies in camp. I 
may be under your orders, but, by the 
Living God, no man is abandoned alive 
by any party I am a member of.' 

"I and another fellow took the back 
trail and we found Fred crawling along 
after us. We brought him into camp at 
two o'clock that night. Fred was a big, 
strong fellow, but what made him give 
out was that he had cut his leg during 
the summer and the blowflies had got at 
it and it gangrened. We had hard work 
to save his leg, even to save him, then; 
and he hadn't got his full strength back 
yet. It was a close call for poor Fred, 
but we brought him in and you bet 
there was no more abandoning on that 
trail. 

"How we ever made it I can't tell. 
We were nearly dead from our tremen- 
dous toil, from starvation, and from the 
horrible exposure. But we managed so 
that nobody got a bad freeze, though 
frostbites were plenty. 

"Just the day before Christmas we 
crawled — one poor fellow on his hands 
and knees — into Haileybury on Lake 
Temiskaming, over ledges and boulders 
of solid silver we never knew was there 
— that's in the Cobalt district now, you 
know, and there's a trolley from Hailey- 
bury to Cobalt. It was a wilderness 
then, all right, but the few little houses 
at Haileybury were palaces to us." 

And Otto, wholly unconscious of the 
heroism in the tale he had told, plunged 
out into the storm for fresh logs. 




NEW IDEAS FOR THE MOTOR 
BOATMAN 



BY LAWRENCE LARUE 



~ "(HIS year's motor boat ex- 
hibitions have demon- 
strated conclusively that 
safety and comfort are 
the two main points con- 
sidered in the design of 
accessories for the power craft, and the 
owner should now be able to find "just 
what he's looking for" to suit his own 
particular needs. In several devices, 
the combination of safety and comfort is 
attained to a high degree, a single appar- 
atus serving the needs of both. This is 
well exemplified in the small lighting 
plants that furnish power for the search 
light that enables landings to be made 
with safety on the darkest night, and 
that also supply the cabin illumination, 
as well. 

A small, gasoline motor-driven gen- 
erator of one kilowatt, capable of sup- 
plying current for all signal lights and 
for a couple of dozen ten-candlepower 
electric bulbs will be found exceedingly 
useful on the cruiser that can spare a 
few square feet of floor space in the 
engine room for the installation of this 
compact illuminating plant. The gen- 
erator is driven direct by a two-horse- 
power, single-cylinder, two-cycle, high- 
speed gasoline engine, and by means of 
a small switch board, any or all of the 
lights may be used as desired. The ad- 
dition of a small set of storage batteries 
in conjunction with the generator, en- 
ables the lights to be used when it is 
undesirable to operate the power plant. 
Even though its cockpit does not af- 
ford room for the installation of the 
more pretentious electric generating 
plant, the small open boat or cruiser 
need not be without a brilliant search- 
light and means of interior illumination, 
for acetylene gas can come to the rescue 
in the form of a very compact and easily- 
operated generator of a capacity sufficient 
to meet the requirements of even a large 



craft. The nuisance of old and half-used 
carbide has been done away with, and by 
means of these generators, the very last 
ounce of the substance may be consumed, 
even when the lights have been in oper- 
ation only at long intervals. 

This generator is mounted on a hori- 
zontal axis set in spring supports and is 
inverted when it is desired to stop the 
generation of gas. This inversion 
breaks the contact of the water with the 
carbide, and only a small amount of the 
acetylene, under very low pressure, is 
stored in the generator. By turning the 
chamber to its original position, the car- 
bide is again brought into contact with 
the moist residue, and generation is im- 
mediately resumed. One, two, or three 
units, depending upon the number of 
lights to be provided for, are mounted 
upon the single horizontal axis and 
constitute the entire generating set. A 
single generator is also made especially 
for the production of acetylene for one 
searchlight and one cabin light. 

Not only must a motor boat make it- 
self visible at night, but it must be able 
to make itself heard at any time, and 
consequently a lusty noise producer of 
some kind is absolutely necessary. 
Steam-propelled vessels have always had 
the advantage over motor boats in that 
the medium with which a whistle could 
be operated was directly at hand in the 
case of the former, whereas the gasoline 
craft had to depend on a separate power. 
This difficulty has been overcome by the 
design of many varieties of electric 
horns and sirens which can be operated 
from storage batteries by merely pressing 
a button. 

The man who desires a real whistle 
for his boat may take his choice of that 
operated by hand or power. For the 
small craft, the former type is satisfac- 
tory, but the larger cruisers and speedy 
boats are generally equipped with the 



116 



NEW IDEAS FOR THE MOTOR BOATMAN 



117 



power-operated whistles. One class of 
these whistles is operated by the exhaust 
gases taken from the top of the cylinder 
just after the explosion, and these gases 
are automatically stored in a tank under 
pressure, ready for use when the whistle 
cord is pulled. Another type of power 
whistle is blown by compressed air 
stored in a tank by means of a separate 
pump. 

Many a motor boat is afflicted with 
the ill known as "water in the hull," and 
the curing of this is to the nautical en- 
thusiast what pumping up the tires is 
to his automobilist cousin — for both en- 
tail about the same amount of back- 
breaking work. As the power of the 
motor has come to the aid of the automo- 
bilist in helping him pump up his tires, 
so does the bilge pump relieve the motor 
boatman of much of the time and trouble 
of "baling out." Some forms of bilge 
pumps are attached to the flywheel by 
means of a friction pulley, while others 
are a part of the circulating system of 
the cooling water. 

All of these systems operate by means 
of a rotary or plunger pump, but in a 
third type, the steam injector principle 
is applied to suck out the bilge water 
without the use of any moving parts. 
The water jacket of the exhaust mani- 
fold is tapped and the stream of circulat- 
ing water between it and the outlet is 
used to form the suction for the bilge 
connections. The overflow from the en- 
gine circulating water, or all that is not 
forced through the "injector" with the 
bilge water, is discharged into the muf- 
fler, which is tapped in order to provide 
for this. 

As in all gas engines, the most delicate 
part of the motor boat power plant is the 
ignition system. And the man who has 
been caught out in the rain in an open 
motor boat will also probably realize 
that the average ignition system is not 
amphibious and that water on the spark 
plug puts as effective a damper on the 
spirits of the engine as does an empty 
gasoline tank. But the sight of an igni- 
tion outfit consisting of a coil, wiring, 
and plug entirely immersed in water, 
with a spark merrily leaping from one 
electrode of the plug to the other would 
indicate that the above-mentioned rainy- 



day troubles of the motor boatman are 
at an end. 

Such outfits as those that gave this as- 
tonishing demonstration are not only 
waterproof, but they are compact as well, 
eliminate all high-tension wiring, and 
require but two connections in the whole 
system. In one type of this system, the 
"step-up transformer," or coil, is wound 
around the spark plug so that the latter 
is practically embodied in the core of the 
former. The sparking end of the plug 
projects from the coil, and this is screwed 
into the engine cylinder in the same man- 
ner as is the ordinary spark plug. A 
circuit breaker, corresponding to the 
vibrating armature of the ordinary coil, 
and the set of batteries, form the only 
parts of this ignition system that are not 
combined with the coil and plug on the 
engine cylinder. 

Combining Ignition 

Another device similar to that just 
described combines the coil, condenser, 
and vibrator in a single waterproof cov- 
ering that can be attached directly to the 
spark plug of each cylinder without the 
use of wires. The electrical connection 
is made automatically with the tip and 
shank of the spark plug, and the attach- 
ment will fit any standard make. 

Spark plugs and coils are not the only 
parts of the ignition that can be ren- 
dered temporarily useless by water, and 
it is well known that dampness is as dis- 
astrous to the life of a dry battery as is 
excessive use. In order to keep these 
current generators dry at all times and 
under all conditions, several forms of 
battery cases have been devised. These 
are made in various sizes and will hold 
from one set of two cells to two sets of 
eight batteries each. The covers of the 
boxes are clamped down tightly over a 
rubber gasket that serves to keep the con- 
tents absolutely dry, even when the cases 
are entirely immersed in water, and all 
wire connections are made from brass 
terminals that project through the top 
and sides of the box. 

In one form of battery box, the cells 
are provided with special screw tops that 
engage with similar tops that are at- 
tached to the lid of the box. These 



n8 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



form one battery terminal, while con- 
nection is made with the other pole by 
means of a brass spring in the top of 
the box over each cell. Connections be- 
tween the individual cells are made 
through brass strips set on the inside of 
the top of the box, and there is conse- 
quently no exterior wiring except that 
leading to the coils and motor. A 
special switch can be provided on the top 
of the box by means of which various 
wiring arrangements between the sets of 
batteries can be obtained. By this 
means, either set may be used separately, 
or both may be used together, either in 
the series or in the series-parallel arrange- 
ment. 

Another form of battery box is in- 
tended to be used with any kind of a dry 
cell of the standard size. This box is 
filled with a waterproof compound into 
which holes are moulded to accommodate 
the individual batteries. The cells are 
thus separated from each other by a 
waterproof insulating material, and as 
each fits tightly in its pocket, the bat- 
teries are held in place as rigidly as 
though they were screwed to the cover 
of the box. Special wire connectors are 
used between the individual cells, and 
the current is conducted to the terminals 
on the outside of the box by means of 
brass strips. Brackets are supplied by 
means of which the case may be attached 
either to the floor or to the underside of 
a seat or the deck. 

Those who want to know how fast 
their boat is running may now satisfy 
their curiosity by referring to their speed- 
ometer. One type of this device de- 
signed for use on motor boats is operated 
by means of an inlet pipe in the bottom 
of the boat. The change in pressure, 
due to the speed of the boat, is shown 
on a mercury gauge marked to read in 
miles per hour. 

In order to cut down the number of 
separate tools required on board and to 
lessen the chances of losing or mislaying 
any or all, a special device has been de- 
signed which in reality comprises eight 
separate, solid end wrenches in one piece 
that will easily fit the coat or vest pocket. 
This consists of four, flat, thin, solid end 
wrenches of the same length placed one 



above the other and held in position by 
a centerbolt that passes through a slot 
cut through the middle of each piece. 
This centerbolt has a squared shank that 
keeps each individual wrench from 
turning, and on its threaded end is 
screwed a wing, or thumb, nut that 
serves to keep the four tools held rigidly 
together when it is tightened. 

As the slot through which the center- 
bolt passes is a couple of inches long, any 
one of the four wrenches may be slid out 
from the rest of the nest so that the de- 
sired end projects a sufficient distance to 
be applied to the nut that is to be turned. 
As there are eight ends of different sizes 
on the four wrenches, and each tool may 
be slid to the limit of the slot in either 
direction, eight sizes of nuts may be 
wrestled with, and yet only in thickness 
is the tool larger than a single wrench. 
A square hole cut near the end of one 
of the wrenches in the nest serves as a 
key with which to open or close the valve 
of a gas tank of standard make. 

Another unique type of wrench con- 
sists of a pair of adjustable jaws oper- 
ated by the thumb nut and thread of the 
well-known " monkey " principle. Op- 
posite the jaws the shank of this wrench 
is held in an " eye-piece " which is, in 
turn, mounted in a ratchet joint at the 
end of a heavy handle. These two 
joints, the eye-piece and the handle, thus 
allow the jaws to occupy two different 
series of positions in relation to the 
handle. By loosening a thumb nut at 
the end of the eye-piece, the jaws may be 
turned through an arc of approximately 
ninety degrees about their shank as an 
axis, while the ratchet joint in the end 
of the handle in which the eye-piece is 
mounted enables the jaws to be revolved 
to any position about the eye-piece as an 
axis. 

The ratchet operates in either direc- 
tion and may be turned on or off by 
means of a milled nut. It will be seen 
that, inasmuch as the jaws have any 
number of adjustments through both a 
horizontal and vertical plane, independ- 
ent of the handle, almost any nut can 
be reached. The ratchet attachment al- 
lows the nut to be turned by moving the 
handle through but a very small arc. 



A MIXED BAG 



THE YARNS THEY TELL AROUND THE CAMP-FIRE WHEN THE SHADOWS 
GATHER AND THE PIPES ARE LIGHTED 



PERSISTENT BEARS 

THE P. P. (Principal Prevari- 
cator) finished his supper, leaned 
back against a stump, produced 
a plug of T. & B., from which he pro- 
ceeded to shave a liberal amount, stuffed 
it into his pipe, fished a coal out of the 
fire, juggled it into the bowl, and heaved 
a sigh of satisfaction. 

"Boys," said he, "that mixup we had 
crossin' th' river this afternoon somehow 
reminds me of how I just missed death 
one time by a hair." 

We waited expectantly. The P. P. 
relapsed into silence, as though his last 
intention was to relate the story. Final- 
ly Harris said, "Well?" 

"Oh, yes. I forgot. I was pickin' 
huckleberries in the mountains below 
Boise one summer. One mornin' I was 
on a steep hillside an' just 'bout had my 
pail full an' was thinkin' 'bout makin' 
f'r camp, when I looked up an' see two 
grizzlies comin' tearin' down th' moun- 
tain. They was after me, that was plain, 
so I dropped my pail and lit out. Drop- 
pin' that pail was what saved my life, f'r 
th' bears, bein' fond of berries, stopped 
t' eat 'em, an' that give me a few yards 
th' start. Soon as they had finished th' 
berries they started after me ag'in. 

"I was some runner in them days, an' 
th' way I covered groun' was a caution. 
The bears kept gainin' on me, though, 
'till I come t' a big river an' run out on 
th' ice. Th' ice was thin an' hel' me up 
all right, but th' bears broke through an' 
both of 'em drownded. That's how I 
escaped." 

There was silence for a few minutes, 
then one asked, "Thought you said you 
were picking huckleberries. How is it 
possible for there to be ice in huckleberry 
time?" 

"Huh! Who said anythin' 'bout there 



bein' ice in huckleberry time? Them 
durn bears run me 'till 'way after Christ- 
mas." 

C. S. M. 

WEIGHTING FOR THEM 

THE stove at which Mrs. Dode 
was cooking supper stood in the 
middle of the room. Cap'n Dode 
sat in one corner of the room. In an- 
other corner, behind the stove, rested the 
sand box, but Cap'n Dode hit it at regu- 
lar intervals with ease and accuracy. 

It must be admitted that the Cap'n 
was keen of perception, for he noted the 
visitor's anxiety for the safety of Mrs. 
Dode, who was directly on the firing 
line. 

"Don't worry 'bout her," said the 
Cap'n. "I ain't hit her in forty year, 
an' if I should meescalc'late a leetle, 
she'd dodge." 

Ducks? Sure, Cap'n Dode knew a 
purty big pile about 'em. But shootin' 
wasn't as good as 'twere oncet. 

"Twenty-two year ago this fall," said 
the Cap'n, "there was more birds here in 
this yere bay than there's been all totally 
ever since. An' most of 'em was black 
duck at that. Why, boy, there was mil- 
lions an' millions of 'em." 

"But where have they all gone to, 
Cap'n Dode?" 

"Guess we killed the biggest part of 
'em off, fer there ain't been no sich swad 
along since. Anyhow, even if there was, 
'twouldn't do you no manner of good 
now." 

"Why not?" 

"You ain't got heavy enough shot." 

"Number fours, Cap'n. What's the 
matter with those ?" 

"Wa'n't no good the year we killed 
all that swad. We used buckshot, an' 
the fact'ries up th' city couldn't make 
19 



120 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



enough to keep us goin', neither. They 
jest runned clean out o' buckshot, an' 
we had to quit shootin' for twa'n't no 
use usin' no smaller size. 

"You see," and Cap'n Dode drew a 
long breath for explanation, "that was a 
powerful cold year, an' the bay was most 
all froze up tight, so there was awful 
leetle feed, and a whoppin' lot of birds 
to eat it. In course, a lot didn't get no 
feed nohow, and they was powerful poor. 
They was so scan'lous poor, young fel- 
ler, that we had to use buckshot so's 
when we hit 'em they'd have enough 
weight in 'em to make 'em fall outen the 
air. That's what." PMC 

IN A DARK CORNER 

A SHORT distance above the mouth 
of St. Francis River, in the fork 
with the Mississippi, is a great 
canebrake, known to all cabin-boaters as 
"The Dark Corner." It is alive with 
game, but the growth of cane is so tall 
and dense that few try to hunt there. 
Sometimes men venture around the out- 
skirts of the Dark Corner, and the con- 
sequence is that men are lost there. 

One of the overflow stories, told by 
way of warning against canebrakes, is 
about Randolph Wiggins, a reckless sort 
of hunter who lived in the Forks. Wig- 
gins hunted coons and possums with a 
firelight on his head. One night he 
started hunting with others, and when 
he came to the wire cattle fence beyond 
which was the edge of the Dark Corner, 
despite warnings, he climbed over to 
hunt beyond. 

Morning came, and Wiggins did not 
return. Three days later a man came 
out of the Dark Corner. He came out 
at a little clearing on the side of the 
brake. A woman was at the cabin door. 
The man went to her. 

"Ma'am," he began elaborately, "will 
you tell me where I am and who you 
are?" 

"Sho! You old fool!" she exclaimed. 
"Don't you know your own wife, Ran 
Wiggins? Here I be'n waiting to git 
some wood cut up for two dai^s!" 

"Lawse !" was Wiggins's only com- 
ment as he shuffled to the wood pile. 

R. S. S. 



UNFAIR FIGHTING 

THIS is a story of the squire's about 
a young Irishman, told after a 
hard day in the Arkansas cane- 
brakes. "He was a lusty, strapping 
young sapling," said the squire, "only 
lately come from the old country, and 
it seems he had never seen a negro. He 
had heard, though, that they were big, 
black fellows and great wrestlers. Now 
it happened that the Irishman took a lot 
of pride himself in the fact that he had 
never yet found a man who could put 
him down at fair 'side-holts,' nor did he 
believe that a darky could do it. 

"I was out working about the stables 
one day when this Irishman came up on 
a run. 'Misther,' he said, 'Oi've jist 
kilt a naygur down in the bush !' 

"'What!' I shouted. 'Killed one of 
my niggers! We'll hang you for this, 
you infernal fool. Don't you know a 
nigger is worth a thousand dollars? 
How did it happen ?' I noticed the man 
looked like he had been in a fight, and 
some of my blacks were tough customers 
to handle. 

" 'Yez can hang me if ye loike,' de- 
clared the man, 'but the dommed naygur 
didn't wras'le fair. I wor coomin' along 
down forninst the crick, all peaceable 
loike, whin a big, black naygur stipped 
out of the cane and waved his arrums 
at me. "Good marning," I said. "It's 
a foine day the like." He niver said 
a worrud — jist danced aboot, wavin' his 
arrums and grinnin' at me. Thin I 
understood what he mint. 

"'"Oh, ho!" I tilt him. "It's a 
wras'le ye're afther, is it? Will, Oi'm 
yer mon. Awnly it's got to be soide 
holts. Oi've niver wras'led back holts 
since I hoorted me back liftin' fifty stone 
weight in ould Cark." 

" 'The naygur accipted the conditions 
be noddin' his head, an' we wint at it. 
He wor big and strong, but he hadn't the 
skill of a Dootchmon, an' I thripped him 
up aisy. We got up to thry it a sicond 
toime, but the spalpeen grabbed me 
roight around the neck and comminced 
hoogin' toight. 

'""Lit go! Be done!" I said. "The 
agramint wuz fur soide holts awnly." 
But he kip awn hoogin' me toighter and 
toighter with his big, black arrums. 



A MIXED BAG 



121 



"Lave awf !" I yilt. "Ye're breakin' the 
tur-rms. What did Oi till yez about 
havin' me back hoorted in Cark? Lave 
go av me or Oi'll take out me knoife 
and stob ye." 

" 'That dommed naygur wouldn't lave 
go, but squaized me till me toongue 
stook out. Warse en thot, he raiched 
over an' bit a paice out of me shouldther. 
Who iver heard of the loike of thot in 
a fair wras'le! Jist wanst more I war- 
rened him. "Have done!" says Oi; but 
he wouldn't, so Oi took out me knife 
and let 'im hov it.' 

"I went down with Pat to see which 
one of the niggers it was, and found he'd 
killed a four-hundred-pound black bear." 

C. A. 

SOME SHOOTING 

WHEN the night wind whines 
about the gunning cabin nestled 
in the beach hills, the hearts 
within grow reminiscent. 

"The -best canvasback shooting I ever 
had was down off the mouth of Crazy 
Inlet," said the Parson. "A ripping 
northeaster was blowing, and I was out 
on the end of the point alone. The 
ducks came down-wind along the edge 
of the shoal, and they were so far away 
that it was just impossible to kill them 
outright. 

"I could have had a hundred shots 
that day, they came so thick, but I let a 
lot of them go by. At dark I had picked 
up twenty-two birds. Not one of them 
was dead when I dropped them as they 
wheeled by, but, boys, I didn't have to 
shoot a single cripple in the water." 

Curley gave the Parson a long look, 
carefully filled and lighted his pipe, then 
snorted in disgust, for he was an old 
hand and he knew that one needed more 
than a pinch of salt to capture a wounded 
canvasback in open water. 

"Suppose you hypnotized those birds 
you couldn't kill dead into coming 
ashore for you to wring their necks?" 
he grunted. 

"No," said the Parson slowly, "they 
were going so fast that when I knocked 
'em down, they'd hit the water and 
bound up ten or fifteen feet. Then I'd 
kill 'em on the first bounce with the 
second barrel." P. M. C. 



THE SIMPLICITY OF COLA 

C C "\ ~\ T HAT simple, guileless folk 
\\ these Frenchmen are," 
sighed the tenderfoot, as 
our Canadian guide withdrew from the 
range of the camp fire. The naturalist 
smiled grimly. 

"I don't know so much about that," 
said he. "After you've had a little more 
experience with them, you'll probably 
change your mind. At all events, I've 
met one Frenchman who was anything 
but simple. He was a Cajun, of Loui- 
siana, a people who, in looks, speech, 
and habits, are a little closer than first 
cousin to our Canadian friends. 

"The particular individual in question 
rejoiced in the name of Agricola — short- 
ened to 'Cola' for daily use — and I met 
him in pursuit of an ivory-billed wood- 
pecker. A friend of mine in Eoston 
needed one to finish his collection, and 
I had promised to bring him a specimen 
on my return. Cola lived at the edge 
of a swamp where I was told that I 
would probably find the birds, and, after 
I had explained to him what I wanted, 
he agreed to guide and lodge me for two 
dollars a day. 

"I spent the first night in a room the 
size of a closet, and at daybreak I was 
awakened by the sound of a woodpecker 
hammering away at the shingle roof 
overhead. It was a queer sort of an 
alarm clock, and, in view of my mission, 
a most appropriate one. 

"Now I'm not going to weary you 
with the details of my search, which was 
a thoroughly unsuccessful one. Every 
morning the woodpecker would wake 
me at daybreak, and Cola and myself 
would hunt through the swamp till 
nightfall. I discovered hundreds of com- 
mon woodpeckers and several really valu- 
able water birds, but never a trace of 
an ivory bill could I find. After three 
days I gave it up, and having paid the 
disconsolate Cola, prepared to bid him 
an affectionate farewell. 

" 'Ah, m'sieu,' said he, 'although I 
told you that the birds were scarce, I 
did not think that we would be unable 
to find a single one.' 

" 'One was all I wanted,' I replied. 
'I had promised it to a friend, and I 
hate to disappoint him.' 



122 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



"Then, rather absently, I added: 'I 
would give ten dollars for a bird right 
now.' 

" 'A moment, m'sieu,' said Cola, and, 
reaching inside for his gun, he disap- 
peared around the corner of the cabin. 
A minute later there was the sound of 
a shot, and Cola came hurrying back 
with one of the finest ivory bills that it 
has been my good fortune to see. I have 
suspected ever since that it was the very 
bird that woke me each morning. 

" 'Ten dollars, if you please, m'sieu,' 
said Cola, presenting his prize. 

" 'And do you mean to say that you 
have led me through that swamp for 
three days, when all the time you knew 
that this bird was in your back yard ?' I 
asked sternly, as I handed over the 
money. 'Why didn't you tell me at once 
where I could find what I wanted?' 

"Cola smiled shrewdly as he folded 
up the bill. 'Ah, m'sieu,' he replied, 'in 
that event I would not have earned those 
two dollars a day.' " 

N. G. H. 



THE SCARECROW'S VOTE 



a 



D 



ID I ever tell you," Bob 
Gooding asked, lighting a 
fresh pipe, "how Governor 
John Reynolds was fooled by a scarecrow 
when he came through here 'lectioneering 
last spring? Of course you know John 
is running for governor again, against 
McKinnie, and Mac is holding him a 
pretty close race. Before an election 
Uncle John shakes hands with every man 
he knows, which is everyone in the State, 
unless there is a newcomer. On this trip 
the governor had a pair of saddlebags 
filled with copies of his last speech in 
Congress, and listening to him read it is 
as good as a slow mule race when you're 
not in a hurry. 

"The crows had been getting into my 
patch of early corn, so I made a hand- 
some scarecrow, one resting on a hoe, 
with arms that flapped in the wind as 
though it were at work. That scare- 
crow didn't frighten the birds very much, 
though, and I was sitting in a fence cor- 
ner near the road waiting for them with 
a gun when John came pacing along on 
his old bay pony. You remember that 



John is nighsighted, been reading his 
speech too much, maybe, and he thought 
the scarecrow was my Dutch hired man, 
Willem, the only man in the settlement 
he had never seen. 

"John reined up his horse, drew out 
his speech ready to read it, and spoke to 
the bundle of old clothes, busy hoeing 
away fifty yards out in the field. I was 
within twenty feet of him, but he never 
looked at me, though his horse shied at 
the gun. 

" 'Good morning, good morning, sir,' 
said he. 'I am glad to see you setting 
such an example of industry to our 
American youths, who are prone to be 
altogether too fond of hunting and the 
chase.' 

"The scarecrow flopped its arms and 
still seemed to be hoeing on without pay- 
ing ar.y attention. 

" 'Hold on a minute, man,' pleaded 
the governor. 'Maybe you are unac- 
quainted with me, suh, but I was for- 
merly governor of the State, and am now 
a member of the United States Congress, 
suh. Your industry is commendable, 
most commendable, suh, but your master, 
I mean Mr. Gooding, will be glad to 
have you give me your closest attention 
for a moment while I read to you this 
extract from my last speech in Congress 
on the United States Bank — What? 
You haven't time!' (as the scarecrow 
shook its head). 'W-e-1-1 — I hope you'll 
vote for me, anyhow. D'ye know that 
McKinnie is a Hardshell Baptist and 
bitterly opposed, suh, to foreign immi- 
gration and the Germans? 

" 'You wouldn't vote for a Hardshell, 
now, would you ?' The ragman nodded 
in the wind. 

" 'W-e-1-1 — damme, suh, what kind of 
a man are you, anyhow? I'll have to 
talk to Bob Gooding about this.' 

"I couldn't help but guffaw, and the 
scarecrow flopped one arm as high as his 
head. 

" 'Now, don't laugh at me and shake 
your fist, suh. I've a mind to go over 
there and wear you out with my whip. 
You're nothing but a dammed Dutch 
furriner, anyway, that never ought to 
have been allowed to come to this coun- 
try.' 

"John put the birch to his nag and 



A MIXED BAG 



123 



"H 



went off down the road, lickity split. I 
laughed until I accidentally discharged 
my gun, which he thought was the 
Dutchman shooting at him. The old 
gentleman is quick on the trigger, and 
he instantly whipped out his saddle pis- 
tol and took a shot at the ragman. I 
fired my other barrel at the scarecrow, 
too, and over it went, flat in the corn. 
"John came riding back, pistol in 
hand, but the man in the corn never 
moved. 'There,' said the governor, 'you 
got what was coming to you that time, 
damn you, but' — reflectively — 'I 'most 
wish I hadn't done it, for I believe Old 
Bob Gooding would have made him vote 
for me, anyhow.' " 

C. A. 

THE INTOXICATION OF JULES 

AVE I told you fellows how 
I missed getting that Loui- 
siana deer?" inquired the 
Cheerful Prevaricator. 

"We hope so," replied the chorus. 

"The animal was quite celebrated," 
continued the C. P., in contemptuous 
disregard of his answer. "So was my 
guide. His name was Jules, and he was 
known as the most industrious drunkard 
in his parish. On the advice of the na- 
tives I was careful to see that no liquor 
went along with our outfit, but it didn't 
seem to do the slightest good. The first 
night in camp, there was Jules, curled 
up in his blankets, dead to the world. 
After I'd searched his things and found 
nothing, I came to the conclusion that 
he'd sneaked along a bottle and used 
it all. 

"Of course, there was no hunting 
the next morning. Jules said the wind 
wasn't right, and I let it go at that. 
Frenchmen are curious, and there didn't 
seem to be the slightest possibility of a 
second jag. That afternoon Jules took 
me over to the sea marsh for a duck passe, 
and then went out prospecting by him- 



self. After supper he was full again, 
and although I jumped him good and 
hard, all I could get out of him was a 
couple of French songs. 

"Well, the thing kept up for four 
nights, and I got disgusted and decided 
to go home. Before leaving, however, I 
made up my mind that, if possible, I'd 
solve the mystery. Jules went out regu- 
larly each afternoon, and I determined 
to follow him and find his cache. 

"Accordingly, I trailed him the next 
time he went prospecting, and knocked 
enough skin off my shins against the 
cypress knees to cover a saddle. I stuck 
to it, though, and, after about thirty min- 
utes' walk through the swamp, Jules 
pulled out on to a piece of high ground. 
I followed him to the edge, and then hid 
behind a tree to watch. 

"Now you may not believe me, but 
that piece of high ground was nothing 
more or less than a blind tiger run by 
old mother Nature herself. In the mid- 
dle of it was a big china tree full of 
fruit, and in the tree were about a thou- 
sand robins pecking away as hard as 
they could go. 

"Every now and then one of the robins 
would get such a china-berry jag that he 
couldn't hold on any longer, and would 
fall to the ground. I watched Jules for 
a while, and saw that I might as well 
give up the hunt. It was the most re- 
markable orgy I've ever seen." 

The C. P. paused and began to knock 
out his pipe against a convenient log. 

"Well?" asked some one. "What's 
the rest of it? I've seen robins full on 
china berries myself, though not in the 
quantities you mention. But what's this 
got to do with the guide? You're not 
trying to make us believe that he got 
jagged on the berries, too?" 

The C. P. rose stealthily to his feet. 
"Oh, no," he replied, as he dodged a fire- 
brand and jumped for his tent. "Jules 
got his from eating the birds." 

N. G. H. 





THE 

WORLD 

OPEN SEASONS FOR FISHING 

THE laws given below are for the 
year 1910. We have been un- 
able to get the complete laws for 
191 1, and in a few instances slight 
changes have been made since last season. 
They will be found substantially correct 
as given below, however: 

Alabama. — No close season. 

Arizona. — Trout, June i-Sept. 1. Bass 
and crappie, Sept. i-Dec. 1. 

Arkansas. — No close season. 

California. — Trout (not less than 5 inch- 
es), and whitefish, May i-Nov. 15. Steel- 
head trout, in coast streams (not less than 
5 inches), April i-Nov. 15; in tide water, 
April i-Feb. 1. Golden trout (not less than 
5 inches), June i-Sept. 1. Salmon, tide wa- 
ter, Oct. 23-Sept. 27; above tide water, Nov. 
15-Sept. 17. Striped bass (not under 3 lbs.), 
no close season with hook and line; July 1— 
May 1, with net or seine. Black bass, June 
i-Jan. 1. Shrimp, Sept. i-May 1. 

Colorado. — Trout (not under 7 inches), 
May 25-Nov. 30. 

Connecticut. — Trout (not under 6 inches; 
limit, 30 in one day), April i-June 30. Lake 
trout (not under 10 inches), May i-Sept. 30. 
Black bass (not under 6 inches), July 1— 
April 30. Pickerel or wall-eyed pike (not 
under 12 inches), May i-Feb. 28. Striped 
bass (not under 12 inches), closed season, 
seines or nets, between March 13 and July 
1. Shad, May i-June 10. 

Delaware. — Black bass (not under 8 inch- 
es), pike, pickerel, wall-eyed pike, or pike 
perch (not under 10 inches), June i-Nov. 
13. Trout (not under 6 inches), April 16- 
Aug. 15. 

District of Columbia. — Black bass and 
crappie (not under 9 inches), May 30- 
March 31. 



OF 

SPORT 



Florida. — No close season. 

Georgia. — No close season. 

Idaho. — No close season. 

Illinois. — No close season. 

Indiana. — No close season. 

Ioiva. — Trout, salmon, April 15-Oct. 1. 
Bass, pike, crappies, pickerel, catfish, May 
15-Nov. 15; not more than 40 of any or all 
kinds in one day, not more than "20 bass, 
pike, or pickerel. Bass, catfish, wall-eyed 
pike, crappies, trout, not under 6 inches. 

Kansas. — No close season. 

Kentucky. — No close season. 

Louisiana. — Black bass (not under 4 inch- 
es), May 15-Feb. 1. Striped bass, March 1- 
Nov. 30. Catfish (not under 2 lbs.) 1 , "Gas- 
pargou," June 10-April 10. White perch, 
crappie, and other fresh-water fish, March 
i-Dec. 1. Buffalo fish (not under 3 lbs.), 
May i-March 1. 

Maine. — Landlocked salmon, trout, and 
togue, from time ice is out of water in the 
spring until Oct. 1 ; local exceptions. White 
perch, July i-April 1. Length: Trout, 5 
inches ; landlocked salmon, 12 inches ; black 
bass, 10 inches; white perch, 6 inches. Nqt 
more than 25 lbs. in all for one day of trout, 
togue, or landlocked salmon, or 20 lbs. of 
white perch. 

Maryland. — Trout (not under 6 inches), 
April i-Aug. 15; local exceptions. Black 
bass, pickerel, pike-perch (not under 8 inch- 
es), June 16-March 31. Potomac River — 
Black bass, green bass, rock bass, pike, or 
pickerel, or wall-eyed pike, June i-April 15 
(not applicable below Little Falls, near 
Washington). 

Massachusetts. — Trout, lake trout, and 
landlocked salmon (trout not under 6 inch- 
es; salmon, 12 inches), April 15-July 31. 
Pickerel and black bass, no close season. 
Pike-perch, June i-Feb. 1. Smelts, June 1- 
March 14. Local exceptions. 
24 



THE WORLD OF SPORT 



125 



Michigan. — Landlocked salmon, grayling, 
and speckled, California, Lock Leven, and 
steelhead trout (not under 7 inches), May 
i-Sept. 1. Bass, June 15-Feb. 1; small- and 
big-mouth bass, not under 10 inches, not 
more than 50 in one day or more than 100 
in possession at one time ; strawberry, white, 
silver, or calico bass, not under 7 inches or 
more than 20 in possession at one time. 

Minnesota. — Trout, April 15-Aug. 31. 
Black, gray, or Oswego bass, May 29-March 
1. Pike, mascalonge, crappies, perch, sun- 
fish, catfish, sturgeon, May i-Feb. 28. Size 
limit: Pike, 14 inches or 1 lb.; lake trout 
or whitefish, 2 lbs.; mascalonge, 30 inches; 
other fish except rock bass, sunfish, and bull- 
heads, 6 inches. Not more than 25 fish at 
one time except sunfish, perch, pickerel, or 
bullheads. 

Mississippi. — No close season. 

Missouri. — No close season. 

Nebraska. — Trout (not under 8 inches), 
April i-Sept. 30. Bass (not under 8 inches), 
June i-Nov. 15. All other fish, April 1- 
Nov. 15. 

Nevada. — Trout, March 30 — Sept. 15 (not 
over 20 in one day, not under 6 inches). 
Landlocked salmon, whitefish, big-mouth 
bass, March 30-Sept. 15 (not over 20 big- 
mouth bass in one day). 

New Hampshire. — Brook trout (not less 
than 5 inches), April i-July 31; local ex- 
ceptions. Lake trout and landlocked salmon 
(not under 12 inches), Jan. i-Sept. 15; local 
exceptions. Whitefish, shad, and bluefins, 
Jan. i-May 1. Pickerel, pike, or grayling, 
June i-Jan. 15 ; local exceptions. Black 
bass, July i-April 30; local exceptions. 

New Jersey. — Brook trout (not under 6 
inches), April i-July 15. Crappie, calico 
bass, black bass, pike, perch, and white bass, 
May 20-Nov. 30. Pike and pickerel, May 
20-Nov. 30, and month of January. Length: 
Black or white bass, not under 9 inches, and 
pike-perch, pickerel, and pike, not under 12 
inches. 

New Mexico. — Trout (not under 6 inch- 
es), May 15-Oct. 15; not more than 15 lbs. 
in one day. Large- and small-mouth bass 
(not under 7 inches), May 15-Oct. 15. 

New York. — Brook, brown, and rainbow 
trout (not under 6 inches), April 16-Aug. 
31; local exceptions. Not more than 10 lbs. 
at one time. Lake trout and whitefish, May 
i-Aug. 31; local exceptions; lake trout not 
under 15 inches, whitefish not under 2 lbs.; 



not more than 25 lbs. of lake trout in one 
day. Black bass and Oswego bass (not un- 
der 10 inches), June 16-Dec. 31; local ex- 
ceptions, not over 24 in one day. Pickerel 
and pike, May i-Feb. 29 ; local exceptions, 
not under 10 inches. Mascalonge, June 1- 
Feb. 29 ; local exceptions, not under twenty- 
four inches. 

Long Island. — Same as New York, except: 
Brook and brown trout, March 25-Aug. 30. 
Lake trout and rainbow trout, April i-Sept. 
30. Black bass, May 30-Dec. 31. 

North Carolina. — Varies with counties. 

North Dakota. — Trout, May i-Oct. 1. Bass, 
June i-Oct. 15. All other fish, May i-Oct. 
15. Not less than 8 inches. 

Ohio. — Black bass, inland fishing district, 
June i-April 30; Lake Erie fishing district, 
July 16-May 24; not under 10 inches. Trout 
and salmon, April 15-Sept. 15. 

Oklahoma. — No close season. 

Oregon. — Trout (except salmon trout), 
April i-Nov. 1 ; not less than 6 inches nor 
over 75 trout in one day; local exceptions. 
Salmon, unlawful to fish in the Umpqua 
River, bays or tributaries, from April 10 to 
May 10 and from Nov. 20 to Dec. 10. 

Pennsylvania. — Trout, April 15-July 31; 
not under 6 inches and not more than 40 in 
one day. Lake trout, June 15-Dec. 1. Black 
bass, large- or small-mouth, June 15-Nov. 
30; not under 8 inches and not more than 
12 in one day. Rock, white, strawberry, or 
grass bass, crappie (not under 6 inches), 
June 15-Nov. 30; not over 25 in one day. 
Blue pike, pike-perch, pickerel (not under 
12 inches), June 15-Dec. 31; not more than 
25 in one day. Mascalonge, June 15-Nov. 
30; not less than 24 inches and not more 
than 4 in one day. Bullfrogs, July i~Nov. 
1. Terrapin, Nov. i-March 15. 

Rhode Island. — Trout (not under 6 inch- 
es), April i-July 15. Black bass (not un- 
der 8 inches), July i-March 1. Lobsters, 
April 15-Nov. 15. 

South Carolina. — We have been unable to 
obtain a copy of the fishing laws of this 
state. 

South Dakota. — Trout, April i-Sept. 30. 
Bass, shad, crappies, pike, pickerel (not un- 
der 6 inches), May i-Oct. 31. 

Tennessee. — No close season. 

Texas. — No close season. 

Utah. — Trout, mountain herring, and bass, 
June 14-Dec. 1 ; bass not under 8 inches, 
trout or herring not under 6 inches. 



126 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



Vermont. — Black bass (not under 10 inch- 
es), June 15-Jan. 1. Trout, landlocked sal- 
mon, or mascalonge, May 15-Aug. 15; not 
over 6 lbs. of trout or salmon or 25 lbs. of 
lake trout or mascalonge in one day. Pick- 
erel, May i-Nov. 1. Pike, perch, or wall- 
eyed pike, May i-Nov. 1. White perch and 
mascalonge, June 15-April 15; local excep- 
tions. 

Virginia. — Black, green, or rock bass, pike 
or pickerel, or wall-eyed pike, in Potomac 
River, June i-April 15. Mountain trout, 
protected at all times. Bass, July i-May 15. 

Washington. — Salmon, local exceptions. 
Bass, perch, pickerel, and pike, July i-May 
14; not under 6 inches nor more than 20 
lbs. in one day; local exceptions. Sturgeon, 
Columbia River, Nov. i-March 1. Trout, 
April i-Oct. 31; not under 6 inches nor over 
20 lbs. in one day; local exceptions. 

West Virginia. — Jack salmon (not under 
7 inches), June 16-April 14. Trout or land- 
locked salmon (not under 5 inches), April 
i-Aug. 31. Black, green, willow, or rock 
bass, pike or pickerel, or wall-eyed pike (not 
under 7 inches), June 15-April 15; local 
exceptions. 

Wisconsin. — Bass, June i-March 1; not 
under 10 inches nor more than 15 bass in 
one day; local exceptions. Trout, April 15- 
Sept. 1 ; not under 6 inches nor more than 
45 trout in one day; local exceptions. 

Wyoming. — No close season. 

THE LAST BUFFALO HUNT 

THERE is a melancholy interest 
attaching to the buffalo hunt held 
recently on the Flathead reserva- 
tion in Montana, when Michael Pablo 
rode down and shot down some of the 
few remaining bulls of his once great 
herd. This government having refused 
to purchase his herd, Pablo sold about 
five hundred to the Canadian govern- 
ment a year or two ago. Finding no 
purchasers for the remnants, he proposes 
to have a buffalo hunt of his own, the 
protests of the State of Montana to the 
contrary notwithstanding. The ethics of 
the situation are complex and uncertain, 
but the duty of the United States gov- 



ernment in the matter would seem to 
have been clear. However, we let the 
chance go, and now we have small cause 
to quarrel with Mr. Pablo if he decides 
to turn this melancholy remnant into 
beef and overcoats. 

Meanwhile, reports from the Jack- 
son's Hole district in Wyoming show 
that another tragedy is being enacted in 
the case of the elk there. The sheep 
have eaten their natural forage and 
there is scarcely enough hay in the dis- 
trict to feed the cattle of the settlers. 
As a result the elk are starving. The 
fact is that there is no longer forage 
enough at the best to feed them and this 
winter's conditions have been far from 
the best. 

Two solutions present themselves. 
Either transport some of the elk to a 
region better fitted to sustain them or 
instruct the settler to give them a merci- 
ful coup de grace. It is apparently idle 
to expect aid from either State or Na- 
tional governments. If transportation is 
decided on, the Apache reservation in 
Arizona offers an ideal location. The 
range is wide and forage is plenty and 
the nature of the country as well adapted 
to the elk as could be devised. At pres- 
ent it is practically bare of big game, 
save deer and bear. 

TO RAISE WILD GAME 

CONNECTICUT has taken the 
lead in an experiment that sports- 
men and lovers of wild life should 
watch with interest. Under the direc- 
tion of Herbert K. Job, State ornithol- 
ogist, breeding farms are to be estab- 
lished for the propagation of wild fowl, 
especially quail. Much money has been 
spent in attempts to introduce foreign 
birds, such as the pheasant and the Hun- 
garian partridge, and no one seems to 
know how far the efforts have succeeded. 
We know the habits and powers of en- 
durance of our native birds. If we can 
succeed in breeding them economically, 
a long step will have been taken toward 
solving the problem of game preserva- 
tion. 



NEWS FROM THE OUT-OF-DOORS 



Basketball 
"DASKETBALL games played during Feb- 
ruary resulted as follows: Yale, 37-Uni- 
versity of Pennsylvania, 33; Naval Acad- 
emy, 34-Swarthmore, 28 ; Brown, 39-Yale, 
15; College of City of New York, 28-Tufts, 
16; University of Pennsylvania, 18-West 
Point, 16; Wesleyan, 26-New York Univer- 
sity, 20; University of Pennsylvania, 27- 
Princeton, 19; Columbia, 23-Carlisle, 10; 
Yale, 26-Cornell, 16; Wesleyan, 43-WiIl- 
iams, 11; West Point, 31-Colgate, n; Co- 
lumbia, 17-Pennsylvania, 15; Yale, 23- 
Princeton, 19; New York University, 21- 
Colgate, 14; Williams, 25-Dartmouth, 19; 
Wesleyan, 43-Brown, 29; Cornell, 29- 
Princeton, 27; College of City of New York, 
29-Rochester, 17 ; University of Pennsylva- 
nia, 34-Cornell, 24; Naval Academy, 50- 
University of Virginia, 10; Wesleyan, 48- 
Rhode Island State College, 20; Williams, 
32-Colgate, 28 ; West Point, 22-Rochester, 
20; Columbia, 25-Yale, 10; Princeton, 36- 
Yale, 32; West Point, 35-Dickinson, 24; 
Columbia, 28-New York University, 12; 
Princeton, 36-Yale, 32; Brown, 21-College 
of City of New York, 20; West Point, 35- 
Dickinson, 24; Cornell, 16-Pennsylvania, 14; 
West Point, 31-New York University, 14; 
Columbia, 20-Yale, 10. 

Columbia won the Intercollegiate Basket- 
ball championship for this season. 

Hockey 
TT OCKEY games played in February re- 
sulted as follows: Harvard, 12-Dart- 
mouth, 1; Cornell, 4-Columbia, o; Massa- 
chusetts Institute of Technology, 12-Will- 
iams, 3 ; Cornell, 5-Dartmouth, 1 ; Amherst, 
i-Williams, 1; Harvard, 3-Yale, 2; Will- 
iams, 3-West Point, 2. 

Cornell won the Intercollegiate Hockey 
League championship for 191 1. 

G. A. Hornfeck has selected the following 
1911 All-Collegiate Hockey Team: Vail, 
Cornell, goal; Blair, Princeton, point; Hunt- 
ington, Harvard, cover point; Hornblower, 
Harvard, rover; Magner, Cornell, center; 
Boutrell, Yale, left wing; Cressweller, Cor- 
nell, right wing. 

The Crescent Athletic Club of New York 
won the 1911 championship of the Amateur 
Hockey League. 



Aviation 
T E MARTIN flew with seven passengers 
for five minutes in a monoplane at Pau, 
France, February 2d. The total weight car- 
ried was 1,042 pounds. This is a new rec- 
ord for passenger carrying. 

Lieutenant Stein was killed in an aero- 
plane in Germany, February 6th. 

Noel and Delatorre were killed in a mili- 
tary aeroplane in France, February 9th. 

A syndicate in Cincinnati has pledged 
$70,000 to back Melville Vanniman in his 
proposed flight across the Atlantic Ocean in 
a dirigible balloon. The start will be made 
from Cincinnati some time this summer. 

The French aviator Busson made a new 
record for speed in a monoplane with a pas- 
senger on February 13th. He flew 100 kilo- 
meters in 1 hour and 1 minute at Rheims. 

At a meeting of the Aeronautical Society 
recently a resolution was passed to erect a 
suitable monument in Washington, D. C, to 
the memory of the late Lieut. Thomas Self- 
ridge, Ralph H. Johnstone, John B. Moisant, 
and Arch. Hoxsey. 

Miscellaneous 
HPHE Chicago Athletic Association defeat- 
ed Northwestern University in the swim- 
ming meet held in Chicago, February 2d, by 
a score of 49 to 34. George Johnson made 
a new world's swimming record for sixty 
feet, of 24! seconds. Michael McDermott 
made a new world's record for 100-yard 
breast-stroke match, of 1.125*. The Chicago 
relay team also made a new American rec- 
ord of 1.47I in the 1 60-yard breast-stroke 
swim. 

Columbia defeated the College of tha City 
of New York in the aquatic sports held at 
New York, February 7th, by a score of 36^ 
to i6i. In the water polo game, Columbia 
scored 20 points, New York, o. Columbia 
defeated Princeton in a swimming match, 
held February 10th, by a score of 28-25. 
University of Pennsylvania defeated Colum- 
bia in swimming match. Score, 43 _ io. 
Princeton defeated College of City of New 
York in swimming match, February 13th. 
Score, 41-12. Yale defeated Columbia in 
annual swimming meet at New Haven, Feb- 
ruary 17th. Score, 46-7. Columbia defeated 
College of City of New York and Amherst 



127 



128 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



in swimming meet held at New York, Feb- 
ruary 24th. Score: Columbia, 30; College 
of City of New York, 17; Amherst, 11. 

Charles M. Daniels made a new world's 
swimming record at New York, February 
20th. He swam 200 metres in 2 minutes 
28§ seconds. 

At the Intercollegiate relay races held 
February 21st at Hartford, Conn., Harvard 
defeated University of Pennsylvania, Colum- 
bia defeated Amherst, and Wesleyan de- 
feated Brown. Wesleyan took the trophy 
offered to the university taking the most 
points. 

Edmund Lamy made a new record for 
the broad jump on the ice at Saranac Lake, 
February 7th, of 25 feet 2 inches. 

Joseph Miller won the quarter, the half 
mile, and the mile championships in the 
Eastern championship skating races held 
near Newburg, N. Y., February 13th. 

P. J. Kearney won the quarter and three- 
quarter mile championships in the interna- 
tional skating championship races held in 
New York, February 23d. 

The International Curling championship 
and the Gordon medal were won by the 
United States at Boston, February 20th. 

The Boston Curling Club defeated the 
Thistle Club of New York in the district 
medal match played in Boston, February 
21st. Score, 17-11. 

Andrew Haugen, of Chippewa Falls, broke 
the American record for ski jumping, Feb- 
ruary 19th, at Ironwood, Mich., jumping 152 
feet. 

Frank S. White won the national squash 
racquet championship at Philadelphia, Feb- 
ruary 13th, defeating G. W. Wales by a 
score of 15-13, 15-7, 15-11. 

Frederick B. Alexander and Theodore R. 
Pell won the national indoor lawn tennis 
championship in doubles, February 17th, at 
New York. Theodore R. Pell won the sin- 
gles championship the following day. This 
is Mr. Pell's third victory and holding of 
the title, and wins him permanent posses- 
sion of the cup. 

The New York Athletic Club won the an- 
nual team championship at sabres of the 
Amateur Fencers' League of America, held 
in New York, February 6th. 

Dr. Walter G. Hudson, of New York, 
made a new record for 100 shots at a 200- 
yard standard American target, at Jersey 



City, February 22d, making 922 out of a 
possible 1,000. 

The following men have been announced 
for umpires in the National League this 
season: W. E. Finneran, Jack Doyle, Henry 
O'Day, W. J. Klem, J. E. Johnstone, Charles 
Rigler, William M. Breenan, and Mai 
Eason. 

The international polo matches will be 
played in this country by a team from Eng- 
land and a team from the Meadow Brook 
Hunt Club, early in the summer. 

Columbia University wrestling team de- 
feated Pennsylvania in a meet held at 
Philadelphia, February 9th. » 

Emil E. Fraysse, a member of the Cen- 
tury Road Club of America, broke all rid- 
ing records of the organization for the year, 
with a mark of 22,645 miles on a bicycle. 

The Naval Academy defeated the Uni- 
versity of Pennsylvania in a gymnastic 
tournament held at Annapolis, February 
1 8th, by a score of 262 to 18 i. 

Miss Mary Fownes won the gold medal 
in the qualifying round of the fourth an- 
nual St. Valentine's golf tournament for 
women at Pinehurst, Fla., February 15th. 

The Naval Academy fencing team de- 
feated University of Pennsylvania, Feb- 
ruary 25th, 6-3. West Point fencing team 
defeated Columbia, February 25th, 7-2. 

Miss Lillian B. Hyde won the woman's 
golf championship of Florida, at Palm 
Beach, February 25th. 

The Australian swimmer, Longworth, 
swam 121 yards in 1:05 at Sydney, N. S. W., 
February 26th. This is a new world's 
record. 

The University of Pennsylvania swim- 
ming team defeated the College of the City 
of New York, February 25th, 46-7. The 
Yale swimming team defeated Princeton, 
February 25th, 41-12. 

John Devine, of Chicago, ran a half mile 
in 1:57! at South Bend, Ind., February 25th. 
This is a new world's record. 

Reginald Fincke defeated J. Gordon 
Douglas in the final racquet match at the 
New York Racquet and Tennis Club, 
February 25th, thus winning the national 
racquet championship. 

The Harvard fencing team won the an- 
nual tournament with Yale and Princeton, 
February 28th. Harvard, 13; Yale, 12; 
Princeton, 2. 




From a Drawing by Charles Livingston Bull, 



Illustration for " The Master Rogue" 



COAL DEVILS, ON A COAL TREE, PERFORMING CONTORTIONS ABOVE A CLIFF 
OF COAL — ALL IN SILHOUETTE AGAINST A SILENTLY RAGING FURNACE. 



TH E 

OUTING 




Volume LVIII 



MAY, 191 1 



Number 2 



LEARNING TO FLY 

BY AUGUSTUS POST 

Illustrated zvith Photographs 



"S LYING is a fascinating sport; 
it calls for the greatest exer- 
4 cise of self-control and re- 
quires, as essential elements 
for success, bravery, daring, to 
a slight degree, courage, confi- 
dence in yourself, your men, and your 
machine, good judgment, clear sight, in- 
tuitive knowledge, quickness of thought, 
positiveness of action, all combined with 
a most delicate sense of feeling and acute 
powers of perception. Good health is 
both a result and a prerequisite of good 
flying, and your mind must be clear 
and free. When flying in ordinary calm 
weather and under perfect conditions, 
when your movements are automatic, the 
mind may wander to the beauties of the 
landscape below; Mr. Orville Wright when compared with the ground over 
once remarked, that he nearly went to which it runs. What looks to be a flim- 
sleep while flying round and round over sy structure of wood and wire is as pro- 
the same place for a long time. portionately strong when compared with 
In addition to these qualities, which the medium in which it flies as is any 
apply primarily to what is done in the vehicle for land or water. Bolts should 
air, there is another side to the business be of just the right size to stand the 
of flying which must by no means be strain and to perform the structural 

Copyright, rqil, by Outing Publishing Co. All rights reserved. 
131 



overlooked. The aviator should have a 
good knowledge of mechanics and should 
understand something about materials 
and construction with metal and wood ; 
it is not enough merely to order this or 
that part built; you should also know 
how it is to be done and what materi- 
als to use. You must have a sense of 
relative values and proportions and know 
the comparative weights and strengths of 
the various articles used. 

The aeroplane with its light wires and 
thin framework is quite as strong and 
heavy, when compared with the air in 
which it moves, as a boat is when com- 
pared with the water in which it floats, 
which is eight hundred times denser than 
air, or the structure of an automobile 




PJiotograph by Pictoi-ial Neivs Co., A*. 



READY FOR THE START. 



function for which they are used with- 
out unnecessary weight or size, and so it 
must be with all the other parts, whether 
of wire, metal, or wood. 

It must be borne in mind, however, 
that the entire proportions of the design 
must be adjusted to an element eight 
hundred times less dense than water, and 
harmony in weight and strength must 
exist through all elements of the struc- 
ture. It is easy to see the fundamental 
difference between an aerial motor and 
one of marine or automobile type. The 
same difference is evident in a well-built 
frame and chassis. 

Another element enters into the con- 
struction of an aerial motor, which is 
the comparatively constant speed at 
which it is required to run ; there are 
no shocks or jars caused by changing 
gears or reversing the direction of the 
thrust, so much lighter construction can 
be used. The main structure of the 
aeroplane itself is lighter than the frame- 
work of water and land vehicles, in re- 
gard to weight and strength, as the aero- 
plane is comparatively free from great 
irregularities in its path such as waves 
on the water and rough roads on the 
land. 

There is no cushion so soft as the air 
although special construction is required 



for maintaining equilibrium and absorb- 
ing the shock of landing, but it must 
be admitted that the strain of making 
spectacular dips and spiral circles is al- 
most as severe as even a sailboat may 
have when you suddenly jibe its sail. 
The wings and braces creak and give 
under the increased pressure until it 
seems as if they must break. This is 
what has happened in several accidents, 
notably the one in which C. S. Rolls 
was killed in England last summer dur- 
ing an accurate landing competition. 
He miscalculated the distance and was 
forced to make an abrupt descent in 
order to land within the prescribed lim- 
its; one of the rudders gave way and 
the machine fell to the ground. 

In the accident to Johnstone's ma- 
chine in Denver something seemed to 
be wrong with the warping device and 
the machine became uncontrollable, but 
whether this was due to excessive strain 
or to a defective repair is not quite clear. 
This accident seems to emphasize the 
fact that the mechanical knowledge re- 
ferred to as an essential element in a 
flier, although it need not be of such a 
degree as is necessary to invent a ma- 
chine, should be enough to enable the 
aviator to repair his machine when it is 
broken or to direct the manner in which 



132 




rhotograph by Pictorial News Co., X. )'. 
UNDER WAY JUST BEFORE RISING. 



the repairs should be made, and to know 
also, when they are completed, whether 
the work was properly done. 

With the same regularity that a track 
walker goes over the roadbed of a rail- 
way, must the mechanic examine the 
fastenings of an aeroplane to look for 
weak places; failures cannot be remedied 
in the air and a human life depends 
upon the absolute reliability of every 
detail. Safety devices of all kinds are 
used and important wires and braces are 
made double ; cable is largely used in 
places of single strand wire ; struts, 
wires, and braces that might break and 
fall into the propeller are tied so that 
this cannot happen ; rudders and ailerons 
are fastened by safety wires to prevent 
their becoming free, if their hinges 
should break, just as chains are used to 
hold railway cars together in case the 
couplings break. 

Wires from the magneto are fastened 
in their place so that they cannot come 
loose or the connections be broken ; 
valves from the gasoline tank are fast- 
ened open so there is no possibility that 
they will become closed by the vibration. 
The same degree of care that is used in 
railroad operation is necessary in the 
practice of aviation. 

There is still another side to flying 



that affects the aviator of the present 
time which is of no less importance than 
the possession of the necessary qualities 
and mechanical knowledge. I refer to 
the study of the air itself and the famil- 
iarity that must be gained with its con- 
ditions, actions, and effects. The study 
of the subject of meteorology bears the 
same relation to flying that navigation 
and hydrography bear to sailing and ge- 
ography and touring to automobiling. 

Lists are already prepared which give 
the prevailing weather conditions in dif- 
ferent parts of this country and indicate 
the best times of the year for flying, the 
prevailing direction and velocity of the 
wind, and other matters of general in- 
formation. 

A great deal has been said in the 
newspapers about "holes in the air," but 
there is no such thing; holes do not 
exist in the atmosphere. It is a fact, 
however, that you encounter rising and 
falling currents about as often as those 
which blow in a horizontal plane. 

When the aeroplane enters one of these 
descending currents, the wings are blown 
down precipitately, on account of their 
large surface, giving the sensation of 
falling in a vacuum. The machine de- 
scends so rapidly that it is necessary to 
strap the aviator in his seat, as the ma- 



i33 



134 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



chine would otherwise leave him sit- 
ting on nothing and he would have no 
solid purchase to enable him to operate 
his controls, for you do not seem to start 
to fall, when this occurs, as quickly as 
the machine is blown down by the wind. 

A thorough inspection of the field is 
the very first thing to be done before 
flying is attempted, and the aviator 
should take great pains to walk very 
carefully over every foot of the ground 
over which he intends to fly. He 
should observe every detail and exam- 
ine every obstacle, making a clear mental 
map of its location. The actions of the 
air currents should be studied and every 
minute thing that could in any possible 
way affect the flying of the machine 
should be most accurately observed and 
distinctly remembered. He should not 
confine his investigations merely to the 
field over which the flights are intended 
to be made, but all the open country in 
the vicinity should be examined also, and 
the direction and extent of their avail- 
able smooth ground for landing should 
be thoroughly mapped in the aviator's 
mind. Once when Mr. Ely was flying 
at Poughkeepsie, N. Y., a rudder wire 
broke on the machine so that he could 
not change the direction of his aeroplane 
and he was forced to fly in a straight 
line until an open field appeared which 
offered him a safe landing place. 

Besides the chance of accident, the 
wind may blow the machine far away 
from its starting place and it may not be 
possible to get back; Ralph Johnstone 
was blown in this way nearly sixty miles 
away from Belmont Park during a se- 
vere gale. 

Beware Even the Gentle Breeze 

The novice must attempt practice 
flights only when the conditions are per- 
fect and the air is dead calm (and this 
means dead calm — when not a breath of 
air is stirring the leaves of the trees). 
There is plenty for the aviator who is 
making his first flights to do to man- 
age the machine itself without being re- 
quired to look out for gusts of wind and 
unknown and unforeseen dangers. A be- 
ginner should no more think of attempt- 
ing a flight in high wind than should 



one learning to drive an automobile 
take his first lesson on Fifth Avenue 
during the crowded part of the day. 
The quickness of thought required to 
make the decisions necessary for passing 
through the maze of traffic safely leaves 
no time, energy, nor attention for think- 
ing which lever must be used, and you 
must perform the mechanical movements 
which are necessary in such a place as 
you use your feet in walking — with ab- 
solute unconsciousness, and without the 
least demand upon the attention. 

The accident to Moisant was de- 
scribed to me by a person who was as 
close as anyone to him, and it seems a 
good illustration of just this point. 
Moisant went up in a machine which 
had been used by his friend, Barrios, 
because it had a much larger gasoline 
tank than his own, and extra fuel was 
necessary as he intended to attempt to 
win the Michelin Cup and to beat the 
world's long-distance record of 365 miles 
recently made by Maurice Tabuteau in 
France. The machines were the same 
in every way except that the spark and 
throttle levers controlling the engine of 
this machine differed slightly from those 
on his own machine. 

Moisant flew from the City Park race 
track in New Orleans to a field at Har- 
ahan, about twelve miles away, where 
preparations had already been made for 
making the record flight. The prepared 
landing place was not very large and 
after twice circling the field, as Moisant 
was about to land to fill his fuel tanks 
ior the long flight, he was seen to sh'ut 
his motor down and immediately after- 
wards, it is said, he seemed to straighten 
up his machine as if to make another 
circle of the field, probably to stop earlier 
in order to have more clear ground for 
his machine to run over after landing. 

The motor apparently failed to re- 
spond immediately and it became neces- 
sary to descend very abruptly, as he was 
nearing the end of the ground suitable 
for landing. The machine pitched down 
at such a steep angle that Moisant fell 
out and was killed. The levers, I under- 
stand, indicated that the motor had been 
stopped. This seems to show that there 
was a moment of indecision or a sudden 
change of intention on the part of the 



LEARNING TO FLY 



*37 



aviator which was fatal. This may have 
been caused by his pulling the wrong 
lever when he wanted to accelerate the 
motor, and finding that it did not re- 
spond, he turned down at once, taking a 
chance that it could be accomplished in 
safety. 

At a later stage in the course of in- 
struction, when the aviator has gained 
confidence and after all the movements 
necessary to operate the machine have 
become purely automatic, so as not to 
require the least thought on his part, the 
aviator's attention may then be devoted 
to overcoming the problems presented by 
the wind. Gusts are felt without warn- 
ing; swirls of air are encountered when 
passing over or near buildings, and puffs 
come without regularity and without 
warning. When sailing a boat they 
cause ruffles on the water and thus give 
the helmsman warning in time to pre- 
pare for them. It is not so when flying 
in an aeroplane. 

Gusts of wind are only evident when 
they are perceived through the delicate 
and highly acute sense of feeling of the 
aviator, who must immediately adjust his 
balancing devices and rudders to meet 
the situation and to counteract the effect. 
When you become exceedingly skillful 
you can tell just how much to do and 
how much not to do, allowing the ma- 
chine to follow its own inclination to a 
slight degree, to go with the undulations 
of the air or be turned out of its path 
by the air currents, allowing it to drift 
back again slowly of its own accord, 
when it will resume its proper direction 
with a gentle and easy return and with 
much more saving of friction than an 
excessive or impulsive movement of the 
controls would occasion. 

This ability to let the air have its way, 
like letting a horse "have its head," is 
equally important and perhaps more ap- 
parent in the handling of a balloon, for 
the aeronaut soon gets the touch or the 
"feel of the air" and quickly learns just 
how much ballast to use to check the 
balloon when it starts down. The same 
"feel of the air" can be learned in a 
flying machine. 

A usual fault with all beginners in 
anything, and sometimes with old hands 
when they lose their flexibility, is that 



they are inclined to be too abrupt and 
to steer too close to a line. We all re- 
member our first experience on a bicycle 
when we wabbled all over the road and 
turned the front wheel much too great a 
distance in the opposite direction in order 
to correct a slight tendency to turn in 
the other. This overcorrection itself re- 
quires to be righted and is apt to cause 
complications in other directions, espe- 
cially if there are many obstacles. 

There seems to be also a lesson to 
be drawn from the accident to Archie 
Hoxsey, who was killed at Los Angeles 
while flying in a high wind and attempt- 
ing to surpass his own record for alti- 
tude. After three days of marvelously 
successful flights, during which he ex- 
ceeded the world's altitude record and 
set it far above all others, Hoxsey ascend- 
ed when the wind was too high for some 
of the other aviators to fly and after they 
had tried out the conditions in their own 
machines. There can be no conception 
of the terrific strain that he was under 
as a result of his previous success ; this 
feeling, amounting almost to overconfi- 
dence, that nerved him up may have been 
responsible for the momentary loss of 
control or attack of air sickness, caused 
by his aeroplane coming down at too 
great an angle of descent and at such a 
frightful speed that the wind was seen 
to turn it completely over in the air, 
after which it dashed to the ground be- 
fore it could be righted, instantly killing 
the daring pilot. 

Not Always the Machine's Fault 

Whether it was the prolonged strain 
or the violence of the wind that caused 
this accident it is hard to tell, but it 
seems to show that the machine itself is 
not always to blame. A mistake in judg- 
ment, air sickness, which may be caused 
by too quick a descent, or momentary 
lack of attention at a critical moment, 
are equally to be guarded against. Cecil 
Grace was seen to take a wrong direc- 
tion and head for the North Sea instead 
of the shore of England, and finally be- 
come engulfed in a dense fog while re- 
turning after a successful flight over the 
English Channel. The mere thought of 
being lost in a fog is bad enough, but to 



138 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



be compelled by necessity to continue on 
flying until overtaken by exhaustion is 
enough to send the cold shudders down 
one's back. 

It must be realized that the aviator 
practically steers in three directions at 
once, up and down and to right or left, 
and he must also maintain his balance. 
All these functions must be kept in his 
mind at the same time ; and this is only 
a small part of the problem presented to 
him in flight. It is like steering an auto- 
mobile upon a moving sidewalk, or an 
even more realistic simile would be steer- 
ing an automobile upon a great moving 
escalator mounted upon a moving side- 
walk; thus, motion in three planes may 
be visualized, for the path of the aero- 
plane would be the resultant of the 
movements of all three machines. 

Imagine that you are endeavoring to 
avoid an obstacle upon which your mind 
is fixed, as, let us say, a tree in the center 
of a large field ; some subtle force seems 
to be always drawing us toward the 
very obstacle from which we desire to 
escape ; it seems to fascinate us and we 
are almost sure to collide with it as long 
as it is a dominant idea in our mind. 
But when we forget about it, or pay no 
special attention to the thought, its ter- 
ror vanishes. When Captain Baldwin 
was making practice flights at Ham- 
mondsport, N. Y., there was a lone tree 
in the flying field which had plenty of 
clear space all around it, but he suc- 
ceeded in hitting it, for no other apparent 
reason than that he was trying so hard to 
avoid it. 

My own machine, a Curtiss biplane, 
fell while I was flying in New Orleans 
last December, but this accident was 
caused by a combination of circumstances 
which illustrates other problems of the 
air which the aviator must overcome. 
We were flying at the City Park race 
track, just outside the city. Only a lit- 
tle more than half of the infield of this 
mile track was available, because of a 
large pond or lake which occupied one 
end of it ; on the far side of the grounds, 
opposite the grand stand, there were tall 
oak trees which grew in the City Park; 
this made it necessary to attain a com- 
paratively high altitude very quickly after 
starting from the ground, as a sharp 



turn had to be made at the western end 
of the track. 

To make a quick turn with a low- 
powered machine, such as I was flying, 
it is necessary to fly at a sufficient height 
to enable you to pitch down at a steep 
angle on the turn in order to gain addi- 
tional speed to compensate for the loss 
of headway caused by the resistance of- 
fered to the air by the rudders and con- 
trols when they are turned in steering. 
In maintaining the proper banking angle 
for the turn it was also necessary to com- 
pensate for the loss in support gained 
from the air because of the machine's 
slewing sideways while turning and mov- 
ing obliquely forward instead of present- 
ing its wings squarely in the direction of 
flight ; in addition to these considerations, 
which are always present, even when the 
air is still, the air was somewhat puffy, 
and although the start was made against 
the wind, on the turn and upon flying 
with it, speed, relative to the wind, was 
also lost, causing the machine to sag and 
sink lower and lower toward the tree 
tops along the back stretch. 

One tree stood out a little distance in 
front of the others, and while endeavor- 
ing to steer clear of it, the left wing of 
the aeroplane caught one of the top 
branches, a big limb of the tree was 
broken off, and the aeroplane spun 
around as if on a pivot, and then it 
turned completely over, looping the loop 
in air as it fell. The front control, the 
sides, and the tail were uninjured, but 
the wheels of the running gear were 
forced up through the lower plane and 
the engine was broken loose by the jar 
of the shock. 

Effect of a Fall 

They told me afterwards that I 
crawled out of the wreckage and said I 
was not hurt and begged McCurdy, who 
insisted on taking me back to the hotel, 
to remain and finish the flights. Later 
in the evening I woke up in my bed in 
my room without even the faintest recol- 
lection of what had happened. The last 
impressions that I remembered were of 
going out to the grounds in a taxicab 
with the other fellows. But by delicate 
questions on my part and from the an- 




Photograph by Pictorial Ae-ais Co., N. Y, 

BANKING AT THE TURNS LOOKS EASY TO THE SPECTATORS, BUT IT IS ONE 
OF THE MOST DANGEROUS PARTS OF THE GAME. 



swers that I received the whole story 
was made clear to me. A day or two 
later I began to feel a stiffness in the 
cords of my neck, due probably to the 
great concentration of mind during the 
rapid course of events which were too 
speedy for my senses to follow, and part- 
ly due to a possible shock. All these 
effects finally passed entirely away, but 
this experience serves to show the seri- 
ous results that may follow even a slight 
miscalculation among many which the 
complicated conditions demand. 

The aviator is confronted with an- 
other curious feature of the aeroplane 
which can hardly exist in the mind of 
a person who has not had the actual ex- 
perience of these conditions in the air. 
It is almost impossible for an observer 
on the ground to conceive of the results 
which follow the tipping or the tilting 
of the aeroplane while banking on a 
curve, or making a "spiral dip," such as 
was made so famous by Johnstone and 



Hoxsey, who turned their machines up 
sideways until they were flying at an 
angle of nearly ninety degrees to the 
horizontal, or at almost a right angle 
to the normal position of the aeroplane 
in flight. Let us see what happens to 
the rudders and control planes when 
they are revolved about a fore-and-aft 
axis until they are at right angles to their 
normal position. The horizontal front 
control ordinarily used for ascending and 
descending is completely turned from the 
horizontal plane to the vertical and be- 
comes a rudder which steers the aero- 
plane to the right or to the left; the 
vertical rudder in the rear, on the other 
hand, assumes a horizontal position and 
by its operation tends to make the ma- 
chine ascend or descend like a rear con- 
trol. 

Hence, in making a spiral dip, the 
steering must be accomplished by means 
of the elevating plane, and as you draw 
the control lever toward you the ma- 



[39 



<tEJff^S^lHfeCJ 




pMli»* R "J- m 


^^^Jpg^^ 


. 




">'-,-* ' " ' . " 


' 



Photograph by Pictorial News Co., N. Y. 

WHEN AN AVIATOR CAN TAKE HIS WIFE UP FOR A PLEASANT LITTLE SPIN 
IT'S A GOOD SIGN THAT HE HAS MASTERED HIS ART. 



chine comes around like a bicycle on a 
"saucer track," while the steering rud- 
ders must be carefully adjusted to con- 
trol the descent. When the aeroplane 
is flying at an angle of forty-five degrees 
to the horizontal, the front control and 
the rudder should, theoretically, be equal- 
ly able to perform the functions of the 
other. 

Careful adjustment must be made be- 
tween the movements which control 
these functions, and after long practice 
they become instinctive. It is in just 
such fine points as these that the personal 
equation and the characteristics of the 
individual aviator reveal themselves most 
clearly. 

The art of preserving the lateral equi- 
librium or balance must be studied care- 
fully, for the tendency of the aeroplane 
to slip sideways or skid through the air 
on the turn causes it to lose the support 



of the air which is gained by its forward 
motion and makes it necessary to bank 
the planes on the turns; if they. bank too 
much, on the other hand, the whole ma- 
chine will slip down through the air on 
the inside of the circle and may easily 
come to grief by striking one wing on 
the ground. Fortunately, the machine 
tends to take its natural inclination, for 
in turning the outside wing proceeds 
faster than the other, giving it a slightly 
greater lifting effect and canting the ma- 
chine on that side, as has already been 
mentioned. 

The aviator must be very delicate in 
his movements, keenly sensitive to the 
least suggestion of what may be re- 
quired, and quick and sure to act, but 
not in an arbitrary manner, for the "feel 
of the air" is one of the most fascinating 
and subtly artistic touches that can be 
learned. Like confidence in swimming 
140 



LEARNING TO FLY 



141 



or riding a bicycle, if once secured, it 
never leaves you. 

There is often discussion among avi- 
ators as to whether you should "bank" 
before using the rudder in turning, or 
use the rudder to turn and have the 
banking take place automatically, be- 
cause of the fact that one wing travels 
faster than the other, giving it greater 
lifting power. Mr. Curtiss has often 
criticised his pupils for not banking 
enough when making a turn, for it is 
extremely necessary to get just the right 
angle to prevent a serious accident. 

In the construction of a flying machine 
the movements that the aviator must 
make with the controlling levers should 
be as instinctive as possible. There 
should also be some natural relation be- 
tween the movements of these levers and 
the effect which it is desired to produce. 

The Bleriot monoplane has a standard 
with a small hand wheel on its top, 
placed just between the knees of the avi- 
ator (very much like the steering post 
of an automobile, but much smaller). 
This hand wheel is pulled backward to- 
ward the operator if you wish to rise, 
and this seems quite a natural movement 
to make. If it is desired to descend, this 
hand wheel is pushed forward, also a 
perfectly natural movement to make 
with the body. If the machine tips up 
on the right side, the standard is moved 
to the right to counteract it. If it tips 
to the left, it is moved to the left. 

Combined movements, or movements 
diagonal to these cardinal movements, 
can also be made when it is necessary to 
balance and ascend or descend at the 
same time, for the standard is mounted 
on a universal joint, so that it can be 
readily moved in any direction. Steer- 
ing is done by the feet, which rest on a 
bar pivoted in the center and connected 
by wires to the rudder in the rear, like 
the steering arrangement in a single- 
oared shell. 

The Farman biplane is controlled in 
much the same manner, but a lever at 
the right hand of the aviator takes the 
place of the small hand wheel control 
post of the Bleriot ; the motions are the 
same, however, but the left hand of the 
aviator is free to control the motor or 
hold on to one of the vertical posts. 



Steering is done by the operator's feet, 
which rest on a pivoted cross-bar attached 
to the foot rest, as in the Bleriot. 

The beautiful Antoinette monoplane 
is controlled in quite a different manner, 
however, from any of the other flying 
machines, although the principle, of 
course, is the same. This aeroplane has 
two hand wheels, one placed on each 
side of the aviator, which rotate in the 
fore and aft plane. The right-hand 
wheel controls elevating and descending, 
and the left-hand wheel warps the wings. 
Steering is done by the feet, as is the uni- 
versal custom in all of the foreign ma- 
chines. 

At this point it is interesting to con- 
sider whether it is a good practice to 
confide to the feet such an important 
function as steering, and also whether 
the shoulders and body of the operator 
are sensitive and quick enough to accom- 
plish the movements necessary in delicate 
balancing, or whether the hands of the 
pilot should not be used to perform these 
delicate functions. The most popular 
types of French machines are all steered 
by the feet of the aviator and balanced 
by the hands, but the American type of 
machine is steered in almost every in- 
stance by the hand of the aviator and the 
balance is very generally accomplished 
by the movements of his shoulders or 
body. 

Where American Machines Are 
Different 

Why the American aeroplanes differ 
radically from the foreign machines in 
this point is hard to tell. The Curtiss, 
a typically American machine, and one 
copied more than any other by other 
builders, uses the shoulder yoke and the 
instinctive movements of the body for 
preserving the lateral stability or to bal- 
ance the machine. 

This lateral stability has always been 
the "bugbear" of flying-machine invent- 
ors, but Mr. Curtiss says it is as easy to 
become accustomed to guarding against 
falling over sideways as it is to prevent 
falling over forward or backward ; you 
unconsciously do it when walking, or rid- 
ing a bicycle, and it does not cause any 
great trouble there. Why can you not 



142 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



learn the same thing in the operation of 
an aeroplane? 

The Wright biplane is controlled by 
two levers, one at the left hand of the 
aviator is moved forward or backward 
to operate the rear horizontal control, 
for in their new type machine they have 
moved the original front control to the 
rear, where it acts in the same manner 
as the rear horizontal control of a mono- 
plane for elevating and descending. At 
the left hand of the operator there is 
another lever which is practically a dou- 
ble lever, as its main portion is moved 
forward and backward to warp the 
wings, while the handle of this lever may 
be moved transversely to operate the 
vertical rudder planes in the rear. 

A delicate combination of movements, 
both in the fore and aft and in the trans- 
verse planes, must be made by both the 
arm and the wrist to operate this lever, 
for in this machine, when the wings are 
warped, the theoretically increased re- 
sistance caused by the greater curvature 
given to the surface on one side over the 
theoretically decreased resistance on the 
other wing caused by flattening it out, 
may give a turning tendency to the whole 
machine which can be offset by turning 
the rear vertical surfaces in order to in- 
terpose an equal amount of resistance, 
which tends to keep the aeroplane on a 
straight course through the air. 

On a two-passenger machine an extra 
seat is placed on the right of the aviator's 
seat, and a duplicate elevating and de- 
scending lever connected to the main 
lever is placed at the extreme right of the 
passenger seat. This enables each to 
operate the machine, except that the op- 
erations of the right and left hands are 
reversed. 

No doubt two aviators will ascend and 
take "tricks at the wheel," as the pilot 
and aide in a long balloon journey are 
accustomed to do, eating and sleeping by 
turns. One of the foreign aviators has 
already made arrangements so that he 
can eat in his aeroplane, and on one oc- 
casion he has taken two meals while in 
the air. Mr. Henry Farman built a 
cabin on his machine to protect himself 
from the severity of the weather during 
his great flight for the Michelin Trophy, 
when he made a new world's record by 



flying continuously for more than eight 
hours. 

The Curtiss biplane is possibly the 
most natural of all the types to operate, 
for the movements of its controls are 
perfectly instinctive and so natural that 
the aviator, in a time of excitement, 
when he might possibly forget for a mo- 
ment, is inclined to do the right thing 
and to operate the control levers in the 
correct way. A vertical hand wheel is 
placed directly in front of you as you 
sit on the seat of the machine. This 
wheel is grasped by both hands and is 
pulled back to cause the aeroplane to 
ascend and pushed forward if you wish 
to descend. If you turn the hand wheel 
around on its axis to the right, it turns 
the machine to the right. Turning it 
to the left turns the machine to the left, 
under normal conditions. 

A "shoulder yoke," which is simply a 
swaying back with high arms, is hinged 
to the seat in such a manner that it can 
be moved by the aviator's shoulders to- 
ward the right or the left side. Wires ex- 
tend from this shoulder yoke to the 
balancing planes hinged on each side of 
the aeroplane. When the machine tips 
up on the right side, the most, natural 
movement for the aviator to make is to 
lean toward the high side, and this is 
the movement which must be made to 
bring the machine back to an even keel. 
The movement is reversed to counteract 
a tilt in the other direction; a pedal op- 
erated by the right foot stops the motor, 
and one operated by the left foot opens 
the throttle, accelerating its speed. 

After examining all the various ma- 
chines, and having chosen the one that 
you think is the best, go to a good avia- 
tion school or follow a good aviator 
and stick to him, remembering that "the 
only way to fly is to fly." "Drive a peg 
and then pull to it," is a favorite saying 
of Captain Baldwin, the father of Amer- 
ican aeronauts and aviators. 

The most important moment in the 
history of its development will come 
when a human life is saved by the aero- 
plane. It will then be hailed as the 
greatest blessing to mankind, and just as 
the wireless was taken to our hearts, so 
will the aeroplane and the aeronaut be 
honored and rewarded. 




BRESNAHAN IS INVALUABLE TO A PITCHER BECAUSE HE IS QUICK TO SEE 

SIGNS OF TIRING. 



BASEBALL AS THE PLAYERS 



SEE IT 

BY EDWARD LYELL FOX 

Illustrated with Photographs 




THREE-HOUR work- 
day, netting a weekly 
wage of $150 during 
the baseball months of 
the year; one hour's 
"work" a day, telling 
how the $150 was made, yielding a 
weekly harvest of $500 for the vaude- 
ville months of the year ; touring the 
country in private cars, attended by a 
heedful retinue of trainers and rubbers, 
the admired focal point of the United 
States of America, territories, and island 
possessions : that is the professional base- 



ball player's existence from the viewpoint 
of the ardent fan who spends enthusiastic 
afternoons in the grandstand. 

Working from 10 a.m. to 6 P.M., 
bringing in $90 every seventh day for a 
half year; from 8 a.m. to 6 p.m., bring- 
ing perfect physical condition — no money 
— every mid-February to early April in 
the Southland training camps; all the 
late autumn and winter long plying any 
available vocation until the season opens ; 
the discomforts of transient hotel life; 
the plague of a prying publicity and the 
bored focal point of nearly 8,000,000 



»43 



144 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



fans : that is the professional baseball 
player from his own viewpoint. 

An exaggeration ? Pray tarry. Let 
us beckon cold statistics for the moment. 
Later we shall let the players tell their 
own story. 

Roughly, there are five hundred 
players in the National and American 
Leagues. According to official state- 
ments their average salary is a trifle over 
$2,000. Hardly averages up to $150 a 
week, does it? And were the 5,000 
players of some forty odd minor leagues 
to be rushed into action, your $2,000 
salary would be battered down about one 
half. 

Also, patient one, before meeting the 
players, let us glance at their contracts. 
Your idols are bound hand and foot with 
yards of legal tape. Organized baseball 
has taken the contract method of self- 
security. We read : club owners can 
suspend without pay for violations of 
any rules; can drop players injured in 
a game after jifteen days ; can release on 
ten days' notice ; can sell to another club 
without consent ; can refuse permission 
to play exhibition baseball, and during 
the "off season" forbid participation in 
indoor baseball, basket ball, football, etc. 
Further, it is provided that a player 
must report and train without pay and 
must allow the club owner $30 for uni- 
forms. 

The Players Speak for Themselves 

Is the vision still idyllic? No? Well, 
then, it is about time for the players, 
for these are the conditions under which 
they work. The facts are presented 
from a completely disinterested stand- 
point. 

But what do the players themselves 
think of baseball? How do they look 
upon it as a profession? What do they 
think of the game itself — -its many phases 
and possibilities ? How do they regard 
themselves, team mates, managers, club 
owners, umpires? What is their posi- 
tion on hero worship as practiced by the 
fans? Surely they are best qualified to 
tell the story. 

Ball players, as a rule, are modest. 
Removed from the diamond, they dislike 
to talk of their work. More willing are 



they to tell of some other man's playing. 
To praise is habitual with them. They 
rarely "knock" except on the playing 
field. Then "it's all in the game." In 
unguarded moments, however, some hith- 
erto hidden opinion escapes and listeners 
are amazed. 

For instance: the average fan's idea 
of Tyrus Raymond Cobb is that this 
same Cobb believes himself to be the 
greatest batter that baseball has pro- 
duced. Wait ! — Detroit is at bat. There 
is an infield hit and three runners are 
dancing on the baselines. A slender, 
sandy-haired figure is seen nearing the 
plate. It is Cobb and he whirls three 
heavy bats around and around, much like 
a Dervish. At the last moment he casts 
two aside and dances lightly info posi- 
tion. He turns to the bench and grins 
at his mates; he leers at the pitcher. 
Cobb's very appearance and conduct are 
an immediate menace. 

There is a swift blurr of white as the 
ball leaves the pitcher's hand. Then 
comes a sharp ring and the outfielders 
scamper back to the fence. The three 
runners swing home and Cobb slides 
into third by the time the ball is returned 
to the infield. The first baseman calls a 
hasty conference. Play is resumed. The 
next batter raps a ball to the third base- 
man, who throws quickly in the direction 
of first. 

It is a habit of Cobb's to feign scoring 
from third on any ground hit, so he pre- 
tends to dart for the plate as soon as 
the third baseman makes his throw. But 
the conference had evolved a trick to 
catch Cobb. 

Back to third flies the ball, the first 
baseman not stopping to touch his bag. 
Seeing he is caught, and cannot regain 
third, Cobb breaks for home. A few 
swift strides and his slender frame shoots 
through the air. It is a long slide and 
a wall of dust screens the scene. Cobb's 
spikes barely scrape by the corner of 
the plate, but the umpire yells "Safe!" 
Thinking it had been a planned "steal 
home" the fans applaud steadily. Cobb 
slaps the dust from his uniform, sneers 
openly and calls : "Did you think you 
could get me on an old bush league 
trick!" And with more swagger than 
ever he struts back to the bench, know- 




CHRISTY MATHEWSON SAYS: 

SURE OF BEING A STAR 



Photograph by Paul Thompson, N. Y. 

KEEP OUT OF BASEBALL UNLESS YOU ARE 



ing he had almost been made to appear 
ridiculous before a great crowd. 

Yet this same arrogant Cobb, removed 
from the excitement of the game, de- 
clared that Sam Crawford of Detroit 
was a greater batter than he ! Cobb ex- 
plained that he beat out many infield 
taps and bunts that Crawford would be 



thrown out on. Also, Cobb claims that 
if Crawford were more ambitious every 
fan would come to rate him as the best 
of batters. 

But here is the difference. If Craw- 
ford's batting slumps, he waits for his 
luck to change. If Cobb's batting slumps, 
he spends his mornings practicing at the 



145 




Photograph by Paul Thompson, N. Y, 
BASEBALL IS NO PLACE FOR THE QUITTER," SAYS FRANK CHANCE. 



ball park and makes his luck change. 
However, as far as clean-cut, "free" hit- 
ting is concerned, Cobb acknowledges 
Crawford's superiority over all. 

This is a great tribute, coming from 
the confident Cobb, whose quick eye and 
swift swing are dreaded by every Amer- 
ican League pitcher. Walsh, the star of 
the Chicago White Sox pitching staff, 
opines that Cobb has not a weak spot as 
a batter. For a time Walsh thought 
that Cobb could not hit a low curve. 
Now he says that he can hit such a 
ball, but not as hard as the others. That 
is as far as they get — "not as hard." 

Johnson, whose pitching is Washing- 
ton's strongest asset, claims that the balls 
Cobb just "nips at" are the most dan- 
gerous. They deflect into slow rollers 
that the fleet Tyrus beats out easily. 
Johnson adds that he has had the same 
experience with Eddie Collins, the sen- 
sational second baseman of the Athletics. 
Most pitchers would rather have Cobb 
and Collins hit the ball hard than see 
them roll slow taps to the infield. 

While speaking of Cobb — and Cobb 



is synonymous with batting — it is perti- 
nent to note that "Wild Bill" Donovan, 
Detroit's veteran pitcher, says that good 
batters have no weak spots. He holds 
that the only way to fool men like Cobb, 
Collins, Speaker, Crawford, and Lajoie 
is to outguess them — to pitch them the 
opposite of the curve they have reasoned 
will be delivered. 

Granted, then, that Cobb is rather a 
flashing star. But what does he think 
of the game ? Permit an anecdote. Dur- 
ing the winter Cobb sells automobiles in 
Atlanta. One day a prospective cus- 
tomer asked him: "How do you like 
baseball ?" 

"Great," answered Tyrus quickly. 
"Detroit pays me $9,000 a season. 
That's more than any other business 
would have yielded me at my age. You 
say your son is a good ball player? 
Don't hesitate a minute. Let him turn 
professional. Best thing in the world !" 

So much for Cobb and his sweeping 
opinions. But let us meet Christy 
Mathewson, of the New York Giants. 
Mathewson has attained wider promi- 



146 



BASEBALL AS THE PLAYERS SEE IT 



H7 



nence than Cobb. He has been called 
the greatest pitcher the world has ever 
seen. And do not the feats of a star 
pitcher live long after a batter's? Pres- 
ent-day fans readily recall Amos Rusie 
and compare him with Mathewson, but 
who remembers the name of a batter to 
parallel with Cobb ? 

Baseball has been good to Mathew- 
son. It has made him comparatively 
well off — ever so much more so than 
Cobb, who has made thousands. How 
does Mathewson regard baseball? Has 
he Cobb's optimism and does he hold out 
the same glowing future to prospective 
entrants into the professional ranks? 

We find Mathewson the antithesis of 
Cobb. He is tall and heavily built; 
Cobb is of medium height and slender. 
He talks carefully, quietly, and seldom ; 
Cobb talks unreservedly, loudly, and 
often. Mathewson likes checkers; Cobb, 
automobiles. Somehow the men's tem- 
peraments foretell that their views will 
be opposite. 

"Keep out of baseball unless you are 
sure of being a star!" is Mathewson's 
message to the younger generation, glow- 
ing with ambition for professional ca- 
reers. Baseball is advisable as a career, 
Mathewson says, only if you are assured 
of being a much-sought-after player. He 
gives us his opinion that the average 
young man would be much better off as 
a bank clerk than as a ball player whose 
ability will not permit his entering the 
big leagues. 

The average period of usefulness is 
ten years, points out Mathewson, and 
the ten years are the best of a man's life. 
Also, the average salary is such that it 
will not allow any great saving. From 
Mathewson's viewpoint it would appear 
that the average ball player throws away 
the best part of his life and has nothing 
to show when the throwing is ended. 
To bear out Mathewson, remember that 
we found the wonderful salary tale to 
be mythical so far as most players are 
concerned. Only the gods figure in the 
myths, and only Cobb, Wagner, Math- 
ewson, and a chosen few others dwell 
on the baseball Olympus. 

But Mathewson, naturally being sat- 
isfied with his own condition, is at least 
optimistic over the game itself. Like 



Cobb, Mathewson is open in his admira- 
tion for a ball player. Cy Young, the 
twenty-one seasons' veteran, is Mathew- 
son's pitching ideal. He calls him "the 
greatest of pitchers" and says that Young 
owes his success to being temperate in 
all things. Incidentally, Mathewson de- 
clares that the big league pitcher of 
to-day must have speed. The days of 
the slow-ball pitchers — Griffith, Mercer, 
Reidy, Rhodes, and Donohue — are no 
more. 

Mathewson will not pitch unless his 
arm feels exactly right, and a thousand 
McGraws could not work otherwise. 
However, he declares that a pitcher 
should take his regular turn in the box 
once every four or five days, never more. 
Mathewson's sang-froid under heavy 
batting fire is remarkable, but it is not 
surprising to those who know the man. 
He realizes that confidence is everything 
and that pitching a baseball does not ex- 
empt from this rule. 

"If Marquard regains this season the 
confidence that he had in Indianapolis," 
Mathewson told the writer recently, "he 
will not be behind any left-hand pitcher 
in the country." 

Pitchers and Catchers 

Of course, different pitchers have dif- 
ferent ideas. Some of Mathewson's are 
interesting. He is a stanch believer in 
pitching to the same catcher in every 
game. He began to work well with 
Meyers last year and says that the Indian 
will be even better this season. Also, 
Mathewson says that he never tries for 
strike-outs unless the situation is critical, 
and that he lets the other eight men on 
the team play the game for him as much 
as possible. 

Pitchers appreciate good catchers. 
Roger Bresnahan is invaluable to a 
pitcher because he is quick to see signs 
of tiring. Mathewson says that when 
the present St. Louis manager caught for 
the Giants he used to give fake signals 
when a pitcher began to weaken. The 
pitcher would shake his head negatively 
upon seeing Bresnahan's signs and thus 
have time to recover his poise. 

Further complimenting catchers, Math- 
ewson says that Archer, of Chicago, is 



148 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



the best at throwing out ambitious base 
stealers. Another Cub he praises is 
Evers. According to Mathewson, Evers 
has a knack of "getting the other team's 
nerve." Upon reaching first base on a 
hit, Evers never fails to laugh or make 
some sarcastic remark. Unless a pitcher 
knows Evers he is apt to lose some of 
his carefully guarded temper. 

How often do fans see young pitchers, 
who have been the sensations of the min- 
or leagues, stumble and fall in fast com- 
pany! Mathewson ventures a most 
probable explanation. 

"I remember," said he, "when I 
pitched for Norfolk of the Virginia 
League. I was just out of college and 
nervous. I was wild and Portsmouth 
scored five runs in the first inning. The 
fans howled for me to be taken out. I 
thought that was exactly what Manager 
Smith would do, but he didn't. He 
slapped me on the shoulder and said : 
'Christy, you have the stuff, but you're 
nervous. You'll come back next inning. 
If you don't, you stay in there if Ports- 
mouth gets a hundred runs.' I might 
add that Portsmouth did not score an- 
other run. To Smith I owe my success." 

So great is the desire of new pitchers 
to please, and so fearful are they that 
they have not the ability, that they fail. 
To this lack of confidence Mathewson 
attributes the burning out of minor 
league stars in major skies. 

It was after a Chicago-Giants game 
last year. Tinker had won for the Cubs 
by pounding out a long hit against 
Mathewson. In the clubhouse Christy 
was asked : "Do you find Tinker hardest 
to pitch to?" 

"Most certainly not," rejoined Math- 
ewson. "Generally his long hits are due 
to the fact that the outfielders play in 
too close for him. The hardest men to 
pitch to in the National League are 
Wagner and Chance. Wagner is apt to 
get a base hit from any kind of a ball, 
and you have to put them over for 
Chance." 

Yet the fans who hear the distorted 
tales from the dressing rooms imagine 
that Mathewson fears Tinker more than 
any other batter. And there are none so 
fickle as these fans. What do the players 
think of them? 



It was in the clubhouse at the Polo 
Grounds, New York. The Giants had 
lost and were hurrying into their civilian 
clothes. Everything was confusion. The 
reek of liniment and alcohol filled the 
air. The players called loudly to one 
another. From the shower baths came 
the splashing of water and the virile slap 
of hands on muscular bodies. 

"The bleachers gave you yours to- 
day," ventured an outfielder to the young 
pitcher who had been batted out of the 
box. 

The recruit looked nervously to see if 
Manager McGraw was about. 

"Don't mind 'em, young 'un," called 
Mathewson, pushing his big frame to- 
ward his locker. "Most of us think the 
fans are pests ! They pay our salaries, 
but they don't own us." 

And Mathewson is not an exception. 
Most players are indifferent in the face 
of the greatest applause. Why ? Let us 
view the fans through the glasses of John 
Peter — "Hans" — Wagner, Pittsburgh's 
phenomenal shortstop. In terse bromid- 
ian, he is ballyhooed — "The Greatest 
Player the game has known." This 
bores Wagner. If the truth be known, 
he dislikes the fans, for this stolid man 
of the powerfully bowed legs and mas- 
sive shoulders dreads publicity. 

As "Hans" Wagner Sees It 

When the Pirates are home Wagner 
jumps into his automobile at Carnegie 
and drives to the ball park over the hill 
roads that lead into Pittsburgh. After 
the game he flees from the fans and 
chugs back to his little farm, his people, 
chickens, and dogs. Rarely will he talk 
on baseball ; never of himself. One 
night, however, after the chickens had 
had been tucked away in their Carnegie 
cots, Wagner chatted with an old friend. 
With the liberty of long friendship, the 
visitor stepped suddenly on dangerous 
ground. 

"John," said he, "do ball players pay 
any attention to the crowd?" 

For the moment Wagner mulled in 
silence. He sat searching the sky, aglow 
with the flare of distant blast furnaces. 
Then, as if freeing his mind of a long 
incumbrance, he cried: 




ISfcSSft^^^^^s 



Photograph by Paul Thompson, N. Y. 

TY COBB THINKS It's THE GREATEST THING IN THE WORLD TO BE A 
PROFESSIONAL BALL PLAYER. 



"We let applause in one ear and out 
the other. The next day they roast you. 
This shows how foolish 'grand-stand 
play' talk is. We never play for the 
'grandstand,' for we don't want their 
applause when it comes." 

It is said that Wagner never con- 
sented to a newspaper interview until 
late last season. His opinions on base- 



ball, however, are frequently unleashed 
by close friends who at widely separated 
intervals have heard some laconic re- 
mark. 

Wagner likes baseball. He believes it 
an excellent chance for a young man, 
provided the young man is of firm moral 
fiber. He harbors the anti-"good-fellow" 
idea to such an extent that those who 



149 



i5o 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



do not know him term him a grouch. 
His friends say he is big-hearted. His 
friends are right. To them Wagner is 
frank in his admiration of the game. As 
he says: "Something new is turning up 
every day. Always new and unthought- 
of situations develop and must be studied 
out. Playing never becomes a task." 

Wagner is one of the few players who 
say that the much-abused club owners 
have made baseball a strong combina- 
tion of sport and business, receiving the 
benefits of the former and barring com- 
mercialism from the playing field. He 
maintains that players would never re- 
ceive the salaries they do were it not for 
the club owners and is a stanch pillar of 
the so-called "organized baseball." 

Many players dislike Wagner. They 
take offense at his aloofness, mistaking 
an intensely phlegmatic temperament de- 
manding quiet for sulkiness. All, how- 
ever, are united in praising him as a mas- 
ter craftsman. Mordecai Brown, the 
Chicago pitcher, flatters Wagner per- 
fectly. In so doing he practically ex- 
presses the opinion of every ball player. 

Says Brown: "I have found Wagner's 
weaknesses as a batter. They are to give 
him a base on balls or to put a ball di- 
rectly over the plate. He will be so 
surprised at a pitcher's audacity in doing 
the latter that he will be unable to swing 
at the ball." 

A Player Who Loves the Fans 

We have seen that two of baseball's 
exalted trio — Cobb, Mathewson, and 
Wagner — are not enamored of the fans. 
But perhaps Cobb, being a young play- 
er, has not had a chance to tire of ap- 
plause and publicity. Possibly it is not 
fair to compare him with such hardened 
veterans as Mathewson and Wagner. 
Let us look a bit further before pass- 
ing judgment. We shall select Charles 
Albert Bender, who helped to pitch 
Philadelphia's Athletics to a world's 
championship. Bender is an Indian, a 
Chippewa, and a veteran in major league 
baseball. Surely, with his experience and 
the indifference of his race, he does not 
grow enthusiastic over a great crowd. 
Yet Bender cannot play his best unless 
the fans overrun the stands. He loves 



their applause and attentions. With 
them he is as popular as with his fellow 
players. 

Frank Chance, the shrewd man-reading 
manager of the Chicago Cubs, watched 
Bender beat his team in the opening 
game of the world's series at Philadel- 
phia last October. At his hotel that 
night Chance said: "That Indian was 
almost inhuman. The greater the ten- 
sion, the better he pitched. He fairly 
reveled in the tumult of the stands and 
often laughed like a pleased boy. Al- 
ways, however, there was that calm smile 
and baffling curves." 

Here, at least, is one great pitcher 
who does not say "Pests!" when the fans 
are mentioned. 

But how do ball players find the game 
itself? Is it work or play? Tommy 
Leach, the outfielder of the Pittsburgh 
Pirates, says that baseball is the hardest 
kind of work. Remember that Leach 
has been in the professional ranks four- 
teen years and these years have tarnished 
the glamour of youth. Older players 
than Leach, however, give interviews 
which begin with "I love baseball" and 
end with the same sentence. So Leach's 
opinion of the game must be weighed 
critically. 

Leach was met one morning at a New 
York hotel. He was at breakfast, a sur- 
prising breakfast for so small a man. 
As an opening greeting Leach said : 

"We ball players have to think fast, 
live fast, and die fast." 

Sympathetic looks were in order and 
"eat fast" was added mentally to the 
sweeping sentence. 

"Yes," continued the tiny athlete with 
the expressionless eyes, "I go to the ball 
park the way another man goes to the 
factory. Baseball shortens our lives. 
We are too active to stand the long rest 
that follows our retirement. Of course, 
I like to play ball, but only when I'm 
in the mood, and I'm not in the mood 
day in and day out. It's the hardest kind 
of work for me." 

That afternoon Leach vexed some 
thirty thousand New York fans by a 
sensational running catch that choked the 
Giants' rally, but by an odd coincidence 
one of the defeated Giants gave Leach's 
"hard work" lament a terrific jolt. After 



BASEBALL AS THE PLAYERS SEE IT 



!5i 



the last of the crowd had melted away, 
the players began to emerge. Larry 
Doyle, the Giants' captain, walked with 
a friend up the long runway to the ele- 
vated railroad. It was impossible not to 
overhear their conversation. 

"Notice Leach this afternoon, Lar- 
ry?" asked the friend. "He had a com- 
plete grouch." 

"That's funny," laughed Doyle. "Why 
should a ball player look peeved? It's 
all play — the best kind of play. I'd 



concerned. Collins is a cheery, unassum- 
ing person. Yet he is gifted with an 
alert bearing and quick mind that would 
hold a first glance and compel the ques- 
tion, "Who is that young fellow?" were 
he one of a group. 

When Collins played ball at Colum- 
bia he asked Clarke Griffith, of the New 
York Americans, and later McGraw, of 
the Giants, for a tryout. They laughed 
at him. Later he repeated the question 
to Connie Mack of the Athletics. To- 




WAGNER DECLARES THAT 



Photograph by Pant Thomps 

PLAYING NEVER BECOMES A TASK." 



rather be out on that field than any- 
where." 

And, always smiling, Doyle smiled 
more broadly, perhaps thinking of his 
breaker-boy days in an Illinois coal-mine. 

From many sources come the very 
prominent ball players. Lajoie was a 
cabman, Evers a $4-a-week collar-factory 
employee, and Wagner jumped from a 
freight car to fill his first professional 
engagement. Also the colleges have con- 
tributed. Mathewson studied three years 
at Bucknell, and Eddie Collins, of the 
Athletics, was given an A.B. by Colum- 
bia University. 

It is with star Collins that we are 



day Griffith and McGraw would pay 
Mack well for Collins's release were it 
possible to buy him from the American 
League. 

Like Doyle, Collins looks on baseball 
as a grand lark. He stakes the lark seri- 
ously, however, and continually consid- 
ers its possibilities. Collins is careful to 
study play, players, and teams. For a 
comparatively young recruit his observa- 
tions have been made remarkably quickly 
and accurately. He has analyzed "in- 
side baseball" and defines it in this way: 
"The harmonious working of nine men 
on a ball field in pursuit of victory." 

Collins has specialized on batters. 




Photograph by Paul Thompson, N. V, 

ONE OF HAL CHASE'S SPECIALTIES IS THE USE OF SIGNALS TO CONTROL 

THE WHOLE TEAM. 



Generalizing, he says that they are born, 
not made. Specifically he points out a 
few of their peculiarities. For instance : 
Hartsel, Milan, Hooper, Turner, and 
others of diminutive stature let the next 
ball pass if the count is "strike one and 
ball three." On the other hand, La- 
joie, Speaker, Lord, Murphy, Steinfeldt, 
Wagner, Mitchell, and Tinker generally 
swing. 

Certain pitchers hold a voodoo sign 
over certain batters, according to Col- 
lins. Addie Joss, of Cleveland, used to 
have Cobb's measure, and Taylor, for- 
merly of Chicago, Wagner's. Joss firmly 
believes that no matter how good a game 
he pitches he cannot beat the Athletics. 
This works both ways, however, for all 
Tom Hughes has to do to beat Cleveland 
is to throw down his glove in the pitch- 
er's box. Collins says that Bender, of 
the Athletics, and Walsh, of the Chicago 
White Sox, are nervy in that they pitch 
a curve when the count is "three and 
two." As for Collins and the fans — he 
plays the same whether two or twenty 
thousand are in the stands. 

Napoleon Lajoie, mentioned in the 



same breath as Cobb when American 
League batters are spoken of, regards 
the fans as does Collins. He is indif- 
ferent, but not offensively so. He goes 
quietly about his tasks and indulges in 
none of the airy persiflage rather faddish 
with some star players. Everybody al- 
ways had a good word for the big French 
Canadian. He is popular with fans, 
club owners, and players. Of Lajoie's 
major league debut there is an amusing 
incident. 

"Does a curve ball bother you?" asked 
the Philadelphia manager. 

"No, sir," said Lajoie, "only the ones 
I can't reach." 

That remark was characteristic of 
Lajoie. He is quietly confident. Cer- 
tain American League pitchers say he 
hits in a groove ; that he swings power- 
fully and cannot reach a ball that goes 
"over the edges." Suffice it to say that 
Larry finished just a fraction of a point 
behind Cobb in the official batting aver- 
ages. 

Ball players find special phases to the 
game to interest them. Hal Chase, the 
new manager of the New York Ameri- 



15* 



BASEBALL AS THE PLAYERS SEE IT 



153 



cans, is a firm believer in signals to con- 
trol the play of the whole team. Evers, 
of the Cubs, is the most superstitious of 
ball players. Tinker of the same team 
claims that he has not been hit by a 
pitched ball since 1902, and — believe it 
or not — praises the umpiring system in 
the National League. 

Kling, another Cub, says that an err- 
ing catcher can disorganize a team's 
game quicker than anyone else, and adds 
that "inside ball" — alertness on the de- 
fense, from his standpoint — won three 
pennants for his team. Brown, a fourth 
Cub, wants a rule giving the batter his 
base on three balls. Paskert, of Phila- 
delphia, holds that Beecher, of Cincin- 
nati, would be a better base stealer than 
Cobb or Collins if he knew the "fall- 
away" slide. And so it goes; they all 
have their fads and fancies. 

Managers Chance and McGraw, in 
the National, and Mack and Jennings, 
in the American, are rated the highest. 
What do they think of baseball, and 
how do their players feel toward them? 
Chance left a dentist's practice for pro- 
fessional baseball. He is a worker, and 
says that any worker will find baseball 
profitable. "It's no place for the 'quit- 
ter,' " is a favorite remark of Chance. 
This seems to be an obsession with 
Chance, for in one afternon he called 
three pitchers "yellow bush league gen- 
tlemen !" His sarcasm is bitter on the 
ball field, but his players like him. 
Chance leaves an incident behind instant- 
ly and forgets. 

McGraw, of the Giants, is not sarcas- 
tic like Chance ; he is personally abus- 
ive. Mathewson told the writer that 



most of the Giants dislike McGraw be- 
cause of his language to them. How- 
ever, he added that they respected his 
ability and would do anything for him 
on the ball field. 

Hughey Jennings, of Detroit, is a dif- 
ferent type again. He has the fire of 
McGraw and the diplomacy of Chance. 
Jennings's players like him personally. 
They say he is never abusive. With 
Hughey it is a case of: "All right, old 
man — better next time" — "Yah! Yah! 
Here we are ! Here's the run !" 

But Connie Mack, the Athletics' 
pilot, is the most interesting. He lacks 
the sarcasm of Chance, the sneer of Mc- 
Graw, and the nervous energy of Jen- 
nings. Yet his team won the world's 
championship. Always affable and cour- 
teous to his players, he is a stoic to 
strangers. He believes in the power of 
a smile and of kindness, and seeks the 
confidences of his men. They believe 
him the shrewdest of managers, which is 
not for us to dispute. He never shows 
any emotion when a game is in prog- 
ress, yet the tension must be terrific. 
Only once did these suppressed feelings 
get the better of him. That was in the 
seventeenth inning of the Detroit-Ath- 
letics game that lost them the pennant 
in 1907. 

Cobb won for Detroit with a home 
run, and Mack fell off the players' bench 
as Cobb dashed across the home plate. 
It is the only error he has made. Like 
Jennings he is fond of the fans and loves 
baseball. Chance and McGraw endure 
the fans, but it is their nature to endure. 

How does it look from the player's 
viewpoint ? 




A LENGTH OF FILM 

BY PERCY M. CUSHING 

Illustrated with Photographs by the Author 




ENERALLY speaking, 
3i X 5i + greenhorn = 
trouble ! Of course it 
doesn't really make any 
difference whether it's 3^ 
or 5 by 7, or any other 
size, just so long as it's a camera. The 
result is about the same. And our case 
was not the exception to prove the rule. 
We fitted the above formula precise- 
ly, the camera and I. It was a 3^ and I 
was, still am, and probably always will 

be, a greenhorn. And the result . 

That's exactly what most of them were, 
blanks and dashes or dashed blanks ac- 
cording to how sunny a disposition one 
has. Of course there were a few that 
didn't totally fizzle, but luck will play 
a part in most every game. 

Maybe it was a rash decision of mine 
in the beginning. Why not illustrate my 
own stuff, I thought? What's the use 
of letting other chaps get the rakeoff 
that by all rights should belong to me? 
I'll get a camera and I'll make it pay for 
itself in two whacks. Why can't I make 
just as good pictures of wilderness ex- 
peditions out in the grove behind the 
house as other fellows can make in the 
real wilderness? I can, and I'll make 
'em so clever that nobody'll ever dream 
they're phony. 

Family counsel was adverse, but I was 
stubborn. I separated myself from the 
twenty perfectly good dollars and ac- 
quired a perfectly good camera, of the 
operation of which I was perfectly igno- 
rant. But I was confident of my prow- 
ess, and I got a learned friend to explain 
"time" and "stop" and "focus" and a lot 
of other things which I have given up 
trying to master. Then I went in search 
of a victim for my baby efforts. I wanted 
a human being, for my infantile idea of 
nothing to photograph was a scene with- 
out person or persons in it. I think Sid 
was a willing "goat," because he had seen 



no previous efforts of mine in photog- 
rapher's art. In fact, there had been 
none. He is cracked about shooting, so 
I agreed to immortalize the scenes of 
field and cover. 

It was long after the season had closed, 
but that didn't make any difference. We 
got George to go with us, and hiked to 
the wilds half a mile behind my house, 
where we decided to portray the wilder- 
nesss and the lure of the double barrel. 

George is a dog, or a near dog. He 
is a patriarch in our town. Presumably 
he is mostly setter. And he is fat and 
old, having much the appearance of a 
dog that has been in the river for a fort- 
night. Also he is timid and likes human 
society at close range, which characteristic 
was of great annoyance to us before we 
had finished. 

"What we want to do," confided Sid 
earnestly in a tone of utter trust, "is to 
make some real good pictures — like those 
that A. B. Frost draws, with the atmo- 
sphere and all that in them. These guys 
who take pictures for the magazines 
don't know what they're about. Their 
work is wooden, lacks color, and looks 
about as real as though they had taken 
the photos in their back yards." And 
Sid swept the scant fringe of frost- 
stripped trees, over which the roof of my 
house leered insolently, with a "heart-of- 
the-wilderness" gesture. 

Banishing the thought of houses and 
hedgerows from my mind, I agreed with 
him. 

"Now," said he, "I'll get in the mid- 
dle of that brush pile and when the bevy 
of quail flushes, I'll make a quick double, 
and you snap me in the act. There's 
nothing around here to give it away. 
That cluster of scrub pine over there 
looks natural and lonely, and we'll have 
a picture with a real kick in it." 

Then Sid crawled to the brush heap, 
and pointed his gun, while I guessed at 



154 




PICTURES LIKE FROST DRAWS WITH THE ATMOSPHERE, AND 

ALL THAT." 



the distance, set the focus, and tried to 
remember stop from time, with the result 
that I got it mixed and set the machine 
for a time exposure. Then I squeezed 
the bulb, and imagining I had taken the 
picture, walked away while the open 
shutter continued to let the world at 
large wander into the film. 

Naturally enough when a few minutes 



later I wound the next exposure on, that 
was also exposed as the shutter was still 
open. Of course I was not aware of 
this, so I posed Srd after my notion of 
a real live gunning picture with "action" 
in it. 

"See that patch of swamp with the 
alders on the edge," I said. "Well, 
that's a likely place for turkeys. It looks 



155 



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THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



like Virginia, understand. We'll get a 
corker here, sharp negative, fine er — 
definition, wonderful um — depth." 

"Sure," agreed Sid enthusiastically, 
"that's the stuff all right. We got to 
have all those to make it look right. 
We'll make the "pro" photogs. look like 
a bundle of field mice." 

I saw at once the scene for the picture. 
It was the most natural scene in the 
world, real and compelling. 

"Now," I said, "you crawl over to 
the edge of that boggy place and lie 
down on your stomach while I get the 
machine doped up." 

"Hey — why on my stomach?" de- 
manded Sid. "What's the use of that? 
Can't you see that mud's all wet?" 

"Never mind," I retorted scathingly. 
"Hasn't a fellow got to be lying down 
when he's calling turkeys ? Remember 
you're calling — that is, the guide is call- 
ing. The guide, d'ye see ? He's sitting 
behind that clump of bushes there, and 
don't show in the picture. What you're 
doing is slamming it to the turks ! We 
want real life pictures, so hurry up and 
wallow down !" 

With a bit of his enthusiasm gone, 
Sid proceeded, somewhat reluctantly, to 
prostrate himself in the mire. He pre- 
ferred to be pictured standing up — it 



seemed less undignified, he explained. I 
got my time set right this shot, swung 
my focus properly, and gave her a num- 
ber 8 stop, for the sunlight was pretty 
good. 

I am convinced that the picture would 
have been a good one, if it hadn't been 
for that shutter being open. Of course, 
as it was, there wasn't any picture at all. 
The film had been exposed, and when I 
squeezed the bulb it just closed the shut- 
ter, that's all. Of course, I didn't know 
this at the time. My wise camera friend 
doped it out afterwards for me. 

"Gee!" said Sid, as he arose from the 
marsh, slightly placated as I extolled the 
charms of that picture to him, "I'll bet 
that's got atmosphere to it." 

And he was right, it had atmosphere. 
In fact it was all atmosphere. Just at- 
mosphere and nothing else, as we found 
when it was developed. 

We had better luck after that. I am 
able to present testimonjr to the fact, for 
the illustration of Sid taking a phony 
drink at the frozen waterfall from the 
snow-fed brook was number three. 

"Say," said Sid presently, "don't I 
make a corkin' subject for photographs? 
All those chaps in Frost's drawings are 
tall, slim fellows, aren't they? Well, 
they are, and there's some satisfaction in 




TAKING A PHONY DRINK AT A FROZEN WATER-FALL. 




ROLL YOUR EYES 



knowing that you'll look like something 
in a picture. I never could stand for 
photos of stub-legged, dumpy idiots." 

"All right," I answered, "you're a 
dream, and here's a chance for a snappy 
little picture as ever you saw. That flat 
rock in the middle of the brook's the 
place to snap it. We'll make it a duck- 
ing picture. I'll get on top o' that old 
stump and photograph down so's the trees 
won't show, and it'll look as though it 
was out in open water. 

"Skin out of that coat and onto the 
rock. Lie on your side and look as if a 
bunch of ducks were coming and you 
were waiting to slay 'em." 

Sid crawled out on the rock, slipping 
up to his knees in the icy brook by way of 
lending actual experience to the occasion, 
and hunched up like a drunken soldier. 

"Punk," I shouted at him. "You look 
like a bale of straw. Put action into 
your body. Look strained and tense. 
Who ever saw a duck shooter flopped up 
in a lack luster heap like that?" 

Sid was pained and offended at this, 
coming as it did directly after his "good 
subject" oration. 

"Huh! Like to see you do any bet- 
ter!" he grunted, at the same time stick- 
ing his leg out behind him, gripping his 
trusty gun frenziedly, concaving his back 



like a bull terrier stretching itself, and 
staring into the distance at the mon- 
strous flock of approaching and imag- 
inary ducks. 

"Not fierce enough," I yelled at him. 
"Look ferocious, eager, primitive, ter- 
rible. Roll your eyes, you ivory head!" 

And Sid rolled, as I cut him onto the 
film. Number four was another tri- 
umph, and it was an even money shot 
with failure. 

It was along about this time that 
George butted into our efforts. No 
doubt he realized that we were rapidly 
approaching perfection and considered 
that we were worthy of attention at last. 
Or mayhap, like Sid, he thought he was 
a good subject. 

At any rate, he had prowled about his 
business for the first hour, utterly ignor- 
ing our struggles. Now he became sud- 
denly possessed with the desire to be im- 
mortalized. While I strove excitedly 
to get a good likeness of Sid eating his 
lunch by the rail fence, the ancient and 
swollen George cavorted stiffly in the 
way, until at last his very insistence, de- 
spite clods of earth and bad language 
hurled at him, woke the artistic sense 
within Sid's soul. 

"Gad, man, what a mole-eyed dub you 
are! Can't you see the chance you've 



157 



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THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



been overlooking? Sling this old bundle 
of meat into the game. He's marked 
like a setter, and maybe the camera'll 
make him look as if he wasn't fresh from 
the corned-beef barrel. It don't seem to 
be unwilling to lie in most other mat- 
ters." 

The sagacity of Sid's suggestion was 
not to be denied, so I pounced on the idea. 

"Fix him up right," I exclaimed. 
"Have him the faithful son of some big 
sire or other, with his nose in his mas- 
ter's hand at the end of the day." 

"Or at lunch time," put in Sid, hold- 
ing out a morsel of bread and calling 
softly: "Geordie, Geordie — here, Geor- 
die, nice dog." 

Instantly Geordie's interests seemed 
to take a new direction. I must not neg- 
lect to state that he was nearly blind and 
his nose was so dulled that he was in- 
capable of scenting food unless it was 
crammed in his mouth. So he didn't 
learn about the free lunch until Sid 
rushed after him, grabbed him by the 
skin, and, hauling him into a fallen tree, 
shoved the bread under his nose. Then 
he wouldn't eat it, and, far from looking 
up with soulful eyes into the face of his 
master, he squatted terrified close to the 
ground and whimpered with all the piti- 
ful aspects of senility. 

At length, after much petting and en- 
couragement intermingled with cheerful 
epithets, George was induced to sit on his 
rheumatic haunches before me, main- 
tained there by a strangle hold upon him, 
while Sid juggled with the mysteries in 
my flattish oblong machine, under my di- 
rection. That he juggled them not 
wholly in vain is shown by the picture. 

"Now we might as well use this old 
purp further," announced Sid, prodding 
the object of his designs in the side with 
the result that a hollow and swollen 
sound was given forth much like that a 
thumped watermelon emits. "We'll 
nail him in the act of pointing." 

That was too much. "Pointing!" I 
choked. "That old ham pointing! Why, 
you clown, how can that thing point?" 

"Geordie can point, can't he, Geordie? 
Nice Geordie! good pointer, Geordie!" 
muttered Sid amiably. 

Then, slowly and covertly, he began 
to work away from the dog, circling 



cautiously to get a position a few yards 
behind him, so that I could get a picture 
of them both. George stood perfectly 
still, except for his head which he turned 
slowly to follow Sid's detour. 

"Nice Geordie! stand quiet, Geordie! 
Fine old Geordie!" continued my com- 
panion soothingly, meantime motioning 
me to get ready to catch the whole outfit 
with the kodak. 

Carefully Sid worked around astern 
of the old dog, and Geordie's head fol- 
lowed him, though his body remained 
pointing exactly as we had placed it. At 
last Sid was almost in position and 
Geordie's neck was nearly twisted off. 

"Got to do something to get his head 
around front," Sid gritted between his 
teeth. 

"Throw a stick out ahead of him," I 
replied, not daring to look up from the 
finder. 

With extreme care Sid began to bend 
down. He reached a rotten twig and 
raised his arm to fling it over Geordie's 
head. The move was fatal. With a 
senile yelp of pleasure, the miserable 
Geordie tried to follow the sideways 
motion of Sid's arm with his already dis- 
torted neck. The effort was too much 
for him. He reeled a second convulsive- 
ly, then spun around and with wag- 
ging tail and foolish countenance dashed 
straight at Sid to get a grip on that stick. 

In a desperate attempt to corral him 
before he turned clean around I snapped 
the bulb, but he was moving too fast for 
my twenty-fifth of a second exposure, 
and he galloped clean across the negative, 
a hazy, imbecilic dog with many legs. 

"The darned old cuss," roared Sid. 
"Why in blazes couldn't he stand still? 
I'll fool him this time." And without 
more ado my partner dashed off through 
the brush, running in a circle which 
would bring him back to a point near 
where I stood. "I'll outrun the fool," 
shouted Sid, "and when I lap him, put 
the high speed on your blunderbuss and 
catch us both." 

I saw at once that the scheme wasn't 
practical, but my shouts to that effect 
were lost on Sid who was wholly en- 
grossed in doing a marathon about that 
unmarked circle of brush with the an- 
cient George galloping stiff-legged at his 




GEORDIE SQUATTED. TERRIFIED, CLOSE TO THE GROUND. 



heels. It took three laps to convince Sid 
that though George might be enfeebled, 
he still had a fair sized sprint left in him. 

"Now wouldn't that shatter your 
patience," puffed the "corkin' subject." 
"We're stuck." 

"No, we're not," I retorted. "You 
stand still there, and I'll fix the brute." 

Clutching Geordie in my arms I car- 
ried him ten paces away, set him down, 



and intimidated him with threatened 
cuffs and kicks. He remained squatting 
close to earth. Then while I stayed 
near enough to have him still feel my in- 
fluence, I instructed Sid to obtain a 
heavy stick, which he handed to me. 

"Now, you go up close to him, so he 
won't beat it as I get back in position," 
I said. "When I heave this big club 
into the brush ahead of him, he'll prick 



1 59 




GEORDIE STARED STUPIDLY WHERE MY CLUB CRASHED INTO THE BRUSH. 



up his ears and get interested. Then 
you point your gun, and I'll gather the 
field." 

For some unknown reason the scheme 
worked. Instead of running or wallow- 
ing as, according to past performance, he 
should have done, George actually did 
arise from his recumbent pose and stare 
stupidly at the place where my club had 
landed with a crash in the brush, and I 
got a sort of a picture. 

By this time the afternoon was getting 
well along. We made a few more fren- 
zied shots at the unreliable George, and 
then with the daylight flying rapidly, we 
prepared to get reckless. We decided to 
try some time exposures. I had no tri- 
pod, but I found a stone fence and de- 
cided to make Sid famous by taking a 
nicely posed, though-you'd-never-dream- 
it, photo of him. He planted himself in 
position, leaned his gun against his side, 
and assumed a Balboa-discovering-the- 
Pacific attitude, one hand shading his 
eyes as he stared with tremendous intent- 
ness at the wonders that lay in the dis- 
tance. 

I fixed the camera on the stone wall, 
got Sid in the finder, stopped her down 
awfully fine, and opened the shutter. 

"We want this sharp," I announced, 
"so I'll give it lots of time." Then I 



discovered that I'd dropped my glove 
fifty yards back. 

"I'll go get it, and by the time I get 
back, the exposure'll be about right, I 
guess. You stand still." 

I was halfway to the lost glove when 
I heard a wild yell behind me, and 
turned just in time to see Sid dashing 
madly toward the camera, his face the 
picture of frenzied rage. The next in- 
stant there was a shrill yelp frbliv George, 
and bang went the camera off "the fence. 

Sid was spluttering with wrath when 
I reached him. "What in all possessed's 
the matter — " I began. 

"Matter — blazes — why, that blankety 
— can't you see, confound it? I was 
standing there when all of a sudden I 
saw that blamed — darn it all anyway." 
And Sid choked into incoherency. 

It was some minutes before I could 
draw from him the information that the 
ancient George, approaching his second 
childhood, no doubt, had seen the small 
rubber bulb dangling from the camera, 
and — well, had gone up and taken hold 
of it. When Sid had discovered the 
reprehensible performance and had made 
a dash to prevent it, the feeble-minded 
old brute had been so scared that his 
mouth had clicked together and he had 
snapped the picture. 



1 60 




THE MASTER 
ROGUE 

BY F. ST. MARS 

Illustrated by Charles Livingston Bull 

And he left him, grim and sulky, 
Sitting in the morning sunshine. 

Croaking fiercely his displeasure, 
Flapping his great sable pinions. 

Hiawatha. 

BUT I protest that he would have 
been completely and entire- 
ly out of place in any other O- ;^ 
setting. Given an eighteen-hun- 
dred-foot ramp, the last four hun- 
dred feet atop a sheer wall of dull 
gray, bearded with age-old moss, 
riven and gashed and 
furrowed by the 
storms of a thousand 
years; given a river 
— a silver snake alive 
— crawling at bot- 
tom, fed by a dozen 
tiny silver threads, 
spangled with bursts 
and puffs of rainbow 
vapors where the 
waterfalls spouted 
and sent up all to- 
gether a confused 
murmur like unto the 
murmur of an ants' 
city in a pinewood on 

a June day ; given a black smudge of Though motionless, he was concerned 
pine, a green splash of larch, a blotch as to his mate, her nest. When, in these 
of dull gold where the bracken lay, on days of order — and collectors — you are 
the opposite slope ; given a single kite an outlaw, when you are rare enough to 
sweeping the flank of a mile-long, dim be sought, and, more especially, when 
ridge, half smothered in rain squalls; you wear the black livery which is the 
given a silence profound as the silence heritage of the crows and the badge of 
of the deep, accentuated and focused by robbery, pillage, and murder, it behooves 
the single strokes of an ax very far away, you to "look to your tents." His mate 
and given on the brow of the ridge a would a nest, and he would have her 
single fang of rock crowned atop with have a nest, but — there is many a slip 
him, a black speck you could see miles 'twixt the egg and the chick, and well 
away, motionless, austere, sinister — a he knew it. 

raven. Would you have had him other- No man knew the age of that raven, 
wise ? No man knows the age of any raven. All 

161 



Wm^- 



A SINGLE FANG OF ROCK, CROWNED ATOP WITH HIM, 
A BLACK SPECK YOU COULD SEE MILES AWAY. 



1 62 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



I know is that by any standard of age 
he was old. Yet, the age stopped at the 
name — always excepting wickedness, of 
course. In all else was he young, in nis 
prime, keen, alert, watchful, confident, 
sure, and quite adequate — a force to be 
reckoned with by the wild folk of the 
place. 

In dress he was slovenly ; his wings 
hung, feathers were out of place. His 
beak was a coal-hammer, no less. His 
carriage was the carriage of the swash- 
buckler, and in the eye — the cruel, in- 
solently humorous eye — the leer of evil, 
not without courage, made manifest. 

Yes, he would nest. There was, ap- 
parently, no hurry; time for philosophic 
thought. Your wild folk, except pos- 
sibly starlings, never hurry, by the way. 
All the same they get through more in 
a day than the average man does in a 
week. 

At last he rose — it was like the lift- 
ing of a black thought — shook out his 
great wings to the accompaniment of 
the stiff rustling of feathers, and cast 
himself into the void. The rasp as those 
wings bit the air told of power. Yet 
there was nothing of the "gallery" in his 
flight. He flew to get there, and it was 
not till a howling, maniacal gust of wind 
swept down the mountainside upon him 
that one realized the strength of him. 
He was not concerned at all. He did 
not go tearing away like a blown leaf 
to windward, as the other birds did. He 
was not obliged to back and tack. He 
did not find need to hug the ground to 
make headway. He just kept straight on 
without concern, apparently also — but 
this can hardly have been the case — 
without trouble. 

From time to time he did a strange 
thing — strange for so sober a flyer. He 
threw himself upon his back and al- 
lowed himself to fall in that position, 
stonewise, only to recover and beat for- 
ward again without hesitation — I had 
almost said without a smile. 

Anon he came to a horrible place. 
The cliff appeared to have been cut off 
with a giant knife, and one looked over 
its face, two hundred feet sheer, into 
nothing. Here, one thought, he will 
build his nest, for it was a safe place — 
for a raven's nest, I mean. But, no. He 



went mad instead, or at least it appeared 
as if he did. He must needs choose a 
tree, a bare, wind-harried affair, stand- 
ing some half-dozen yards from the cliff's 
edge, and there start his nest. The 
madness came in in the fact that any 
good climber could reach it there, where- 
as on the only other ledge, half a hun- 
dred feet down the cliff's face, he would 
have been safe from even the collectors' 
agent. 

Presently something said "Cruck! 
Cruck!" in a hollow voice that savored 
of the tomb, and his mate dropped, a 
black shadow, from the clouds. Then 
together they labored. 

That was a mad nest building, be- 
cause the cock-bird, for all his somber 
mien, found it necessary to dance a 
crazy dance from time to time, uttering 
the while dolorous ravings, and to cast 
himself back at the cliff's edge, and 
laugh hollow croaks to think that, by 
consummate recovery and skill, he 
cheated the buzzards who hung expect- 
ant to see him scattered on the rocks be- 
low. Then, as if the picture were not 
sufficiently arresting, the sun must needs 
set behind them, and, igniting the sky 
aflame, turn both birds into coal devils, 
on a coal tree, performing contortions 
above a cliff of coal — all in silhouette 
against a silently raging furnace. 

The dawning found them hard at it 
— purple goblins now, against a sky of 
perfect pink, floating on blue-gray and 
purple mists — for the nest building of 
the raven is no sparrow's task. A wheel- 
barrow load of sticks alone, each stick 
tested separately for flaws, rot, and 
damp, comprise the outer works of the 
black one's castle, and these, gathered 
singly, often from great distance, are 
not easy to collect. 

About noon a speck — as it were an ant 
crawling up the opposite hill — appeared 
far below. Anon it stopped and was 
still — the ant had discovered a grain, 
perhaps. But it was no ant. It was a 
man, a collectors' agent, which, though 
larger, was scarcely of greater worth 
than the ant he appeared to be. He was 
gazing through binoculars, prismatic 
binoculars to be exact, and when the nest 
came within their "field" he smiled. 
The great black birds needed no 







HIS MATE DROPPED, A BLACK SHADOW, FROM THE CLOUDS. 



binoculars to show them this scourge in 
detail, and they smiled, too. I swear 
they did, or was it a passing cloud shad- 
ow that made them appear to smirk, or 
a gull skimming high overhead that 
laughed ? 

Day after day that antlike speck 
crawled aslant the opposite slope and 
leered a lustful leer through binocu- 
lars at the nest, and day after day one 
or other raven labored thereat, calling 
down maledictions on all collectors and 
their brood, and daily the nest grew from 
a notch to a bunch, from a bunch to 
a skeleton castle, and from that to a 
landmark. And the agent grinned — for 
he was very young, that agent. This 
was his first dealing with the king of the 
black fraternity. 

On the other hand the ravens were 
very old. Now the raven is born a child 
of the devil. With the years his cun- 
ning and knowledge of evil increase, and 
the getting the better of him is likely to 
fall neither to the young nor to the head- 



strong. No flies settle on your raven, if 
it please you. 

Thus our collectors' agent forgot, or 
lacked the brains to notice, that, after 
a space, one bird only of the pair took 
part in this nest building. To him the 
one bird was just a raven, but, as a 
matter of fact, it was sometimes the 
cock and sometimes the hen — and many 
of the sticks used to make that nest were 
rotten. They would not stand a gale 
with the weight of a full-grown hen 
raven atop for ten minutes, to say noth- 
ing of the brood that should come. 

Bird never did, nor ever will build nest 
with rotten sticks. The British Gov- 
ernment's "Nitro Proof" test for guns is 
no more drastic than the test to which 
birds put each single component part of 
their nursery. Still the human scourge 
grinned the vacuous grin of the igno- 
rant. Certainly that nest building was 
very late. Even he knew that it was full 
time for ravens to have laid all their 
eggs by now. Nevertheless he consoled 



[63 



164 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



himself with the thought that here was 
the nest and here were the birds. Bar- 
ring accidents, therefore, it was almost 
mathematically certain that here at the 
appointed time would be eggs also. 

On the fifth da}' — or it may have been 
the seventh, I forget — our raven left his 
nest building about the hour of noon. 
He was aware, for one thing, of his good 
lady's restlessness and bad temper, and 
for another thing, of a voice within him- 
self. It was a voice which with him, as 
with all birds, was rarely still — the voice 
of hunger. He would feed. 

Now where on earth in all that wild 
scene should a respectable old gentleman 
turn his black beak to feed ? He soared 
along at a great height over the wonder- 
ful landscape till he came to a wood of 
deep, restful green, all ashimmer in the 
sunshine and all astir with the restless 
wind that ran in following waves across 
its bosom. The wood was of oak, flung 
carpetwise across the shoulder of an am- 





A BUCK NOT HORNED NOW — CAME OUT INTO 

THE NAKED SUNLIGHT AND STARED UP AT HIM. 



pie hill, and there were sun-washed 
spaces between the trees, fringed with 
the brittle bracken, guarded by delicate 
tracery of hawthorn, bearded with cling- 
ing briers, and dimpled and patched with 
lawns of pure green, where deer fed and 
rabbits nibbled warily — exactly as oaks 
love to have it. 

Our raven hove to on a great bare 
limb on the edge of one of these peaceful 
spaces, quietly, unostentatiously, as if 
unwilling to break the peace of so per- 
fect a picture. There was nothing at all 
in his manner to warn one of what was 
coming. He just beamed on the clear- 
ing with the complacent air of a benevo- 
lent old gentleman watching the gam- 
bols of his grandchildren. He had, in- 
deed, quite a fatherly look, our raven. 
A mile away, he knew, his wife, fol- 
lowing his course, had dropped 
to a like scene, with one roving 
ej^e on the world in general and 
the other turned in his direction 
in case he needed help. 

A buck — not horned now — 
came out into the naked sunlight 
and stared up at him for a 
moment before passing on. A 
thrush flew to the top of a haw- 
thorn and told the world of his 
love that was assuredly born of 
melody, and a blackbird put him 
to shame with that lazy mastery 
of the perfect song which is all 
the blackbird's very own. A 
gay finch flaunted his gold 
against the sun on a white- 
thorn, and a single cock 
pheasant came out and posed 
for a bronze statue in the 
warm rays. 



THE MASTER ROGUE 



165 



In the shadows under the low boughs 
there were hints of dim lamps coming 
and going, which marked the passage of 
the white rumps of the elusive roe deer, 
and once a gaunt dog-fox, tongue loll- 
ing, eyes agrin, came out to roll, but 
thought better of it and went away. 
Rabbits dotted the place everywhere; 
and, as they began to forget the coming 
of the raven, all the birds lifted up their 
voices — the midday hymn in this cathe- 
dral of a thousand pillars. 

The raven looked on and seemed al- 
most to beam his kindly approval of 
such innocent delight of the wood folk. 
One almost forgot the warning of his 
color as one beheld him at that moment, 
so peaceful and content his air. 

Suddenly was silence. It was as if a 
finger had been laid on Nature's lips, 
and a whisper sighed through the glades 
breathing one word — "Silence!" But it 
was not silence the whisper said. It 
was "Death!" A swift shadow shot 
across the clearing and all was, as it 
were, crystallized. Nothing moved. 
Nothing spoke. Every bird and every 
small beast "froze," while the maker of 
that shadow, a hawk, clipper built, con- 
structed on racing lines, sailed above, 
took a turn, sailed again, and slid on 
over the far trees. 

He had seen nothing because nothing 
had moved. Dozens of birds — all prey 
to him — really came under that sheathed 
glance, but they were "frozen," and so 
he saw them not. Only man, it seems, 
possesses the power of eliminating the 
"frozen" wild folk from their harmoni- 
ous surroundings, and not every man at 
that. 

In a few minutes Nature spoke again, 
song poured forth, and all went about 
upon his or her business as before. 

The raven waited on. His air was no 
less placid, no whit less innocent, than 
before, but he was aware of an increas- 
ing aching void in his innerdsall the same. 
The ravens, however, have built up 
their success of species on the text: "He 
that believeth shall not make haste," and 
good reason had he to believe. 

There is the patience of the cat wait- 
ing for a mouse, and there is the patience 
of the eagle motionless on its pinnacle, 
and there is another patience of the pike 



waiting, head to stream, at the tail of the 
mill-race, but the patience of the vul- 
ture and the raven exceedeth all these. 
To the cat and the eagle and the pike is 
only the uncertainty of the chase, but to 
the vulture and the raven is the most cer- 
tain thing of all — death. 

Therefore they wait on, they believe 
and do not make haste, knowing that, in 
the end, all things must come to them. 
They have, as it were, the last word. 
Only man has upset their plans. He 
will neither die decently in the open, nor 
let them live. You will find, however, 
that wherever man does let them live, 
treating them as scavengers, they are the 
most numerous of all birds — the waiting 
game pays. 

Fifteen slow, languorous minutes 
dropped by, and during that time our 
raven imitated very passably an image 
carved out of the very jet. Then some- 
thing moved. 

A rabbit came out into the clearing, 
and it was in trouble so that it could 
not refrain from giving a helpless, baby- 
like squeal. Instantly there was no liv- 
ing thing in the clearing, only the rab- 
bit that dragged itself forward as one 
afflicted with paralysis, and the raven 
still as a pond. 

Anon came another thing. Very long, 
and very low was this thing, so that to 
progress it moved in leaps, rippling over 
the grass snakily. It was brown as au- 
tumn leaves are brown, and its eyes 
shone red in a flat head, the shape of a 
wedge. The raven looked again and saw 
it was a stoat. 

The rabbit made no effort to avert 
the death that followed. It dragged and 
squealed till the stoat fell upon it and 
delivered the fatal death bite of all the 
weasels, the swift severing of the verte- 
bras at the base of the skull. 

For a few seconds after the murder 
the raven was aware of the stoat's beady 
eyes fixed upon himself. Then he was 
aware of their quick shifting to some- 
thing else above, and at the same instant 
a bolt seemed to fall from the sky. The 
stoat did not so much go, as be gone. 
On a second was a stoat above a rabbit. 
On the next second the rabbit was still 
there, but there was no stoat, not so 
much as a hair of his tail. Only, in 



i66 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



his place stood a big buzzard, and the 
raven had no distinct recollection how 
on earth he got there, except that he 
must have had some connection with the 
falling of the bolt from the blue. 

Up to this point, as you will perceive, 
the raven had taken no part in the play. 
Now, however, he spoke — it was the 
voice of the vaulted tomb — and an- 
nounced his intention to claim his dues. 
The buzzard had its back turned to him 
at the moment, but that did not prevent 
it from yanking its head clean round 
and fixing him with its stabbing stare 
in that uncanny way peculiar to eagles 
and their allies. 

Also it replied. Now the appearance 
of the buzzard is regal. One might al- 
most mistake the bird for an eagle — 
when the eagle was not by. Therefore, 
when it replied in a thin, peevish mew 
that would have disgraced a three weeks' 
old kitten, one felt surprise. But the 
raven took no notice. He went down 
to the rabbit like a knight charging, beak 
held straight out as a lance in rest. And 
the buzzard — remembered an appoint- 
ment. It had apparently no more heart 
than the rabbit it would eat. 

Came later — the single croak must 
have called her — the raven's mate, and 
the two dined in their own peculiar 
way, which is not our way by any means. 

It was an hour after that, when the 
afternoon had set in wet and squally, 
that we find them flying low over the 
shoulder of a grim, naked hill not a quar- 
ter of a mile from their nest. But they 
were not going to their nest. They went, 
instead, to a ghastly place. It was as 
if a Titanic shell had burst on the crest 
of the hill, rending and tearing out a 
gash two hundred feet deep. 

The walls sloped outward, bulged 
horribly; the bottom was filled as to 
half its area by a bottomless pool — at 
least, the folk of those parts said it was 
bottomless — and it was tenanted entire- 
ly by a wind that sighed and sighed for- 
ever through a rift in the ramp of its 
sides, and by nothing else at all. There 
were, however, bones at the bottom 
among the strewn rocks on one side, so 
death, if not life, visited there. And 
the Gorge of Death called they this 
place. 



The ravens shot over the giddy edge 
of the cliff, slid like black meteors down 
the sickening drop, and vanishing over 
the bulge before spoken of, exactly above 
the spot where the bones — they were 
the bones of lambs — lay one hundred 
feet beneath. And they did not return. 
Night came on, and they failed to show 
again. 

If, however, any had been out at that 
stark hour when night pales to day one 
might have seen the cock raven beating 
heavily high overland to this spot, and 
he bore a burden, the leg of a lamb. No, 
he did not kill the lamb. He found it 
dead. I don't know how he came by the 
leg, though, without the rest. 

For once he hurried, and literally 
toppled over that awful cliff, swept out 
in a hissing curve, and vanished down 
under. 

Now, it was that morning that the 
collectors' agent chose to rob the ravens' 
nest. It had been completed some little 
while now, and he rarely came to the 
spot to watch without finding one or 
other bird about the place. He con- 
cluded there were eggs. You picture 
him, toiling up the slope from the val- 
ley below, growing from an ant to a fly, 
and from a fly to a beetle, and from a 
beetle to an irregular smudge half sub- 
merged in heather. All the world knew 
he was coming; those on the crest of 
the hill a mile above him were aware 
of his progress without looking. Any 
could say, pointing, with shut eyes: "He 
is here. He is there. Now he is by the 
old peat pool. Now he crosses the 
stream." 

Indeed, who could not know ? Were 
there not a dozen voices shouting it out 
to the tops of the immemorial hills? 
Now it was the curlew — the spirit of 
the waste — weaving space mazes and 
yelling lost yells ; now it was a buzzard, 
a wheeling speck in the infinite, whis- 
pering "See-uu! See-uu!"; anon it 
would be a cock grouse, important and 
querulous, or a blue hare making a liv- 
ing streak of itself up to and over the 
brow, saying nothing at all, but speak- 
ing much in action, or possibly a golden 
plover, shocked and excitable, dashing 
about the sky, whistling mournfully. 
All spoke the same words, though in 




NOW IT WAS THE CURLEW THE SPIRIT OF THE WASTE- 
WEAVING SPACE MAZES AND YELLING LOST YELLS. 



many languages: "He comes. Man 
comes. To cover! To cover!" 

A red fox, the last of the night hunt- 
ers to go to lair, paused a moment to 
watch with sharp, cunning eyes the in- 
carnation of his hatred stumbling two 
rifle shots below him ; a restless stag de- 
tached himself from his surroundings 
and removed over the hill crest with 
cynical displeasure, and a bustling black 
cock — goodness and its lyre-tailed self 
know what it was doing there — got up 
with a shocking commotion and hurtled 
down into the valley bulletwise. 

The hen raven peered over the edge 
of the nest, cocked her head on one side, 
eyed the marauder with her one unfor- 
gettable eye — she had lost the other over 
the matter of a slight miscalculation of 
gunshot range — and made a remark. The 
cock — he was sitting on a honey-colored 
cairn of boulders — replied in suitably 
obscene criticism of the man thing, and 
— I like to think of his doing this be- 
cause it was so human in the light of 



after events and proved him the born 
actor that he was — danced an unholy 
dance of rage. He lifted his wings, and 
with them half open above his back, ex- 
ecuted — always looking at his toes — -a 
sort of crazy Highland "fling." 

Meanwhile the man climbed slowly, 
one eye on the nest, the other on the 
ground, till at last he was within eighty 
yards of the tree. Came then a rush 
as the hen raven bundled herself bod- 
ily up from the nest, and her mate join- 
ing her — you could hear the stiff rustle 
of their shadowing wings at that dis- 
tance — hurled aloft, to swoop and croak 
awful things. 

Presently they fetched up on a rock 
a couple of hundred yards off and 
watched the man fix his rope and put on 
his climbing irons beneath the tree. He 
was sure of his eggs now. Had he not 
beheld the hen bird sit tight till the very 
last moment? 

They watched, and our raven was 
magnificent throughout. He became 



167 



1 68 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



rage made manifest. He tore up grass 
with his beak ; he danced as on hot 
plates ; he swooped at a crew of vulgar- 
mouthed jackdaws and all but slew one 
of the luckless footpads that he cut off 
from the flock; he soared up to the ulti- 
mate dim clouds because the shadow of 
a kestrel crossed his path and the little 
falcon, thinking to mock him with her 
more exquisite wing power, played 
about him as a terrier does a cow, till, 
in an unguarded moment, she came too 
near and failed to clear his streaking 
rush. She fell in consequence to earth. 
The fall had killed her, but it was not 
the fall that had all but cut her head 
from her shoulders. 

The climbing of that tree was a slow 
and painful job. It was rotten as a 
toadstool in October. (Did you ever 
know raven build on a rotten tree, or 
rook on a rotten elm? No, nor I.) 
The collectors' agent should have known 
too, but he kept on. Times he swore as 
branch after branch snapped like a pis- 
tol shot under his grasp, and times he 
panted too hard to swear, by reason of 
the effort. Yet he never guessed. He 
just climbed. 

At last he could put his hand over the 
edge of the nest — he was breathing hard 
now, and grinning a triumphant grin — 
could, with another hoist and an extra 
wriggle, feel within with the tips of his 
fingers, and — 

At that moment the collectors' agent 
became aware of a sudden stillness. Not 
a thing stirred. The ravens were silent. 
No creature spoke on earth or in sky. 
His heart seemed to stand still. The 
smile was still on his face, parodied. He 
gave a mighty heave. A beetle in the 
nest might have seen his face as it peered 
over, set in a sickly grin. But the beetle 
was busy dodging the clutching fingers 
and vanished. The vacuous face of the 
grin remained, staring, staring, staring 
— the nest was empty. It had, as a 
matter of fact, never been anything else. 
And the ravens were gone. The col- 
lectors' agent discovered that when he 
looked round. They had disappeared, 
probably when he first noticed the sud- 
den silence, and he — he was done — 
duped — had — fooled — bluffed. The 
nest was a dummy, and he had wasted 



his time watching it for the major part 
of a month. 

Then that collectors' agent descended 
from that tree as swiftly as might be, 
and upon the ground below he, in turn, 
danced his dance. Mad as the raven's 
dance was his, a grotesque and weird se- 
ries of contortions, and as he danced, 
his clinched fists were raised above his 
head, even as the raven's wings had been, 
and he cursed those ravens by all the 
powers of darkness and by the devil, 
their master, and by a hundred and one 
other things as well. 

But the ravens did not care — not they. 
They were sitting just under the bulg- 
ing, unclimbable, leaning ramp of the 
side of the Gorge of Death a quarter, of 
a mile away. On the edge of their nest 
sat they ,•* a huge nest, strong and well 
made, tucked snugly into a perfect ledge, 
anchored on century-old ivy, and 
strengthened by years of perfecting here 
and there. No man could reach them 
here. Above was the bulging cliff, like 
a giant's breast, and below — a sheer 
hundred-foot drop to the surface of the 
bottomless pool, and Heaven alone 
knows how many feet drop below that. 
they did not care for such things. Why 
should they? 

They were contemplating fondly as 
fine a brood of three healthy, lusty young 
ravens as ever opened their beaks to the 
rising sun for food on a spring morning. 
The last had only been hatched that 
day, but in due time the last flew. And 
in the autumn, when the winds howled, 
bringing the arctic wild fowl down in 
strings across a ragged sky, shepherds, 
going to their work of a morning, saw 
five great black ravens beating over 
the sublime, grim, blunt shoulders of the 
hills, and they would nod and grunt to 
themselves something about: 

"I'm thinking the oold 'un's mighty 
fly. They've reared another muckle 

broodie of bairns there against the world 

> , ,, 
an a . 

And the buzzards whom the collectors' 

agent had looted of their eggs before he 

departed weaved mazes in and out 

among the tattered reek of the clouds, 

mewing weak-hearted protests at the 

great black birds and wondering how 

they had done the trick. But the ravens 



THE SCARLET TANAGER 



169 



said no word. They raided, and they 
risked, and despoiled, and pillaged, and 
pirated after the immemorial custom of 
ravens all the world over, and they 
never told anybody their secret. 

Only the ring ouzel — he who had 
nested by the bottomless pool, under the 
very robber's stronghold — knew, and he 
told me, what time an October gale 
flung him exhausted at midnight on my 
window sill some hundreds of miles 
south of the raven's home. I took him 
in, and, as he sat on the hearth rug — his 
jet form, a smeared patch on the red 
stuff, turned to ruby and all manner of 
"shot" colors beneath the blaze — alter- 
nately sipping whisky and milk from a 



spoon and stretching his chilled wings 
to the blaze, while I dozed in the arm- 
chair, lulled by the howling storm, he 
told the tale to me as the price of his 
life. At least, I like to think he did — 
and yet — and yet — ! 

What would you? The hot room, 
the cold night, the storm without, the 
hour, the stillness above the storm — per- 
haps I dozed and it was a dream after 
all. Who knows? The ring ouzel 
does, but he is thousands of miles away 
now in tropical Africa, or wherever it is 
ring ouzels are pleased to winter. And 
probably I shall never see him again. 
And he will never be able to prove the 
truth of what I have said. 




SAW FIVE GREAT BLACK RAVENS BEATING OVER THE SUBLIME, 
GRIM, BLUNT SHOULDERS OF THE HILLS. 



THE SCARLET TANAGER 



MY earliest recollection of the 
scarlet tanager dates back to 
boyhood, to the woods not far 
from the place where "Uncle Tom" had 
his adventure with the wolves — an old, 
familiar story in the school readers twen- 
ty-five or thirty years ago. These woods 
that I speak of bordered Green River, 
and through their dense tangles the tan- 
agers darted back and forth as if, as 
Thoreau says, they would ignite the 
leaves. It seemed then that these mighty 
woods could never be swept away. And 
what beauty was theirs ! Beauty of 
song, of flower ! Hundreds of tanagers 
where there is one now! Acres of bril- 
liant cardinal flowers where now the 
earth is given to meaner weeds. 



The tanager, because of his splendid 
plumage, is, like the cardinal, a prize 
for thoughtless and cruel hands. But 
fortunately for him he dwells in the 
most secluded places. True, now and 
again he comes near some quiet home 
and flutes his robinlike strain ; but he 
was never a bird of the yard — he is 
too shy to love the crowded dwellings of 
men. 

Sometimes, after a shower, the tan- 
ager, like the vireo, is at his best. And 
often, as twilight merges into night, he 
may be heard at the edge of the wood 
welcoming the first white star low in 
the west. Then his song seems to me 
a .touching farewell to the dear woods 
that must soon pass away forever. 



SOME BEARS 

BY ARTHUR E. McFARLANE. 




LL the way from Lesser 
Slave Lake to the Cross- 
ing we had been listen- 
ing to stories about Peace 
River bears. It was only 
a few years since one of 
them had clawed a twist of jerked moose 
meat, meant for the morrow's breakfast, 
from beneath the pillow of Monseigneur, 
the Bishop of Athabasca! Another, 
whom a "Company's man" under the 
warming influence of "permit" whisky 
had mistaken for a long-lost brother, had 
entered into it with such feeling that 
he had both returned the embrace and 
kept most of the man's clothes as affec- 
tion's garland. 

A third, coming suddenly upon a 
dog train, had left huskies and harness 
so knotted, balled together, and, as it 
were, interwoven, that only by repeated 
countings of heads and tails could their 
driver (upon his subsequent return) per- 
suade himself that he had not eleven or 
twelve dogs, instead of the four with 
which he had > started out. 

And now we were, as it were, in their 
very lair. We had embarked on the 
steamer Peace River, the big stern- 
wheeler which was to take us from the 
Crossing to Fort Vermilion. We went 
for further bear information to Captain 
Gullion, her commander, and to John 
Sutherland, her Scotch engineer. 

"How many would we be likely to see 
on the trip?" Speaking from general 
averages the captain put it at about 
twenty. Mr. Sutherland, being Scotch 
and conservative, would not guarantee 
more than twelve or fifteen. It was not 
the best season for bears. 

"At what hour did they generally 
come out?" 

"Well, for the most part not till after 
the second table had finished. (It was 
then about six.) But if we were in a 
hurry, of course, the pilot would blow 
the whistle any time." 



"What would he blow the whistle 
for?" 

"Why, to let them know that we were 
ready." 

To josh the "munias" — the tender- 
foot — is laid upon every hardened 
Canuck north of 55° as a religious duty. 
And for a beginning this was very well 
indeed. Those of us who had brought 
out guns attempted to give the impres- 
sion, while getting them into conceal- 
ment again, that they belonged to some 
one else. And the first table followed 
captain and purser into dinner. 

In the surrounding staterooms, the 
rest began to hang up shaving mirrors 
and get into deck shoes. On the for- 
ward deck there was a litter of maga- 
zines and a choice of steamer chairs. 
One luxurious member, who had discov- 
ered that the bath-room possessed steam- 
pipe connections, proceeded to lay him- 
self out in the cleanly porcelain and in- 
dulge in a Turkish bath. This, too, 
eight days by trail and river north of 
Edmonton. 

Meanwhile at the table the imparting 
of bear information continued earnestly. 
On the preceding trip, so far as the 
officers of the Peace River could con- 
scientiously estimate, they had seen be- 
tween twenty-five and thirty. These 
were, of course, only black and brown 
bears. But there were grizzlies (also 
cinnamons and silver tips) farther back 
toward the mountains. 

The man in the Turkish bath began 
immediately and with clamor to speak 
for the grizzlies. All grizzlies coming 
aboard were to be sent in to him. And 
for his part he wanted the pilot to start 
blowing the whistle to call out the bears 
right away. 

At that moment the whistle blew. 
The table applauded greatly. Evidently 
the steamer Peace River was the real 
thing. 

But next moment, whang!- — bang! — 



170 



SOME BEARS 



171 



from the deck house above our heads the 
pilot's 38.55 began to go. 

And then another luxurious member 
with a cigarette and his heels on the rail 
found himself staring at a three-hundred- 
pound black bear chasing frantically 
through the red-willow bushes along 
shore, much as a large Newfoundland 
pup might make frenzied time along the 
inside of a garden fence under the ex- 
citement of a passing train ! 

It was as sudden as that. And the 
whistle was blowing for another before 
those concealed guns could be dragged 
feverishly out again. Save for a few 
enhancing touches demanded by the art 
of narration those "H. B. C." navigators 
had not been joshing. Ten minutes 
more, and we had seen a third full- 
grown bear get to cover, and a fourth ! 
Every weapon in the party, from a "22," 
that shot only about half the distance to 
a 405 automatic express, later to be used 
against African elephants, was brought 
into play in the sulphurous half circle be- 
hind the forward rail. By sundown, of 
smoking shells you might have gathered 
up a dustpanful from the deck where the 
excited Nimrod had dropped them. 

For two mornings and two evenings 
the shooting went on. We saw seven- 
teen bears in all. We killed three — 
two black and one brown. And orig- 
inally it was the intention to make this 
a hunting story. But it would not do. 
We killed those three bears in the 
water, swimming and defenseless. It 
was not sport. For days we had bear 
liver and haunch and tenderloin and "the 
juicy bear steaks," made gorily luscious 
to our youth by the pages of R. M. Bal- 
lantyne. 

But all alike left a taste in the 
mouth. It was not sport. The half- 
breed deckhands who hung over the 
bows and made lines fast about the big 
clumsy bodies and then used the capstan 
to haul them aboard might quite as 
easily have killed those bears with axes, 
as in fact, on the Peace, it has often been 
done. There is an Alice-in-Wonderland 
effect about shooting bears between 
courses, in doing it from a steamer chair 
after laying down the latest magazine. 
But, as I remember Alice, there was 
good stuff in her, and I don't think she 



would have smiled upon that sort of 
thing at all. 

There is, however, some tale to be 
told of a river where in half as many 
hunting hours seventeen bears may be 
seen. Later we heard of seven being 
seen together, of twenty-eight passed in 
three hours, of more than seventy 
counted in a four-day voyage upstream. 
And we no longer doubted. If else- 
where upon this planet there is any such 
bear river, it should send in its post- 
office address at once. 

The Peace is about as wide as the 
Hudson in the Catskills. It flows north- 
east from the Canadian Rockies to Lake 
Athabasca. And for five hundred and 
eighty miles, from above Hudson Hope 
to below Fort Vermilion, it is navigable. 
It offers, indeed, one of the longest un- 
interrupted stretches of steam navigation 
in America. Up in the foothills toward 
the Rockies there is still a famous grizzly 
country, which must be dealt with in 
some other place. 

A Land of Game 

From the Grande Prairie country, 
into which there has already begun a 
rush of wagoning homesteaders east to 
Hudson Bay, the land is one vast game 
preserve. Moose and caribou are equally 
plentiful, to say nothing of wild geese 
and swan and every kind of duck. The 
banks and islands of the Peace are for 
their part one varied and continuous 
berry patch. Berries, from the wild 
strawberry of June to the mild saskatoon 
of September, are the chosen fat pro- 
ducer of the black bear. 

And therefore, from all the back trails 
and uplands in due season do the black 
bears descend. The Peace gets them all 
for a hundred miles around. Here and 
there, in the few places where the bluffs 
are bald, you can make out their beaten 
tracks like narrower cow paths. And 
everywhere you find their tunnels under 
the bushes. 

They come down to feed in the cool 
beginning and end of the day and lie up 
in the spruce and poplar woods during 
the heat. They seem to have no quarrel 
with one another. From a single small 
island we routed three. Unless wounded, 



172 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



or accompanied by cubs, they are little 
more dangerous than as many big, long- 
haired pigs. All they want is to fill them- 
selves in peace. And, according to those 
who know, when a large, hungry 
"musqua" sits back on his hunkers and 
with a right and left cycle motion of his 
fore paws gathers the berry-bush tops to 
his mouth as to a kind of cutting-box, 
his chompings of gastronomic happiness 
keeping him from hearing even a stern- 
wheeler till it is all but on his beam. 

But the whistle, between the Peace's 
hollow shores, starts echoes which in 
one gaping moment convince him that 
the Philistines are upon him from all 
sides at once. If he is feeding on an 
island, he makes a headlong rush for the 
mainland. If on the mainland, he will 
often plunge in and attempt to gain an 
imagined safety on the other side of the 
river. Hence the water shooting. 

The bush Crees of the country take 
advantage of steamer and whistle for 
what summer bear hunting they are com- 
pelled to do. No Cree kills a bear at 
such a season for his hide. A peltry for 
which the Hudson's Bay Company or 
Revillon's would pay twelve dollars in 
March will not bring a dollar and a half 
in August. The skin is "unprime"; the 
hair will come away with the first comb- 
ing. The summer killing is made solely 
for the meat and lard. 

The Indian knows how little chance 
he has of getting his bear if he has to 
follow him through a mile of raspberry 
and saskatoon thickets. Accordingly, on 
almost every elbow along the river and, 
above all, opposite . every big berry 
island, you can see the bare lodge poles 
of a tepee where a Cree with a hauled-up 
dugout has lain in wait for civilization 
to come to his assistance. The whistle 
brings out his bear and gives him the 
safe, deliberate water shot. His only 
care is to put the bullet through the head. 
A shot through the body would send the 
bear to the bottom. But, saying it again 
from an ill conscience, it is not sport. 

On the Peace, the real sports in the 
bear-hunting business, those who are 
ready to take a chance with their fun, 
are four-footed. In March or April the 
bear has just come out or is still "denned 
up." His fur is at its best. If awake 



he is on the keen edge both for food and 
trouble. And the hunting is done with 
dogs. A Cree bear-dog is, for lack of 
outward embellishment, ne plus ultra 
and facile princeps. He has no pedi- 
gree and he has no style. He even fights 
with his tail between his legs. But as 
all have borne witness who have watched 
him work, he knows his job. 

The hunter takes the snowshoe trail 
with, it may be, five or six. But rarely 
are more than two of them "broken" 
dogs. The others are to get their break- 
ing shortly and in the kind of school 
where one learns only once. Where a 
bear is "denned up," no matter how 
many feet of snow are covering him, his 
breath will always make a big, blue-ice 
blow-hole. A bear-dog can scent such a 
blow-hole for at least a mile. 

Accordingly when the party has 
reached bear country the dogs will be- 
gin to "range." That is, the/ leave the 
trail and strike it again only after mak- 
ing half circles of a mile or more in 
radius. One "broken" dog will go to 
the right, the other to the left. Again 
and again they swing back across the 
trail, pick up the man, make their silent 
report, and swing out on the next half 
circle. But sooner or later a dog will 
not come back, and then the man calls 
in the remainder of the pack and in his 
turn leaves the trail. Unless the dog 
has met a ranging timber wolf — in 
which case, by the time the rest of the 
party arrive, that timber wolf will prob- 
ably be eating him — there is a bear to 
be prodded out. 

Breaking the Dogs 

Now a bear has feelings about being 
roused before his regular hour, even as 
you and I. And when he has been awak- 
ened with a stick, he is very angry in- 
deed. And here the green dogs have 
their first chance to go wrong. One of 
them may seek to show his mettle by 
thrusting his head into the blow-hole 
— and very likely have most of it taken 
off. Or when the bear has humped him- 
self furiously out, another dog may make 
the mistake of attacking him in front. 

So attacked, a bear will at once settle 
back upon his haunches. He will begin 



SOME BEARS 



173 



to slap his hands to and fro with the 
seeming impotence of a fat man in hot 
weather making a last attempt to drive 
the flies away. And a black bear's gen- 
eral sloppiness of movement makes his 
slappings seem weak and without direc- 
tion, too. As a matter of fact, when a 
dog is caught so once, there is rarely 
any occasion for him to be caught a sec- 
ond time. 

But the dog that comes out of it only 
moderately damaged has taken the vital 
step in the business of his "breaking." 
He will forever afterwards have the 
clearest idea of a bear's fighting reach 
when he extends. He will have a score 
to settle with the whole bear family that 
will lead him to run for a week any 
time to get his revenge on one of them. 
And he will never again tackle a bear in 
front. 

The "broken" bear-dog, one on each 
side, goes at the flanks. He knows that 
a bear has a more than Napoleonic aver- 
sion to attacking with his rear in jeop- 
ardy. The first nip, and his forward 
plunge ends in a frothing jerk to the 
right about and a gnashing settling down 
again. When he turns to the left, he 
gets it on the right. And he gets it on 
the right the instant he swings to the left 
again. It is not that the dogs are afraid. 
Not one of them but has his scars, and 
few of them live to be old. But it is 
their business to keep that bear where he 
is till the hunter can choose his shot. 

A local trapper, Joe My-goose, was 
making the ten-mile round of his mink 
and marten snares, accompanied by his 
dogs but with no thought of bear what- 
ever, when they flushed a grizzly. Joe 
My-goose was carrying a "22," shooting 
"shorts" — the sort of popgun that is 
used for prairie chicken. Not only that, 
but the first thing he did under the stress 
of the occasion was to get one of his 
snowshoes caught fast in a post-willow 
root. 

Joe My-goose might well believe that 
his goose was cooked, but his dogs 
proved equal even to that. It took the 
great, rabidly whirling brute five min- 
utes to make twice as many yards. The 
little popgun could only bleed him ; it 
required more than fifty of the tiny 
shells to do the business. But they did 



it in the end. For both dogs, it was their 
last hunting. 

In the upper foothill valleys of the 
Peace there are still grizzlies. We saw 
none, but all the way down the river 
and back again we heard of them. And 
when they were hunted, at least in the 
great huntings of a generation ago, it 
was not the dogs that were the heroes. 
In the country between Fort St. John's 
and Fort Nelson there was a line of In- 
dians and Metis who seem to have gone 
out and fought grizzlies, man against 
bear, as for a kind of peculiar, desper- 
ate glory. They were like ruder mata-' 
dors seeking a far more perilous bull- 
ring. And their name and deeds are fast 
becoming legends of the river. There 
was the Thick Knee, Wahscoopi, who 
gave the challenge whenever the chance 
came, and Moskoskolah "who was 
scalped," and old Annoosi "who put his 
sign" on a bear, and most famous of all, 
the three brothers with a quartering of 
white in them, Francois, Jean-Baptiste, 
and Duncan Testawits. 

The Knife for Grizzlies 

Wahscoopi killed his grizzlies with 
the knife, though how he did it no one 
ever knew. According to some, he 
painted for it and danced, and when he 
had found a grizzly he "made medicine," 
that is, put a charm on him. It is cer- 
tain that he used only the slight, eight- 
inch "buffalo-knife" such as you can still 
buy in the more remote Hudson's Bay 
Company posts to-day. And he came 
back with the claw-hands, which the ad- 
miring squaws sewed together, palm to 
palm, and made into firebags that Wah- 
scoopi's fame might endure forever. If 
he did paint himself and dance and lay 
charms on the great beasts before he 
fought them, the sight must have been 
one worth going some distance to see. 

Moskoskolah "who was scalped" was 
scalped by the grizzlies themselves, and 
therefore there must have been at least 
a shade of animus in his killings. Never- 
theless, he took the chances which mark 
the heroic mind. With an old 28-bore, 
operated by the horrible untrustworthi- 
ness of the percussion cap, he made it a 
point of honor to kill with the ear shot. 



174 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



With such a gun this meant that the 
grizzly must be within a distance in 
which, as he said, "he could make a 
little talk to him." 

And to get the shot at all he had then 
to throw him one of his gauntlets, or 
even his buckskin jacket. A grizzly will 
always stoop for a moment to sniff of 
such things. And in that moment the 
lowered head gave Moskoskolah his line 
through the ear to the brain. When, in 
our generation, gilded white hunters 
from private cars are acquiring big-game 
reputations by killing grizzlies at the 
other side of canyons, it is well to recall 
these things. 

Putting His "Sign" on Him 

Annoosi did not put his "sign" on 
every bear he met. It happened only 
once, toward the end of his career, and 
it happened in this way. The great dan- 
ger in the era before shell ammunition 
lay, of course, in getting your powder 
damp ; even carrying it in moosehide did 
not guarantee you against that. And 
one day when old Annoosi was in the 
greatest need of dry powder, he found 
that his was damp. He clubbed his gun. 

In the ponderous 28-bore the metal 
extended right back to the butt, which 
gave it weight for clubbing, and before 
he went down Annoosi succeeded in get- 
ting a right and left to the head. They 
marked the grizzly, and they appear to 
have had the gradually befogging effect 
of a pair of black eyes. For when An- 
noosi continued the fight on the ground 
in a furious rough and tumble, the bear 
gave up first. He broke grip and with 
chompings retired whence he had come. 

For his part the old hunter was found 
soon enough to get him to the Com- 
pany's post at St. John's and into hos- 
pital. In time he recovered, but his con- 
valescence was filled with one thought 
only, of that grizzly. When he "went 
out" again, it was no satisfaction to him 
at all to notch up a succession of other 
grizzlies. He owed his score to the one 
which bore his sign. As Annoosi was 
plainly a good deal older after the en- 
counter than he had been before, the 
thing might have ended badly had not 
a grizzly been killed and brought in to 



the Hay River post which bore that sign 
beyond dispute. Both hunters and 
Company allowed it, and the bear-kill- 
ing ancient could retire to his long slum- 
ber and sleep the sleep of a man who is 
no longer burdened under a weight of 
debt. 

The brothers Testawits — Duncan 
still survives as the hoary headman on 
a Cree reserve near Peace River 
Crossing — were the sons of a bear-killer 
who was famous before them. And they 
made themselves worthy of their sire. 
One story, told with all simplicity by 
a Metis interpreter named Bourassa, 
must suffice to illustrate their psychol- 
ogy. One day Jean Baptiste went out 
to get a bear alone, when the meeting 
went against him. After a terrible maul- 
ing he was left apparently for dead, 
but the sound of his gun brought in the 
other two brothers and also a brother- 
in-law. 

Duncan and the brother-in-law got 
Jean Baptiste down to the river and out 
on a raft. But Francois, who, as the 
teller of the story put it, "was bravest 
of all for bears," stayed behind to con- 
clude the matter. Beating on the rocks 
and trees, he called upon that bear to 
come back and fight again with him. 
"Always a bear he come, too," explained 
the story-teller, "when a Testawits call 
like that." And when Francois Testa- 
wits had for some time been beating on 
trees and crying out insults and giving 
challenges which no bear could refuse 
and keep his caste, in the end that griz- 
zly came. Then the challenger told 
him who he was, upon what mortal 
grounds the quarrel lay, threw down his 
gun, and killed him with his hunting 
knife. 

Under the Rockies where the grizzly 
country and the black bear country over- 
lap in a hard winter the grizzly is in 
a fearsome way something of a hunter 
himself. The big bear "dens up" when 
the snow comes, but he sleeps very fit- 
fully, if at all. And he comes out al- 
most daily to track up and down about 
his den. Naturalists have puzzled over 
this. One explanation might be that he 
is finding it a long time between meals. 
In any case he often leaves his den alto- 
gether and indulges in what is known 



SOME BEARS 



175 



locally as a "walking winter." He may 
stop at the neighboring streams, break 
the ice if he can, and attempt to fish, 
though he rarely has anything to show 
for it but a coat of frozen snow. 

Some Peace River hunters will tell 
you that he goes into the water with the 
idea of putting on this ice-coat, that it 
keeps him warm ! But sooner or later a 
walking grizzly is almost certain to di- 
rect his march toward the blow-holes 
of black-bear land. And when he has 
found a blow-hole he goes to work to dig 
out his swarthy relative with the earnest 
matter-of-factness of a French pig dig- 
ging out a truffle. The black bear is 
slow to grasp the situation at first, but 
when, getting the sleep out of his eyes, 
he does grasp it, he at least gives the 
grizzly a frightful grace before his 
meat. 

Probably almost all those fights to the 
death between animals of different spe- 
cies that are reported in wood-lore, and 
looked upon with suspicion, are simply 
attempts of the one animal to eat the 
other. George Harvey, now of Lesser 
Slave Lake, was attached to the Hud- 
son's Bay post over on Sturgeon when 
four Indians came in who had witnessed 
such an affair from the other side of a 
coulee, and at the end of it had been able 
to shoot the surviving grizzly. They 
brought in the skins in confirmation. 
Until they heard the story, the Com- 
pany's people were in some doubt as to 
what the said skins were. 

It will never be considered sport to 
dig out black bears so and to eat them 
without the office of cookery, but it is 
at least as honorable as to shoot them 
from a steamer chair. And in any case 
there is another way. Outfit at Edmon- 
ton. Make the three hundred and fifty 
miles to Peace River Crossing by stage 
and river steamer ; there is a regular 
transportation line, with abundance of 



small game all the way. And at the 
Crossing buy or hire a big Cree dug- 
out. A Cree dugout is no such rolling 
horse-trough as you see farther south, 
but the perfect product of the "crook 
knife." 

Its lines are those of a canoe, it is as 
capacious as the birch bark, and it can 
be rendered perfectly safe by lashing to 
a stick of spruce for an outrigger. Then 
it will be merely a matter of going with 
a four-mile current through the most 
beautiful of countries, of stopping where 
you will, of camping on the beach by 
night, or of sleeping in your boat beneath 
the stars. And when you see a bear that 
you really want, you can go ashore and 
talk to him. 

One spring night some wagon freight- 
ers were teaming south of the Landing, 
when one of them got off at a small 
creek to get a drink, slipped on the clay 
bank and came down straddling a huge 
black bear that was no doubt fishing for 
suckers. 

"O' course," the teamster explained, 
"us fellers up in this country don't make 
no more account of bears than we do 
of hogs. But this lad, I reckoned he 
might be hostile along of havin' his 
fishin' spoiled like that. He got my 
boot-heel, too, gettin' up the bank. An' 
then I had to run to ketch my team." 

"You ketched them," said one of his 
fellows: "and you didn't only ketch 
them. You finished about a mile an' a 
half ahead." 

"Well," said the Marathoner, with 
some color, "I ain't denyin' it. For, once 
I seen the way he was takin' it, 'All 
right,' I says, 'just for that now, by gee, 
you're goin' to get a run for your 
money! 

And just in this willingness to give the 
bear a run for his money lies the secret 
of shooting black bears with a good con- 
science. 




BAD MEDICINE 

BY HULBERT FOOTNER 
Illustrated by R. W. Amick 



CHAPTER III 

The First Blow 



lOR three weeks all went well 

at Moose River. The de- 
i meanor of the breeds changed, 
and they no longer showed 
Parson Dick any open animos- 
ity. A man of more worldly 
wisdom might have seen something still 
more ominous in the sudden change, but 
Dick was slow to believe evil; more- 
over, for the first time in his life, he was 
occupied with his own happiness. 

Annis, with her subtler intuitions, was 
less deceived by the fair outside of things. 
In spite of his invariable friendliness and 
candor, her instincts were continually 
on guard against St. Pierre, and other 
things happened that made her thought- 
ful. Almost immediately after her ar- 
rival at Moose River Ralph had left for 
the fur-camp, and they had not seen him 
since. She learned that he had twice 
been into the settlement nevertheless. She 
also heard from the children she taught 
vague hints of gatherings of the breeds 
in St. Jean Bateese's cabin. She was 
keeping her suspicions to herself until 
she had something definite to go on. 

Meanwhile Annis could not help but 
be happy too. Like most girls of spirit 
she had chafed at the narrow round of 
her life in a civilized land. She loved 
the North for its very difficulties and 
dangers. As to Dick, secure in his hon- 
esty and good intent, she let her heart go. 
Dick was at the old woman's cabin 
every moment that his crowded days and 
nights could spare. The old woman 
took his visits oddly. Her first childish 
ebullition of jealousy had not passed like 
most of her tempestuous impulses, but 
had settled into a sad and watchful dis- 
tress. Annis and Dick, occupied with 
each other, scarcely noticed her. 



Two days before Christmas the old 
woman's anxieties came to a head, and 
Dick's rosy bubble of happiness was 
pricked. She came to Dick's cabin un- 
expectedly and alone, full of a strange 
agitation that she tried in vain to mask. 
For a long while she chattered about 
small matters, unable to touch on what 
was nearest her heart. Dick let her 
rattle on, and she gathered courage. 

"Parson Dick, I — I want to speak to 
you," she stammered at last. 

"Yes?" he said encouragingly. 

She did not immediately proceed. 
"It's hard to get it out," she faltered. 

"What's the trouble, old woman?" he 
asked, in great concern for her distress. 

"It's — it's Annis," she murmured. 

"What about her?" he asked, sharply 
attentive. 

"It seems to me you are falling in love 
with her." 

Dick smiled. "Fathoms deep!" he 
said frankly. 

"Under other circumstances there is 
no one in the world I would rather give 
her to," she said, "but — " 

His face sobered. "What's the mat- 
ter?" he asked anxiously. 

She came close to him and took hold 
of the two lapels of his coat. "Dick, I 
want you to make me a promise," she 
begged. 

"Anything in reason," he said, wholly 
mystified. 

She searched his face imploringly. 
"Promise me you'll never ask my girl to 
marry you," she blurted out. 

He fell back sharply. "I don't think 
you have any right to ask that," he said. 

"Yes, I have. Yes, I have," she 
wailed, wringing her hands. 

"I can't do it," he said firmly. 

"You wouldn't leave the country?" 
she hazarded. 

"My work is here," he said simply. 
"But she loves it." 



[76 



BAD MEDICINE 



177 



"So did I — eighteen years ago," said 
the old woman piteously. "I looked like 
her then, too." 

Dick had no answer to that. 

"Think of her, so pretty and graceful," 
she murmured, unconsciously clasping 
her hands. "Would you doom her to 
the life I've led ?" She spread out her 
palms. "Look at me, Dick. And I'm 
only forty-four!" 

The tears stole down the old wom- 
an's worn cheeks unrestrained. "You 
couldn't save her from the drudgery of 
the North," she went on; "year by year 
it would bend her back and hollow her 
cheeks — like mine. So long as I'm here 
she wouldn't be so badly off, but that 
is not for long. Eighteen years of it 
have broken me. Some night soon I'll be 
snuffed out — and then, my lambie ! what 
would she do without a white woman 
near ? Suppose she had to bear children ; 
suppose you should fall sick? What 
would she do among these redskins?" 

Tears overcame the old woman's 
speech. But Dick had heard enough. 
He couldn't answer her, because it was 
only what he had told himself in his 
cooler moments. For a while he strug- 
gled with himself — then he turned to 
her. 

"You are right," he said in a dull 
voice. "I will not ask her to marry me. 
It is a promise." 

The old woman seized his hand grate- 
fully. "Dick, you are a kind of a hero, 
I do believe," she faltered. 

On the following morning Dick 
turned up at the old woman's cabin by 
prearrangement to take Annis to sit with 
a convalescent child. The sickness in 
the settlement had not decreased, and 
Dick scarcely knew what it was to rest 
these days. This was the first time that 
Annis had been allowed to help with the 
physical side of Dick's work, and she was 
eager for the journey. But when she 
saw his changed face her heart sank. 

Dick was in a wretched state of inde- 
cision. As soon as he saw her he knew 
he could not trust himself alone with her 
just then. 

"I think — perhaps you should not 
come," he faltered at last. 

Annis's face fell like a child's. "Why 
not?" she demanded 



"The — the danger of infection," Dick 
stammered. "I suspect diphtheria." 

"Why didn't you think of that be- 
fore?" she demanded. 

Dick had no answer ready. It would 
have been patent to a half-witted person 
that he was lying. That was bad enough, 
but the cool, impersonal manner he tried 
to adopt toward her — after what had 
passed between them — was infinitely 
worse. Annis retired into her shell and 
began to take off her things. 

"Oh, very well," she said coldly. 

Dick went miserably away alone. 

Immediately after lunch, Annis, ac- 
companied by two of her little dark- 
skinned proteges, set forth to decorate 
the church with .evergreens. She had 
had a considerable measure of success 
with the native children. The sharp, 
half-savage little imps appealed to a 
strain of wildness in her own youth. 
They came from far and near to 
attend her Sunday-school — though it 
may be hazarded that the tea and 
cake she provided were a more po- 
tent attraction than the religious instruc- 
tion. 

Annis's heart was very sore against 
Dick. While there had been no spoken 
vows, their eyes had confessed to each 
other freely, and to have him sudden- 
ly adopt this remote air toward her 
was like a blow in the face. She puz- 
zled endlessly as to what it might mean. 
She determined to punish him well for 
it ; nevertheless the eagerness with which 
she set off for the church was largely 
due to the hope that she might see him 
there. She bore him a message from 
one of his patients. 

The little mission dedicated to St. 
Barnabas was halfway between the old 
woman's cabin and the store, upward of 
three miles from each. It stood on the 
edge of a snowy plain facing the river, 
where the little whitewashed log chapel, 
with its 3'ellow-painted cross, had a 
brave and solitary look like an outpost. 
At one side, within an inclosure of pal- 
ings, a few white wooden slabs projected 
above the snow, bearing the names of 
children. 

The main river trail, on its way to 
the store, wound around in front of the 



i 7 8 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



church and struck into a growth of 
spruce that marched up to the confines of 
the churchyard. A lesser-used road 
branched off and, skirting among the 
trees, headed for the hills. Dick's house, 
which was also the hospital, was on the 
hither side of the church across the trail. 

Annis's little companions were in full 
cry across the snow after a rabbit, and 
so it happened that, dragging a minia- 
ture dog-sledge, she came around the cor- 
ner of the church alone and quietly. To 
her astonishment she saw St. Pierre on 
the steps, bending over and applying his 
ear to the keyhole. Aleck Whitebear 
stood below. Both men had their backs 
to her. 

All Annis's fears recurred to her and 
her heart sank with .a vague sense of 
impending danger. She felt that she 
stood a better chance of learning more 
by not betraying what she had already 
seen, so she retreated a little way and, 
calling to the children as an excuse to 
give warning of her approach, came into 
view again. St. Pierre was now ap- 
proaching her, bland and obsequious. 
Aleck, with a curt nod, strolled off along 
the trail. 

"This is a long way to come on foot, 
Miss Annis," said St. Pierre smoothly. 
"And it will be dark early." 

"I have company," she said easily, 
"and I will be home before dark." 

St. Pierre, observing her narrow 
glance, said coolly: "Aleck and I are 
prospecting for timber. We're going to 
thin out the spruce over yonder." 

Annis looked at the church. She had 
a sense that some one was speaking 
within. 

St. Pierre's eyes devoured her. "How 
fine you're looking!" he said ardently. 

He wished to please her, but to Annis 
compliments from one of his color could 
hardly seem other than insolence. She 
waved the words aside. She was won- 
dering what was the way to get the best 
of such a supple, devious character. 

"Your coming up here has changed 
everything," he murmured. 

Annis decided to try frankness on a 
chance. "Look here, Mr. Fraser," she 
said bluntly, "I'd gladly be friends with 
you, but you must deal squarely with 
me. I didn't come North to be flattered. 



Why did you come to the church to- 
day?" 

"The church?" he said sharply. 

Annis pointed to his footprints lead- 
ing back to the church steps. 

"Oh!" said St. Pierre with a light 
shrug. "I heard voices in the church and 
I listened to see who it was. It's Parson 
Dick saying prayers. I thought I'd wait 
until he was through." 

His readiness put Annis at a disad- 
vantage. She did not believe him, but 
she let the matter drop. "If you really 
want to win my confidence — " she went 
on. 

"Try me !" he put in eagerly. 

"You are the cleverest man here- 
about. Tell me what is behind this 
senseless opposition to Parson Dick?" 

St. Pierre put on an expression of seri- 
ous concern. "You exaggerate my clev- 
erness," he said deprecatingly. "Be- 
sides, you forget the breeds are all in my 
debt; they're not taking me into their 
confidence just now." 

Annis was not deceived by his glib an- 
swer. Honesty is not the way to take 
with him, she told herself. 

St. Pierre favored her with an odd, 
walled glance. "However, I have my 
suspicions," he added. 

"Well?" she asked sharply. 

"I have heard vague hints of a move- 
ment among the natives — " 

This confirmed Annis's own suspi- 
cions. 

"I suspect Aleck Whitebear to be be- 
hind it. I was waiting for Parson Dick 
to drop a word of warning in his ear." 

Annis looked at him incredulously. 

"Still you don't believe me," he said 
with affected humility. 

"Why should I?" asked Annis blunt- 
ly. "Aleck was with you just now." 

"I keep my eye on him as much as I 
can," St. Pierre answered readily. Af- 
ter a pause he added: "I'll prove that 
I'm square with you. I'll put it down 
in black and white over my signature, 
and vou can give it to Parson Dick your- 
self." 

He scribbled rapidly in his note-book, 
and tearing out the leaf handed it to her. 
She read it attentively, and folding the 
paper, thrust it in her glove. He had 
written : 



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179 



Dear Parson Dick: 

I wanted to warn you against Aleck White- 
bear. I don't know anything definite, but I'm 
pretty sure he's plotting mischief. A word to 
the wise is sufficient. 

Your friend, 

St. Pierre. 



In writing this St. Pierre fancied he 
was acting from motives of policy ; it is 
probable, however, that the desire to 
stand well in Annis's eyes affected his 
judgment somewhat. 

"This seems to be in good faith," she 
said generously. "Please tell me exact- 
ly what you have learned." 

St. Pierre talked at some length, 
without, however, she was quick to ob- 
serve, telling her anything that she did 
not already know. 

"If I've been unjust to you I'm sor- 
ry," she said, somewhat chilled. 

"I'm more than repaid," he said with 
a bow. 

With more compliments, in which 
Annis always fancied she detected a 
sneer, he left her. He betrayed, how- 
ever, a genuine anxiety that she should 
get home before dark. Annis remem- 
bered that later and understood the cause 
of his anxiety. She promised to start 
within an hour. 

As soon as St. Pierre was out of sight 
she turned quickly to the church to solve 
the mystery of what was going on with- 
in. Her two small companions, Tarse 
and Jeresis, were now at her heels. 

Before she reached the door it was 
opened from within, and to her amaze- 
ment her brother, that she thought many 
miles away, appeared on the threshold 
with Marya Sashermah hanging to his 
arm. The breed girl was gorgeous in 
a plaid skirt, a crimson satin waist, and 
a blue shawl. They came down the 
steps. Marya's mother followed with St. 
Jean Bateese, and other dark relatives 
brought up the rear. 

The procession was self-explanatory. 
The sight of it affected Annis like a 
swift and unexpected blow. Recoiling 
dizzily, she clung to the palings. We 
often receive our worst shocks through 
the medium of trifles; Marya's crude 
finery was her worst offense to Annis's 
senses in the first moment. Her brother 



linked forever to the vulgar savage ! — 
the white girl's flesh revolted. 

They were obliged to pass immediate- 
ly in front of her. Ralph, at the sight 
of his sister, stared stiffly ahead of him, 
miserable, sullen, and ashamed. Marya 
cast down her eyes demurely. Mrs. 
Sashermah smiled triumphantly. 

"Hah! your seester come to your wed- 
din', M'rya! 'Ow kind!" she said mock- 
ingly. 

Ralph turned on her furiously. 
"Hold your tongue!' he cried. 

Tarse and Jeresis, dropping their 
evergreens, ran shrieking after the pro- 
cession, pelting the bride with soft snow. 
Crying out in mock distress, Marya 
took to her heels with the children after 
her. Ralph followed stiffly and slowly. 
They all passed out of sight. 

Annis stared blankly on the ground, 
while the meaning of what had hap- 
pened slowly forced its way home to 
her. Here was a story to take home to 
the old woman, now happily preparing 
Ralph's Christmas dinner! This was 
the other side of the North, the hateful 
side. Annis shuddered and was con- 
scious of a sudden longing for the com- 
fort and shelter she had once despised. 

She looked up and saw Parson Dick 
issuing from the church, his surplice 
under his arm. Her breast was already 
prepared for anger against him ; it flamed 
up now, blind and unreasoning, reviv- 
ing her forces. Dick's eyes fell under 
her blazing glance ; he approached her, 
a mute appeal in his attitude. 

"You blame me for this," he said in 
a low voice. 

"You married them !" she cried. 

"It was my duty." 

She had no pity for his drawn, white 
face. "Your duty ! " she cried passion- 
ately. "To give our name to a redskin ! 
To degrade my brother for life!" 

"Not necessarily degradation," he 
murmured. 

"It's always so. You know it! Look 
at the others!" 

"That is because of weakness in the 
man. These women are like children, 
easily swayed to good or evil." 

Annis scornfully flung away. "Ah! 
don't preach at me!" she cried. "Preach- 
ing can't make it any less horrible!" 



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Dick began to pluck up spirit under 
her scorn. "That is the blind race preju- 
dice you and I were going to work to 
overcome," he said quietly. 

"We don't have to marry them to 
help them!" 

"As long as we hold ourselves supe- 
rior we'll never do any real good." 

The quarrels of those who love are 
terribly bitter. Every word is dipped in 
gall. "Indeed," said Annis icily. "Do 
you intend marrying a breed yourself?" 

Dick turned away, too much hurt to 
attempt to reply. The quietness of her 
voice made its bitterness much more 
dreadful to him. In her own pain she 
was merciless to his. 

"You don't deny it," she pursued. 
"Really, your consistency is admirable ! 
It will be interesting to see how the ex- 
periment works out in your case." 

"I shall never marry," said Dick very 
low. 

She scarcely heard. "Does «my moth- 
er know?" she murmured. 

Dick shook his head. "I knew noth- 
ing about this myself until they came 
here an hour ago to be married," he 
said. "I advised delay, but Ralph was 
sullen and defiant. He promised that 
your mother should not suffer want." 

"How much are bef ore-marriage 
promises worth?" Annis broke in scorn- 
fully. 

"He threatened to go to Duncan Mc- 
Phatter, the justice of the peace, to have 
it done. I cannot refuse my people the 
sacrament of marriage when they ask for 
it." 

"Very well," said Annis; "as a priest 
I forgive you. As a man I never .will." 

Dick made no reply. 

His silence further exasperated her. 
"Here's a rule for women," she taunted. 
"Never depend on a friend who's a 
priest first and a man afterwards." 

"That's a cruel thrust," Dick said, 
"cruel, and unjust, and untrue!" 

His new tone startled her a little, but 
she would not confess it to herself. 

"You're wanted at Paul Zero's," she 
said coldly. "His wife has had a turn 
for the worse." 

That was the way of their second 
parting that day. Annis had forgotten 
that she had a note for Dick in her glove. 



CHAPTER IV 

The Attack 

WEARY and sore as from a physi- 
cal beating, Annis nevertheless 
set to work decorating the 
church. Her pride would not allow her 
to forego what she had planned, merely 
because she had quarreled with Dick. 
As she and the children were gathering 
a fresh supply of evergreen, Joe White- 
bear, the simple youth, came along the 
trail with his shambling dog-trot. Joe 
was among Annis's admirers. He pulled 
off his cap as she had taught him. 

"Well, Joe," she said ; "will you help 
us cut some branches?" 

But he sat on a stump at the edge of 
the clearing with a curious air of ob- 
stinacy. "Joe wait here," he said. 

"You'll get cold," said Annis. 

"Joe warm his hands at big fire," he 
said mysteriously. 

Annis, struck by the strange answer, 
approached him. "What big fire, Joe?" 
she asked. 

He pointed to the church. "There," 
he said. 

Annis recollected the ominous figures 
of St. Pierre and Aleck Whitebear at 
the church door, and the same fear again 
dragged at her heart. For a moment 
it failed her, and she shrank from hear- 
ing more. Surely I've borne enough, 
she thought. But presently her courage 
reasserted itself. The two smaller chil- 
dren were gazing at her hard — they were 
dangerously sharp. 

"Tarse! Jeresis! find me a pretty lit- 
tle spruce tree. Run !" she cried briskly. 

They set off. 

"So they're going to build a fire in 
front of the church," she said naturally 
to Joe. 

"Nomoya, inside," he said coolly. 

She could not keep back a little cry 
of terror. Her hands stole to her breast 
to still the leaping of the tenant there. 

"Red fire come out of chimney," pur- 
sued Joe with graphic gesticulation ; "out 
of window, out of door, and eat up roof ! 
Fire jump as high as high tree. Joe 
want to see." 

"Who is going to make the fire, Joe?" 
she asked. 



BAD MEDICINE 



181 



"Joe's father, Jean Bateese, Coquenoi- 
gan, Jim Mackenzie, Paul Zero — many 
men. Joe will help. Joe want to see 
big red fire!" 

"They were fooling, Joe," she said. 

"N'moya!" he said quickly. Put Joe 
in little room so can't hear talk. Joe 
listen at the door. Joe pull up board in 
the floor and creep out. Joe want to see 
fire in the windows." 

Hysteria clutched at Annis's throat, 
but she forced it back. "What did the 
men say?" she whispered. 

"Aleck Whitebear say, 'Ralph Croome 
is marry M'rya. He one of us now. 
Now is time to burn church, and St. 
Pierre give more credit at the store." 

"St. Pierre! was he there?" she asked 
quickly. 

"N'moya. Aleck say burn church and 
white men never be our masters!" 

"When will they make the fire, Joe?" 
she asked. 

"When it get dark. Soon come." 

Annis walked away, pressing her 
knuckles into her temples and trying to 
think. The horror of the past hour was 
nothing to this horror. This was what 
the breeds were planning, this was the 
truth about St. Pierre. She thought of 
the note. He meant to keep his own 
skin whole, too. She shuddered, aghast 
at such villainy and such cleverness. In 
the light of this revelation her anger 
against Dick evaporated like mist. To 
the thought of him she now turned like 
a refuge. 

Tarse and Jeresis came running back 
with the little tree. She met them with 
a prompt smile. 

"Beautiful!" she cried. "I will take 
it. Be off home with you now. It is 
getting dark. I will come soon." 

They showed a disposition to rebel. 

"Stop at the old woman's," she said. 
"Tell her I said you were each to have 
an outside cake." 

They instantly set off, running and 
shrieking, after their wont. Joe was 
still sitting stolidly on the stump. Annis 
went to him swiftly. 

"Joe, Parson Dick is at Paul Zero's. 
Run quick and say I want him!" 

The boy scowled and sat tight. 

"Please, please, Joe," she begged. 

"Parson Dick stop fire," he said sul- 



lenly. "Joe want to see fire come out 
of windows." 

Annis tore open her coat. She had a 
gold pin at the throat of her dress. 
"See, Joe, this pretty, shiny brooch." 

His eyes brightened. "Joe want," he 
said, holding out his, hand. 

"Bring Parson Dick and you shall 
have it!" 

He got up. "Joe go quick," he said. 

But Annis was attacked by fresh fears. 
She clung to the boy's sleeve in an 
agony of indecision. "Wait, Joe! Did 
they — did they talk angry talk?" 

"Moch angry talk," said Joe stolidly. 
"Drink moch whisky. St. Pierre dig up 
two jugs." 

"W T hat did they say — about Parson 
Dick?" 

"Moch curse Parson Dick. Aleck say 
to Hooliam : 'You wait outside Paul 
Zero's. When I give loon call twice 
you run in and say: " Wah! Wah! the 
church she burning!" Parson Dick 
come run to put it out, I wait for him 
in the trees — ' " Joe tapped the barrel 
of an imaginary gun significantly. 

A low, terrified cry escaped from 
Annis. 

"Aleck say: 'I throw Parson Dick in 
and burn him too!' " continued Joe un- 
moved. "Everybody say he fall in him- 
self when try to put out fire. — Joe never 
see man burn. Joe bring him quick," 
he added. 

"No ! No !" she cried desperately. 

"Joe want," he said, sulkily pointing 
to the brooch. 

Tearing it out of her dress, she thrust 
it into his hands. "Stay with me," she 
urged. "Stay and see the big fire." 

He stolidly resumed his seat on the 
stump. "Will fire jump as high as that 
spruce tree?" he asked. 

"How can I tell?" she cried. "Joe, 
how far is it to Duncan McPhatter's?" 

"Thirteen mile." 

Annis silently wrung her hands. 

"How much fire a man makes?" Joe 
suddenly demanded. 

"Oh! I don't know!" she cried 
sharply. 

"Joe think red man burn slow with 
plenty smoke lak poplar; white man 
burn bright lak spruce." 

"Joe, don't speak of a man's burning," 



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she implored. She struck her breast. 
"It hurts me here!" 

"Joe lak to see a man burn," he re- 
iterated in his toneless voice. 

Annis, forgetting him, walked back 
and forth with quick, uneven steps like 
a person in a fever. Her hands were 
clinched at her sides, her teeth set in 
her nether lip. "I must do it all my- 
self," she murmured over and over; "I 
must do it all myself! God help me!" 

The mysterious winter twilight de- 
scended on the land like the pallor that 
creeps into the faces of the dying. The 
spruce trees drew it about them like a 
gray woolen shroud; the great field of 
snow behind the church turned the color 
of ashes. Annis felt as if she must 
shriek if the awful silence endured much 
longer. It was the silence of under the 
earth, pressing on the brain like mad- 
ness. When it was broken her heart 
leaped in her throat — it was only the 
sharp bark of a fox from across the 
river. Nearer, a coyote raised his quav- 
ering howl, and from the distant hills 
another answered like the wailing 
breath of an inhuman mourner. 

At last, more dreadful than these 
sounds, Annis heard what she waited for, 
the uncouth chant of the Crees in the 
far distance. Nevertheless she felt a 
kind of relief — it was time to act. 

The chant is always the same; there 
are no words to it. It begins on the 
shrillest note and falls slowly with 
strange lifts and pauses. It dies away 
to a hoarse murmur, and then as the 
breast of one among the singers con- 
tracts, is startlingly renewed on a howl. 
Under it, the maddening, humming 
drumming of the stick-kettle keeps time, 
now slow, now quickening, until the 
hearts of the singers are stirred to 
frenzy. 

Annis ran into the church. Groping 
her way to the chancel, she wrapped 
Parson Dick's Bible in the altar cloth 
and brought it out. Joe eyed her dis- 
approvingly. 

"The book would not make good fire," 
she said. 

She buried it in the snow around the 
corner of the palings and returned for 
the little communion service, which she 



put beside it. Then Joe, who still sat 
on his stump, missed her in the gather- 
ing darkness and saw her no more. His 
fluttering mind, occupied with the 
thought of the coming fire, soon forgot 
her. The church door was closed. 

The chant came nearer and nearer. 
Finally the motley crowd, including a 
few women, came straggling through the 
trees, chanting by fits and starts and 
making a confused noise of thick voices. 
Children of nature, their impressionable 
wits were hopelessly poisoned and scat- 
tered by the fumes of rank alcohol. 
Their lips hung loose; their eyes rolled 
in their heads. They paused irresolute 
in front of the church, quite as ready to 
go in and worship as they were to give 
it to the flames. Only Aleck White- 
bear was grim and purposeful. The 
liquor he had drunk lit a deeper, slower 
fire. He brought up the rear like a 
keeper, with his moose rifle over his 
arm. 

"Make a light!" he cried, as they 
came into the open. 

Several pine torches flared up. 

"Here's a man!" cried one. 

"It's Simple Joe," said another. 

Aleck angrily pushed his way through 
the crowd, and with a ringing blow 
knocked the boy sprawling off the stump. 
"Fool!" he cried. "Stay at home when 
I bid you!" 

Some laughed foolishly. Some mur- 
mured. Aleck, indifferent to both, 
pushed his way to the church steps and 
faced them. Joe lay in the snow where 
he had fallen. 

"Men!" cried Aleck, letting loose a 
pent-up fury of passion, "you see the 
white man's medicine house ! There, he 
works his bad magic and makes our fur 
scarce, so we starve! He made the 
throat sickness in there; he carries it 
from house to house while he makes be- 
lieve to cure." 

In the present condition of the breeds 
no lie was too gross for them to swallow. 
They cried out hoarsely. 

"Men!" cried Aleck with inconceiv- 
able fury — his face was suffused with 
black blood, his voice was hoarse, al- 
most stifled with passion — "give his 
house to the fire and spoil his magic! 
Drive him back to his own country! 




AS HE MOUNTED, THE DOOR WAS THROWN OPEN FROM WITHIN AND A WOMAN S 
FIGURE, LIGHT-CLAD, BLOCKED THE WAY SLENDER, MYSTICAL, COMMANDING. 



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We want no white man to tell us what 
to do. In with you ! Thrust your 
torches under the seats! A jug of whis- 
ky to him who makes the first fire !" 

Brandishing their torches, they rushed 
forward with angry, broken cries. Co- 
quenoigan was the first to set foot on 
the steps. As he mounted, the door was 
opened from within and a woman's fig- 
ure, light-clad, blocked the way — slen- 
der, mystical, commanding. 

The effect on the breeds was like a 
hammerstroke. They hung for an in- 
stant, their faces frozen into shapes of 
horror, then of one accord, with short, 
brutish cries of fright, they turned tail. 
They were too frightened even to run; 
halting at a little distance, they pressed 
together like sheep, staring over their 
shoulders with wide, wild eyes. A 
woman started screaming hysterically. 

Aleck was dismayed, too, but he 
stood his ground. He recovered himself 
in a moment and, picking up one of the 
sputtering torches, he held it up so that 
the light fell on her. 

"Fools!" he cried to the breeds; "this 
is no walker of the night. This is 
only the old woman's daughter, the 
woman from outside. She is one of 
them. Will you let one of their women 
turn you back? In with you and let 
her look to herself!" 

There was a woman in the crowd 
named Mary Trudeau, who hated Annis 
for reasons St. Pierre could have told. 
She was the next to recover from the 
panic and joined her voice to Aleck's in 
coarse vituperation. The men, ashamed 
of their fright, slowly returned toward 
the church, picking up their dropped 
torches on the way and relighting them. 
Aleck and Mary Trudeau never ceased 
to egg them on. Annis, watching them, 
silently bided her time. A great confi- 
dence filled her; was she not defending 
at the same time her lover and her 
faith ? Had ever woman such a chance 
before? she asked herself. 

Finally Coquenoigan made as if to 
mount again. 

"Stand back!" she cried in a ringing 
voice. "This is the house of the Great 
Spirit and no man enters save with bare 
head and clean heart!" 

Coquenoigan fell back. Simple Joe 



where he lay on the ground raised his 
head at the sound of her voice and 
started to crawl toward her. 

"What are you afraid of?" shouted 
Aleck. "She's no more than flesh and 
bone like us ! I'll show you if she's proof 
against a bullet!" He raised his gun. 
"Go your way, woman, or burn with the 
church !" 

Annis did not move. "I am not afraid 
of you," she said firmly. 

Aleck with an oath took aim. Joe, 
leaping from the ground, held the muz- 
zle of the gun to his own breast. 

"You not 'urt 'er!" he cried shrilly. 

Aleck cursed him and, snatching the 
gun away, aimed a blow with the stock 
at the boy's head, but his arm was held 
by St. Jean Bateese. 

"Harm not the simple one," the old 
man said solemnly. "It makes bad med- 
icine." 

"He is my son," cried Aleck, thrust- 
ing the old man aside. 

Others crowded around, however, and 
Aleck was obliged to lower his gun. 
"Get out of my reach," he said to the 
boy harshly. 

Joe went to the church steps and 
crouched at Annis's feet. It was not 
without its effect on the superstitious 
breeds, who attached significance to 
every move of the half-witted boy. 

Annis saw her chance. "Men, let me 
speak," she said simply. 

"Yes, let her speak, let her work you 
to her will," cried Aleck furiously. 

"She's a witch! She hates the peo- 
ple!" screamed Mary Trudeau. 

Coquenoigan and others pressed for- 
ward again. 

"If I speak anything but the truth 
let Aleck Whitebear shoot," Annis said 
boldly. 

"Why do you wish to burn Parson 
Dick's church ?" she cried, making her 
voice heard above all. 

"He drove the fur away," several 
voices answered. 

"What child's talk is this?" she cried, 
silencing them. "You know there was 
no rain last summer, the earth was dry, 
the leaves fell before their time, the 
grass burned. You know the rabbits 
and the little folk of the bush traveled 
east to the wet lands. Now when the 



BAD MEDICINE 



185 



winter comes, the link and the fox must 
have food. They have gone east after 
the little beasts. What has Parson Dick 
to do with this?" 

"He works his magic to be our mas- 
ter!" cried Coquenoigan. 

"What is Parson Dick's medicine?" 
asked Annis quickly. "He teaches your 
children white man's letters — is this bad 
medicine? He shows your wives what 
to do when the children fall sick — is 
this bad medicine? His words to the 
men are, work hard and speak the truth 
— is this bad medicine?" 

They were growing quiet. Not one 
had any answer to this. 

"Parson Dick's little house is open to 
all who pass," continued Annis, pointing 
to it. "He shares his bread with those 
who have none. All day and all night 
he drives his dogs without resting him- 
self to make the sick well, to speak good 
words to the sorrowful, to make peace 
between father and son. Is this the life 
of a bad man?" 

Annis's voice hovered very tenderly 
over the name of her lover. To her 
woman's heart there was a blissful satis- 
faction in the thought that he had in- 
jured her and she was able to repay it — 
this way. 

"When my boy and my girl have the 
throat fever, Parson Dick work with 
them, and they die," quavered St. Jean 
Bateese. 

"Why did they die?" Annis instantly 
exclaimed. "Because St. Jean Bateese 
threw Parson Dick's bottle medicine out 
of the door. When they died, you ran, 
you were afraid of the fever. All but 
Parson Dick. He brought them to the 
church, he said a prayer over them, he 
buried them in holy ground. There they 
lie, St. Jean Bateese! Will you cover 
the graves of your children with the 
ashes of the church?" 

She paused to give her words full ef- 
fect. Old St. Jean wavered, then 
dropped his torch and stepped on it. A 
sweet sense of triumph began to steal 
into Annis's breast. The hulking Co- 
quenoigan sneered at St. Jean's act. 
Annis whirled upon him. 

"You, Coquenoigan !" she cried. 
"When they pulled you out of the river 
last summer you were as one dead ! Your 



mother cried and tore her dress. When 
Parson Dick came he said, 'Open the 
doors, this man is not dead !' And he 
worked with you till you breathed again. 
Would you strike at the man who gave 
you back your life?" 

She paused again, searching in the 
crowd, now half hers. She was thank- 
ful for the good memory which had re- 
tained these stories of the country that 
stood her in such good part. Her eyes 
fell on Paul Zero ; he was a man of in- 
fluence among them; he seemed to be 
wavering. 

"Where is Parson Dick now?" cried 
Annis. "At your house, Paul Zero, 
watching by your sick wife and bathing 
her head with snow. Will you burn 
his church while he is working for you 
in your own house?" 

Paul Zero cast down his torch. "I 
will not burn the church," he cried. 

"Not I! Not I!" cried others, fol- 
lowing suit. 

"I will then!" cried Aleck Whitebear 
furiously. "Get you home, you women 
creatures, and put your necks under the 
white man's yoke ! I am a red man and 
I hate them ! I will burn the church, 
and the man and the woman too!" 

Again Annis remembered the paper in 
her glove. "You are a fool, Aleck 
Whitebear," she said coolly. "Will you 
hang yourself to make St. Pierre Fraser 
rich ?" 

He was sharply taken aback. "What 
do you mean ?" he muttered. 

"Who urged you on to this?" de- 
manded Annis of the crowd. "Who 
gave you whisky to confuse your wits?" 

"St. Pierre," several answered uncon- 
sciously. 

"Then why isn't St. Pierre here?" she 
demanded. "Why doesn't he burn the 
church himself? I'll tell you. He's 
afraid to risk his neck ! He sets you on 
to burn and kill while he stays safe in 
the store. When you hang for it, St. 
Pierre will make his profit!" 

"It's a lie!" cried Aleck thickly. "St. 
Pierre is our friend!" 

"He also signs himself Parson Dick's 
friend," said Annis. Spreading out the 
note, she offered it to him. "Read that," 
she commanded. "Hold him a light, 
some one." 



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Aleck studied the paper with a scowl. 

"Is it his?" demanded Annis. "You 
have often carried his orders." 

Aleck lifted a face, puzzled and 
suspicious. "It is his," he muttered. 

"You don't understand," said Annis. 
"I will explain. He gave it to me two 
hours ago for Parson Dick. If the 
church was burned, and Parson Dick 
hurt, St. Pierre would say to the police, 
'It is not my fault. I warned him. I 
can prove it.' " 

Aleck read the note again and quietly 
handed it back to Annis. He stood mo- 
tionless, studying the ground. De- 
prived at one stroke of the stimulus of 
his anger, the man looked stricken and 
gray. His face slowly turned grim 
again. "It is not the first time," Annis 
heard him mutter. Finally he lifted his 
head. 

"Pick up your torches," he said 
quietly. "Let us go back." 

The breeds were not unwilling to 
obey. 

The significance of the act was not 
lost on Annis. "If you burn the store, 
how will we eat?" she cried. 

"We will not burn the store" said 
Aleck meaningly. 

"You must not lay hands on St. 
Pierre," she urged. "You would hang, 
just the same. I know a better way." 

"Speak!" they cried, wholly hers now. 

"Joe, light the lamps in the church," 
she commanded. "Come in," she cried, 
throwing the door wide. "We will make 
a paper to the head traders. We will 
say St. Pierre gives us whisky and 
cheats us of our furs. Then you will 
make your crosses underneath, and I 
will send it outside. They will come 
and take St. Pierre away." 

Clumsily pulling off their caps at the 
door, the men filed into the church. 
Annis brought up the rear, shivering 
with the cold, and half fainting from 
the reaction — nevertheless triumphant. 

St. Pierre stood at the door of the 
store, biting his fingers impatiently and 
gazing toward the south for' the red 
glare he expected to see in the sky. It 
did not appear, and in the end Mary 
Trudeau came running along the trail 
and told him what had happened. 



St. Pierre listened to the story with 
his eyes bent on the ground and a bright 
spot burning on cither yellow cheek- 
bone. The effect of it on him was not 
what Mary expected. St. Pierre himself 
would have been at a loss to explain his 
state of mind. Instead of raging at the 
failure of his plans, they suddenly 
seemed to become of small moment to 
him beside a new desire. He felt a kind 
of exultation on hearing how Annis 
had thrown down the gauntlet to him. 
A great and overwhelming desire to 
possess her surged up in him, drown- 
ing every thought, every feeling he had 
known hitherto. 

"Come back with me," cried Mary 
passionately. "Come back and kill 
her!" 

St. Pierre laughed contemptuously 
and ignored her. He stood, thinking 
hard, his eyes contracted to two points 
of jet. Finally he threw his head back 
and looked at the sky. 

"It will snow," he said. "Good!" 
He issued succinct commands. "Go to 
Sophie Fraser's cabin" — so St. Pierre 
termed his mother — "and bring her here 
to mind the store. I will be gone all 
night. I have drunk too much whisky 
for Christmas, you understand, and am 
put to bed." 

"What must I do ?" asked the woman. 

St. Pierre debated a moment. "You 
must be sick," he said. "Send your 
brother for Parson Dick. Keep him 
with you till late." 

"But Mary Zero is bad," she objected. 
"He will stay there." 

"Never mind. You do as I bid you," 
he said coolly. 

"You take your gun?" she asked with 
a leer. 

"And hang myself with it?" he said 
contemptuously. "What do you take 
me for?" 

While Mary was gone to get Sophie 
Fraser, St. Pierre crossed the clearing to 
St. Jean Bateese's empty shack, and 
coolly appropriated the old man's moose 
rifle from its stand in the corner. With 
gun, snowshoes, and roll of blankets, he 
presently set off in the direction of down 
river by the little-used back trail. As 
soon as he was out of sight of the houses 
he started to run. 



(To be continued) 



SADDLE AND CAMP IN THE 

ROCKIES 

BY DILLON WALLACE 

Illustrated ivith Photographs by the Author and S. N. Leek 

THE TRAGEDY OF THE ELK 



= ^HE Jackson's Hole coun- 
try — properly speaking, 
Jackson's Hole is a re- 
stricted, marshy space 
near Jackson village — is 
the winter range of the 
largest elk herds on the American 
continent. The. whole valley, how- 
ever, which for convenience I shall 
refer to as Jackson's Hole, includes 
an area approximately forty miles in 
length and perhaps ten miles in breadth, 
and the herds that accumulate here dur- 
ing early winter and remain until spring 
thaws free the mountains of snow and 
ice aggregate, at a conservative estimate, 
thirty thousand animals. 

A considerable proportion of these, 
though by no means all of them, are 
Yellowstone Park elk, driven down 
from the higher altitude of the park, 
which lies at an average of some eight 
thousand to nine thousand feet above the 
sea, when the heavy snows to which the 
park is subject make winter feeding 
there impossible. Others of the elk sum- 
mer in the Wyoming State game refuge, 
south of and adjoining the park, the re- 
maining few on mountain ranges lying 
contiguous to Jackson's Hole. 

It was my purpose in visiting Jack- 
son's Hole to investigate on the ground 
the conditions prevailing here among the 
animals ; to learn how far true were re- 
ports that great numbers starved each 
winter through lack of forage; and if it 
should seem that such conditions had not 
been overdrawn and that they actually 
existed, to learn the cause that led to the 
condition, in the hope that some remedy 
might be suggested. 

That the country and the situation 



may be understood, it should be ex- 
plained that Jackson's Hole is hemmed 
in on all sides by ' rugged, precipitous 
mountain ranges, the most notable of 
which are the Tetons, to the west. It is a 
fertile basin, and the Snake River and 
several tributary creeks and brooks favor 
it with an abundance of water. Indeed 
it has one considerable marshy area so 
wet even in the driest season that it 
produces abundant grass without artifi- 
cial irrigation. 

Jackson's Hole lies at an altitude of 
approximately six thousand feet above 
the sea, and this high altitude confines 
its agricultural development mainly to 
hay and grain production, which makes 
it naturally a cattle and horse country, 
though sufficient of the hardier vege- 
tables are grown for home consumption. 
Stock being the mainstay of the ranch- 
men, it is their custom to maintain as 
many cattle and horses as their ranches 
will support. The nearest railroad at 
present is ninety miles from Jackson, and 
during the winter there is but one outlet 
— over Teton Pass. According to the 
1 910 census the population of what is 
spoken of as the Jackson's Hole country 
totaled 889. 

It was a Sunday near dinner time when 
I reached Jackson and registered at the 
little hotel. Saddled horses stood along 
the streets and the hotel office was 
crowded with ranchers and cowboys who 
had ridden in to spend the day, using 
the office as a general gathering place 
and clubroom. 

After a very good dinner, at which 
elk meat was served, I joined the assem- 
blage in the office, and spent the after- 
noon and evening smoking, listening, 



187 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



and assimilating such information as I 
could relative to the attitude of the peo- 
ple toward the game situation, and the 
game situation here centers upon elk. 

I had entered Jackson's Hole quietly. 
No one knew me, where I came from, or 
the purpose of my visit, though I real- 
ized that I was supposed to be a forest 
ranger. This suited my purpose, for 
forest rangers are so common hereabouts 
that I was permitted to sit unobserved 
in my corner, exchanging less than a 
dozen words with anyone, and thus had 
an unusual opportunity to learn much 
of local sentiment and to gather many 
hints to guide me in later investigation 
and inquiries. 

Getting the Local Point of View 

A young man, dressed in khaki and 
evidently not a native of the valley, had 
supper with us in the evening, and I 
learned that he was the Reverend Robert 
M. Beckett, an Episcopal clergyman sta- 
tioned in Jackson. From him I obtained 
the names of leading guides and chief 
citizens of the country. One of the men 
mentioned by him, Mr. S. N. Leek, 
ranchman, ex-member of the State leg- 
islature, known as a big-game photogra- 
pher, and particularly well known for 
his active efforts in the interests of game 
protection, I had already communicated 
with, earlier in the day, with a view to 
securing his cooperation. That evening 
I received a telephonic invitation, which 
I accepted, to visit him the following day 
at his ranch, that we might canvass the 
elk situation together. 

Mr. Leek lives three miles below Jack- 
son on his ranch of four hundred acres. 
He came to Jackson's Hole twenty-three 
years ago and was therefore among the 
first of the settlers and has ever since 
been intimately associated with its history 
and development. 

During the succeeding days I saw 
much of the lower valley under Mr. 
Leek's guidance, and met and inter- 
viewed many of the people, following 
this with a complete view of the upper 
valley, and finally visiting the Gros 
Ventre region, where it is proposed to 
establish a game refuge and winter range. 
Here Leek and I pitched a tent, and re- 



mained three nights, spending the days 
in the saddle riding over the surrounding 
mountains and valley. 

In this tour I read the sickening story 
of the tragedy of the elk, written in bold 
characters on every field, on every hill 
and mountainside, and by every brook. 
It was the one subject of conversation, 
and the traveler through Jackson's Hole 
cannot avoid it. 

At the point where I forded the 
Hoback the first indications of dead elk 
were seen, and all along the trail from 
the Hoback to the Gros Ventre were 
scattered bones and tufts of hair of 
animals that had starved. Bark-stripped 
willows and quaking aspens and twigs 
and limbs as large as one's fingers 
gnawed down by famished animals in 
vain attempt to find sustenance in dead 
sticks told the story of misery and suf- 
fering. 

On the fields wherever I walked, and 
through the foothills, were the bones 
of innumerable elk that had perished 
within two years. At some points the 
bones literally lay in piles about bunches 
of willow with gnawed-off limbs and 
groves of quaking aspens stripped bare 
of bark. 

Leek told me that there had been 
times when he could walk a half mile 
on the bodies of dead elk. Others re- 
iterated this statement. One ranchman 
was prepared to make an affidavit that 
within a small area in the lower end of 
the Hole he had actually counted the 
bodies of sixteen hundred dead elk, in 
the spring of 1 909. Another stated that 
when the snow of that spring melted two 
thousand bodies lay within a radius of 
one mile of his house. Another said that 
within a like radius at another point he 
had seen five thousand bodies. 

Many other reputable ranchmen, in 
describing the awful stench arising in 
early summer from the putrefying bodies 
of dead animals, asserted that several 
families had been compelled temporarily 
to abandon their homes, made uninhab- 
itable by the odor. Everyone told of 
the water in early summer slimy and 
reeking with decaying elk flesh, and 
made unwholesome for man or beast. 
One ranchman asserted that within a 
period of twenty years' residence in 



SADDLE AND CAMP IN THE ROCKIES 



189 



Jackson's Hole he had seen upward of 
fifty thousand elk perish from starvation. 

Let us look at the causes that lead to 
this condition. It is an unnatural con- 
dition, and the causes are easily trace- 
able, though the remedies may not be 
so easily administered. 

In the year 1872 Congress set aside the 
Yellowstone National Park, embracing 
an area of approximately thirty-six hun- 



Thus was formed a great breeding 
ground for animals to which they could 
retreat, free from molestation by their 
old-time enemy the Indian, or their new 
and far more destructive enemy the 
white man. 

The elk herds of Yellowstone Park 
and the contiguous country were large 
and their annual increase under normal 
conditions is about one-third annually. 




THE SHADED PORTION IN THE CENTER OF THE MAP SHOWS THE WINTER 
REFUGE THAT WYOMING PROPOSES TO ESTABLISH FOR THE ELK. 



dred square miles, and later very strin- 
gent regulations were put in force re- 
stricting the hunting of any kind or 
species of animal within its boundaries, 
save of predatory animals in very par- 
ticular cases and under strict observa- 
tion. This made of Yellowstone Na- 
tional Park an ideal game preserve and 
refuge, where, under military patrol, it 
is safe to say no poaching takes place. 



As previously stated, their winter ranges 
in the park were limited to small and 
restricted areas, due to the high altitude 
of the park, its heavy snows, and severe 
winters. As the early snows began to 
deepen upon the mountains the herds 
sought lower levels, the overflow of the 
limited winter feeding grounds in the 
park drifted out and spread over ranges 
beyond its borders, those in the south 



190 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



working their way across the Tetons 
into Idaho, into Jackson's Hole, along 
the Hoback, the Big Bend of the Green 
River, and down to the Red Desert. 
This wide spread of country supplied 
ample forage for them during the severe 
winter months. Those in the north 
worked from the park into available 
ranges in Montana, where forage was 
then also plentiful. 

In time the Idaho ranges, the Red 
Desert and other outlying ranges were 
turned over by the Federal authorities 
to sheepmen, whose flocks swept and 
keep them swept clean of winter forage, 
until at length only Jackson's Hole re- 
mained, exceedingly insignificant and 
most inadequate, as compared with the 
one-time extensive and adequate winter 
ranges. Elk will starve on any range 
that sheep have grazed. Let us not for- 
get the fact that with the elimination of 
winter ranges the elk were not propor- 
tionately reduced in numbers. 

Keeping Out the Sheepmen 

In Jackson's Hole nothing but the un- 
yielding position of the settlers, who are 
determined that the animals shall not be 
robbed of this last range, has kept the 
sheepmen out. I have never visited a 
game country where the people were so 
unanimously game conservers, so keenly 
alive to the value of game and have 
individually sacrificed so much for its 
preservation as the people at Jackson's 
Hole. 

Their method of excluding the sheep- 
man was forcible and has been effective 
for a time at least. Not long ago the 
Federal authorities issued permits to a 
sheepman to graze the open range of 
Jacksoms Hole, and the sheepman 
drifted several thousand sheep across 
Teton Pass. When he appeared with 
his flocks the settlers called an indigna- 
tion meeting to devise ways and means 
of keeping him out. 

A committee was appointed to wait 
upon him and advise him to leave quietly 
and at once. He told the committee that 
he was there by Federal license and in- 
tended to stay. The committee returned 
and reported, and another committee 
was appointed, supplied with ropes, and 



instructed to see that no living sheep- 
man or sheep continued longer than 
three days on the Jackson's Hole side of 
Teton Pass. The committeemen waited 
upon the sheepman and advised him and 
his herdsmen of their instructions and 
their intention of carrying out these in- 
structions literally. The sheepman saw 
the point — and the rope — and discreetly 
departed. 

Thus Jackson's Hole was reserved for 
the elk, not by government foresight, but 
by the active interference of the settlers, 
who realized that the only hope of pre- 
serving the animals from destruction 
was the exclusion of sheep from this last 
remaining range. Sheep would also have 
ruined the range for cattle. 

Uncle Sam is, then, to a large degree, 
responsible for what we have thus far 
seen. He has bred animals in the sum- 
mer, to turn them out in winter, with- 
out provision, to starve. 

Let us look now at the part Wyoming 
plays in the situation. Very early 
Wyoming awoke to the fact that its wild 
game was one of the most valuable re- 
sources of the State and took wise and 
praiseworthy steps for its protection. It 
was one of the first, if not the first, of 
our States to require nonresident hunt- 
ers to pay well for the privilege of hunt- 
ing big game within its borders. At the 
cost of fifty dollars the nonresident 
might purchase a big game license al- 
lowing him to kill certain designated 
animals, including one elk, and upon the 
payment of an additional fifty dollars a 
second as a limit. 

Laws were passed providing severe 
punishment for head and tusk hunters, 
the latter at one time invading the game 
fields and killing great numbers of bulls 
for the tusks alone and in no way utiliz- 
ing the flesh. They were about the 
most unconscionable game killers, worse 
even than the old buffalo hunters who 
killed for hides, and contributed more 
than any other cause to the destruction 
of elk in regions where elk were once 
plentiful but are no longer found. 

I have known a pair of tusks, within 
a year, to sell for forty dollars, and they 
were unmounted and just as taken from 
the animal. This is a strong incentive 
for unprincipled men to kill for tusks, 



SADDLE AND CAMP IN THE ROCKIES 



191 



in defiance of law, where risk is not so 
great, and penalty not so severe, as in 
Wyoming. 

The restrictions on nonresident hunt- 
ers, aimed chiefly at pot hunters from 
Idaho and Montana, also had the effect 
intended and put an end to the in- 
discriminate slaughter that prevailed 
while nonresidents enjoyed the same 
privilege as residents. A limit of two 
elk was also placed, with a nominal 
license fee, upon resident hunters. 

Under these restrictions the already 
large herds began to increase, and Wy- 
oming saw great possibilities ahead. In 
his annual report of 1903, the State 
game warden said : 

"If the State of Wyoming will prop- 
erly husband its game and fish until 
the building of new railroads has made 
our mountain ranges and trout streams 
easily accessible, the annual revenue from 
these items of natural wealth will, if 
wisely managed, equal the income now 
derived from our domestic stock." 

The State bent itself to this end in 
the most unreasonable and unbusiness- 
like manner imaginable. Instead of en- 
.deavoring to propagate elk in other 
regions, capable of supporting consider- 
able herds, it concentrated its attention 
upon the already too large and starving 
herds which segregated each year in the 
Jackson's Hole country, bending its ef- 
forts to increase still further the num- 
bers, but making no provision to feed 
or care for these animals in winter when 
their range was stripped of forage early 
in the season, as it has been for several 
years, through overfeeding. 

As any lad in the country could have 
foreseen and foretold, this in the nat- 
ural course of events led to a largely 
increased death rate. Previous even to 
this time (1903) the elk of this region 
had become so numerous as to starve in 
such alarming numbers that humanita- 
rians had been led to suggest Federal in- 
terference. Referring to this, the State 
game warden took occasion to remark 
in his report of that year : 

"It is to be hoped that our nonresi- 
dent friends will allow us to demon- 
strate our ability to protect our own 
property." 

The State's method of protecting its 



own property was to create a new game 
refuge south of and adjoining Yellow- 
stone Park, extending south from the 
south boundary of the park to the mouth 
of the Buffalo Fork of Snake River, and 
east from the Idaho- Wyoming State line 
to the head of the Yellowstone River, 
embracing approximately nine hundred 
square miles of territory. In this refuge, 
as in Yellowstone Park, many elk find 
summer range and breeding ground, as 
they always have; in addition to this, 
none of the elk, and none of the elk that 
invade the territory in their autumnal 
southward migration from the park, may 
be hunted during open season, and there- 
fore hunting is practically limited to the 
territory lying between the refuge and 
the Gros Ventre and in the Gros Ventre 
region, thereby limiting the annual kill 
and increasing the animals on the al- 
ready largely overstocked ranges. 

And so conditions grew worse : fat, 
sleek thousands of elk surged into Jack- 
son's Hole in early winter ; a gaunt, 
spectral band, leaving hundreds upon 
hundreds of dead companions behind 
them, staggered back to the summer 
range in the spring, but on the whole 
the increase outnumbered the deaths. 

Wyoming's Most Valuable Livestock 

In 1908 the State game warden was 
moved to assert in his annual report that 
"These elk are the most valuable live- 
stock in Wyoming," and, continuing, 
suggested, "It is to be hoped that our 
legislature about to assemble will ap- 
preciate the importance of prompt ac- 
tion and take the requisite steps to se- 
cure a winter range while these animals 
are in prime condition." 

The winter range suggested, which it 
was proposed to make also a game ref- 
uge, was the Gros Ventre River ter- 
ritory, thus adding to the prohibited 
hunting country practically the only un- 
restricted territory which these large 
herds now visit during the open hunt- 
ing season. This proposition has not as 
yet been put through, largely because of 
the solid opposition of the residents of 
Jackson's Hole, who are too well aware, 
not only of its inadequacy to relieve the 
situation, but also of the absolute cer- 



192 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



tainty that it would make matters even 
worse by practically putting a stop to 
shooting, and surely result in leaving 
those few annually killed, which is far 
below the yearly increase, to starve. 
The setting apart of this refuge, how- 
ever, is still a live question. 

I rode over this proposed new winter 
range, and it appealed to me as so pal- 
pably unfitted for the purpose that I 
could only wonder at the proposition. 
Everyone who knew the country here 
voiced this opinion. At present some five 
thousand elk attempt to winter on the 
Gros Ventre, but the mortality among 
them is tremendous. 

The proposition to set aside this ter- 
ritory included the suggestion that the 
few ranchmen settled here could be in- 
duced to relinquish and abandon their 
homesteads for a gross sum of from 
$40,000 to $50,000 and that the State 
could then cut and stack the hay from 
the irrigated ranch meadows, to be fed 
to the animals as necessity demanded. It 
is probable that for a year or two this 
would carry the five thousand elk win- 
tering there at present through the try- 
ing period in fairly good shape. 

The proposed Gros Ventre refuge lies 
at a high altitude, however ; its snows are 
deep, and the animals would have to be 
fed regularly in yards they would make 
for themselves; at most but a small part 
of the herds could be cared for here, 
while this new refuge would practically 
eliminate hunting and to that extent tend 
to increase the number of animals and 
make the problem of caring for them 
more difficult each winter. 

Conservative approximate estimates of 
the elk in northwestern Wyoming place 
the number at 50,000. Those wintering 
in the Jackson's Hole country, between 
the Hoback and the Gros Ventre rivers, 
may be placed conservatively at 30,000. 
Snow lies so deep upon many sections of 
Jackson's Hole that herds are forced to 
segregate in various separate and limited 
areas that are more or less wind-swept, 
and forage therefore, to some extent, is 
uncovered and available while it lasts. 
Thus it will be seen that while the ani- 
mals have between sixty and seventy 
acres per head on the summer range, 
when forage is green and plentiful, they 



have less than an acre per head in the 
winter when forage is withered and of 
poorer quality than in the summer, and 
much more difficult to be reached. 

By the middle of January the elk or- 
dinarily have the range eaten pretty 
clean, and are then compelled to turn to 
coarse sticks and bark, which in the case 
of grazing animals such as elk possess 
small food value. The bark is even eaten 
from fence-rails. By February first the 
elk have grown gaunt, and many of them 
have fallen into a starving condition ; 
presently the weaker ones are seen lying 
down, unable to regain their feet. Thus 
they remain one, two, and sometimes 
three or more days, until a merciful 
providence relieves their sufferings. 
Thenceforward this pitiful spectacle is 
constantly before the eyes of the settlers 
until spring thaws come and the famished 
creatures that have survived the period 
turn back again into the hills to regain 
strength and flesh in a season of plenty. 

When the starving period begins the 
ranchmen pitch tents or make bivouacs 
near their ha)^stacks, and to save the hay 
for their cattle are compelled to sleep 
by the stacks during the severest months 
of winter. Sometimes even then desper- 
ate elk charge the stacks and get some 
of the hay. It is necessary for the ranch- 
men to guard and protect the hay for 
their domestic stock, else the stock would 
starve. As stated previously, this is a 
stock country and livestock is the chief 
dependence of the ranchmen. 

What the Ranchmen are Doing 

Nevertheless many elk feed with do- 
mestic cattle, and tender-hearted ranch- 
men not infrequently put their stock on 
short allowance in order to donate, now 
and again, a bit of forage to desper- 
ate and starving elk. As an instance, 
Mr. Leek fed at his own expense twenty- 
one elk during the winter of 1910, and 
on several occasions animals forced their 
way into the barn where he stables his 
driving horses. It is customary for set- 
tlers when driving out to stuff as much 
hay into their sleighs as can conveniently 
be carried and distribute it to weaker ani- 
mals in particularly pitiable condition 
which they pass along the road. 




IDEAL ELK RANGE ALONG THE SNAKE RIVER IN WYOMING WHERE 
PRACTICALLY NONE OF THE ANIMALS ARE TO BE FOUND. 



The winter of 1908-09 was an un- 
usually hard winter here, and early in 
January, 1909, Jackson's Hole was 
stripped of forage. It is probable that 
the greater part of the herds would have 
perished but for the fact that ranchmen 
on their own initiative distributed twenty 
loads of hay daily to twenty thousand elk. 
This barely sufficed to keep the animals 
alive. The ranchmen, to be sure, were later 
recompensed by the State for the hay, but 
even so it was to their disadvantage to 
take it from their domestic stock, which 
they were compelled to put on exceed- 
ingly short allowance ; and when they fed 
the hay they had no guarantee that they 
would be paid for it. 

Referring to that season, the State 
game warden, in his annual report, says: 

"Not many grown elk died, but about 
fifteen per cent of the young ones 
perished. Had nothing been done to re- 
lieve the elk, a frightful loss would have 
been the result. The prompt action of 
the settlers in taking the initiative and 
beginning feeding operations, and the 
generosity of the legislature in providing 
funds, deserve the highest commenda- 
tion." 

The State game warden in his esti- 
mate of the elk that perished, is at wide 



variance with every ranchman in Jack- 
son's Hole. I personally interviewed 
many of the leading residents and ob- 
tained estimates from them of the pro- 
portion of the herds that perished, and 
the most conservative placed the num- 
ber at not less than seventy-five per cent 
of the young, and ten per cent of the 
adult, elk. I had but one estimate as 
low as ten per cent of the latter, the 
majority agreeing that at least fifteen 
per cent of the grown animals perished. 

Again, in February, 1910, many elk 
died of starvation in Jackson's Hole, but 
a fortunate thaw cleared the upper 
ranges in early March, and not nearly so 
many were lost as in 1909. 

In spite of these lessons, which have 
been repeated winter after winter for 
several years, Wyoming has taken no 
steps to protect her animals. In the lat- 
ter part of January of the present year 
(1911) elk had again begun to starve. 
At the time this is written famished elk 
are dying by hundreds in Jackson's Hole. 
Other hundreds lie in the snow too weak 
to rise, and there they will lie uncared 
for until a long-drawn out, torturing 
death relieves them. The snow was 
three feet deep on the level there this 
winter, and the outlook was for an even 



194 




THE BARREN SLOPES OF THE GROS VENTRE RANGE WHERE IT IS PROPOSED 
TO ESTABLISH A WINTER REFUGE FOR ELK. 



more disastrous season than the terrible 
one of two years ago, when, but for the 
ranchers' prompt action, practically the 
whole herd would have perished. In a 
letter from S. N. Leek dated January 
28, 191 1, he says: 

"Last night, coming down from Jack- 
son, I passed over twenty calf elk lying 
by the road, none of them dead yet, but 
all will be within a few hours. While 
traveling in the road, where the snow is 
packed, they give out and drop down. 
We must drive around them with our 
teams, and those who pass throw out 
little bunches of hay to them. Some of 
them are seen lying with the hay before 
them, but too far gone to eat it. In a 
few hours, or days at most, those that 
are down now will be dead. What you 
saw last fall will not be a fourth of 
what you may see next spring. And still 
the great State of Wyoming and the 
Federal Government protect them on a 
summer range, averaging seventy acres 
to each animal, where all grazing of 
domestic stock is prohibited, and not 
one acre each is reserved for them for a 
winter range. 

"I took a photograph from my barn 
last evening, showing probably fifty elk, 
part of them within the corral, and at 



the time there were fifteen hundred head 
of elk within my field, all starving. I 
could feed a hundred or so, but did I 
commence I should soon have a thousand 
to feed, and I haven't the hay to feed 
that many. I feel almost like quitting 
and letting them all die, and have the 
worry over." 

This, it will be remembered, was at 
the beginning of the starving season of 
the present year. A day or two after 
writing me the above letter, Leek wrote 
me again that he had canvassed Jackson's 
Hole to learn how much hay each 
ranchman could in safety spare from his 
needs for his domestic stock. Last sum- 
mer was one of unusual drought, and 
Leek found less than fifty tons of hay 
available for elk. 

Early in February the State legisla- 
ture so far aroused itself from its indif- 
ference to the conditions as to vote an 
emergency fund of $5,000 to relieve the 
elk. Had this been done last spring and 
hay purchased last summer, it would 
have gone far toward saving the elk, but 
with no hay obtainable at this late day 
it can be of no use. A meeting was called 
of all the settlers before this emergency 
fund was voted, to consider the feasibil- 
ity of driving their cattle over Teton 



195 



198 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



Pass to Teton Basin in Idaho, where 
feed could be had for them, and distrib- 
uting their hay to starving elk. To 
drive the stock in winter over this trail 
would be no small undertaking and 
would doubtless result in considerable 
loss of stock. 

Let us summarize briefly Wyoming's 
responsibility for the condition: She 
began early in her statehood to work for 
the enlargement of herds already too 
numerous for available winter ranges. 
Not satisfied with the annual increase 
shown, she established an extensive ref- 
uge adjoining Yellowstone Park that 
the herds might grow as large as pos- 
sible, in order to net her a large revenue 
when railroads open her game regions to 
sportsmen. 

In spite of the fact that winter ranges 
are excessively overstocked, she proposes 
to establish still another refuge in the 
Gros Ventre. She makes no provision 
for winter feeding, though regularly 
every year thousands upon thousands of 
her elk are dying of starvation. She re- 
sents outside criticism, and proposed in- 
terference on the part of the Federal 
Government, on the ground that she is 
abundantly able to take care of her own 
property, though past and present con- 
ditions prove that she is utterly unable 
or unwilling to care for these migratory 
animals which she chooses to claim as 
her own the moment they enter her ter- 
ritory. 

The Way Out 

What is the remedy? No one wants 
to lose the last large herds of elk re- 
maining to us if it is possible to save 
them. Humanity demands on the other 
hand that the herds be reduced in size 
if they cannot otherwise be provided for 
in winter, to a point where the limited 
ranges open to them will support them 
without undue suffering. The question 
is, then, can the present herds be kept 
in their entirety and provision be made 
against their suffering? I believe this is 
possible, though it would not seem wise 
to permit further increase, as the limit 
of numbers, in justice to them, appears 
to have been reached. 

Though Wyoming claims absolute 
ownership of the elk within her borders 



and puts her claims above those of the 
Federal Government, the elk, as well as 
all the ranges here in question, are 
within United States forest reserves, 
including Jackson's Hole. In view of 
the fact that Wyoming has asserted and 
reiterated that these elk are of greater 
economic value than all the domestic 
livestock in the State, and it is true that 
the elk are a source of considerable 
revenue to her, it seems but just that 
some part of the money brought into 
the State treasury through the elk should 
be used to guard them from suffering, 
particularly in the face of the further 
fact that it has been demonstrated that 
this is feasible. In view of her claims 
of ownership and her high valuation of 
the elk, the country at large is war- 
ranted in expecting her to act on ordinary 
business principles and to care for them 
just as any farmer would care for his 
stock, by feeding them in seasons when 
the ranges become inadequate to support 
them. Thus she might incidentally prove 
that she is "able to take care of her own 
property without outside interference." 

Humanity demands that she do this, or 
in the event of her failure to do so that 
the Federal Government take possession 
of the herds. In another article I said 
that it was a question whether or not 
migrating animals passing from one 
State to another should not come under 
Federal control. This, of course, will 
be understood to refer to States in which 
national forest reserves are established, 
to animals passing from a reserve in one 
State to a reserve in another, and to the 
animals while within the boundaries of 
reserves. The elk here in question fall 
within the last classification, as they have 
never passed out of national forest re- 
serves. 

Feeding is not only possible but feas- 
ible, and Wyoming is only deterred from 
feeding because of the expense entailed, 
which would be comparatively small. 
During the haying season ranchmen in 
Jackson's Hole are willing to sell the 
State considerable quantities of hay at 
from four to five dollars per ton, and 
enough could be had at this price, eco- 
nomically dispensed, to carry the elk over 
the season of stress. It would be neces- 
sary to arrange with the ranchmen for 




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GRIM MONUMENT TO THE HARD WINTERS OF JACKSON S HOLE- 
SIGHT THROUGHOUT THE DISTRICT. 



-A COMMON 



the hay in summer, that they might have 
ample time to drive their cattle over the 
Teton Pass, or make other winter pro- 
vision for them. It has been claimed 
that the ranchmen demanded of the 
State excessive prices for hay. I was 
assured that the price above named 
would be the limit of demand, and 
surely, with the average ruling price of 
hay elsewhere throughout the country 
about eighteen dollars a ton, five dollars 
cannot be characterized as excessive. 
Hay thus purchased could be held in re- 
serve for time of need and would meet 
all requirements, but Wyoming has 
never put aside one ton of hay to meet 
an emergency certain to arise. 

In my description of Jackson's Hole I 
referred to a marshy area supporting a 
good growth of grass. This area con- 
tains about three thousand acres and is 
easily good for at least one ton of hay 
per acre. The greater part of the marsh 
is owned by private individuals, but it 
could be acquired by the State by re- 
imbursing the owners for the slight im- 
provements they have made upon it. 
The hay thus obtained would cost the 
State very little and might be held as a 
reserve to meet emergencies. 

While under normal and healthful 
conditions the annual increase among the 



elk of northwestern Wyoming should be 
considerably greater than at present, it 
is, conservatively estimated, about five 
thousand. The total number of elk 
killed annually in the State averages one 
thousand. If the cost of present non- 
resident licenses was reduced from fifty 
dollars to twenty-five dollars, privileging 
the hunter to kill one elk, with an addi- 
tional charge of twenty-five dollars for 
a second elk, it is probable that many 
more nonresident hunters would upon 
these reduced terms visit the State, with 
the result that an additional thousand elk 
would be killed. 

This would in no case tend to reduce 
the size of present herds, but it would 
prevent an annual increase too large to 
control, which would result if whole- 
sale starvation were stopped through 
feeding. It would produce to the State 
a revenue so considerable that even in 
her stingiest mood Wyoming might be 
moved to apply a small proportion of 
it to the purchase of sufficient hay to 
keep the elk in good condition through 
any ordinary, or, for that matter, ex- 
traordinary winter. 

This proposition, I am aware, will be 
hailed with horror by those who object 
under any conditions to killing wild ani- 
mals, but it is better to kill the elk than 



SADDLE AND CAMP IN THE ROCKIES 



201 



to starve, and humanity here demands 
some such course. No stockman in the 
world would attempt to maintain a hun- 
dred steers on a range that would not 
support seventy. 

On the other hand, Wyoming has 
considerable ranges in other sections of 
the State far understocked. Wherever 
this is the case a permanent close season 
should be established and maintained un- 
til the ranges are fairly well stocked. 
The idea of game protection is to stock 
ranges that are adapted to animals, but 
not overstock them, and when condi- 
tions warrant, to permit hunting, but not 
to so great an extent as to kill each year 
beyond the annual increase. 

In view of the fact that Wyoming 
considers her elk of greater value than 
the domestic sheep now occupying the 
old desert ranges of the elk to the latter's 
exclusion, it is a pity that the Federal 
Government ever permitted the sheep to 
ruin the ranges. What shift the Fed- 
eral authorities expected their Yellow- 
stone Park elk to make when they did 
this is hard to imagine, if indeed they 
ever gave the park elk a thought. 

No one understanding the true mean- 
ing of game preservation can be in the 
least in sympathy with the exclusion of 
settlers from territory for the sole pur- 
pose of propagating game. This would 
retard civilization, and no one wishes 
that. But if desert lands not adapted to 
settlement are more valuable as elk pas- 
ture than sheep pasture, as Wyoming 
has asserted, particularly when other and 
ample unoccupied ranges are open to 
sheep, humanity and good policy both 
demand that the elk ranges be reserved 
for elk. 

Last year Wyoming took thirty-six 
domesticated elk from Jackson's Hole to 
the Big Horn refuge. This refuge would 
accommodate thousands, and the Med- 
icine Bow range also offers admirable 
opportunity. The transportation of elk 

{To be 



has been proved by experiment to be 
perfectly feasible. In his report of 1907 
the State game warden of Wyoming 
states : 

"It has been well demonstrated that 
young elk may be captured in the Jack- 
son's Hole country — in winter time — 
with cheapness and safety. They are 
enticed into inclosures by means of hay 
and fed until in suitable condition to 
move. In years past, when there were 
no restrictions upon the capture of game, 
I have known scores of young elk to 
be hauled ninety miles by wagon, and 
then shipped by rail to New York, with 
practically no resultant loss." 

If the State of Wyoming is truly in- 
terested in the preservation and propaga- 
tion of big game, as her State game 
warden has repeatedly asserted in his 
annual reports, she could, without ex- 
pense and without appreciable loss to 
herself, permit other States to capture 
young elk that would otherwise starve, 
to stock adaptable ranges in these other 
States. The number to be captured and 
transported could be agreed upon, and it 
would be but just that the State receiv- 
ing the elk give Wyoming a guarantee of 
a permanent closed season and of proper 
protection for the animals. 

It is certainly up to Wyoming to take 
some steps toward the proper protection 
of her elk. If she does not do so promptly 
and continues to permit wholesale starv- 
ing, the Federal authorities should take the 
matter in hand. If an individual were 
to treat one cow calf so cruelly as Wy- 
oming annually treats thousands of elk, 
his neighbors would raise a howl of 
horror, and the humane societies would 
lose no time in setting legal machinery in 
motion to have him severely punished. 
How long will the Federal Government 
permit this condition to continue? What 
is Wyoming going to do about it? She 
can get the hay and she can feed the 
animals if she is disposed to do so. 

concluded) 





A COYOTE HUNT IN FULL CHASE NEAR COLORADO SPRINGS. 

COLORADO A NATIONAL 
PLAYGROUND 

BY WILLIAM MacLEOD RAINE 



Illustrated icith Photographs 



"'"^^HE charm of Colorado to 
the tourist lies largely in 
its contrasts. The climate, 
the topography, above all 
the social and business ac- 
tivities, illustrate this con- 
tinually. The pleasure seeker finds the 
highly developed civilization of the East 
set in a breezy Western environment, all 
its complexities and comforts in close 



proximity to the primitive outdoors in- 
habited by elk and Indians and cow- 
punchers. 

The Centennial State might more aptly 
be known as the "Sunshine State," but 
since the charm of a place cannot be 
measured by statistics, it is inadequate to 
say that there are in each year three hun- 
dred and forty days in which the sun 
shines more or less and usually a great 

























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POLO AT THE CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN COUNTRY CLUB. 

202 




IT IS NOT MEANT THAT MEN SHOULD ALWAYS BE HERDED INTO CITY CANYONS. 



deal more than less. Combined with the 
dry, pure air of a mile-high altitude, this 
gives an invigoration that invites to out- 
door life. The' weather is subject to 
sudden variations of temperature, but 
the lack of humidity in the atmosphere 
robs these changes of their danger. The 
invalid, well wrapped up, sits out on his 
porch all day in zero weather and makes 



the most of the pale wintry sunlight, 
knowing that the morrow is likely to be 
the first of a month of balmy springlike 
days. 

Denver is just now (to be precise, 
February 15th), in the heart of her win- 
ter, but yesterday I played golf and 
to-day tennis. Motor cars flash past as 
I write and people are riding in open 



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HELPING THE STAGE GET UNDER WAY. 
203 




AN IDEAL SPOT FOR THE CASUAL TOURIST. 



street cars with and without overcoats. 
The distant mountains are ribbed with 
snow furrows, deep among their two- 
mile-high summits the rotary plows are 
bucking their way through heavy drifts, 
but both here and there the sky wears its 
perennial blue. All told, there has not 
been more than a week this winter dur- 
ing which one could not have indulged 
comfortably in any outdoor sport. 

"She sits forever in the sun," wrote 
Joaquin Miller of Denver, and he might 
almost as truly have said it of the State 



at large. For away up in the mountain 
towns and mining camps where one 
travels on runners six months in the year 
and snowshoes are in brisk demand at the 
stores, where avalanches are the most 
dread menace to safety throughout the 
winter, the sunpour from the blue alter- 
nates with the storms that sweep across 
gulch and mountain. Over "park" and 
valley and plain alike this silvery light 
floods limpidly. This is one of the fac- 
tors that go to make Colorado "more 
and more each day the playground of 



204 




FOUR-POUND RAINBOWS ARE NO STRANGERS IN THE MOUNTAIN STREAMS. 



the entire Republic," as Colonel Roose- 
velt once said. 

Denver is the gateway between the 
mountains and the plains. She sits tilted 
on a toboggan slide that stretches from 
the continental divide to the Missouri 
River, and from her radiate all the activ- 
ities of the Rockies, whether of mines, 
sheep, cattle, agriculture, or manufac- 
tures. The miner who has "struck it 
rich" at Aspen or Leadville comes down 
to build a palatial home on Capitol Hill 
and finish his days at the Denver Club, 



swapping stories with his fellows. Mean- 
while his son goes to Harvard, drives a 
motor car along the very road where his 
father perhaps packed a prospector's out- 
fit on his back, plays polo or rides to a 
"meet" to chase coyotes, and finds time 
besides to practice law or promote mines. 
Colorado might be called the roof of 
the continent, the watershed whose great 
divide sends a hundred rivers down its 
eaves into the Atlantic and as many into 
the Pacific. More than forty peaks of 
the Rockies in this State rise higher than 



205 



2o6 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



14,000 feet, the best known and one of 
the least impressive of which is Pike's 
Peak, the first to strike the eye as one 
comes westward from the plains. 

This region of dry, untempered atmos- 
phere seems to defy distance. One may 
ride all day with a mountain landmark 
for a guide and find it at nightfall no 
perceptible foot nearer, though it has 
changed from blue to pink in the sunset 




SAILING NEARLY TWO MILES ABOVE 
SEA LEVEL. 

glow and later to a velvet violet in the 
evening dusk and again to a purple haze 
that in the night blurs softly all detail. 
At Denver one may see a two-hundred- 
mile stretch of continuous mountain, 
from Pike's, which is eighty miles to 
the south, to great Long's, not far from 
the Wyoming line. 

The Rocky Mountain plateau lacks 
many of the beauties familiar to those 
who come from the East. One misses 
the verdure, the delicate softness and 
coloring of Indian summer. There are 
comparatively few fine cloud effects and 
a very definite lack of perspective. These 
deficiencies are inevitable complements of 
an atmosphere so peculiarly dry and rare- 



fied, but nature has her way of atoning 
by unexpected sweeps of light and shadow 
on the plains, by wonderful sunrises on 
keen, crisp mornings when the snowy 
mountains glow with a translucent pink, 
by exquisite hours of dusk touched to a 
mystical light that shimmers on the ser- 
rated range. 

It was not meant in the divine scheme 
of things that men should always be 
herded into city canyons. The call of 
the wild will not be denied, nor the in- 
herited instinct of the old barbaric days 
to get' out and conquer the obstacles of 
nature. Tired and overcivilized human- 
ity may find in Colorado a great many 
almost untrodden peaks, scores of virgin 
wilds that invite the intelligence of man 
to pit itself against the craft and cunning 
of wild game, and numberless streams 
heavily stocked with trout worthy any 
angler's skill. 

If one desires to play less arduously he 
may settle into pleasant indolence in any 
one of a thousand picturesque resorts in 
the hills. Nearly every railroad in the 
State winds through gorges and climbs 
divides to many such. Platte Canyon is 
dotted with beautiful little parks where 
summer hotels and boarding houses 
nestle. Many people own their own 
homes and still others pitch tent casually 
on any level spot on the sunny hillside. 
The season for trout fishing opens the 
first of June, and from that time till the 
close of November a "fish train" is run 
every Saturday afternoon to carry busi- 
ness men at the week end to their families 
in the mountains. 

The tourists center at Denver, Colo- 
rado Springs, and Glenwood Springs, 
each of these places having advantages 
not common to the others. From Den- 
ver start most of the celebrated one-day 
scenic trips, such as those over the 
Georgetown Loop, the "Switzerland" 
trail, the climb on the "Moffat Road" by 
a wonderful piece of engineering across 
the continental divide into the wilds of 
Routt County, and others of like nature. 
But by way of parenthesis it is necessary 
to add that "the Short Line" run to 
Cripple Creek, the famous gold camp, be- 
gins at Colorado Springs. 

The business of this last-named city is 
to contribute to the enjoyment of life. It 




AT COLORADO SPRINGS NATURE HAS HEATED THE POOL FOR THE BATHERS. 




PITCH TENT CASUALLY ON THE SUNNY HILLSIDE. 



COLORADO A NATIONAL PLAYGROUND 



209 



contains among its residents a very large 
percentage of cultured Eastern people 
who came out originally for the health of 
some member of the family, but have 
stayed permanently because it is one of 
the most delightful of places in which to 
live. There is a great deal of riding, of 
driving, and of polo, for the electric at- 
mosphere brings most people outdoors 
during the daytime, and during the sea- 
son a great influx of travelers debouch 
from Colorado Springs to a hundred 
near-by points of interest. Cheyenne 
Canyon, Manitou, Pike's Peak, acces- 
sible by a cogwheel railroad, the Garden 
of the Gods with its curious and inter- 
esting rock formations; all these are in 
close enough proximity for picnicking 
purposes. 

Glenwood Springs, which is deep in 
the heart of the Rockies, makes its claim- 
on the traveler because of its large hot- 
spring bathing pool of medicinal proper- 
ties, and because the best of fishing and 
hunting may be reached from here in a 
few hours of travel by train or horse or 
automobile. 

There is no climbing in the Rockies 
that is dangerous to the experienced 
mountaineer, though the difficulty of the 
ascent varies in different cases. A ranch- 
man told me not long ago that last sum- 
mer he took his whole family, including 
three girls and a four-year-old child, to 
the summit of Mt. Sopris, gathering by 
the way twenty-seven kinds of wild 
flowers, including the columbine. Yet 
every year some venturesome climber 
pays the penalty of his carelessness with 
his life. 

There is plenty of good climbing to be 
had around the Aspen-Leadville district, 
where Maroon, Pyramid, Snow Mass, 
the Mount of the Holy Cross, and Mas- 
sive are only a few of many peaks at the 
summit of the continental divide. Or 
one may go farther south to where 
Mounts Harvard, Yale, and Princeton 
tower. But nowhere is it better than 
along, the Front Range, from Grays, 
Torrey's, Rosalie, and Evans, just west 
of Denver, to Arapahoe and Long's far- 
ther north. If one has a fancy for study- 
ing glaciers he may find several of them 
here, notably Hallett's and Arapahoe, 
with all the accessories of moraine, boul- 



der field, ice bridges, and crevasses. It 
is quite safe to say that any visitor will 
find peaks near enough wherever he may 
be staying with enough of danger and 
difficulty to whet his appetite for adven- 
ture. 

Some one has put it on record that 
Long's Peak is one of the seven most dif- 
ficult in the world. This is probably not 
true, but it certainly offers one of the 
most interesting climbs in the Rockies. 
There is the moraine, the boulder field, 
the ascent to the Keyhole with beautiful 
Estes Park stretching away from one's 
feet to the cordon of surrounding hills. 
Above there is a sheer rock wall to be 
circled by the narrowest of footpaths and 
a precipitous descent below, a stiff climb 
up the trough, another rock face to be 
negotiated, and the final clamber to the 
summit. The view has to be seen to be 
appreciated. Something of the moun- 
tain's stark height may be imagined when 
one remembers that a dropped stone will 
fall from one face a sheer two thousand 
feet and strike only once or twice before 
plunging into the black lake below. This 
is said to be the highest overhanging 
precipice in the world. 

Park that an English/nan Found 

Under the shadow of scarred Long's 
lies a natural park of a hundred thousand 
acres of meadow, pasture, and woodland. 
Thirty years ago an Englishman, hunt- 
ing big game in the Rockies as he had 
hunted in every quarter of the globe, 
crossed the snow ridge and looked down 
into it. He saw that the range had as 
it were thrust out a great crooked arm 
and inclosed this natural garden within 
a barrier of mountains. Seeing, he cov- 
eted it for an immense estate and game 
preserve. The man was the Earl of 
Dunraven, and the place was Estes Park. 
He began at once to buy, and after he 
had obtained the best Colorado woke up 
and protested until the remainder was 
thrown open to the homesteader. 

To-day Estes Park is a big playground 
with five large hotels and a number of 
smaller ones. Scattered through it are 
hundreds of summer homes set pictur- 
esquely among the pines and aspens. A 
fifty-foot boulevard bisects the Park and 



2IO 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



offers a perfect road for driving and 
motoring. For the golfer there are no 
less than five courses, for the naturalist, 
numberless flowers, reaching to the very 
beds of perennial snow. The mountain- 
eer may have his choice of many peaks, 
some of them within a day's journey of 
the Park with canyons not yet fully ex- 
plored, and in these deep gorges the 
hunter may find deer, bear and mountain 
lion. The fisherman need only step to 
his front door and from the Big Thomp- 
son draw speckled rainbow trout for 
breakfast. 

But though there is trout fishing all 
over the State, with a greater mileage of 
well-stocked streams than in any other 
State in the Union, when one speaks of 
the big fellows, the ten-pounders, he 
thinks of the Gunnison River. In like 
manner when one thinks big game he 
very likely has Routt County in his mind. 
Until lately shut off from the world by 
mountain ranges a railroad is now tun- 
neling its way into this northwestern 
corner of the State. 

Hunting in this region means leaving 
the railroads far behind, crossing moun- 
tains on roads cut in the rock, and sliding 
down hazardous grades with brakes set 
hard. It means lying in one's blankets 
before a camp fire with the deep starlit 
sky for a roof and all the wide outdoors 
of the shadowed peaks and the breeze- 
blown pines to wash petty troubles from 
the mind. It means also long days of 
heavy tramping, crowned by that mo- 
ment of incomparable delight which fol- 
lows a clean shot at the end of a perfect 
stalk. 

Outside of railroad fare the cost of 
camping in the Rockies is inconsiderable. 
The first and last rule is to wear old 
clothes. A pair of flannel shirts, the 
usual underwear (if not too light, for the 
nights are often cold even in the sum- 
mer), stout shoes, rubber hip-boots, soft 
hat, canvas leggings, serviceable gloves, 
sweater, mackintosh, and plenty of safety 
pins are the chief necessities in the way of 
wear for a man. A woman would do 
well to take an old golf suit with an 
extra skirt, some outing flannel shirt- 
waists, leggings, heavy-soled shoes, soft 
felt hat and wide-brimmed straw, and a 
jacket of some kind. 



A party of eight who outfitted in Den- 
ver to go to Wagon Wheel Gap for a 
two months' trip found that the average 
cost a person for food was less than five 
dollars a month. My experience would 
justify this as a fair estimate — omitting 
the price of milk and eggs bought from 
neighboring ranches, since trout and 
game may be depended upon to supple- 
ment the bill of fare without cost. It 
is of course an entirely different matter 
if you stop at the large hotels. The ex- 
pense then is on a par with that' at other 
resorts the world over and the garb, the 
usual conventional wear, somewhat sim- 
plified. 

Homes of an Earlier Civilization 

One of the most interesting features 
of Colorado to visitors is the cliff ruins 
on the Mesa Verde. These were dis- 
covered twenty-five years ago and are the 
most extensive in the United States. The 
cliff dwelling region, which has recent- 
ly been created into a National public 
park, covers seven hundred square miles. 
This district is a plateau, flat on top but 
cut into numberless gorges and canyons 
by the Mancos River and its tributaries. 
The Canyon of the Mancos is from one 
to two thousand feet deep, the river bed 
being bounded by long, steep slopes of 
disintegrated rock which culminate in 
lofty cliffs at the top towering far above 
the narrow thread of water. 

All the more important types of. an- 
cient dwellings are represented here and 
reach their highest development. One of 
the most notable of these is the Cliff 
Palace, a ruin 425 feet long which is set 
in the cove of a rock face; another, the 
Spruce Tree House. The rooms are cir- 
cular, oval, and rectangular. The round 
ones, called estufas, were evidently for 
religious purposes. In places these are 
three stories high. The masonry is of 
the highest type, the stones being dressed 
on the outside and laid with mortar. Into 
the walls of some of these old dwellings 
have been scratched and painted picto- 
graphs representing various epics of pre- 
historic life. 

These old ruins are set in that pictur- 
esque corner of the State where liquid 
Spanish names anticipated our senseless 



KEEPING THE MOTOR'S LUNGS CLEAN 



211 



nomenclature; "down in the San Juan 
country," as the local phrase has it. In- 
stead of such crude names as Dead Cow 
Creek we have the Rio Dolores, the Rio 
de los Animas. Mountains are Cordille- 
ras, and instead of being placarded with 
labels like Pike's and Clark's and Gray's 
they are San Miguel, Sangre de Cristo, 
and San Luis. 

From the towns of this section — Ou- 
ray and Silverton and Rico — you may 
see any day a string of burros laden with 
supplies setting out for the hills where 
the prospector has staked his claim. 
These supplies are of every imaginable 
kind, and when the little animal is 
freighted with pans and picks and kegs 
not much of him is visible to the naked 
eye. Any kind of a trail is good enough 
for a burro. He can forage for a living 
on the bare hillside. No animal is stronger 
for his weight or more willing in his 
own gentle indolent fashion, which are 
some of the reasons why he is the pros- 



pector's best friend and cheapest and 
safest means of transportation. 

The great fact in Colorado's history 
during the past decade has been the de- 
velopment of agriculture. Time was — 
and not long distant either — when the 
farmer led an isolated life, but now the 
rural districts are in close touch with 
urban life. Farming under irrigation is 
intensive, population dense. The tele- 
phone, the interurban trolley, the rise in 
agricultural land values, the grade school, 
the automobile, the acquisition of scien- 
tific tools and machinery, cooperation; 
all these have veritably transformed the 
old-time farmer's life, at least in Colo- 
rado. The prosperous members of that 
class are among those who have the time 
and inclination to enjoy the advantages 
of their chosen State as a playground, no 
less than are the thousands who pour in 
every summer from other States to make 
the most of its sunshine, its sports, and 
its scenery. 




KEEPING THE MOTOR'S LUNGS 

CLEAN 

BY HAROLD WHITING SLAUSON 



F a man inhales dust, he coughs and 
thereby involuntarily clears out the 
air passages ; when a motor breathes, 
the dirt and soot collect in its 
"lungs and throat" with each res- 
piration until finally, if these organs 
are neglected, any undue exertion will 
cause it to puff and wheeze as badly 
as does a pug dog with the asthma. 
Under these conditions, the motor 
loses power and, no matter how per- 
fect may have been its design, high 
efficiency cannot be obtained when its 
breathing apparatus is in need of clean- 
ing. The remedy lies in the expendi- 
ture of a small amount of time and 
energy on the part of the owner or his 
chauffeur, for it is not necessary to turn 



the car over to a professional repair man 
in order to have the valves cleaned. 

It is not an easy matter to prescribe 
at just what intervals the valves of a 
four-cycle automobile motor should be 
cleaned, for the condition of these re- 
spiratory parts depends as much upon 
the nature of the gasoline mixture and 
the quality and amount of lubricating oil 
used as it does upon the distance that the 
car has been run. A car that is not kept 
in commission during the winter should 
have its valves attended to the first thing 
in the spring before any attempt is made 
to run the machine, and under some con- 
ditions of use, this operation should be 
repeated every month or so. The suc- 
cessful motor-car tourist who always 



212 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



keeps the anatomy of his machine in the 
"pink of condition" will grind the valves 
at the end of every one or two thousand 
miles, even though the engine may ap- 
pear to be absolutely free from lung 
trouble of any kind. 

The frequent cleaning, or grinding, of 
valves is made necessary by the fact that 
some of the parts of the exhaust gases 
unite with the free, unburned carbon of 
the lubricating oil and with the dust in 
the air and form a deposit on the valves 
and their seats. Additions will gradually 
be made to this deposit, and the mass 
will finally become baked on so hard that 
grinding has been found to be the only 
method by which it can be entirely re- 
moved. The interposition of this car- 
bonaceous deposit between the valve and 
its seat prevents the former from clos- 
ing tightly and allows the compressed 
charge and the force of the explosion 
to escape before the proper time, thus 
reducing the power of the motor by the 
amount that the pressures have been de- 
creased. 

Where Attention is Necessary 

As has been already stated, care on the 
part of the operator in regard to the 
quantity and quality of the lubricating 
oil used and the nature of the gasoline 
mixture admitted to the cylinders will 
reduce the liability of the formation of 
carbon deposit on the valves and seats, 
but the greatest precautions cannot ob- 
viate entirely the necessity for attention 
to this part of the motor. Even though 
no carbon should be formed, the heat 
of the exhaust gases would eventually 
corrode the valves and seats and cause 
small pit-marks to appear in their sur- 
faces which only grinding would re- 
move. , 

The temperature of these exhaust 
gases is generally in the neighborhood of 
400° F., and as the valve itself cannot 
be water-cooled, even the best material 
from which it can be made will eventu- 
ally show the effects of this continued 
application of heat to its surface. As 
the seat of the valve is generally a part 
of the cylinder casting, it can be water- 
jacketed and its temperature can thus be 
kept at a more nearly normal point, but 



as the two surfaces are ground together, 
no discrimination can be made as to 
which has the greater amount of carbon 
deposit. 

What has been said in regard to the 
effect of the high temperature of the 
gases on the valves applies only to those 
controlling admission to the exhaust pipe, 
for the intake valves are not exposed to 
this heat and are opened only to allow 
the introduction of the cool charge from 
the carburetor. Consequently, it is only 
the exhaust valves that will require fre- 
quent attention, but the intake valves 
should be ground at least once a year to 
obtain the best results from the motor. 
Whether one or both sets are ground, 
however, the methods to be pursued are 
the same, and the amount of work and 
time required depends entirely upon the 
condition of the valves; the amount of 
carbon deposit will vary in direct propor- 
tion with the length of time that the parts 
have been neglected. Consequently, it is 
much better to spend a few minutes each 
month, or each week, in grinding the 
valves, than it is to consume several 
hours once or twice a year — and then 
have a poorer-running car into the bar- 
gain. 

In the efforts on the part of engine 
designers to make all parts accessible 
that are liable to require frequent atten- 
tion, the valves have not been overlooked, 
and whether the motor is of the "T"- 
head, "L"-head, or valves-in-the-head 
type, each valve and its seat can be 
reached without disturbing other parts 
of the mechanism. The "T"-head type 
of motor has its intake and exhaust 
valves located on opposite sides of the 
cylinders, each set being operated by a 
separate cam shaft. The valves and 
seats are located in extensions, or pockets, 
cast with each cylinder and forming the. 
top of the "T." 

The valves are opened by being pushed 
up directly by their stems, and a heavy 
spring holds them closed when in a nor- 
mal position. Directly above each valve 
is a large screw plug with a socket head 
into which can be introduced a special 
wrench. When this plug is unscrewed 
the valve can be reached, and if it has 
been previously loosened, it may be with- 
drawn entirely through this opening. To 



KEEPING THE MOTOR'S LUNGS CLEAN 



213 



loosen the valve, the spring that holds it 
closed should be compressed, and the 
pin, or wedge, forming the stop for this 
spring, may then be withdrawn from 
the valve stem. 

The construction is the same in the 
"L"-head motor except that the valves 
are all located on one side of the cylin- 
ders and are operated by a single cam 
shaft. The method of removing the 
plugs and valves is identical, however, 
and whatever directions are to be fol- 
lowed for grinding the one type apply to 
the other as well. The usual type of 
horizontal double-opposed motor is de- 
signed with "L"-head cylinders and the 
valves are reached in the same manner 
as are the vertical engines already de- 
scribed — with the exception that the ma- 
chine is approached from the side of the 
bonnet instead of from the top in order 
to reach the screw plugs. 

Nearly all valves are beveled at an 
angle approximating forty-five degrees in 
order to fit a corresponding angle in the 
seat, and this portion of the valve proper 
is known as the "face." It may be that 
some soft carbon has collected on the 
face of the valve and on its seat, and 
this may be scraped off after the valve 
has been removed. A few drops of kero- 
sene may serve to soften this deposit still 
further, but no matter how clean the 
valve can be made in this manner, it 
must always be ground before it is re- 
placed permanently. 

Under no conditions should a file ever 
be used on the face of the valve or its 
seat, and care should be taken not to 
scrape these surfaces with anything that 
would serve even to scratch the finest 
finish. Any foreign matter that cannot 
be wiped or scraped off with a flat blade 
must be removed by grinding. 

After all the soft and loose foreign 
matter has been removed, the grinding 
material should be applied at several 
points along the surfaces of the valve 
face and its seat. This may consist 
either of pulverized emery, flint, or 
pumice stone, but the first-named has 
been found by the writer to give the best 
satisfaction under ordinary conditions. 
Whatever material is selected should be 
mixed with a sufficient amount of me- 
dium-weight lubricating oil to give the 



substance the consistency of a thick paste 
that will serve to bind the particles to- 
gether and enable the compound to ad- 
here to the surfaces to be ground. Grind- 
ing compounds already prepared may be 
obtained at nearly any accessory dealer's, 
but many owners prefer to mix their 
own materials and thereby obtain exactly 
the desired consistency and combination 
that they have found to be best suited 
to their own particular needs. 

When the valve has been replaced, 
with a generous amount of the grind- 
ing compound spread both upon its face 
and its seat, a broad-bladed screw-driver 
should be inserted in the slot that will 
be found in the top of the valve. The 
handle of the screw-driver should be 
placed between the palms of the hands, 
and by rubbing the latter back and forth 
a rotary motion in alternately opposite 
directions will be imparted to the valve. 
Too much pressure should not be ap- 
plied to the valve, as its weight and that 
of the screw-driver will be nearly suf- 
ficient to give the proper cutting force, 
to the grinding material. 

Make the Grinding Even 

In order to prevent the same surfaces 
of the face and seat of the valve from 
coming into contact continuously on ac- 
count of the rotation of the screw-driver 
through the same arc, thus grinding cer- 
tain parts at the expense of others, the 
motion should be stopped frequently and 
a quarter or half turn imparted to the 
handle so that, when the turning is re- 
sumed, the valve will occupy a different 
position in relation to its seat. The 
valve should be lifted a short distance 
from its seat when this partial turn is 
taken, for in this manner the grinding 
material will be better distributed be- 
tween the surfaces, and the dry balls of 
it that may have collected will be al- 
lowed to drop out. 

Fresh grinding material should be 
placed on the surfaces occasionally, but 
care should be taken to see that none 
of the old compound finds its way into 
the cylinder, for in such an event it will 
be liable to score the walls and piston 
rings before it is finally discharged 
through the exhaust pipe. 



214 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



It is probable that it would be rather 
awkward to operate the screw-driver as 
described above if it is desired to grind 
the valves of a horizontal motor, and 
in this case, an ordinary bit brace, such 
as carpenters use, may be employed by 
substituting a screw-driver shank for the 
ordinary bit. Turns in alternate direc- 
tions should be given the same as though 
a screw-driver were used, and care 
should be taken not to exert too great a 
pressure upon the valve. If the valves 
of a vertical motor are in bad condition 
and require a great amount of grinding, 
the bit brace will be useful for the 
greater part of the work here as it will 
relieve the muscles of much of the strain 
that they would otherwise receive from 
the continued operation of the screw- 
driver. 

When the emery, or other grinding 
substance, has been used until the face 
and seat of the valve are free from in- 
equalities, pit marks, and foreign matter 
and seem to be as smooth and shiny as 
.possible, a finer material should be em- 
ployed with which to complete the grind- 
ing. Powdered glass mixed with oil 
forms a satisfactory preparation for the 
man who desires to compound his own 
material, and this should be used in the 
same manner as the coarser grinding 
substance. 

This finer material is used merely to 
remove the marks and scratches left by 
the coarse compound and corresponds to 
the sandpaper finish given to a piece of 
wood already planed smooth. Conse- 
quently the major part of the grinding, 
the removal of the pit marks and cor- 
rosions, and the change of the angle of 
the face and seat so that a perfect fit 
will be obtained are all done with the 
emery powder, or whatever other coarse 
material may have been used. 

When the motor leaves the factory, 
the valves are supposed to have been 
ground so that the angles of the face and 
the seat are exactly the same, thus pro- 
viding for equal contact and tightness 
throughout the entire width of the sur- 
faces. After continued use, however, 
the valve may have become so warped 
by the heat that the angle of its face 
will be changed and the surface of the 
contact with the seat will be reduced to 



a line. This will not form as tight a 
valve as though the entire surface of 
both the face and seat were in contact, 
and it is one of the purposes of grinding 
to change the angle of the face or the 
seat so that the two surfaces will "regis- 
ter" perfectly 1 . 

After the surfaces have been ground 
smooth with the coarse material, a test 
should be made to determine whether 
these angles are correct and whether 
there is a surface or a line of contact be- 
tween the seat and the face of the valve. 
In order to determine this accurately, 
six or eight pencil marks should be 
made across the face of the valve, per- 
pendicular to its top. These marks will 
be readily discernible when the valve is 
held to the light, and they should be 
applied after the valve and its seat have 
been wiped clean of all grinding material. 

If the valve is placed in position and 
given one or more complete turns, the 
portions of these lines that come in con- 
tact with the seat will be rubbed off. 
To .indicate a perfect angle of contact, 
then, each line should be completely ob- 
literated. If, however, only a certain 
portion of each line is rubbed off, it is 
evident that there is a line of contact, 
instead of a surface of contact, between 
the face and the seat of the valve, and 
the grinding with the coarse material 
should be continued. 

Air- and Gasoline -Tight 

After both the coarse and finished 
grindings have been completed — in the 
opinion of the inexperienced — the final 
test for tightness should be made, and 
it is probable that the amateur will be 
disappointed at first in the results of his 
labors. When the valve is in place and 
tightly closed, it should be made to hold 
gasoline — and it is astonishing through 
what an apparently infinitesimal opening 
the thin liquid can find its way. 

To obtain the best results from the 
motor, its valves should be ground so ac- 
curately that none of them will even 
"sweat" gasoline when this test is ap- 
plied, and a valve which allows the liquid 
to pass through in drops will certainly 
need additional and continued attention. 
As gasoline can find its way through 



KEEPING THE MOTOR'S LUNGS CLEAN 



215 



openings small enough to baffle even 
highly compressed air, a valve that is 
"gasoline-tight" may be assumed to be 
air-tight as well and this will furnish 
sufficient evidence that it has been prop- 
erly ground. 

Many motors now have the valves lo- 
cated in the head of the cylinders. The 
stems of such valves are pushed down 
when the valves are opened, and they 
are operated by rocker arms which serve 
to reverse the motion imparted by the 
cams. It is evident that, with the stem 
of the valve protruding up from the head 
of the cylinder, the action of the valve 
is reversed and it cannot be reached in 
the same manner as are those located in 
side pockets of the motor. In the valve- 
in-the-head type of motor, the valves 
operate in a separate, removable casting 
that contains the seat, and is screwed 
into the head of the cylinder. This is 
known as the valve "cage," and it must 
be removed before the valve itself can 
be withdrawn. Inasmuch as the valve 
and its seat are both contained in this 
one small cage, the grinding of such a 
valve is no more difficult than is the 
cleaning of the valves found in the 
motors of the "T"- or "L"-head type. 

The valve and its cage may be taken 
to a light work bench, and by clamping 
the cage in a vise, the piece may be held 
rigidly in any position in which grinding 
is made most easy. If a miniature ma- 
chine shop is operated in connection with 
the private garage, there will doubtless 
be a temptation to bring the drill press 
into play and use this for grinding the 
valves. This may be done, and much 
time and trouble will be saved, but the 
results will not be as satisfactory as 
though the alternately rotating motion 
that can be obtained with the use of a 
screw-driver or a bit brace in the hands 
were employed. The continued motion 
in the same direction tends to form 
grooves in the face of the valve and its 
seat, and for this reason an absolutely 
smooth surface cannot be obtained by the 
use of a press drill. 

The grinding of valves of this type 
will be considerably facilitated if a light 
spring is used that will serve to keep the 
valve raised slightly from its seat when 
the pressure is removed. This spring 



may be placed around the stem, resting 
at one end on the bottom of the cage 
and at the other against the bottom of 
the valve proper. The use of such a 
spring will eliminate the necessity of 
raising the valve each time it is desired 
to change its position and grind through 
a new arc. 

Some valves that are in an unusually 
bad condition may require so much 
grinding that an appreciable change will 
be made in the location of the stem cff 
each, due to the amount of material that 
has been ground from the face. This 
will have the same effect as though the 
stem of the valve were lengthened, and 
this may cause the push rod to strike the 
cam before the valve is entirely closed. 

On every push rod, however, will be 
found a nut that serves as a joint by 
which to increase or lessen its length. 
This nut should be so adjusted after the 
installation of the valve that there is a 
barely perceptible amount of play be- 
tween the cam or rocker arm and the 
stem of the valve when the latter is in 
its closed position. This is an adjust- 
ment that many an owner is liable to 
ignore, and he will then wonder why his 
motor still loses compression after the 
valves have been perfectly ground. 

Although the tendency of modern de- 
sign is to make all parts of a motor inter- 
changeable, valves which have been 
ground can only fit those seats with 
which they were in contact when the 
grinding operation was in progress. If 
more than one valve is removed at a 
time, it is absolutely necessary to desig- 
nate each valve and cage with prick 
punch marks that will serve to indicate 
to which cylinders they belong. A type 
of marking, different from that employed 
to designate the inlet valves, should be 
used for the exhaust valves, for in many 
motors these are similar in appearance 
and easily confused with each other. 

Grinding the valves of his motor is 
only one of the odd jobs around the car 
that the owner or his chauffeur can at- 
tend to, and if more of this work was 
done "at home," there would be more 
satisfaction in running the automobile, 
as well as a great saving in the garage 
expense for the annual or monthly "over- 
hauling" of the machine. 



A MIXED BAG 



THE WILY REDSKIN, JEFF AND THE GALLINIPPERS, A RECORD FLIGHT 

OF SNIPE, THE HARD LUCK OF A MEDICINE MAN, AND 

OTHER EFFORTS OF OUTDOOR MUNCHAUSENS 



I 



INJUN WAY 

T was awful wet up here, in the 
north woods, once, about fifteen 
years ago. The rain had been 
raining for a week, and the trees leaked 
badly. If there's a wetter place than 
the timber, when the trees leak, I never 
found it — especially when you're out for 
fun and have got to get back to the 
office whether you've had your fun or 
not. 

"It was awful wet, until we all woke 
up one morning wanting to smoke and 
discovered that we couldn't. Even the 
fire couldn't smoke, for it was out. And 
then, if it had been awful wet before, 
it was now awfully wetter. 

"We didn't mind about the fire. The 
weather had rained on it, was all ; rained 
on it some way up from under, and the 
wood we had taken to bed with us, so as 
to keep it warm, felt like eels. That 
was how wet everything was : the wood 
we had taken to bed with us felt like 
eels, and alligators, and crowbars, and 
other cold, clammy stuff. 

"But we didn't mind about the fire; 
we wanted to smoke and we had no 
place to strike a match ! A fireless break- 
fast, without a pipe! What do you 
think o' that for sheer desolation, when 
you're out after fun ? 

"Brown was the worst. He had quit 
smoking, until now when he found that 
he couldn't smoke if he tried. He was 
perfectly rabid. After we had struck 
fizzly matches on everything in the 
lean-to, we started out to walk, because 
the camp seemed the wettest place of all. 
As we walked we sucked at cold, wet 
pipes, and Brown kept striking and 
scratching matches on the cold, wet land- 
scape. 

"The inside bark of trees? Naw; in- 
side and outside were just alike, by this 
time. The inside of clothing, shoes, hats, 



the surface of match boxes, Brown's red 
head — naw ! I tell you, the north woods 
were wet, wet, wet ! That was a terri- 
ble fix. 

"By and by we met a big Chippewa 
Injun. 'How-do.' 'How-do.' 'Tobac?' 
Yes, we had 'tobac' We all had 'tobac' 
— even Brown, who had quit smoking 
but had brought a few pounds along 
just to show that he didn't care anything 
about the stuff. And we were powerful 
glad to accommodate the Indian. Half 
a dozen pouches were thrust at him. But 
he didn't seem to see any joke and calm- 
ly stuffed his pipe. 

"'Match?' Yes, we had matches; 
sure, we had matches — but not to burn. 
We thrust matches at him. 'Better take 
a handful,' advised Brown. 'You'll need 
'em!' And at that, suddenly, the Injun 
sorter began to smile. He'd caught on. 
His eyes surveyed us and our smokeless 
pipes and our grinny faces, as we 
watched what he would do next — and if 
ever an Injun enjoyed himself, that 
Chippewa buck did. 

"He worked very slowly, so as to 
make the taste last longer. He stuffed 
his old pipe some more and stowed the 
matches (except one) in his shirt some- 
where and fiddled about ; and we 
watched and nudged each other. After 
he'd monkeyed and couldn't postpone 
the evil moment longer, he chose the 
wettest spot he could — which was the 
bed of a brook that was running past 
the trail. He stooped and fished out 
two small hard heads, mind you, out of 
the water. 

"He kind of superficially wiped them 
off on his wet pants, and then like light- 
ning he rubbed them together — fast and 
faster, as you'd rub the palms of your 
hands. Then, on one of those stones, 
taken right out of the brook, but now 
dried and warm by friction, he deliber- 
ately scratched a match; lit it, lit his 



216 



A MIXED BAG 



217 



pipe, grandly tossed match and stones 
away, and stalked off, puffing." 

E. L. S. 

HAD HIS LIMITATIONS 

IN the Grand River bottoms of north- 
ern Missouri there flourishes a brand 
of mosquito that makes the life of 
the catfish fisherman one long antic. 
He's a small, wiry, extremely persistent 
insect, that Grand River mosquito; he 
can and does penetrate the finest mesh of 
mosquito netting, he ignores peppermint 
lotions, and even attacks in the bright 
sunlight, something his tribe, as a rule, 
refrains from doing. But there's great 
catfish fishing in that stream, so we try 
to endure the mosquito drawback, year 
after year. 

There are said to be persons whom 
a bee will not sting; I know of at least 
one man who didn't mind a mosquito 
sting, at any rate. His name was Jeff 
Martin, and the mosquito that spent 
time and honest effort boring into Jeff's 
epidermis had all his trouble for nothing. 
Jeff didn't mind it in the least. He dis- 
played a certain pride in this fact, also. 

"There's six or eight skeeters at work 
on your nose, Jeff," somebody'd remark. 
"Knock 'em off or smash 'em, man!" 

"Huh!" he'd say. "That's nothing. 
Let 'em have their fun; don't hurt me 
any. 

Jeff got a great deal of amusement out 
of watching the rest of us fighting the 
singing pests, the while he sat, stolidly 
indifferent to the swarming horde. 

"Tell you what," he scoffed, one eve- 
ning when they were worse than usual, 
"I'll bet anybody my new silk line 
against a fifty-cent piece I can strip off 
and lay right down on the sand bar there 
for half an hour and let 'em bite me 
without wiggling a finger." 

"I'll take that," said Sam Crane 
promptly. "But if you make one squirm, 
you lose." 

"Not a squirm, by dicky!" said Jeff. 
"They won't hurt me any." 

He undressed, walked unconcernedly 
out, and laid himself on his stomach at 
full length on the warm sand, with his 
head pillowed on his fore arm. The 
mosquitoes settled in a black cloud on 



his neck, back, and legs. Jeff sighed in 
apparent comfort and seemed about to 
take a nap. Ten, fifteen, twenty min- 
utes passed. He hadn't moved a toe, 
although there wasn't a square inch of 
his body that wasn't being actively pros- 
pected by the hungry probers. 

Then Sam warned us with a wink 
and, treading softly, secured a live em- 
ber from the camp fire, which same he 
carried stealthily between two sticks and, 
sneaking carefully down to where Jeff 
lay, dropped the hot coal in the hollow 
of his back. 

Jeff didn't move for half a minute. 
Then he wriggled, lifted his head, and 
snorted as he slapped viciously at the of- 
fending object on his back. 

"By dicky!" he grunted. "I don't 
mind skeeters, but I draw the line at 
gallinippers!" 

E. F. H. 

MEDICINE BAIT 

OLD POP ROBERTSON, tim- 
ber looker of the Helena Stave 
Works, sometimes finds the long- 
ing for the wilds too strong to resist. 
When such times come, he takes a vaca- 
tion for a few months, trapping down 
some river in a shanty boat or skiff. He 
came dropping down the middle Missis- 
sippi, below St. Louis, trapping here and 
there in the hills and bottoms. Below 
Cape Buffalo Island a darky trapper 
watched his success with awe and envy. 

One day Old Pop happened to find a 
bottle half full of liniment floating in 
an eddy. Having smelled it, he dropped 
it in his skiff. At his camp he found the 
darky. 

"Sho!" the darky said, gazing at coons, 
possums, and mink in the white man's 
skiff. "What you all put on yo' bait, 
sah? I ain't ne'er cotched 'em thata- 
way, no, sah !" 

"Why," Pop exclaimed, "it's easy 
enough — here's some good medicine. 
Just you put five drops of that on your 
bait, and you'll be plumb satisfied, you 
surely will !" 

The darky, beaming with delight and 
gratitude, took the bottle of liniment and 
departed. 

"And what do you think," Old Pop 



2l8 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



exploded in telling the story, "that black 
cuss caught twice as much fur as I did 
after that!" 

R. S. S. 

RECORD FOR SNIPE 

"TT'S an awful thing to be hunted 
by the game you are hunting, es- 
pecially when that game is noth- 
ing more formidable than snipe. Yet 
that's what happened to me," said the 
old coast gunner. "It was when I was 
a kid, and I'd been looking for yellow- 
legs down on a piece of cut meadow 
three miles from town, and I hadn't 
seen a bird all morning, when suddenly, ' 
out of the tail of my eye, I caught a 
flash of a little bunch of birds coming 
far in the distance. 

"I squatted down in a bunch of bushes 
and waited, straining my eyes to keep 
them in view, and I didn't have any 
trouble doing it, either, for they came 
up faster than anything I've ever seen. 
In a minute they were black and big as 
a bunch of barns, and coming stronger 
every second. Then I saw that there 
was an awful big flock of them, and in 
a second more I began to feel creepy, for 
there were so many of them that they 
darkened all one side of the sky, and I 
could see nothing but flying wings as far 
as I could look around to the left. 

"And all the time they kept bearing 
down closer, like a black thunder squall, 
and spreading farther across the sky in 
a terrible sweep, reaching from zenith to 
horizon, and more than halfway from 
north to south. 

"At that I got actually scared. I saw 
that anything they passed over would be 
crushed by the weight of air their beat- 
ing wings would force down on the 
earth. Scared half to death, I jumped 
up with a frightful yell and started to 
run, though I knew they'd soon over- 
take me. 

"I ran as I never ran before, and all 
the time I kept looking over my shoul- 
der and seeing that terrible flock in full 
chase. Mile after mile went by, and I 
was still alive, though most dead from 
exhaustion. I hit the outskirts of the 
village, tore down the main street, yell- 
ing to the people in the streets to fly for 



their lives, dashed up the steps of my 
house, and sank exhausted on the thresh- 
old. Suddenly I felt something tickling 
the corner of my eyelid, and I put up 
my hand and wiped away a big mosquito 
that had got caught there and was buz- 
zing to beat the band." 

P. M. C. 

FISHERMAN'S LUCK 

THE corn-fed philosophers with 
their ironwood poles and old 
tomato cans in which to carry 
their bait indulge in many witticisms 
on the subject of us city fishermen; 
they deride our expensive paraphernalia 
— reels, rods, flies, landing nets, and 
creels — and smile knowingly when we 
speak of "whipping a pool." 

Is there anything to spitting on the 
bait? Or a southerly wind? Or fish 
lures? No — but there's something in 
luck. Wait! I'll give you a specific in- 
stance. 

The other day I went down to Uncle 
Andy Seller's for a few days' fishing. 
Uncle Andy lives on the West Fork of 
— well, the West Fork, anyway. He 
made great sport of my varied lot of 
tackle and accoutrements for the catch- 
ing of fish. 

"Leave all that stuff here at the 
house," he advised, "and dig you a few 
worms, put 'em in a can, take that old 
cane pole there under the smokehouse 
eave, and if you jerk when you get a 
bite I'll warrant you'll ketch a few fish. 
Otherwise — " he smiled that superior 
country smile. 

"I'll risk these," I returned doggedly. 
"Just you wait and see." 

It was the busy time on the farm, so 
I went alone. It was a fine, calm, sunny 
day; just a wee mite of a breeze stirring 
the trees — and it was from the south. 
Birds were chirping in the woods and 
the air was filled with the fragrance of 
the honey-locust blooms. 

"Any fish," I said to myself, "any fish 
that wouldn't bite to-day would be a 
mighty poor specimen of his kind." And 
I whistled gayly as I trudged along. 

I found a fine eddy just below a drift, 
where the current made a sort of back- 
sweep around a bend ; seven feet of clear 



A MIXED BAG 



219 



water — a regular channel cat haven. I 
fitted an artificial grasshopper, set my 
float, reeled out twenty feet of line and 
cast directly where the swift current 
sliced the dead water. Half an hour 
later, I hadn't had a nibble. Then the 
hook caught on a snag or something; I 
coaxed it a little, but it wouldn't come. 
I didn't want to break a good line, so I 
set the pole, hoping the current might 
loosen the hook after a bit. 

Having extra lines along, I then cut 
a willow pole, rigged a new outfit, and 
proceeded to fish that pool as well as 
others above and below it. Hours passed. 
No bites. I tried flies, minnows, spoons 
— my entire stock, to no avail. A live 
frog served no better. The afternoon 
lengthened. It was no use; I might as 
well have stayed at home and fished in 
the bath tub. 

It was nearly sundown when I gave 
up hope and, tired and faint with hun- 
ger, started for Uncle Andy's. I be- 
thought me of my new rod which I'd 
left at the drift. When I got there it 
had disappeared. A careful search did 
not disclose its whereabouts. I expressed 
my opinion of West Fork fishing in no 
half-hearted manner, and struck out on 
the homeward path. 

A quarter of a mile farther I overtook 
Mose. Mose is an ancient colored man 
who lives in the neighborhood. He has 
a reputed fondness for chicken, but be 
that as it may, Mose is a darky of the 
old school. I noticed that he was car- 
rying a string of fish that taxed his 
strength ; at least twenty pounds, and 
fine ones, strung on a willow limb. I 
saw also that he was in possession of my 
lost rod, a fact that I immediately men- 
tioned. 

"You, Mose," I said, "what are you 
doing with my fishing rod? Aha, sir! 
I guess I caught you that time." 

"Mah stahs, Marse Gawge!" he said. 
"How you scahed me. I wuz jus' takin' 
it up to yo' Uncle Andy's fah you, sah. 
Yessah." 

"Well, all right, Mose," I said, giving 
him the benefit of the doubt. "You've 
got a fine string there. How much for 
the lot?" 

He scratched his head. 

"A dollah an' fo' bits, Marse Gawge," 



he said finally. "Seein' it's you-all. An' 
that's moughty cheap, sah." 

To be brief, I took them ; I also 
cautioned him to secrecy. No one must 
know that I had bought fish from him 
— in return for which I made it a quar- 
ter extra. 

"How'd you catch them, Mose?" I 
asked. 

"Trot line," he said, promptly. 

"Come, come, now," I parleyed. 
"There's no hook marks in the mouth 
of a single one. How'd you catch them, 
Mose?" 

He knew I wouldn't tell, so he con- 
fessed. 

"That thah j'inted pole o' youahs," he 
said, "were a-settin' thah in the driff 
when I come along. I des 'lowed I'd 
lift hit fo' fun. Hit wuz ketched on a 
wire, sah. An' on that thah wire wuz 
a big, nice slat trap, sah. An' in that 
thah trap wuz these heah ve'y fish, sah. 
Yessah. Thank yo', sah." 

Lures, charms, signs of the zodiac? 
No! Fisherman's luck? Yes! I be- 
lieve in it. 

E. F. H. 

A MEDICINE MAN'S ERROR 

DEPUTY PIERCE was tied in an 
Arkansas River bend, when he 
heard voices in the night. Scores 
of men came dashing down to the river 
above him. Many carried torches. Some 
were leading dogs. Pierce, roused from 
his bed, felt for his rifle, and slipped all 
but one rope that moored his shanty boat 
to the bank. 

"You always want to be ready to pull 
out anyhow!" Pierce explains. 

Suddenly, from the river, came a low 
voice: "Pahdner! Pahdner! Will you 
he'p a feller?" 

"Shore I will!" Pierce answered. 
"Come abohd!" 

A man came swimming through the 
slack current and climbed up on the 
stern. He was white, and a moment 
later Pierce recognized him as an old 
friend out of the lower Mississippi. 

"Theh's afteh me!" the man whis- 
pered, shuddering. 

"We'd better drop out, then," Pierce 
said, casting loose. When two bends 



220 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



and a reach or two had been left behind, 
the swimmer explained : 

"I've had hard luck, deputy, yessuh. 
I was selling a line of medicines up theh 
— making a lot of money. But, you 
know, I got my labels mixed last time I 
made up some medicine. I sold some 
liniment for cough syrup, an' a lady and 
two babies is took bad, up theh. One's 
daid. Sho! I'd made fifty dollars, 
right theh !" 

"You know," Pierce remarked after 
telling the Medicine Man's hard-luck 
story, "I felt plumb sorry for that man !" 

R. S. S. 



LARGE MOSQUITOES 

WESTERNERS have an inex- 
haustible fund of stories about 
the verdancy of the Englishmen 
who come out West hunting. In justice 
to our British cousins I will insist that 
not more than three fourths of them have 
any foundation in fact. This one, how- 
ever, is vouched for by a man whose 
word I would not dare contradict. 

A certain British lordling visited north 
Idaho one year with the avowed pur- 
pose of killing a bear. He carried an 
immense double eight-bore elephant gun, 
which he was constantly boasting of hav- 
ing used with great execution in Africa. 
He employed a guide and pack outfit to 
carry him into the interior of the Clear- 
water Mountains, where he could kill 
his grizzly. The guide led him far 
away from the beaten path of hunters 
to an immense meadow near Pot Moun- 
tain, where a huge old Ephraim was 
known to. use. Upon their arrival at the 
meadow evidences of the old bear's pres- 
ence were seen. 

It was agreed that they should arise 
very early in the morning, repair to the 
edge of the meadow, and each climb a 
tree where he could remain unseen until 
the bear came down to feed off the skunk 
cabbage leaves that grew along the bor- 
der. The guide suggested to his em- 
ployer that, as the mosquitoes were very 
bad, he had better draw a net over his 
head after he had ascended the tree. 

They retired to rest and were astir at 
break of day. It was chill and a heavy 



fog hung over the meadow when they 
reached it. The guide selected a large 
leaning willow that overlooked the open 
space and instructed the nobleman to 
climb it and hide himself securely among 
the branches. The Englishman shinned 
up the tree, dragging his artillery after 
him. It chanced that just below where 
he sat hung a nest of yellow jackets. 
The air being chill, the little insects were 
not disturbed. The knickerbockers of 
the hunter hung directly over the nest. 
The guide proceeded several hundred 
yards down the meadow and ascended 
another tree. 

As the sun rose and it grew gradually 
warmer the yellow jackets got ready for 
business. The first business that offered 
was to remove one pair of offending 
English legs that were dangling beside 
their habitation. One enterprising jacket 
sauntered up and rammed about five 
eighths of an inch of red-hot probe into 
the calf of the Englishman's leg. The 
Briton squirmed and slapped the striped 
gentleman into oblivion. In doing so he 
managed to irritate another that was 
perambulating around looking for a soft 
place to operate. The irritated one 
ceased his search and rammed his feeler 
in where it was most handy. The scion 
of nobility kicked vigorously. 

In about ten seconds the air was a 
yellow haze of indignant insects. They 
swarmed up and entered into the con- 
test with great and unanimous interest. 
Wherever one struck he left his sign 
manual. The Englishman stood it as 
long as possible, then dropped his gun 
and scrambled down. Once on the earth 
he managed to shake off his attentive 
tormentors. When the commotion had 
subsided somewhat he crept back and 
secured his gun, then sought out his 
guide. 

The guide saw him coming and 
climbed down. The Briton's face was 
a sight. Great red welts stood out all 
over it, like a man convalescing from the 
smallpox. He was tenderly rubbing the 
blotches as he approached. 

"Blawst me, I thought I'd seen mos- 
quitoes in Africa, don't ye know; but I 
say, they 'ave nothing there like these in 
this bloomin' country." 

C. S. M. 



THE RIGHT WAY WITH 
FISHING TACKLE 

BY GEORGE M. JOHNSON 



WHILE misuse or im- 
proper care of fish- 
ing tackle is perhaps 
not so necessarily at- 
tended by evil re- 
sults as is the case 
with firearms, there is an opportunity for 
more attention here than many sportsmen 
deign to bestow. Though in these days 
a person need not pay high prices to se- 
cure a very good outfit, a moderate 
amount of care and attention will be 
richly repaid in the lengthened period 
of usefulness of the tackle, whatever may 
be its original cost. 

Many anglers are becoming quite par- 
tial to steel rods, especially for bait cast- 
ing, where the snappy spring of the 
metal article needs only to be seen to be 
appreciated. You may believe that a 
steel rod requires no care. Far from 
it. To secure the best service from such 
a rod, one must see to it that the water 
cannot get in its deadly work, and this 
is doubly essential if the rod is to be 
used in salt-water fishing. 

The outer part is protected by the 
coat of enamel, to be sure, but how about 
the insides of the hollow joints? Salt 
water there — and some is bound to find 
its way in — will work disastrous results 
in short order. I used one steel rod 
through a number of seasons of salt- 
water fishing, and it had no more effect 
upon that rod than upon the mansard 
roof of a canvasback. I poured a gen- 
erous amount of melted vaseline down 
the joints, and that was all there was to 
it ; my rod was waterproofed within and 
without. 

Watch for cracks in the outer enamel. 
If they occur, apply rod varnish or some 
variety of enamel at once, or the un- 
protected metal will soon rust and a fatal 
weakness be developed. 

Wood rods, whether split bamboo, 
lancewood, or of whatever material, re- 



quire some attention. After a season's 
use many of the silk wrappings will be 
peeling off, and this, of course, should 
be attended to, particularly if the rod is 
of split bamboo, for those frequent lit- 
tle circles of silk add much to its 
strength. To do a good job all the 
guides should be removed and the joints 
carefully scraped their entire length, 
until every particle of varnish is gone. 
This may be done with a knife blade or 
a bit of glass, but take pains not to 
scratch or mar the wood in any way. 

When the rod is thus reduced to first 
principles, so to speak, wind with green 
and red silk; the final appearance will 
depend upon how conscientiously the 
rather tiresome operation of winding is 
done. See to it that some idea of sym- 
metry is carried out in the winding, and 
you will feel well repaid for your labor. 
It is often a good plan to change the 
guides on the second joint and tips to 
the opposite side, for if the rod has any 
tendency to "set" this will do much 
toward straightening it by reversing the 
strain. After the guides and wrappings 
are all in place give a thin coat of rod 
varnish; let this dry and then give an- 
other, or more if necessary. 

It frequently happens that the thin 
sheet of cork on the grip of a rod gives 
out after some seasons of use. If so, it 
is a simple matter to make a new grip 
by winding with stout fish line. Scrape 
off all shreds of cork and glue, give a 
coating of rod varnish, and wind very 
tightly before the varnish has had time 
to dry. Give another dose of varnish 
after the winding is finished. This style 
of grip is in every way as satisfactory 
as the cork grip and, if anything, adds to 
the appearance of the rod. 

Any expensive wood rod should al- 
ways be kept in an especially prepared 
form when not in use. Certain woods, 
notably lancewood, are quite apt to be- 



222 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



come set after much using, while keep- 
ing the rod in a form will do a good deal 
to prevent this. 

A good reel needs little attention, but 
a lack of that little care which is needed 
may ruin a fine reel in a very short time. 
This is especially true of casting reels, 
because of the terrific strain which is 
constantly put upon them. All good cast- 
ing reels are provided with tiny oil caps 
which cover the bearings, and these 
should be kept well packed with grease. 
Vaseline is by all odds the best lubricant ; 
lighter oils are all right while they last, 
but they burn out too quickly. Pack the 
caps with vaseline before each trip, and 
all will go well. 

Only a Little Oiling Needed 

That is the only lubrication necessary 
during the season, for the friction of the 
rapidly revolving spool generates heat 
which melts the vaseline, so that all the 
working parts of the reel receive a good 
dose of grease. If a reel is allowed to 
"run dry," a single afternoon's fishing 
may grind out the bearings until the 
spool is hopelessly out of alignment. 
The only remedy for that is a trip back 
to the factory for resetting. I have in 
mind one angler friend who invariably 
carries a little "one-drop oiler," with 
which he oils up from time to time when 
fishing. Such frequent oiling is, how- 
ever, entirely unnecessary if the oil caps 
are packed with a fairly heavy grease. 

Salt water is naturally much harder 
on a reel than fresh, though if the above- 
mentioned oiling programme is carried 
out the reel will be untouched by corro- 
sion. I once received very satisfactory 
proof of this fact. The bearings of the 
reel in question, but no other part, had 
been well greased with vaseline ; it was 
in constant use for several months, dur- 
ing which time it was literally soaked in 
salt water. At the end of the season I 
dissected the reel to see what condition it 
was in, and found not the slightest sign 
of any corrosive action. The vaseline 
had formed a thin film all over the inside 
and the salt water had absolutely no 
show. 

Of course, no matter how carefully 
the reel is treated during the fishing sea- 



son, it should be taken apart and given 
a thorough cleaning, as well as a fresh 
supply of lubricant for the next year be- 
fore being laid aside for the winter. 
When fishing, the angler should see that 
the tiny screws which hold the reel to- 
gether are kept tight. Also watch the 
little nut which secures the handle, or in 
the midst of some cast it may suddenly 
fly away to parts unknown, taking the 
handle with it. 

How many of the anglers who kick 
because of the poor service they get from 
lines ever realize that this lamentable 
state of affairs is largely due to their own 
neglect? No line will last forever, but 
decent care will add surprisingly to its 
life. Casting lines wear out faster than 
any others, because of the constant fric- 
tion of traveling back and forth through 
the guides at a rapid rate. If the bait- 
casting line is to render even tolerable 
service it must be given a fair chance. 

Don't use a casting rod which is 
equipped with small and frequent 
guides; the line will be cut to pieces in 
almost no time. One of the first bait- 
casting rods I ever owned was actually 
provided with small snake guides! I 
used up a new line in a few hours' fish- 
ing, and then, profiting by the experi- 
ence, replaced the snake guides with the 
ones which ought to have been there in 
the first place. 

Whether the line is a bait or fly-cast- 
ing line, it should always be thoroughly 
dried after using, for nothing is so ruin- 
ous to a fish line as to be put away in a 
water-soaked condition. If left on the 
reel the drying process is an exceedingly 
slow one ; the result is a weak and rotten 
line, which may some time repay its 
owner's neglect by losing him a fine fish. 
The enameled or waterproofed fly line, 
when new, perhaps needs this attention 
to a less degree than does the bait-casting 
line, for it does not soak. Before long, 
however, kinks and cracks destroy the 
outside coating here and there so that 
the water finds a place of weakness 
where it may enter, and thence works 
its way along the inside. 

The time to dry the line is immedi- 
ately after use, on the actual fishing 
grounds if possible. Tie the line to any 
convenient object and then walk back, 



THE RIGHT WAY WITH FISHING TACKLE 



223 



allowing it to unspool until the entire 
length is in the open air; after a few 
moments reel in again. The drying may 
be done at home, the easiest method be- 
ing simply to transfer the line to a large 
open reel made for the purpose. This 
lacking, wind the wet line about the top 
of a chair, the footposts of a bed, or 
anything else that offers. 

Flies are short-lived objects at best, 
but it is unnecessary to lay in an entire 
fresh supply for every season. I wonder 
how many of even the best tackle houses, 
wholesale or retail, never put any of last 
year's flies upon the market. Of course, 
flies that have been used to any extent 
are hardly worth the effort of carrying 
over, but with those used little or not 
at all it is a different matter. 

The usual procedure after the last trip 
of the season is to toss the book of flies 
into an old trunk, or even let it repose in 
the fishing coat, utterly forgotten until 
the next spring. An examination then 
will probably show that moths have 
found and appreciated the flies, much to 
their own — and the dealer's — profit. 
The only effort needed to avoid this is 
to pack the flies in some tight receptacle, 
with a few bits of camphor added to 
discourage the attentions of the ravenous 
moths. Next season, before using, care- 
fully test each fly, rejecting all which 
show signs of weakness. The others will 
be fully as good as new ones from the 
store. 

Leaders are closely associated with 
flies, and while it is hardly advisable to 



carry any which have been used at all 
over from one season to another, those 
unused will last almost indefinitely. Be- 
fore beginning to fish always test a 
leader by a heavier pull than any fish 
could give, and test only after the gut 
has been well soaked in water. Very 
good gut will often part under a com- 
paratively light strain when dry, and the 
break is nine out of ten times at one 
of the knots — just tie a knot in a piece 
of dry snell and then pull. 

When through the day's sport never 
leave the leaders to soak between the 
damp felt pads of the leader box, and 
never consign the leader to your book 
with the last cast of flies still attached. 
It takes but a minute to remove each 
fly and put it in its proper place ; that 
is, with the other flies of the same pat- 
tern. 

Aside from the mere financial saving 
which follows a moderate degree of care 
along this general line, another element 
enters with possibly a stronger appeal. 
How many times have you yourself, per- 
chance, lost a goodly fish through the 
tackle's failing to make good ? And how 
many of those times has that same failure 
been due to your own thoughtless neg- 
lect ? A high price may insure high qual- 
ity when the article leaves the dealer, but 
does not make it proof against misuse. 
After that four-pound trout has escaped 
through a false leader or line, it is small 
consolation for the disgruntled angler 
to reflect that a little care or foresight 
would have saved the magnificent fish. 







IN THE WILDS OF A HOOSIER 

CREEK 



BY RALPH H. GOODALE 



Illustrated with Photographs by the Author 



= ^HERlE were three of us — 
Scott and the Kid, of 
about twenty-five years, 
and the Elder, a stalwart 
youth of sixty. Being 
somewhat bleached and 
shopworn, we decided to follow the lit- 
tle Fawn River of northern Indiana from 
its source to its outlet into the St. Joseph 
River, in Michigan. It was to be an 
easy trip. As proof of our innocence, 
note our outfit. We had a heavy 12x12 
tent, with poles; an 1 8-foot, flat-bot- 
tomed rowboat, of perverse disposition ; 
many blankets; and a great variety of 
camping utensils. 

"It's downstream," one of us said, 
"and we can Carry a load." Judge later 
how that smiling and babylike stream 
fooled us ! 

We started on a Monday morning 
from Lake James in Steuben County. 
The first day's journey was easy. Upper 
Fawn River is crowded close on the 
map by small lakes, which cluster 
about it like purple grapes about 
their stem. The river led from one view 
to another of sunny hills and uplands 
and through channels whose banks were 
holding midsummer carnival. The Kid 
"lost his cud," as Scott elegantly put it, 
because he had to row the heavy boat 
against a head wind, but a good supper 
will restore anyone his cud, and all was 
contentment when we went to bed. 

Our tent was pitched on the Orland 
milldam, just beside the village feed mill 
and electric plant. As we lay within, the 
tent-roof shone gray from the lights. 
The ground was hard. The vibrating 
roar of the machinery kept time to the 
aching of our bones. Scott and the Kid 
could not sleep, though for some reason 
they were ashamed to show it by rolling 
about to relieve themselves. At midnight 



the mill became quiet, and the lights 
went out, but the ground was as hard 
as ever, or harder. Then a bullfrog in 
the pond began to count the seconds. 
At length the Kid could endure it no 
longer, but got up and began fumbling 
about for the lantern. 

"Where are you going?" asked Scott. 

"After frogs. This is just the time 
for them." 

So the two floated about the pond, 
cracked the lantern globe in the wet 
grass, and caught nothing. 

"It must be almost morning," said 
Scott. 

It was two o'clock. On the way to 
the tent the boys came across a tumble- 
down straw-stack, and Scott rolled him- 
self into a hollow of it to rest his bones. 
The Kid followed his example with a 
weary sigh. They awoke with the dew 
on their hair, to find that the Elder had 
breakfast ready. He had slept soundly 
all night. 

The creek below Orland was shal- 
lower and swifter, with fences innumer- 
able and jealous farmers to watch them. 
We were surprised not to see more of 
the classic Hoosier swimmin' hole. 
Everything was comparatively wild, even 
the red heifers grazing on the marshes. 
There were many cranes, mudhens, and 
"shitepokes," the sight of which useless 
game aroused the Nimrod in Scott. He 
produced a Flobert and advanced to the 
slaughter, but at sight of his gaunt form 
and bare legs the birds always scattered. 

At last a bird was killed — a red- 
winged blackbird. Scott laid the little 
thicket dandy on his back and found 
where the shot had spoiled his foppish 
red and black suit. "That's a darned 
shame !" he said, and the gun was not 
used again except for frogs. 

At Greenfield Mills Scott bought a 



224 






l*mm 



SHALLOWS WERE FREQUENT AND MADE WADING NECESSARY. 



spring chicken on faith and dressed it, 
saying that he would have a barbecue. 
This, with . an enormous lump of ice, 
was added to our load. 

Once launched again below the dam, 
we found that what we had begun to 
suspect was really true. The stream be- 
came rougher as it descended, and it de- 
scended very rapidly. Its temper grew 
worse with age. We were hurried over 
rolling pebbles and jammed against 
boulders. Then we nearly capsized un- 
der a bridge which we had not had time 



to foresee. The tame Hoosier stream 
had disclosed Canadian blood, and was 
filled with rocks, sand bars, and eddies. 
When the shopworn amateurs realized 
this they rearranged themselves. The 
Elder settled his bulky form into the 
rear seat and pushed with a stick, while 
the younger men stood up and shoved 
desperately with the tent poles to keep 
in the current. 

Did you ever ride a runaway ele- 
phant through the thick timber? It was 
like that. The boat resembled a skittish 
^5 




THE ELDER WAS KEPT BUSY BAILING. 



cow entered in a horse race. She 
pranced sideways, she refused to be 
guided, she tried to go through impos- 
sible openings. On tolerably long 
stretches she would develop some speed ; 
then she would not be turned, but would 
run ashore and try to climb a bank. 
Where a canoe would have followed the 
channel gracefully and easily, the row- 
boat was determined to cut across the 
sand bars. 

We seemed to have bidden a hasty 
good-bye to civilization. For many miles 
we did not see a fence, road, or field. 
The country became swampy and thickly 
overgrown with tall grasses and lowland 
trees, which crowded the banks and 
leaned far overhead. The shores were 
sometimes mere bogs, sometimes upright 
banks of red earth, with huge slabs split- 
ting off and leaning to their fall into the 
river. It was strange to think of this 
luxurious and illegal swamp in the heart 
of a section noted for piety and rich farm- 
ing land. 

The stream rushed along over a sandy 
bottom — a thing for which I cannot ac- 
count, unless the land is really hard, and 
the swamps are produced by springs. 
Heaps of logs and drift blockaded the 



way, and willows grew horizontally out 
over the surface of the water. Many 
such a trunk we passed like circus riders 
at full speed, the boat going under, the 
passengers over. Once the Kid, standing 
in front, just managed to keep his end 
of the boat away from a leveled stump. 
But the stern swung neatly under it. 
The Elder, in the back seat, grasped the 
log with his arms. There was a short 
struggle, the boat passed on, and the 
Elder was left suspended, his feet dan- 
gling in the water. 

But the Kid did not exult long. There 
came a sudden bend, with the usual pool 
at the turn. He threw his weight upon 
the pole, the pole entered the deep water, 
and so did the Kid. He explained, as 
he came aboard, that he was determined 
to reach bottom if he had to leave the 
boat to do it. 

Shallows were frequent and made 
wading necessary. Much of the time 
was spent in running alongside to keep 
up with the boat, and hurriedly getting 
aboard when deep water came. We 
knew now that we were working hard. 
The sun shone hot, and hundreds of 
deer flies came for blood. We protected 
(and blinded) ourselves with veils of 



226 




WE PROTECTED (AND BLINDED) OURSELVES WITH VEILS OF MOSQUITO BAR. 



mosquito bar, but nothing could protect 
our hands and sunburned legs. 

Toward evening Scott shot a number 
of large bullfrogs — of which we always 
found plenty — and we determined to 
camp early. But there had been no fit 
place all afternoon, and the sun had set 
before we saw anything that looked like 
hard land. This was a gently sloping 
mound of several acres, with a clump of 
trees on the summit. It rose against 
the colorless west in a great, perfect 
curve, like the approach to a mansion — 
though who would live in this swampy 
and desolate waste? The little grove 
should have fronted a fairy dwelling, 
or held a smoking altar to Faunus. We 
climbed the wet bank with our outfit. 
The ground was black and miry and be- 
came more so until we reached the sum- 
mit, where there was a mucky spring 
among the trees. The whole mound was 
of soft mud — the first springbog of our 
acquaintance. 

Just before dark the river led sud- 
denly out of the swamp among hills, 
where we made camp. Scott prepared 
to cook the chicken, trussing it over a 
hole in the ground and shoveling coals 
beneath. There was heat enough, surely, 



to cook any spring chicken, but after a 
long time the fowl was still too tough 
for supper. Yet Scott did not lose heart. 
He kept up the fire, and even after we 
were abed would get up to shovel in 
more coals. 

At midnight we were awakened by a 
heavy windstorm, and found our tent, 
which was not too securely pegged, tug- 
ging at every rope and pounding the 
ground with its poles. We sat down on 
the sodflap of the windward side to an- 
chor the tent and held our place re- 
signedly for an hour, while the floods 
descended as they did in Genesis and the 
water ran through in streams everywhere 
the cloth touched our backs. We were 
too tired to lose our temper. When it 
was over we rolled away from the damp 
ground and knew nothing more until 
late in the morning. 

Scott arose first, found the hen still 
safe, and prepared to boil her. Give him 
time, he said, and he would succeed. 
Patience would win any lady or cook any 
chicken. So he boiled the hen until we 
were ready to leave — which was quite 
late, for we were tired. Then he left 
her for the turtles to eat, if they could. 
He wished, however, that we had had 



227 



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THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



more time, for she would have made a 
fine fry. 

The river had become as languid as 
ourselves. It led us through a nonde- 
script, borderless region of pond lilies and 
tangled channels — where turtle-shoot- 
ing was good, though unsuccessful — till 
we came to the reposeful village of Fawn 
River. If ever I seek peace from politics, 
stiff collars, and the daily treadmill, let 
it be in this place! The mill pond is 
edged with willows, with a few fisher- 
men who long ago determined never to 
stir again. About the crooked road 
which crosses the dam are a half dozen 
old houses, each with its ruined fence 
and its old-fashioned flowers. The 
water runs with a quiet roar through 
the mill race and under the de- 
serted mill, as if it still had business 
there. It was a place hard to leave the 
next morning. 

We attracted no attention, except 
from one very old man with a cane, who 
wondered why we made such a trip. 
When he learned where we were going 
he did not conceal his contempt. 



"V can drive it in half a day," he 
said. 

"But we are going by water." 
"It's a damned crooked way to go." 
Then he learned that we were not 
even fishing and gave us up in disgust. 
We gave him up, too, tore ourselves 
away, and soon made camp. 

We tied the tent poles to trees for fear 
of a wind which did not come, and 
cooked a supper of potatoes and frog 
legs. Counting the market price of 
frogs, we were living on a millionaire 
diet that week. And better. For frogs, 
kept mewed for days awash in a tank, 
cooked on a steaming, black-hooded 
range, served in the polite and^appetite- 
destroying atmosphere of" a restaurant, 
under awe-inspiring silences and in a 
room stiff with tropical palms — what 
wonder they taste timid and homesick? 
But eat of them while you sit by the 
stream where they have bellowed melodi- 
ously to the night ; fry them over a flar- 
ing fire that makes the shadows dance, 
where their savor (this is essential) may 
mingle with the bubbling and smell of 




THE RIVER HAD BECOME AS LANGUID AS OURSELVES. 




AT SIGHT OF HIS GAUNT FORM AND BARE LEGS THE BIRDS 
ALWAYS SCATTERED. 



open-air cookery, and with the tang of 
hickory smoke ; stretch your legs on the 
ground, lean your tired back against a 
tree, and feast. They are as sweet as is 
rest when a body is tired. Eat, then, and 
be a poet. 

Our consciences had begun to trouble 
us, for we must be at home by Saturday, 
and this was Wednesday. So we slept 
earnestly that night and rowed earnestly 
the next day. The river went wild 
again after crossing another dam, and 



we were again put on the defensive. Yet 
we were glad we had not brought a 
canoe. It was exhilarating to fight the 
mulish wishes of the heavy boat, to 
choose a channel far ahead for its wide 
course, and at the same time to avoid 
nearer obstacles. The boat did not fol- 
low her keel, having none. She went 
just as well sidewise as backward. The 
man in front kept up a constant call of 
"Rock on left — now! Log on right, 
stone on left, straight ahead! Now to 



229 



230 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



the right!" The very pigheadedness of 
our craft doubled the value of our trip. 

But pleasures never hold their color. 
The constant countering with the stream 
became an old story, especially when 
barbed-wire fences appeared again. We 
were but tender amateurs, after all. The 
boat now began to leak badly, and the 
Elder, whose weight attracted the water 
to his end of the boat, was kept busy 
bailing. An oarlock had to be mended 
with wire from a passing fence. For 
dinner we found only a can of beans 
and a quarter loaf of bread ; and who can 
keep a full temper with an empty 
stomach ? 

Then came the prince of mistakes. 
Pleasure seekers should not aim too far 
ahead, and yet we resolved to reach a 
certain village named Scott before we 
camped. At four o'clock we were shov- 
ing ahead doggedly and joylessly like 
farmhands stacking straw; at six we 
were poling even more vigorously, filled 
with the fire of an immense grouch ; and 
by ten, when we had camped in a stub- 
blefield near Scott, speech was dangerous. 
Plainly, a vacation of slavish toil was no 
vacation at all. 

The day broke without a cloud. The 
air was chill and enlivening as in May. 
The river sparkled in the sunlight, 
swinging merrily past on its way to the 
St. Joseph. When we had emptied our 
lungs of sleep, we sat up and wondered 
at ourselves and our ill humor. What 
could there be in the world but hearty 
life and cheerfulness? 

So we broke camp and that day 
reached Constantine, the end of our 
journey. The river for once lived up 
to its promises. It was now a consider- 
able stream, swift and well-behaved, 
sometimes passing farm lands, some- 



times running through long aisles walled 
close with the bright green of willows 
and poplars. 

Once we saw a huge clump of yellow 
willows approaching and expected a mill. 
It had been a mill, indeed. The cur- 
rent through its ruined dam almost cap- 
sized us. But mill and woodwork and 
road were gone. Only the giant willows 
stood as they had in their youth, living 
monuments and faithful friends such as 
few mortal objects have or deserve. 

The mill race at Constantine ran 
through the heart of the little town. We 
camped on Main Street, close by the 
creamery, where we bought milk for sup- 
per. The Elder sought the village gos- 
sips to announce that he had a boat for 
sale, while the Kid went downstream 
and dropped in a line, that we might not 
go home empty-handed. (We carried no 
fish home for all that.) Meanwhile, the 
boat was being inspected. All the time 
we were cooking supper visitors came, 
shook their heads, offered less than the 
price, and departed. At last it was sold 
to the shoemaker, and, in our gratitude, 
we gave him to boot a leaky lantern, 
fishworms, anchors, an opened can of 
condensed milk, a dime's worth of hard 
apples, and many other things for which 
we had no use. 

After we had gone to bed a visitor 
aroused us to say that, after mature de- 
liberation, he had decided to buy the 
boat. Being informed that he had de- 
liberated too maturely, he left us. But 
another came, and others, all anxious to 
buy. The Kid could hardly be prevented 
from selling to each of them. Finally 
they were all gone. The boat pulled 
at its chain and rubbed gently against 
the bank ; the water talked unintelligible 
things, and presently we were asleep. 





PERHAPS IT NEVER LOOKS QUITE SO HOMELIKE AS IN WINTER. 



MAKING NATURE HELP 

BY ERNEST HAROLD BAYNES 

Illustrated with Photographs 



I THINK it was the two great 
hawks wheeling steadily against 
the blue above the pine woods 
which first attracted our attention; or 
perhaps it was the whiff of pine gum 
which was wafted to us on the warm air 
of the first real spring morning. At any 
rate, we were nature-lovers, my friend 
and I, and as we had been in the city 
for a whole day and two nights, we 
needed but a hint to make us sit down on 
an old stone wall by the side of Dudley 
Road, Newton Center, and try to forget 
that we were within seven miles of the 
State House in Boston. 

It was only an overgrown old pasture 
that we were looking at — one of the 



thousands to be seen up and down New 
England. In the foreground there were 
a few ancient apple trees with bluebirds 
hovering about them ; behind and in the 
middle of the pasture a gray and battered 
barn with a phoebe on the end of the 
gable, and beyond, on rising ground, 
clumps of cedars, white pines, and other 
trees, leading the eye to denser wood- 
land behind and above them. Away to 
the left was the old farmhouse on a 
knoll, and farther on a swamp, where 
a red-winged blackbird swayed among 
the alder catkins. 

I remarked pessimistically that it 
would not be long before this interesting 
old place would be cut up into city lots 



231 




TO ALL INTENTS AND PURPOSES IN THE HEART OF THE MAINE WILDERNESS. 



and covered with Mary Ann cottages, 
but my friend answered that he thought 
it had a brighter future, as it had just 
been bought by Frederick H. Kennard, 
the landscape architect, who planned to 
keep it intact and to make it his home. 

Three years later I was again passing 
along Dudley Road, and I thought of 
that old pasture long before I came to 
it. I knew it would be changed and 



wondered what its owner would have 
done to it. The old apple trees would 
be gone, I feared, and with them the 
bluebirds. There would be flower beds, 
of course, and I hoped they would be 
neither circular nor star-shaped, and 
that they would not contain coleus, can- 
nas, geraniums, or other hot-house-bred 
fads of society. 

Presently the old farm came into view, 



232 




THE PATH TO THE KITCHEN GARDEN HIDDEN IN THE WOODS. 



and to my delight there were the apple 
trees, bluebirds and all. The battered 
barn had gone, but a phcebe was calling 
close at hand. Between two convenient 
trees at the roadside an entrance had 
been made, marked by simple stone walls 
and gateposts, up the sides of which 
vines and creepers were already begin- 
ning to climb. 

From here could be seen just a glimpse 



of the house, a quiet, unobtrusive, home- 
like building, well raised upon a knoll, 
but set low and fitting the land as if 
it had grown there. The tone and tex- 
ture of its shingled roof and sides 
blended perfectly with the woods behind 
it and with the clumps of evergreen trees 
and shrubs which screened the greater 
part of it from view. 

Since then I have had the privilege of 



233 



234 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



seeing this beautiful estate in detail, at 
all seasons of the year, and it is always 
interesting and satisfactory — always 
with pleasing surprises in reserve. As 
you pass up the broad sweep of the drive, 
your curiosity piqued by the glimpse 
you have had of the house, you find your 
interest heightened still further by the 
fact that the building now disappears 
entirely behind a group of white pines 
artfully left for this very purpose. 

A moment later you get another sur- 
prise. Just beyond a well-made tennis 
court and to the left of the drive there 
is an opening in the woodland, and be- 
yond, as the vista, in place of the old 
swamp which once occupied this site, a 
beautiful, well-drained lawn, surrounded 
by a great, wide border, full of hardy 
herbaceous flowers of every description. 
These are backed by masses of Florida 
dogwood, native rhododendrons, wild 
azaleas, shad bush, high bush blueberries, 
and other native shrubs, all planted nat- 
urally among the trees so that, in spite 
of the wonderful array of color, it is 
impossible for anyone to say, "Here is 
where Nature left off ; here is where the 
landscape architect began." 

Nature's Own Arrangement 

There is no suggestion of a formal 
flower bed — just a wealth of bloom — a 
mass of loveliness, blending so subtly 
with the beauty of the natural landscape 
that it seems not to have been added to, 
but rather to have grown out of, the 
woodland behind it. And this impres- 
sion grows upon you as you enter this 
same woodland by one of the many little 
paths or trails, and note in what a fairy- 
land of flowers you find yourself. 

Not only are many of the native flow- 
ers here in profusion, but thousands of 
hardy plants have been introduced, until 
the whole place is one great wild-flower 
garden. The larger undergrowth con- 
sists chiefly of bush blueberries, high and 
low, huckleberries, wild azaleas, shad 
bush, and dogwood, while beneath the 
pines the ground is carpeted with part- 
ridge berry, pyrolla, false Solomon's seal, 
prince's pine, bunch berry, and' wild 
anemones. 

Further back in the woods, where the 



ground rises and the lichen-covered, gray 
rocks crop out above the dry soil, you 
will see in many places the forest floor 
aflame with the dancing bells of wild 
columbine or bright pink with the dainty 
blossoms of the prostrate phlox, intro- 
duced so artfully that no one could tell 
that they had not grown there always. 
In the lower portions of the woods the 
air is pungent with the odor of ferns. 
I never counted them, but there must be 
twenty kinds, in all their shades of deli- 
cate green, and not far away there are 
ladies' slippers, not a few, but hundreds 
of them, yellow and white and pink, and 
among them hundreds of lilies of the 
valley, wake robins and other trilliums, 
whether native or introduced you neither 
know nor care. 

If now you wander back and follow 
the drive from the point where you left 
it to enter the woods, you will quickly 
round the group of old pines and come 
upon the house — simple, in perfect taste, 
in keeping with its surroundings and 
consequently beautiful. Though built 
by a well-known firm of architects, it 
had been designed by the owner and his 
wife, who planned it in the realization 
that a house is not, primarily, a thing 
to stare at, but a place to live in. 

The lawn immediately about the 
house is cropped close, and in early 
spring it is abloom with thousands of 
varicolored crocuses, followed later by 
poet's narcissus, planted with a lavish 
hand. Beyond, the fields are undis- 
turbed and until haying time the sun- 
light chases the soft shadows across broad 
acres of waving grass, purple clover, ox- 
eyed daisies, and golden buttercups. 

Mr. Kennard's hobby is ornithology, 
and his love for and knowledge of birds 
are everywhere apparent. Among the 
barberry bushes near the house you will 
see an artistic food house for feathered 
guests, and sharp eyes can discover scores 
of inconspicuous bird houses fastened to 
the trees in woodland and orchard. And 
not the least of the delights experienced 
in walking through this estate is in see- 
ing how heartily the birds accept the hos- 
pitality extended to them. 

Some of the houses are occupied by 
bluebirds, others by chickadees, crested 
flycatchers, woodpeckers, and screech 




THE FLOWER GARDEN IN SPRING, SHOWING FOXGLOVES AND CAMPANULAS 

IN BLOOM WITHOUT THE FORMAL AND FORBIDDING ARRANGEMENT 

OF THE ORDINARY FLOWER BED. 



owls, while a friendly phoebe shows her 
confidence in her host by resting on a 
ledge immediately over the front door. 
And in following the little trails through 
the woodland, you must be careful not 
to step upon the cunningly hidden nest 
of the overt bird, which flies up almost 
from beneath your feet, or upon the 
eggs of the ruffed grouse, which rises 
with a startling whirr and speeds like a 
brown cannon ball between the straight 
trunks of the pines. These nests are 
unknown even to the foxes, whose cubs 
play every afternoon upon a sunny knoll 
less than five hundred yards away. 

There is a poultry yard, too, and a 
rabbit-warren for the children, and in a 
well-cultivated clearing in the woods a 
first-class kitchen garden, surrounded by 
a rustic, vine-covered fence and with 
rose-bushes, dahlias, and sweet peas here 
and there for interesting variety. But 
these things are hidden away and are 
not to be seen by the casual visitor. 



And as you explore the wonders of 
this place, you become aware of the fact 
that although it is beautiful as seen from 
the road — although its quiet, dignified 
appearance is quite satisfying to every 
thoughtful passerby — its rarer beauties 
are not "on exhibition," they are held in 
reserve for those to whom they have the 
deeper meaning, for those for whom they 
have associations, for those whose lives 
are spent among them and who will take 
the time to appreciate them. Primarily 
it is a home, not merely an address — an 
American home in the best sense. 

Perhaps it never looks quite so home- 
like as in winter. I saw it once on a 
Christmas day. Icicles hung from the 
eaves and the sheeted pines and cedars 
stood everywhere on guard. Smoke was 
curling from the chimneys, evidence of 
the bright log fires within, and in spite 
of- the low temperature outside, there 
was an air of solid comfort about the 
place. Sled tracks on a slippery path 



236 




FOXGLOVES, FERNS, AND WILD FLOWERS COVERING THE STEMS OF RHODO- 
DENDRONS AND FLORIDA DOGWOOD AND CLOAKING THE 
ARTIFICIALITY OF THE BEDS. 



running down the lawn showed where 
the children had been amusing them- 
selves, and now their laughing voices, 
mingled with the joyous barking of a 
deep-mouthed dog, guided me round to 
the back of the house and along a snowy 
path up into the woods beyond. A per- 
fectly natural woodland path is this ; the 
art it represents is too subtle for analy- 
sis, but somehow all at once I found my- 
self out of sight of the house, clean away 
from civilization in fact, and in less 
than a hundred and fifty yards I was, 
to all intents and purposes, in the heart 
of the Maine wilderness. 

All about were the straight trunks of 
pine trees heavily laden with snow and 
cracking with the frost, and in a little 
clearing a well-made open log camp, and 
in front of it a roaring fire, around 
which four active children, with red 
caps no redder than their own cheeks, 
were romping with a great St. Bernard 
dog, while a black cocker spaniel, all 



out of breath, stood frantically wagging 
her stump of a tail as though to encour- 
age as much as possible the sport she 
was quite too old and fat to indulge in 
herself. The floor of the camp was 
covered with shawls and rugs and 
cushions, and there were the older mem- 
bers of the family, with their friends, 
all sitting at their ease enjoying the fire 
and watching the children, the host him- 
self rising from time to time to take a 
hand in the game or to throw another 
log upon the fire. 

And the main point of it all is that 
here is a place which is satisfactory in 
every way and at all seasons of the year ; 
a beautiful, interesting, and eminently 
homelike home, with all its natural beau- 
ties left where Nature put them, added 
to and enhanced along perfectly natural 
lines, all because a man who is a master 
of his profession has been able, for once 
at least, to do his work without being 
hampered by the crude ideas of laymen. 



237 



A CUT POLE 

BY WARWICK S. CARPENTER 

Illustrated with Photograph by the Author 




BOVE the shoulder of 
the hill protruded the 
battered crown of an 
old felt hat. It rose 
and fell unevenly to the 
careless swing of its 
wearer. Bits of the brim appeared, 
dropped /back, reappeared, until a sag in 
the hill momentarily revealed that the 
brim actually existed by bits only. At 
the rough board steps which surmounted 
the rise it paused in indecision, faced 
squarely, and climbed over the top. 
From under its jagged shadow an eye 
cocked uncertainly at the weather, after 
which, from an informal seat upon the 
top step of the veranda, both eyes sur- 
veyed the horizon and the zenith. 

"What you think she's goin' to do?" 

"Rain, I guess." 

"It'll be all right if the wind stays 
west." 

As if in reassurance the long line of 
mountain ash trees west of the cottage 
stirred audibly and a moist breeze blew 
softly across the porch. Johnny sniffed 
slightly. 

"Smells like it. I've been waitin' for 
it most three weeks." The storm stained 
felt tilted acutely while its owner noted 
the low, gray cloud banks struggling 
eastward against the morning sun. "All 
you got to do, to sit there readin' ?" 

"I've got to fill the wood box, get in 
the ice, and carry water." 

"We can do that pretty quick." 

"And there's nobody here to take care 
of the horse this noon." 

"Turn him out in the road; what's 
the road for?" 

"I'm sorry, Johnny, but my rod's 
busted. Broke the tip short off the other 
day. I'm afraid I can't go." 

"Huh! Well, I suppose you city fel- 
lers have got to have a split bamboo. I 
got five hundred poles growin' down be- 
side the first hole in the Stillwater that's 



good enough for me. But I got a split 
bamboo, too, and you can use it." 

"Where's your split bamboo? I've 
never seen it." 

"Hid, down in Pine Valley. It's a 
good light one, too, but mebbe not 
enough varnish on it for you." Then, 
abruptly: "You see that dog eatin' 
grass? You better come, if you ain't 
afraid of gettin' wet. You don't need 
no line or reel, but you'll want some of 
them fancy flies with my split bamboo." 

The dog settled it. While we 
rushed at the wood pile, the ice house, 
and the well, a certain little person with 
equal rapidity packed two bulging cloth 
lunch bags, found another old felt, 
scarcely more respectable, and waved 
good luck at us from the rail of the 
porch. As we turned down the Pine 
Valley trail the old horse in the middle 
of the road kicked up his heels in joy- 
ous abandon. 

By gentle grades the trail drops down, 
five green-canopied, long-drawn, wood- 
land miles, past the windings of the Red- 
field, giving hint of the state of the water 
below, then dry shod over the Lyman Lot 
brook, rumbling in its rocky channel un- 
der ground. We sat and lighted our 
pipes upon a log from behind which in 
early spring a bear rose up and said 
"Woof !" at Johnny. 

"I didn't have nothin' but three fish 
hooks stuck in the band of my hat and 
didn't know whether to lay down my 
hand or bluff. But I see Mr. Bear 
didn't think he held much either, so I 
passed and let him say. He walked off 
proud-like about a rod and a half and 
turned into the brush, slow and easy. 
Then I yells at him. 'Hey, you,' I says, 
Svhere're you goin' ?" But he must have 
remembered somethin' awful sudden, 
'cause he started like a shot out of a 
gun, and if he ain't found it by now, he's 
a hell of a long way off." 



238 



r^* w 









THE WOODS, THE WATER, PATIENCE, AND A " CUT POLE " SPELL PLEASURE. 



240 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



In the middle of the trail beside 
the Little Pond brook lay one of John- 
ny's abandoned cut poles. One stumbles 
upon them everywhere within a radius of 
ten miles. From its notched extremity 
depended a couple of inches of broken 
line, eloquent of intolerance of knots. 

"Perhaps I'd better take this," I sug- 
gested. 

"It's most a mile and a half yet. If 
the windin' ain't too loose on the split 
bamboo, it'll be better." 

"Why don't you fish with the bam- 
boo, Johnny?" 

"It balances too light for me; I'd 
ruther cut a new one." 

The sun was long since vanquished, 
and now as we proceeded an occasional 
premonitory raindrop splashed audibly 
in the leaves overhead. But it was evi- 
dently to be a friendly shower, for no 
hush hung over the wilderness, and the 
business of the woods went on apace, al- 
ways, except for brief rustlings and 
whiskings, beyond range of eye and ear, 
sensed rather than seen, throbbing, pal- 
pitating, and observant, retiring in need- 
less panic until two eloquent, odorous 
fishermen passed by and the rumble of 
their voices died down along the trail. 
Presently floated up through the trees 
again the soft lisping of the Redfield 
where it merged into the Stillwater; 
then a glint of silver through thick alders. 

"Here's your split bamboo," said 
Johnny, as he disappeared behind a huge 
hemlock, to step out again presently with 
the pole in one extended hand, the other 
hiding a doubtless distorted face behind 
the ragged old felt. I took it mechani- 
cally. 

Yes, it was split — a shattered, battle- 
wrecked cane, gray from the rains of 
seasons, wound round and round against 
dissolution with the remnants of a knot- 
ted line. From its end depended another 
line, hook attached, the dried loop of a 
worm still impaled upon its rusty point. 

From around the felt issued noises. 
Concentrating upon it with an effort, I 
beheld an eye wobbling unsteadily be- 
hind a hole in the crown. 

"Johnny," I said, addressing the eye, 
"you win ; didn't the stage leave a new 
box of those eighteen-carat cigars at the 
store last night?" 



Johnny emerged grinning. "You bet 
it did." Whereupon, jackknife in hand, 
he cast about for a slim, straight birch. 

Already the storm was upon us, beat- 
ing loudly in the tree tops, penetrating 
slowly through the: forest cover. Johnny 
was ready first and, lunch bag slung 
high about his neck, tobacco and matches 
under his hat, > broke resolutely through 
the dense fringe of alders into the head 
of the first pool. There, waist deep, the 
thick raindrops stippling the level sur- 
face of the Stillwater, he called back to 
me, where I stood tightening the "wind- 
ings" of the dilapidated cane, that an- 
cient saw of the swimming hole: "It's 
rainin' ; come on in or you'll get wet." 

One cannot reach the Stillwater suc- 
cessfully except from the middle, so side 
by side we fished along, knee deep, then 
up to the armpits, occasionally clamber- 
ing out, where swimming alone would 
have been possible, to push around 
through the dripping alders. There 
comes in the excellence of the cut pole. 
You gather the line in one hand, seize the 
pole by the smaller end, and go as fast 
as you will, letting the limber birch trail 
and wind behind without ever a thought 
of catching or breaking. Much saving 
of a part of speech and a general sweet- 
ening of disposition, vide Johnny. 

But there is much more in a cut pole 
than this. No line threads through guides 
from end to end, to catch upon every 
projecting twig where the alders twine 
blindly above the surface of the water. 
A few turns of the pole wind the line at 
the tip, in place of a reel, and thus 
shortened it swings gently through the 
leafy maze and drops softly over the spot 
where trout lie thickest. 

Immediately from perpendicular the 
line moves sideways. There is scant 
room for ceremony. But first must 
come the short, quick jerk which "hooks" 
him. Not every nibble is a bite, and 
then, with the resilient, silver-mounted 
vanity of the shops, the spring of the tip 
throws the shortened line and hook into 
the branches, where it swings over and 
over a limb, steadfastly withstands every 
vehement objurgation, and yields only to 
wading through the hopeful pool and 
untangling. In the cut pole is action 
enough, but less reaction. 



A CUT POLE 



241 



Birch is most often used, alder is good, 
while some make great pretense of seek- 
ing out ash where it grows tallest and 
straightest under a thick cover. It is a 
particular merit of the cut pole, however, 
that it stands nearest at hand, and that 
restless person who sees a more promis- 
ing clump on the farther side, straighter 
for the distance, but disappointing upon 
closer inspection, or looks for an ash of 
suitable size not far off, misses the most 
charming virtue of all. He had best 
carry a rod, or at least a store pole of the 
cane variety. If the latter, he may have 
most of the advantages of a cut pole, but 
must travel impeded or be obliged at 
times to go -out of his way to pick up 
his expensive possession. 

Accordingly, thought Johnny, a cane 
was not worth while, being only slightly 
lighter and not so supple as a cut pole. 
He intended, however, in some time of 
leisure, to cut a half dozen slender spruce 
saplings in a spot where they grow 
small at the base and high up among 
the surrounding trees for light, strip 
them of bark, and put them to season 
over the boiler in the sawmill. Light, 
slim, springy, and free of knots, they are 
the last word in cut poles. He did make 
one once, but hedgehogs ate it in its hid- 
ing place. 

It was soon evident that the rain had 
not come early enough. No rise of 
water was apparent, and the crystal 
clearness revealed both the fish and us. 

"I wish it had started in at daylight," 
sighed Johnny. "Guess we'll have to 
fool 'em." 

At that he shuffled his feet gently in 
the sandy bottom of the stream. I fol- 
lowed suit. It's an old trick in the Still- 
water, a shabby deception, certain to fool 
some of the trout all of the time, and all 
of the trout on any rainy day with a west 
wind. Our lines floated easily ahead in 
the current, the transparent water giving 
plain view of the wriggling worm, lone 
morsel, interesting only to small fry and 
tempting not at all the voracious feed- 
ers on a flood's bounty. Slowly and fan- 
wise spread out from our feet the sub- 
aqueous stage-effect of high water. Alas 
for the imaginative fontinalis! Zip! 
went Johnny's line, and zip! followed 
mine. 



"We got 'em goin'," breathed Johnny 
excitedly. "Keep a-kickin'." 

We kicked faithfully and until our 
legs were weary. With each pause for 
rest we might as well have dropped into 
the water pail like Simple Simon, for all 
the fish we caught, but with each fresh 
appearance of the counterfeit flood they 
sallied out and bit savagely. However, 
let me not tax credulity now by telling 
the truth of that catch. This is not a 
fish story anyway, but concerns cut poles 
and the science of their handling. 

Midway of the Stillwater we stopped 
for lunch, found our matches still dry, 
and built a small fire, before which we 
steamed comfortably. Then Johnny 
borrowed "one of them fancy flies" and 
tied it, sans leader, to his line. Have 
you ever tried to throw a fly with a cut 
pole, to get in all the delicate wrist mo- 
tion of the true art? And did you suc- 
ceed ? Then you have the muscles and 
tendons of the forger of Zeus's armor. 

The correct way of the cut pole is 
different. Just as a naughty boy dangles 
a rubber ball barely out of reach of a 
morose baby, until the suggestion be- 
comes too strong and the baby reaches 
while the boy snatches, so Johnny dan- 
gled and skipped that fly about in a ra- 
dius of two feet, up and down, back and 
across, just on the water, a little above, 
even a foot or two under, until patience, 
the patience of trout, wore out and 
they reached for it. But Johnny was 
not naughty. He let them reach it. 
Nevertheless he declined absolutely to 
play and swung them straight handward, 
whence they popped into his trailing, 
floating creel. 

At times the Stillwater becomes rest- 
ive and hurries precipitately over a hun- 
dred yards of steep descent. In such 
places it is not much more than a foot 
deep. The swift current parts cleanly 
around some rocks, splashes noisily over 
others, and paces the fisherman rapidly 
down the stretch to the next pool, at 
the head of which, if he displays his fly 
persistently, lie many possibilities. But 
Johnny always dallied unaccountably 
over the swift water. He dangled his 
fly behind each rock and dropped it 
through the thin mist of each miniature 
cascade. 



242 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



"Johnny," I complained, at one of 
these fruitless interruptions of our prog- 
ress, "come down here and help me fish 
this hole. I can't reach both sides of 
the stream at once." 

"I'll tell you somethin'," said Johnny, 
confidentially, as he waded cautiously 
in; "every place where the water sprays 
over small rocks like that it makes a 
little rainbow. Then the flies see it, go 
for the bright color, get their wings wet, 
an' fall in. The trout learn that an' are 
layin' for 'em, an' that's where I fish." 

"But I don't see that you get any." 

"No, dammit, there ain't no sun to- 
day to make a rainbow." 

We fly-fished the balance of the Still- 
water, until a break in the leaden clouds 
revealed the sun low sunk in the west. 
"We're all through," remarked Johnny, 



"an' so's the rain. But I sure would 
sleep in these wet clothes to be here to- 
morrow mornin' early. The water'll be 
just right." 

"Aren't you ever satisfied ?" 

"Well, mebbe." 

We waded ashore and climbed heav- 
ily and dripping upon the bank. Squeez- 
ing the water from his soaking clothes, 
"I certainly am dry inside," reminded 
Johnny. "Also have you got a single dry 
match and some smoke in your hat?" I 
looked and found two. 

Breaking his line short off, Johnny 
commenced winding it on a bit of a stick. 
"You can hide your split bamboo in the 
crack of that lightnin'-struck tree," he 
indicated. Then, between puffs, "Two 
of a kind," he chuckled, as the riven cane 
slipped into its resting place. 




LAFITTE THE LAST OF THE 
BUCCANEERS 



BY JOHN R. SPEARS 



HHE last recorded act of 

the old-time buccaneers 
who learned their trade 
under Morgan and his 
colleagues and successors 
in the Caribbean occurred 
in 1716. They had been outlawed for 
many years and had confined their depre- 
dations to small acts of piracy, but in 
1 7 14 the Spanish flota was driven ashore 
on the Florida coast where all the treas- 
ure-laden ships grounded in shoal water. 
In the course of the next two years the 
Spaniards had recovered some millions, 
but the old buccaneers learned that as 
the treasure was brought up by the 
divers it was stored in a shanty on the 
nearby shore where only sixty soldiers 
stood guard over it. 

The amount thus carelessly heaped up 
on the beach was, of course, greatly ex- 
aggerated and the story fired such of 



the old buccaneers as remained alive. 
Captain Henry Jennings was the man 
of enterprise who took the lead on this 
occasion. With two ships and three 
sloops, manned by his comrades, he 
sailed to the scene of the wreck, landed 
three hundred men, drove the Spaniards 
flying into the swamps, and carried off 
350,000 pieces of eight. On the way 
home he fell in with a Spanish galleon 
that carried a rich cargo of merchandise 
besides 60,000 pieces of eight in coin. 

So he brought back to Jamaica plun- 
der worth more than 400,000 pieces of 
eight. He was prosecuted, of course, 
but for some reason proceedings were 
not instituted until the merchandise had 
been disposed of, and then Jennings and 
his merry thieves were allowed to sail 
away and disappear. 

From 1 71 6 on the merchants of other 
nations suffered more from robberies in- 



LAFITTE THE LAST OF THE BUCCANEERS 



243 



flicted by Spanish coast guards than 
Spanish merchants did from any kind of 
high seas pirates, until after the year 
1 8 10, when a new and most interesting 
horde of buccaneers was originated in 
the West Indian and Gulf of Mexico 
waters. 

It is a curious fact that the act of the 
American Congress suppressing the slave 
trade on January 1, 1808, gave life to 
the original enterprise from which these 
later buccaneers sprang. Consider the 
facts. The country was new. The 
Louisiana territory had been but re- 
cently acquired and it was developing by 
the most wonderful strides. The de- 
mand for labor had never been equal to 
what it was then, and the price of slaves 
rose until one fresh from the coast of 
Africa could be sold in the New Orleans 
market for as much as $800 or $1,000. 
At the same time ship loads of slaves 
were brought to Cuba and sold for $300 
a head. With such a margin smuggling 
was inevitable. 

As the demand was greatest on the 
new lands along the Mississippi smug- 
gling there had its greatest development. 
At first the smugglers bought their slaves 
in the Cuban markets, but they soon saw 
that the slave ships carried small crews, 
poorly armed, and that resolute men 
might easily take without price what 
they had theretofore purchased. In short 
the smugglers became buccaneers in a 
small way — they made "purchases" of 
the Spaniards by stroke of sword. 

As a rendezvous from which to run 
slaves up the Mississippi the smugglers 
used Barataria Bay, lying southwest of 
New Orleans. It was protected from 
the gulf by an island (Grand Terre), 
that had trees on it high enough to con- 
ceal the masts of small vessels from the 
lookouts on passing cruisers, while com- 
munication with New Orleans was eas- 
ily effected through the bayous. More- 
over fish and game abounded in the 
region. 

Of course all purchased supplies were 
obtained in New Orleans, and among 
these few were as interesting to this his- 
tory as were the chains used when mak- 
ing up kaffles of slaves for transporta- 
tion into the interior. For, beginning 
somewhere about the year 18 10, the buc- 



caneers patronized a blacksmith shop 
that stood on the north side of St. Philip 
Street, between Bourbon and Dauphine, 
that was owned by two brothers, French- 
men from the Garonne, who were to 
have a great part in the buccaneering 
operations of the ensuing years — Jean 
and Pierre Lafitte. 

These brothers might have been called 
gentlemen -blacksmiths — they owned 
slaves who pounded the iron. To them 
the stories of great profits and alluring 
adventures, which the smugglers told, 
proved to be irresistible. The shop was 
sold and while Pierre remained in the 
city to attend to the sale of the "pur- 
chases," Jean went afloat. He had been 
a privateer in the old country and had 
a taste for plunder. 

A Gentleman- Adventurer 

At this time Jean Lafitte was de- 
scribed as "a handsome man about six 
feet two inches in height and strongly 
built." He had "large hazel eyes, black 
hair, and he usually wore a mustache. 
His favorite dress was a species of green 
uniform with an otter skin cap which 
he wore a little over his right eye. . . . 
He was a good swordsman and an un- 
erring shot." Under service conditions 
he carried two pistols in a sash and wore 
a cutlass. " He was gentlemanly in his 
deportment, of sober habits and very 
thoughtful." He spoke English and 
Spanish fluently, as well as his native 
language, and it is added that he was 
of a retiring disposition and "seldom 
smiled." 

The might of this new element in the 
buccaneer business was immediately ap- 
parent. New Orleans was then a com- 
bination of an American frontier town 
and a West India port, it was full of 
venturesome souls of whom not a few 
had come to the town because of the ac- 
tivity of sheriffs in other towns. These 
flocked to the aid of Jean Lafitte. With- 
in eighteen months a dozen brigantines, 
schooners, and polaccas made Barataria 
Bay their headquarters, and the crews 
addressed Jean Lafitte as "bosse." 

A fort was built on Grand Terre and 
around it were erected a large number of 
thatched huts for the shelter of the crews 



244 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



and the captured cargoes, and for the 
accommodation of a few merchants, and 
others who came to supply the wants of 
the sailors. An idea of the extent of the 
business done by the buccaneers is ob- 
tained from the official statement that 
four hundred slaves were sold at auction 
there in one day. 

Of course the authorities took some 
action in the matter. Governor Clai- 
borne issued proclamations and appealed 
to the legislature for authority to raise a 
company of militia that would "rescue 
Louisiana from the foul reproach" of 
harboring such "bandits." But the leg- 
islators postponed action because they 
were unwilling to interfere with an en- 
terprise that was developing the resources 
of the valley and adding immensely to 
the private fortunes of their constituents. 
If the Spanish government could not 
protect its slave ships, Louisiana would 
not spend money to help her, nor would 
she aid the National Government to 
enforce the slave trade laws. 

The efforts of the customs officials to 
enforce these laws proved ineffective and 
at times dangerous. On October 14, 
181 1, a customs inspector, named Walter 
Gilbert, with a posse, seized a quantity 
of merchandise from a gang of the smug- 
glers. But before he could convey the 
goods to New Orleans Jean Lafitte over- 
took him, "grieviously wounded" one of 
the posse, and recovered the goods. In a 
later fight Lafitte killed an inspector, 
named Stout, and dangerously wounded 
two others. In every fight Lafitte had 
with the authorities he won. 

The fact that Lafitte was handling 
"merchandise" as early as 181 1 shows 
that he was giving attention to other 
ships than slavers. Sheltered by the peo- 
ple to whom he sold goods at low prices 
Jean Lafitte and his gang enlarged their 
operations until "the whole adjacent 
coast was disquieted and kept in terror 
by pirates . . . who were time and again 
seen walking about openly in the streets 
of New Orleans. . . . Countless proofs 
of Lafitte's piracies, even against Amer- 
ican shipping, were in the hands of the 
American government." So says Vin- 
cent Nolte, a merchant of New Orleans 
of that day. 

The fact is that the Government was 



just then so busy with the war of 1812 
that much time passed before attention 
could be given to the buccaneers. In 
the meantime, however, a British naval 
expedition came to Barataria. On Sep- 
tember 3, 1814, the British sloop of war, 
Sophia, Captain Lockyer, anchored off 
Grand Terre, and the captain, with other 
officers, landed under a flag of truce. 
They offered Lafitte a captain's commis- 
sion in the Royal Navy and $30,000 in 
gold if he would join in an attack that 
was to be made upon New Orleans, 
while his followers were to be rewarded 
with large breadths of land as soon as 
Louisiana should come under the Brit- 
ish crown. At the same time Lockyer 
declared that if this offer was refused 
he would return with ample force and 
utterly destroy the buccaneers and their 
settlement. 

Not to Be Bought 

Now it happened that while the Brit- 
ish were at Grand Terre, the United 
States naval forces, under Commodore 
Patterson at New Orleans, were fitting 
out an expedition for the destruction of 
the buccaneer gang, and Lafitte knew 
all about the matter. But instead of 
joining the British the whole gang unan- 
imously rejected the offers, and it was 
with difficulty that Lafitte kept his fol- 
lowers from sending Lockyer and the 
other officers to New Orleans as prison- 
ers. 

When Lockyer had left Grand Terre, 
Lafitte wrote all the facts he had ob- 
tained to Governor Claiborne and offered 
to bring all his forces to defend the city 
from the threatened attack. This offer 
was refused, and the expedition, under 
Commodore Patterson, descended upon 
Barataria (September 16, 18 14), where 
they captured six schooners, a brig, and 
a felucca that were without a flag, and 
two schooners thatwere under the flag 
of the Cartagenian Republic. Patter- 
son's official report says that the buc- 
caneers numbered between 800 and 1 ,000 
men, but they made no resistance. Only 
a few were captured and among these 
Lafitte was not found. The settlement 
on Grand Terre was burned. 

Thereafter Lafitte and his associates 



LAFITTE THE LAST OF THE BUCCANEERS 



245 



remained in hiding until Packenham and 
the 10,000 British veterans had come to 
the swamps below New Orleans, and 
General Jackson "heard the women and 
children crying for terror in the streets." 
Then Lafitte hired United States Dis- 
trict Attorney, John R. Grymes, to re- 
sign and take up the cause of the Bar- 
atarians, the price being $35,000 in gold. 
Edward Livingston was employed in the 
same capacity, and the two appealed to 
General Jackson, who -in his distress ac- 
cepted the aid that the British had sought 
with bribes. 

How the buccaneers manned the great 
guns in the battle of New Orleans and 
how the British veterans, who had been 
invincible on the fields of Europe were 
hurled back by the fire of these guns, 
need not be told here in detail. After 
the battle the buccaneers were pardoned 
for the good they had done, and some 
returned to lawful pursuits. But Jean 
Lafitte was not one of these. For with 
the end of the war of 1812 the opportu- 
nities of the buccaneers for preying upon 
peaceful commerce were suddenly broad- 
ened in remarkable fashion, and Lafitte 
was not a man who could resist the 
allurements of such conditions. 

These new opportunities were found 
in the continuation of the war which 
the Spanish-American people were wag- 
ing for independence. Since 18 10 all 
the Spanish colonies on the continent, 
except Florida, had revolted. The new 
governments set up were most unstable, 
for the will of the popular military hero 
of the hour was the only law in either 
state or municipality. But any govern- 
ment was good enough for the purpose 
of the buccaneers of the day. 

Previous to and during our war of 
1 8 12, Lafitte and his gang had been the 
only buccaneers afloat, but now, at the 
end of that war, the fleet was increased 
by many excellent armed ships. For the 
owners and captains of the privateers 
that had looted British commerce during 
our war were so much enamored of their 
manner of life that they could not be 
content to settle down to the arts of 
peaceful commerce. So they headed 
away for such Spanish-American ports 
as were in the hands of the insurgents, 
and in a day obtained papers as "patriot" 



privateers. Then they went cruising as 
the two Barataria schooners under the 
Cartagenian flag had done. 

No courts of admiralty were estab- 
lished for the trial of prizes. No bonds 
were exacted for the indemnity of ships 
that might be captured wrongfully. 
There was no restraint of any kind 
placed upon the commanders of these 
ships. By the treaty between Spain and 
the United States every such ship that 
was fitted out in the United States was 
a pirate and whenever one of them left 
an American port the captain was guilty 
of deliberate perjury. In short every 
one of these so-called privateers was a 
buccaneer, just as Morgan's ships were 
buccaneers. And the people of the 
United States looked upon them with 
much the same feeling that animated the 
people of Jamaica and Tortuga when 
Pierre le Grand and Roche Braziliano 
first brought prizes to port. 

Pirates Who Wandered Far 

To give an account of all the known 
deeds of these buccaneers would require 
a volume, and it would be one of hu- 
man interest, too. For instance, Capt. 
John D. Daniels, a Baltimore man, 
while cruising in the Irresistible, armed 
with fourteen 12-pounders, captured the 
Spanish war brig Neyrada, armed with 
eighteen 18-pounders and carrying a 
larger crew. The Spaniards lost thir- 
ty-eight men killed and twenty-two 
wounded ; the Irresistible had one man 
wounded and none killed. 

Four of the buccaneers went hunting 
prizes as far as the Philippines, and one, 
the Argentina, made captures near where 
Dewey destroyed the Spanish fleet in 
1898. Among the buccaneers who cap- 
tured much loot was Capt. James Chay- 
tor. In 18 1 7, while in command of the 
Independencia del Sur, he and Captain 
Barnes, of the Mangoree, captured two 
Spanish ships that with their cargo were 
estimated at $701,980 by the Spanish 
minister to Washington. The two 
landed plunder worth $290,000 at Nor- 
folk, Va. In the previous year Chaytor 
captured a ship tha-t had $60,000 in coin 
on board. 

Not to follow the details further, it 



246 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



may be said that some of these buc- 
caneers captured property that was worth 
millions in the aggregate. They block- 
aded Havana and Santiago for days at 
a stretch while Spanish warships of su- 
perior force were lying within. 

But only the few had such good for- 
tune as this. The many made no prizes 
that are remembered and when one of 
these unlucky ships had been a short time 
at sea without taking a Spanish prize the 
captain had to take some other prize or 
face a mutiny ; and few of the buccaneer 
captains needed the incentive of a mutiny 
to make them take any ship that came 
within their power. Moreover their 
favorite expression when looting ships 
was "Dead cats don't mew." 

Because of the ills that Americans had 
suffered at the hands of the Spaniards 
in earlier years this piracy was ignored 
by the American people as a whole for 
a surprising length of time. They sim- 
ply refused to believe the facts even when 
American merchantmen disappeared — 
looted and sunk with all hands. But, 
as the outrages multiplied and the buc- 
caneers became more impudent in their 
disregard for our port and customs laws, 
a time came when they were able to 
bring their captured property into the 
country — their only market — only by 
night and the devious methods of the 
smugglers, and then a new day dawned 
for Jean Lafitte. 

The Gathering at Snake Island 

Of Lafitte's doings immediately after 
the end of the War of 1812 little is 
known until 181 7, when he was found 
in Charleston fitting out a buccaneer 
ship of the class described. From this 
port he went to the Gulf of Mexico, 
and on April 5, 181 7, he was at Snake 
Island, Tex., where Galveston now 
stands, under most remarkable circum- 
stances. 

One Luis de Aury, a South American 
insurgent with a taste for service afloat, 
had gone to New Orleans to look into 
the conditions under which plunder 
could be marketed there. For at this 
time the honest merchants of the country 
were arousing the customs officials to 
some degree of activity, and the Amer- 



ican courts had been deciding that Span- 
ish ships captured by these buccaneers 
must be restored to their owners when- 
ever found within the American juris- 
diction. 

After a brief time in New Orleans 
Aury saw that he might remedy this con- 
dition of affairs if a Spanish-American 
court of admiralty jurisdiction, which 
American courts would recognize, could 
be established in some location conven- 
ient for the buccaneer cruisers. To pro- 
vide such a court Aury united with a 
Mexican named Herrerra, who claimed 
to represent the Mexican insurgent gov- 
ernment, went to Snake Island with a 
gang of buccaneers, and there, with 
Herrerra as the presiding official, went 
through certain forms which he sup- 
posed would organize Texas as a state 
of the Mexican federation, giving the 
little settlement of tents and shanties 
they had built on the sand the dignity 
of a state capital, and then he elected 
himself governor of the new state. Na- 
turally his first executive act was to ap- 
point a justice and other officials of a 
court of admiralty. 

This buccaneer state was organized in 
December, 1816. In the course of the 
winter many of the buccaneer cruisers 
brought in their prizes and they were 
condemned with as much regard for 
forms as the circumstances would per- 
mit. Then efforts were made to have 
the decisions of this court recognized by 
the courts of the United States, but here 
the buccaneers failed, and then on April 
5, 1817, Aury left Snake Island and 
went to Amelia Island, Fla., where a 
Sir Gregor Macgregor, a Scotchman 
who had turned buccaneer, had tried to 
organize the two Floridas, East and 
West, as an independent nation. 

When Aury sailed away from Snake 
Island, Jean Lafitte took possession, and 
straightway business began to boom. A 
fort was thrown up to guard the harbor. 
A brick house was built within the fort 
and to this Lafitte brought his family. 
Other houses were erected — a regular 
shanty town — for the use of ship chan- 
dlers, grocers, saloon keepers, and others 
who came to supply the wants of a 
buccaneer community such as had flour- 
ished at Barataria. 



LAFITTE THE LAST OF THE BUCCANEERS 



247 



In the meantime the news that the 
old "bosse" had opened a new nautical 
"fence" was carried around the West 
India waters, and the buccaneers who 
had prizes to sell squared away for Snake 
Island with studding sails on both sides 
in their eagerness to get there. They 
could not sell ships there — the bottom 
of the bay off Bolivar Island was at one 
time well covered with the remains of 
hulls that the buccaneers had burned — 
but they could get cash for cargoes eith- 
er from Lafitte himself or from specu- 
lators he brought there. And, although 
Lafitte was usually to be found in the 
house within the fort, he owned a beau- 
tiful brig that had been a slaver (named 
the Pride), and went cruising in her 
occasionally to help on the boom. 

The success of this "fence" was re- 
markable. So many slaves were brought 
there that Lafitte was obliged to sell 
them at a dollar a pound. Gold watches 
were seen there by the case and drygoods 
by the cargo. On occasion doubloons 
were as numerous as biscuit on the is- 
land, and the sounds of revelry were 
heard for miles down the gentle zephyrs. 
Within a year, more than a thousand 
buccaneers were making Snake Island 
their headquarters. 

Of Jean Lafitte as "bosse" of this buc- 
caneer community there are pictures 
enough. One of his captains named Jean 
Baptiste Marotte tried to hold out a 
box of gold watches at dividing time, 
and when detected he spit in Lafitte's 
face. Instead of killing the captain La- 
fitte challenged him to fight a duel — 
gave him a chance for his life. At the 
duelling ground — Pelican Island — Ma- 
rotte weakened, whereupon Lafitte gave 
him a slap and a kick and let him go. 

The crew of the Pride, having learned 
that the Spanish would pay them a large 
reward for her if delivered at Vera 
Cruz, planned a mutiny. Lafitte learned 
their plans but let them go ahead until 
they came aft in a body to clean out the 
cabin. But when they had battered in 
the cabin door he and his lieutenants 
shot six of them dead and ended all taste 
for mutinies in that community. 

At one time a New England buc- 
caneer, named William Brown, robbed 
a plantation in Louisiana of a number 



of slaves, and brought them to Snake 
Island. The United States war schooner 
Lynx, Lieut. J. R. Madison, command- 
ing, traced Brown to the "fence" and 
was sounding out a channel with a view 
to coming in and capturing the gang 
when Lafitte had Brown tried by a court 
martial and hanged for a piratical as- 
sault upon the United States. Then he 
gave Brown's companions to the Lynx 
for trial in the courts at New Orleans 
and Madison sailed away satisfied. 

In the meantime Lafitte had tried to 
organize Texas as a state of the Mex- 
ican republic. With the aid of a band 
of Americans who camped on Galveston 
Bay while on their way to join the Mex- 
ican insurgents, he went through the 
forms of adopting a constitution and 
electing state officers, after which the 
governor appointed a justice of a court 
of admiralty and issued commissions to 
the buccaneer commanders. Lafitte used 
every effort, also, to get into communi- 
cation with the Mexican insurgents in 
order to secure written recognition for 
his community, but was never able to do 
so because the Mexicans were at that 
time far in the interior. In fact he ad- 
mitted in his letters that he never had 
any lawful government at Snake Island, 
and this fact is worth mention because 
one well-known historian labored hard 
to demonstrate that Lafitte was a smug- 
gler merely. 

Breaking the Buccaneers 

But, while Lafitte was worried some- 
what lest a naval force visit Snake Island 
as one had visited Amelia Island after 
Aury was established there, he continued 
"to hold down his claim," so to speak, 
and made a good bluff. The longer the 
buccaneers were left undisturbed on the 
island the more insolent they became in 
their disregard for public rights. In Oc- 
tober, 1 819, a buccaneer cruiser, called 
the Bravo, while off the mouth of the 
Mississippi with a prize in company, fired 
on a United States revenue cutter that 
thought to investigate her commission. 
But the Bravo was captured and in due 
time the captain and mate were hanged 
in spite of their Snake Island commis- 
sion. 



248 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



While the Bravo 's crew awaited trial, 
three commissioners were sent by the 
United States Government to Snake Is- 
land to investigate the condition of af- 
fairs; for Lafitte's friends who had been 
buying $800 slaves for a dollar a pound 
had done much to create a public belief 
that the settlement on Snake Island was 
a lawfully organized Mexican commu- 
nity, and the Washington authorities 
were in doubt about the matter. The 
commissioners found the condition of af- 
fairs herein described, and reported ac- 
cordingly. Thereupon, at an early date 
in 1 82 1, the war brig Enterprise, of 
glorious memory, was sent to Snake Is- 
land, under Capt. Lawrence Kearney, 
with orders to clear out the whole gang. 
Having found Kearney inflexible in the 
execution of orders, Lafitte placed his 
goods on the beautiful Pride, burned the 
entire settlement, and sailed away, head- 
ing to the southeast, where he disap- 
peared in mists from which he never 
emerged. 

One account says he died fighting the 
crew of a British warship that attacked 
the Pride. Another says he turned mer- 
chant and died at Silan, a small village 
near Merida, Yucatan. A third says he 
went to France where he lived in com- 
fort to old age. 

Whatever his ultimate fate it is cer- 
tain that Jean Lafitte was, in some re- 
spects, the most remarkable buccaneer 



known to history. The work of the old- 
time buccaneers was done in the days 
when, as a matter of governmental pol- 
icy, there was "no peace beyond the 
line," while Lafitte, among the civilized 
people of the nineteenth century, built 
two different towns, at each of which he 
gathered a thousand men. They were 
men without a country, or a conscience, 
respect for law, or any hope in life be- 
yond the gratification of lust and ap- 
petite. They knew well the exhilaration 
that comes to wild souls in deadly con- 
flict, and defiance of law and authority 
was the chief feature of their chosen 
occupation. Yet Jean Lafitte ruled 
them. They spoke of him as "the old 
man." They addressed him as "bosse." 
They were his friends as well as his fol- 
lowers. 

A silent man he, but by no means 
sullen or devoid of humor. When Gov- 
ernor Claiborne offered a reward of $5,- 
000 for his head, Lafitte offered $50,000 
for the head of the governor, and worded 
his advertisement in a way that set every 
reader, including the governor, laugh- 
ing. A sly story or a flash of French 
saved many a blow, but when a blow 
was needed it came with crushing power. 
Though a pirate chief and guilty not 
only of the blood his sailors shed but of 
blood shed by his own hand, he was by 
no means lacking in some of the qual- 
ities that go to the making of a hero. 





r THEWORl 
OF* -SPORT 




THE LAW AND THE SPORTSMAN 

IN view of the forward movement in 
game protection in most other parts 
of the country it is to be regretted 
that New York State should have ap- 
peared in so doubtful a role at the pres- 
ent session of the legislature. Two bills 
were introduced that, if passed, would 
have meant almost irreparable injury to 
legitimate sport. One was to permit the 
hounding of deer in the Adirondack^ 
and the other to allow the spring shoot- 
ing of ducks on Long Island. Both 
were defeated, but the latter passed the 
State senate and lacked only ten votes of 
success in the lower house. 

That such a measure should have 
come so near to passage is an indication 
of a spirit in the New York legislature 
that should cause lovers of wild game 
great uneasiness. The arguments ad- 
vanced in support of this bill were the 
old ones, familiar by long use. A duck 
killed in the spring is a dead duck and 
a dead duck only. So runs the argu- 
ment. 

This utterly ignores the fact that to 
kill birds at the beginning of the breed- 
ing season means a serious curtailment 
of the breeding for the year. It ignores 
also the fact that shooting conditions in 
the spring are, as a rule, less favorable 
to the birds than in the fall. The birds, 
wearied by 'the long flight from the 
Southern waters, are easier to approach. 
Added to this, the bad weather often 
prevalent in the spring drives them 

249 



closer inshore where they fall easy prey 
to the market gunner. 

The fight is not over yet. The friends 
of the bill threaten to bring it up again 
and press it to passage. The whole force 
of market gunners is behind it. 

This suggests a reasonable solution of 
the difficulty and one that has been of- 
fered at the present session. That is to 
prevent absolutely the sale of game with- 
in the State without regard to where it 
was shot. So long as it is permitted 
under any conditions whatever the evil 
is impossible to curb. A duck or a grouse 
killed in New Jersey or Pennsylvania 
looks no different from one killed in 
New York. Cut off the market and the 
market gunners will cease to agitate for 
a spring season, a larger bag limit, a 
longer fall season, or any of the other 
devious ways of whipping the devil 
around the stump. 

The whole question resolves itself in- 
to one of common decency and good 
sportsmanship, on the part of lawmakers 
as well as hunters. The kind of gun 
used is not so important as the way it 
is used. The man behind the gun is 
the man to reach. 

This magazine has taken a strong 
stand against the publishing of pictures 
of proud hunters posing before a long 
string of game with the gun that did 
the mischief held at a triumphant angle. 
It does everything in its power to in- 
culcate decent standards of sport and the 
higher ethics of the game. Unfortu- 
nately, as far as the proselyting charac- 



250 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



ter of our arguments is concerned, very 
few of our readers are in need of instruc- 
tion on these points. We are sure that 
they are with us already in this cause, 
heart and soul. 

It is the man who does not read this 
magazine — or any other — the man who 
hunts only to kill, who presses the trig- 
ger with one eye on the game and the 
other on the market, that is in need of 
conversion. In many cases the only les- 
son that he can understand is a stiff fine. 
Cut off the market demand, limit the 
bag and the season, and enforce the law 
to the letter. There is the remedy. 



THE TRAGEDY OF THE ELK 

MR. DILLON WALLACE'S 
article in another part of this 
issue places before us clearly the 
great danger that is threatening one of 
the noblest game animals on the Amer- 
ican Continent. The buffalo and the an- 
telope were gone before we took thought 
of what we were doing. The mountain 
sheep has traveled far on the road to ex- 
tinction, and the few specimens that are 
left are only pitiful remnants of once 
noble bands. 

These things we did in our blindness 
and ignorance. The evil was wrought in 
the proud belief that Uncle Sam not 
only had land enough to give us all a 
farm, but game enough to give us all a 
shot. We know better now. If this 
last great herd of elk is left to starve, we 
cannot plead ignorance or extenuating 
circumstances of need or opportunity. 
Our eyes are open and the remedy is in 
our own hands. 

The first step is up to the State of 
Wyoming. There are ample ranges in 
other parts of the State that will never 
be good for anything else. The elk can 
be removed easily and placed on the new 
grounds. 

If Wyoming will not act, let the Fed- 
eral Government step in and transport 
some of the animals from the Yellow- 
stone Park and its forest reserves to 
parks and reserves in other States. 
Whole counties in the Rockies have been 
swept bare of game that once supported 
their hundreds and thousands. The re- 



sources are still there ; only the game is 
gone. 

It is not too late to save the day if we 
will only act at once. Stocking with 
deer, elk, moose, and even with sheep 
and antelope is not difficult and we could 
bring to now deserted mountain slopes 
and valleys the beautiful life that once 
filled them. 



LAWS FOR THE FLYERS 

THE birdmen have enjoyed the 
freedom of the air long enough. 
Now they are to be licensed and 
tagged and lighted and limited and de- 
fined and otherwise dealt with according 
to the law. In two States, bills have been 
introduced bearing on the art of aviation 
and before these paragraphs appear may 
have become laws. 

Connecticut was the first to take leg- 
islative notice of the rapid peopling of 
the atmosphere and the consequent need 
of regulation of the peoplers. The bill 
introduced in accordance with the Gov- 
ernor's message provided for a license 
fee of ten dollars and limited the opera- 
tion of machines to those who had been 
approved by the superintendent of State 
police. 

A substitute measure, offered by Mr. 
A. Holland Forbes, seems to be more 
comprehensive. Under the terms of the 
Forbes bill a flier may wander at will in 
the air over his own premises, but be- 
comes a trespasser if he ventures into 
anyone else's air before he has been duly 
licensed. Under the theory on which 
real estate titles have been construed in 
times past the owner held from the cen- 
ter of the earth to the sky. Not even 
the State might "license" a trespasser, 
save as provided under the right of emi- 
nent domain. How about that true and 
tried theory now? 

But to proceed: No aviator may se- 
cure a license who is under twenty-one 
years of age. Each machine must bear 
a registry number in figures not less than 
three feet in length. 

In California they are not only pro- 
posing to require licenses and numbers, 
but also suggest the carrying of "at least 
four lights, one in the center of the ve- 



THE WORLD OF SPORT 



251 



hide in front of the driver, one at the 
extreme rear, and one at each end of the 
lifting planes, these last two to be one 
red and one green, the red light to be 
placed at the end of the right plane and 
the green at the end of the left plane." 
Why alter the old-established usage of 
red light to port and green to starboard ? 
While we're about it, why not provide 
some extra inducement for hunting out 
and some specially interesting brand of 
punishment for the fools who shoot at 
balloons? These marksmen would at 
least provide valuable material for stud- 
ies in driminal aberration. 



"THE AMERICAN GOLFER" 

AS played across the Atlantic, golf 
is fundamentally different from 
the British variety of the game. 
At bottom the game in America is a 
business. At bottom the game here is 
a pleasure, a relaxation, and a means of 
taking pleasant exercise. The American 
likes to satisfy himself as to who is the 
best player in the country, and to be eter- 
nally comparing the merits of the vari- 
ous performers. These comparisons and 
criticisms also are very harsh. 

America is a land of championships — 
a happy hunting ground for the pot 
hunter. The continual playing of golf 
with an object does away with light- 
hearted and cheery matches and four- 
somes which form the main part of golf 
as it is played in the United Kingdom. 
Hence American golfers are for the most 
part serious-minded, haunted with the 
fear of losing the reputation they have 
gained in past competitions. Golf under 
this treatment soon loses its title to be 
called a game at all, and, so far from 
serving as a relaxation, it tends merely 
to an increased consumption of physical 
and mental energy. This being the case, 
it is not strange that the vast majority of 
good American players are compara- 
tively idle men, or undergraduates at the 
various universities, who can give up 
their whole vacation to the exigencies 
of the American golfing spirit. (From 
the Country Gentleman, England.) 

Some one once defined a lobster as a 
red fish that walks backward. To which 



Huxley responded : "A lobster is not a 
fish, it is not red, and it does not walk 
backward. Otherwise the definition is 
correct." 

ABOUT THE REVOLVER 

WE hate to seem to be dwelling 
overmuch on matters in New 
York State, but it so happens 
that several points of acute interest to 
sportsmen generally are closely concerned 
with recent happenings in this State. 
For example, there is the bill to require 
each purchaser of a revolver to show 
a license permitting him to carry con- 
cealed weapons. 

The theory is that such a measure will 
restrict the illegal use of this weapon. 
This is fine theorizing. The only un- 
fortunate phase of the matter is that it 
does not accord with the reasonable prob- 
abilities. We have ample restriction of 
the carrying of concealed weapons at 
present. Yet this does not in the slight- 
est disturb the man who wants a gun 
for an improper purpose. 

The avenues of purchase are many. 
Would the proposed measure (still pend- 
ing at the time this is written) affect 
in the slightest degree such improper 
purchase ? It is impossible to believe 
that it would. The yeggman, the sec- 
ond-story worker, the strong-arm man 
would still find ways to buy their 
beloved six-shooters. The restriction 
would fall only upon the decent citizen 
who wants a revolver to carry with him 
into the woods, or to keep in the house 
for the protection of his women folks. 

Keep the sale of firearms in the open 
under legitimate supervision and it is 
harmless. Drive it to cover, and the 
result will be to place the innocent more 
than ever at the mercy of the malev- 
olent. 

THE Aero Club has finally (tem- 
porarily?) awarded the Statue of 
Liberty prize to De Lesseps, the 
man who made the slowest time of any 
of the contestants. This leads us to con- 
clude that the hare really finished first 
in his historic race with the tortoise, but 
was disqualified for fouling a mullein 
stalk on the second turn. 



252 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



THE BOOKS WE READ 



THE appeal of books of adventure 
is fundamental and universal. 
Watch the boy of twelve poring 
over his "Robinson Crusoe," "Treasure 
Island," or "Two Years Before the 
Mast." Literary subtleties, character 
studies, psychology, all are wasted on 
him. Ask him why he likes his books, 
and if he can give you any reason at all 
it will probably be because "there is 
something doing all the time." 

But the real reason lies deeper. It is 
the primitive desire to discover how the 
stark man behaves when he finds him- 
self in wilderness or desert with nothing 
but a knife, a gun, and his two bare 
hands. It is the old admiration for re- 
sourcefulness, for man's ability to stand 
upon his feet and play the game. The 
quickness with which a boy reacts to this 
conception is in a large measure a test 
of his own potential manhood. This is 
the appeal that such organizations as the 
Boy Scouts make and this will be a cold 
and cheerless world when the boys cease 
to rise to it. 

BEING A GOOD SPORT 

IF the writer were a good many years 
older than he really is and were pre- 
paring to depart this life in good 
spirit and with a proper benediction for 
all the good things that he would leave 
behind, he could think of no fitter mes- 
sage for the young men — and women — 
of to-morrow and all the days to come 
than just this: Be a good sport. That 
one slang phrase covers a very large and 
real philosophy of life. 

In a sense, grin and, bear it will 
serve, except that that is an emollient 
simply, a salve for wounds otherwise 
past curing. The good sport is the man 
who not only grins and bears defeat, but 
also endures triumph without too much 
grinning. He has no excuses and few 
explanations if he loses and forbears to 
rub it in when he wins. He pays his 
way and takes his share of the load, but 
beware of overloading. Righteous in- 
dignation is his and legitimate protest 
against the ills to which human flesh 
should not be heir. 



He is sympathetic within reason over 
the real troubles of other people, but 
don't encroach on his with evils that 
exist only in your own mind. He is 
considerate of the weak and unfortunate 
in the game of life ; in fact he is — or 
should be — a prominent member of the 
various handicapping committees that 
are striving in many ways and under 
various names to distribute the burdens 
of the world according to ability to 
bear. 

Specifically he is the sort of man who 
always uses a light rod and gives the 
fish a chance. He quits when he has 
caught all he needs for the camp and is 
in no special hurry to empty the stream. 
He would scorn to shoot a duck on the 
water and one kill at long range is worth 
more to him than a dozen birds brought 
to bag where any novice could have 
knocked them down. He welcomes the 
long portage that tries his strength and 
skill and will do his full share of the 
camp work without a murmur. In other 
words, a good sport is the kind of a man 
that everybody would like to be and 
only a few are — all the time. 

There is a story of two men who had 
been playing a round of golf. At the 
finish the man who had lost said in a 
dismal tone: "Confound it! if I hadn't 
sat up so late last night I wouldn't have 
felt so seedy and off my game this morn- 
ing." 

Whereat the other regarded him quiz- 
zically and drily remarked : "Do you 
know, I don't believe I've ever beaten 
a well man in my life." 

A good sport wouldn't have laid him- 
self open to any such thrust. 



RUFFIANLY ROBINS 

A CORRESPONDENT in Indi- 
ana informs us that a merchant 
in his town is suffering from the 
depredations of some unprincipled rob- 
ins. The merchant is a keeper of bees, 
which fact the robins have discovered. 
The red-breasted brigands have also dis- 
covered that honey is pleasant to the 
taste and exceedingly easy to take. 

To raid the hives requires a higher 
degree of courage than they possess. 



THE WORLD OF SPORT 



253 



Therefore they perch themselves in the 
trees over the hives and, waylaying the 
returning bees, rob them of their loads. 
Whether the honest little laborers are 
then permitted to go their way with 
warning not to look back or cry for help 
on peril of their lives deponent sayeth 
not. 

A "ROYAL" HUNTER 

THE following is the kaiser's bag 
of game for 1909 as taken from 
the columns of Wild und Hund, 
Germany : 

"January 5-ioth, on the Shorfheide, 
twenty stags; January 15th, Potsdam, 
one hundred and two pheasants, seventy- 
three rabbits; June 2d, Madlitz, six 
roebuck; September 22d to October 5th, 
Rominten, twenty-one stags; October 9— 
15th, Shorfheide, eighteen stags; No- 
vember 1 2-1 3th, Letzlingen, ninety-one 
fallow buck, eleven wild boar; Novem- 
ber 1 7-2 1st, Donaueschingen, one fal- 



low buck, eighty-four foxes, one badger, 
three hares; November 24th, Neudeck, 
six hundred and sixteen pheasants, two 
hares, one nutcracker, one owl ; Novem- 
ber 26-27th, Pless, two bison, two stags, 
nine wild boar, four hundred and forty 
pheasants, two hares, one nutcracker; 
December 3-4th, Gohrde, fifteen stags, 
one brocket, four hinds, forty-nine wild 
boar — in all, 1,576 head. 

"His majesty's total bag during his 
career as a sportsman is returned at 63,- 
439 head, made up as follows: 1,860 
stags, 90 hinds, 1,736 fallow buck, 98 
does, 3,346 wild boar, 924 roebuck, 17,- 
958 hares, 2,426 rabbits, 121 chamois, 
342 foxes, 3 bears, 9 elk, 6 bison, 3 
reindeer, 6 badgers, 1 martin, 108 caper- 
cailzie, '24 blackgame, 32,051 pheasants, 
865 partridges, 95 grouse, 4 woodcock, 
2 snipe, 87 duck, 2 guinea fowl, 826 
herons and cormorants, 1 whale, 1 pike, 
514 miscellaneous." 

Some of us have killed more snipe 
anyhow. 




NEWS OF THE OUTDOOR WORLD 



Aviation 

'"THE Aero Club of America awarded the 
Statue of Liberty prize to Count De 
Lesseps, March 14, John B. Moisant being 
disqualified for not having been one hour 
in continuous flight previous to starting, 
and Claude Grahame-White being dis- 
qualified for fouling a pylon with a wing- 
tip on landing. The decision has been pro- 
tested by Grahame-White. 

Louis Breguet made a new record for 
passenger-carrying at Douai, France, March 
21, by taking up eleven passengers. 

Lieutenant Foulois and Philip C. Parma- 
lee flew 106 miles at Laredo, Texas, March 
3, making a new record for a two-pas- 
senger flight. 

Eugene Renaux won the Michelin prize 
of $20,000, March 7, by flying from Paris 
to Clermont-Ferrand and alighting on the 
Puy de Dome, a distance of 260 miles. The 
summit of the Puy de Dome is 4,500 feet 
above sea level. 

An over-sea flight of 124 miles, from An- 
tibes on the Mediterranean coast to the 
island of Gorgona, was made by Lieutenant 
Bague, March 5. 

M. Cei, a French aviator, was killed at 
Puteaux, March 28th, by a fall of over two 
thousand feet. 

Lieutenant Erler, a German officer, car- 
ried a passenger from Hamburg to Bremen 
in a biplane, March 29th, at an average 
speed of fifty-seven miles an hour. 

Pierre Nedrine, a French aviator, flew 
from Poitiers to Issy-les-Moulineaux, March 
31st, 208 miles, at an average speed of over 
ninety miles an hour. 



ton, 2; Yale, 8-Syracuse, 1; Cornell, 6- 
Pennsylvania, 3; Pennsylvania, 5-Columbia, 
4; Columbia, 6i _ Princeton, z\\ Harvard, 
6-Army, 3; Cornell, 5-Navy, 4; Navy, 8- 
Princeton, 1. 

Joseph T. Shaw, of the Fencers' Club, 
won the Hammond gold medal in the three 
weapons tournament at the New York Ath- 
letic Club, March 22. His only defeat was 
by E. H. B. Myers with the duelling swords. 

The New York Fencing Club defeated the 
Navy, 5-4, March 11. 

Cornell won the intercollegiate fencing 
tournament in New York, April 1, with a 
total of thirty-five bouts won against thir- 
ty-four for the Army, twenty-two for the 
Navy, eighteen for Columbia, fourteen for 
Pennsylvania, and twelve for Harvard. 
The individual championship went to Ross 
of Cornell. This is the first time the tour- 
nament has been won by any other team 
than the Army or Navy. 

Wrestling 

J NTERCOLLEGIATE wrestling matches 
during March resulted as follows: 
Penn. State, 4-Columbia, 1 ; Cornell, si- 
Pennsylvania, 4i; Yale, 6-Columbia, 1; 
Penn. State, 4-Cornell, 3 ; Navy, 6-Colum- 
bia, 1; Princeton, 5-Pennsylvania, 1 (one 
draw); Yale, si-Princeton, ii; Cornell, ' 5- 
Columbia, 2 ; Pennsylvania, 3^— Princeton, 3^. 

Princeton won the intercollegiate cham- 
pionship, March 27th, with a score of sev- 
enteen points against Pennsylvania, eleven; 
Columbia, eleven; and Cornell, ten. 

Basketball 



Fencing 

J NTERCOLLEGIATE fencing matches 

won during March were as follows: 

Columbia, 8-Yale, 1 ; Columbia, '7-Prince- 



J NTERCOLLEGIATE basketball games 
played during March resulted as fol- 
lows: Wesleyan, 19-Williams, 12; Cornell, 
20-Yale, 17; Manhattan, 20-Cornell, 16; 
Wesleyan, 27-Dartmouth, 10. 



254 



NEWS OF THE OUTDOOR WORLD 



255 



Tufts College has abolished basketball on 
the ground of roughness, unhygienic char- 
acter, and lack of support. 

Miscellaneous 

MEW records for relay swimming at 400 
and 500 yards were made by the New 
York Athletic Club team, March 18. The 
new marks are 3 minutes 57I seconds, and 
4 minutes 57 seconds, respectively, as 



Harry W. Kahler, Highland Gun Club, 
Philadelphia, won the national amateur 
championship at clay pigeons, held at Trav- 
ers Island, March 23-24, breaking 173 out 
of a possible 200. 

A new record with a .22 caliber match 
pistol was made by A. P. Lane, Manhattan 
Rifle and Revolver Club, with a score of 240 
out of a possible 250 at twenty yards. 

In a trial trip on the Solent, March 24, 



against 4 minutes f second and 5 minutes Mackay Edgar's motorboat, Maple Leaf 
2§ seconds, former records. 



The Intercollegiate individual swim- 
ming championship was won by Yale with 
three firsts and four seconds. 



77/, made a speed of 58 miles an hour. 

Columbia defeated Yale in a revolver 
match, March 7th, by a score of 983 to 796 
for five-man teams. 



The New York Athletic Club swimmir.g 
team won the A. A. U. relay championship, 
March 23. 



Rockliffe Magnet, Rockliffe Kennels, won 

the special prize offered for the best dog 

exhibited at the annual member's show of 

the Bulldog Breeders' Association of Amer- 

W. C. Fownes, Jr., Oakmont, national iea, March 18th. 

amateur golf champion, won the annual Syracuse defeated Michigan in an indoor 

club tournament at Pinehurst, N. C, March track meet at Syracuse, March 18th, 43 

18, 4 and 3. t0 3+ 

It has been announced that the "Big The New York relay team, composed of 

Four" professional golfers, Braid, Vardon, Dorland, Rosenberger, Sheppard, and Gis- 

Duncan, and Taylor, will compete in the sing won the intercity relay race at the 
American open championship this year. 



James R. Hyde, South Shore Field Club, 
won the Florida amateur golf championship, 
March 13. 

The Southern Cross Golf Trophy was 
won at Aiken, S. C, by E. M. Byers, Pitts- 
burgh, March 24. 



Pastime Athletic Club games, against Bos- 
ton and Philadelphia. 

A world's record for a five-man team at 
duckpins was made at the Catonsville 
Country Club, Md., March 3d, with a score 
of 636. 

The Bonds of Cleveland made a new 
world's five-man team bowling record of 
The English Lawn Tennis Association has 2> g 96 j n Buffalo, March 3d. 
decided to invite the winner of the first tie 

in the play for the Davis cup to play the George Gray, Australia, made a new 
second tie with England. The United States mark in English billiards at Southampton, 
and South Africa have been drawn in the Eng., March 2d, with a run of 1,576. The 
first preliminary. previous record was 1,240, held by Roberts. 

The singles championship of the women's Four world's automobile records in one 
national indoor tennis tournament was won race of a hundred miles were broken by 



by Miss Marie Wagner, Hamilton Grange, 
March 9. 

G. M. Church, a schoolboy from Tenafly, 
N. J., won the singles tennis championship 
of Florida, March 4. 

The indoor amateur trapshooting tourna- 
ment held at Madison Square Garden, N. 
Y., during the Sportsman's Show, was won 



Teddy Tetzlaff, Lozier, at Los Angeles, 
March 19th. The records were: Twenty- 
five miles, 18:22! — old record, 18:52; fifty 
miles, 36:35! — old record, 37:55*; seventy 
miles, 54:505- — old record, 57:155; one hun- 
dred miles, 1:14:295 — old record, 1:16:21. 

A new two-man bowling record was es- 
tablished at Buffalo, March nth, by Kelsey 



by F. B. Stephenson, Crescent Athletic Club, and Johnson, of New Haven, with a score 
with 96 out of a possible 100. of 1,355. Tne old record was 1,318. 



256 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



Two American Rhodes scholars scored in 
t lie Oxford-London Athletic Club games, 
March nth, R. L. Lange, Oklahoma, hun- 
dred-yard dash, 10/, seconds; and George 
E. Putnam, Kansas, hammer throw, 152 feet 
9 inches. 

Intercollegiate soccer was begun March 
nth, Columbia defeating Haverford 1-0; 
Cornell and Columbia tied, March 25th, 1- 
1; Crescent Athletic Club defeated Yale, 
4-1. 

George V. Bonhag ran the 3,000 meters 
in 8:523, lowering the mark of 8:54 set by- 
John Svanberg in Sweden several years ago. 

In the preliminary bouts for the inter- 
collegiate fencing contest the four teams to 
qualify were Army, Navy, Pennsylvania, 
and Cornell. 



Intercollegiate baseball games played in 
March resulted as follows: Army, 3; Rut- 
gers, 2; Columbia, 9; C. C. N. Y., o; Penn- 
sylvania, 18; Navy, 3; Ursinus, 2; Prince- 
ton, 1; Lafayette, 5; Elton, 3; Princeton, 19; 
N. Y. U., 5; Princeton, n; Bowdoin, 1; 
Arvey, 7; Manhattan, o; Pennsylvania, 3; 
Lehigh, o; Amherst, 4; Virginia, 2. 

C. M. Daniels won the A. A. U. cham- 
pionship 500-yard swim at St. Louis, March 
31st, in 6 minutes 295 seconds. He also won 
the 220-yard championship at Pittsburg, 
March 28th, in 2:25s. 

Gilbert Nicholls won the gold medal in 
the eleventh annual North and South open 
golf championship at Pinehurst, March 27th. 

Joseph West, London, Ont., won the in- 
dividual bowling championship at Buffalo, 
March 17th, with a score of 694. 




/siplli 


rp\- 














iP^lP^^TS 


M 


is% 










M 




THE MOST DANGEROUS PART OF BEAR HUNTING IS THE TRACKING OF A 
WOUNDED BEAR INTO COVER. 



THE 

OUTING 




Volume LVIII 



JUNE, 191 1 



Number 3 




THE BROWN BEAR OF ALASKA 

BY BELMORE BROWNE 

Illustrated ivith Paintings and Drawings by the Author 

EN who have had the ex- main Rockies is not the "Monarch" of 
perience say that the the old days, but a skulking, nocturnal 
king of sports is the beast, harried here and there by the en- 
hunting of man, and it croachment of civilization. But in the 
stands to reason that they northwestern mountains you can still 
are right. The greater find ranges where grizzlies in the blaze 
the intelligence and courage of the quar- of day swing across the uplands five 
ry, the greater the skill and courage miles from timber line; and you may 
needful to bring about its downfall, yet live to vacate a bear trail — as a 
The Englishman points to the African friend of mine did — to let three surly 
buffalo and says, " Trail a wounded bears have "the right of way." 
bull buffalo into tall grass, and you've But it is with the hunting of the 
got to keep an eye open — the beggar'll Alaskan brown bear, the world's larg- 
hunt you ! " It is the quarry with this est carnivore, that we are concerned, 
characteristic that furnishes the highest One is constantly reading of brown 
type of sport. bears having been killed in the Rocky 
In all the length and breadth of the Mountains, but in these instances the 
western hemisphere there are only two term is used purely in the color sense, 
animals that can come under this head — as the brown bear in question is not 
the great Alaskan brown bear and the found outside of Alaska with the excep- 
grizzly of the far Northwest. My rea- tion of Kamchatka. From a zoological 
son for specializing on grizzlies of the standpoint the separation of the differ- 
Northwest is that there are no other ent species of brown bear has been, and 
hunting grounds left where these great still is, a difficult problem, 
beasts can still live out their lives as No one who is not familiar with the 
nature intended. The grizzly of the coast of Alaska can appreciate the huge 

Copyright, iqii, by Outing Publishing Co. All rights reserved. 

259 



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extent of that great land. You can 
study the southwestern coast for weeks 
from the deck of a steamer and your 
horizon will always end among range 
on range of grim blue mountains rolling 
backward into snow and mist. Untold 
thousands of bays and islands break the 
shores, until, were you to stretch the 
coast line straight, it would equal the 
circumference of the globe. 

It is in this great wilderness of rug- 
ged mountain ranges that the different 
species of brown bears make their 
homes. Roughly, their range extends 
from a point not far south of Sitka, to 
Bering Sea. They are seldom found 
far from salt water, although they fol- 
low up some of the larger valleys, and 
in this way penetrate a good distance 
into the interior. 

I have always, when following a bear, 
been conscious of a feeling that is hard 
to analyze; a feeling that I was not 
merely tracking an animal, but a person- 
ality as well. This strange feeling is 
partly due to the human actions and 
habits of these great beasts, and the 
more you see of bruin the more you be- 
come impressed with his intelligence. 
The following experience will serve to 
illustrate my meaning. 

Several years ago an Aleute boy and 




SIDE VIEW OF HEAD OF ALASKAN BROWN BEAR. 



I spent the better part of a morning in 
stalking a large brown bear "cow" and 
two cubs. After taking infinite pains 
we succeeded in routing out two caribou 
without disturbing the bear family. 
The caribou were lying on a snow bank 
about fifty yards to leeward of our 
quarry, and it was necessary to make 
them move as they were lying in almost 
the exact spot that we wished to occupy. 
The change of position safely exe- 
cuted, we rested our chins on a "nig- 
ger head" back of an alder bush and 
settled ourselves for an interesting vigil. 
The two yearlings were playing indus- 
triously as puppies play, and their legs 
looked disproportionately thin where 
the hair had been worn short by con- 
stant contact with the grass and brush. 
The great furry bulk of their mother 
showed through a small clump of stunt- 
ed alders, and so far beneath them that 
only a faint murmur reached my ears 
the Bering Sea swells were pounding 
against the cliffs. How long we lay 
watching I will never know; the min- 
utes flew; a keen wind that made us lie 
closer to the ground blew toward us 
from the bears. 

The cubs still played about, but al- 
ways, no matter how interested they 
were, giving their mother a wide berth. 
Once, when I first saw them, they rolled 
across the danger line, but as the old 
bear's paw drew back they fled to a 
safe distance, and when they resumed 
their interrupted 
game it was with 
noticeably subdued 
enthusiasm. 

A mile beyond 
us the mountain 
side fell away to 
a brushy valley 
where our com- 
panions were hunt- 
ing, and I smiled 
as I thought of 
how interested 
they would be in 
the scene that we 
were watching. 
And then, sudden- 
ly, it happened! 
How that great 
hulk of soft fur 




HEAD OF ALASKAN BROWN BEAR. 



could in an instant spring from sleep 
and land ten feet away, her tendons 
rigid as steel bands, I shall never un- 
derstand. The playing yearlings were 
transformed in the twinkling of an 
eye into two agile forms that reached 
the protection of their mother's flank, 
at the same instant that the metallic 
whistle of her deep breaths reached my 
ears; and thus they were off, crashing 
downward through a tossing tangle of 
alders. I barely had time to clutch my 
rifle and send one 30.40 bullet after the 
big cow, before they were gone. For a 
minute we stood and looked at each 
other, and then John growled, "She 
didn't smell us — the wind's blowing a 
gale in our faces — I got one of the year- 
lings." 

We found the yearling, and still far- 
ther down the hill I found the old bear 
dead, but the mystery of her mad plunge 
was not revealed until we reached camp. 
Stone and Larsen had started out to 
hunt the valley, and had wandered to a 
knoll at the foot of the mountain to 
study their hunting ground. 

That slight trace of man scent car- 
ried by the gale along a mile of moun- 



tain side had started the old bear on her 
rush for cover. But to this day John 
and I don't know how she told the 
yearlings. 

What is even more impressive is the 
steadiness with which these animals 
will act while under fire. Should the 
average man be fired upon unexpectedly, 
the chances are that he would lose his 
head completely, and yet I have often 
seen these seemingly intelligent animals 
act with coolness and forethought un- 
der these conditions. 

On one occasion four of us were 
breaking camp after a successful bear 
hunt. We had been hunting under the 
leadership of A. J. Stone for the Amer- 
ican Museum of Natural History. 

Back of our camp a steep talus slope 
ran up to the straight walls of a great 
rock peak. Suddenly we saw a large 
"cow" bear followed by two two-year- 
olds crossing the talus at the foot of the 
cliffs. One of our natives grabbed up 
his gun, but we yelled at him to let the 
bears go in peace, whereupon he pleaded 
with us to let him "hurry them up a 
little," and when we assented he opened 
fire. 



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The bears were about two hundred 
yards away and traveling in single file. 
They were moving cautiously across the 
steep rock slide and we expected to see 
an avalanche of bears and rocks as soon 
as they tried to run. As the first shot 
echoed along the cliffs they stopped and 
looked at us. Then they seemed to real- 
ize that the best thing to do was to keep 
on until they reached the edge of the 
talus, where some thickets of alders led 
continuously along the mountain. With- 
out a second's hesitation they moved 
carefully forward. Larsen's bullets 
were throwing up puffs of powdered 
rock, but they marched slowly and care- 
fully ahead, until the scree gave place 
to brush and grass, when they gave a 
few powerful bounds and disappeared 
from view. 

Cubhood of the Bronx Giant 

The brown bears hibernate during 
the cold Alaskan winters, and in their 
dens, down under the deep snow, their 
cubs are born. It seems unbelievable 
that the little round balls of fur can de- 
velop to the huge size that some of the 
brown bears attain ; but a tiny cub, so 
small that a man can hold it in the hol- 
low of his arm, will grow to weigh over 
one thousand pounds when he has at- 
tained his full bearhood. 

In Bronx Park there is a large bear, 
the second largest, if not the largest, in 
captivity. Looking at the great beast 
one would be loath to believe that he 
had ever sprawled in a very mussed and 
disconsolate condition and howled his 
grief and sorrows to the mountain sides. 
He did, though, for John and I saw 
him. He was near the head of a snow- 
ringed canyon, where you could look 
down on Bering Sea as you can overlook 
the Hudson River from a Broadway sky- 
scraper. The first time we saw him, he 
was successfully holding his own in a 
serious quarrel with his little sister, and 
the names that he called her reached our 
ears as we lay shivering in the snow far 
above them. His mother, a large, 
light-colored brown bear, ended the bat- 
tle by rolling him head over heels with 
a gentle stroke of her great paw, and it 
was then that he lifted up his head and 



howled until a blue glacier across the 
way threw back the echoes. 

After a painfully exciting stalk I se- 
cured the old bear. The cub, who was 
destined to spend his days in Bronx 
Park, stood valiantly by his mother, and 
in the first meeting he nearly succeeded 
in annexing a part of John's overalls. 
John retired in good order, and we be- 
gan a strategical move that drove the 
cub into a glacial stream. 

He was helpless in the swift water, 
and I caught him behind his furry ears, 
and as I carried him dripping and kick- 
ing to the bank the mountains reechoed 
to his grievances. We used our heavy 
wool socks to muzzle his mouth and 
paws, and then, after rolling him up in 
a pack strap, I swung him onto my back. 
I have never played a bagpipe, but I 
know just how it feels, for the cub 
howled every step of our long journey 
to camp ! 

The hibernating dens are usually sit- 
uated high up among the most rugged 
mountains. It is in this bleak country 
of giant cliffs and overhanging ledges, 
when the shrieking blizzards throw 
down their mantles of deep snow, that 
bruin hunts out his winter home. Many 
of these dens are situated in regions of 
such barrenness that even in the sum- 
mer time there is no vegetation. 

In 1 9 10, when we were relaying our 
Arctic equipment across the ice toward 
Mt. McKinley, we reached a desolate 
glacial amphitheater twenty miles from 
timber line, where there were several 
bear tracks leading toward the lowlands. 
One night Professor Parker, hearing a 
noise outside his tent, thought that it was 
one of our party returning from a dis- 
tant relay camp, but receiving no an- 
swer to his welcoming hail, he fell asleep 
again. 

The following morning the snow 
told us that his visitor was a large 
brown bear. 

Many small incidents testify to the 
semi-human quality of the bear. On 
another occasion I found the tracks of 
a cow bear and two cubs that led 
through a deep canyon which headed in 
a group of snow-covered mountains on 
the coast of Bering Sea. The cubs' 
tracks looked ridiculously smal] beside 




ON ONE OCCASION I SAW A LARGE COW DASH ACROSS A LITTLE SWALE IN PURSUIT 

OF A SQUIRREL, WHILE HER CUBS REMAINED IN THE BACKGROUND, 

ABSORBED IN THE CLOSE RACE. 



264 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



the great impressions made by their 
mother's feet. While following the 
tracks, I found that the cubs had taken 
advantage of every bare spot, and had 
even stood on flat rocks in an attempt 
to get their tender feet out of the cold 
snow, very much after the fashion of 
small boys in the country who have shed 
their shoes and stockings early in the 
spring. 

When the bears reach the lowlands 
they usually settle down in a brushy, 
well-watered valley at the head of a 
salmon river. Here the cubs play dur- 
ing the long, quiet, sunshiny hours, 
while their mother sits nearby looking 
out over the dim lowlands, or dozing in 
the dry grass. 

As time passes they beat down trails 
and make beds in grassy glades. I re- 
member one valley that had been the 
home of an old cow and a cub. The 
two bears had made a perfect network 
of trails, and I counted sixteen beds 
within a radius of a fifty yard circle. 
On hot days the old bears hunt out the 
snow slides at the heads of small can- 
yons, and choosing one well hidden and 
surrounded with brush, they sprawl con- 
tentedly through the midday hours. 

The cubs are weaned soon after they 
begin their active life. Then come their 
first lessons in living off the country. 
Small game runs riot at timber line dur- 
ing the short Alaskan summers; every 
grassy hollow harbors its colony of voles 
or field mice, and the willow thickets 
teem with ptarmigan. The cubs learn 
quickly, and, beginning with field mice 
and ptarmigan chicks, they soon follow 
their mothers to the open hills where 
they receive their first lessons in catch- 
ing ground squirrels and marmots. I 
have hunted bear in the coast ranges 
where you could see mounds of earth on 
every hillside that had been thrown up 
by bears that had been digging for squir- 
rels. The brown bear, however, do less 
digging than the grizzlies of the in- 
terior, probably because they depend 
more on their salmon fishing than the 
bears of the main ranges. 

I have often seen holes where a 
grizzly had been digging out a marmot 
family that were large enough to shelter 
a man ; and once, in a sleet storm south 



of the Yukon headwaters, I took ad- 
vantage of this strange type of shelter. 
The bears do not depend entirely on 
digging to capture these agile little ani- 
mals, but they catch them in the open 
among the brush and rock slides as well. 
It would seem an impossibility for an 
animal as large as a brown bear to catch 
an animal as small and active as a 
ground squirrel, but the big beasts are 
extremely quick, and they can strike a 
lightning blow with their broad paws. 
Several times in the North I have seen 
bears hunting these small spermophiles, 
and on one occasion I saw a large cow 
dash across a little swale in pursuit of a 
squirrel, while her cubs remained in the 
background, absorbed in the close race. 

"Making a Noise Like a Squirrel" 

The squirrels are well aware that the 
bears are their enemies, and this fact was 
impressed on my mind by a clever ruse 
used by an Indian in getting a meal. 
In bear hunting we often stayed away 
from camp for long periods, and we 
were always on the lookout for a chance 
to relieve our hunger. A fat ground 
squirrel well roasted makes a tooth- 
some meal, and we never let a chance 
to catch one go by when we were in the 
hunting field. One day an Indian and 
I chased several squirrels into a small 
rock pile. I did my best to frighten 
them so that their chattering would be- 
tray their hiding places, but they would 
not make a sound. Finally my compan- 
ion got down on his hands and knees, 
and placing his mouth close to a crack 
in the rocks, began to puff and blow like 
a rooting bear. An outburst of squirrel 
language followed his efforts, and we 
had no difficulty in locating and eventu- 
ally catching several squirrels. I have 
repeated the same ruse successfully sev- 
eral times. 

On the Bering Sea coast the bears 
have learned to plunder the seabird 
rookeries. We fed the cub that we 
caught with raw seagull's eggs in lieu 
of milk, and the little fellow thrived 
on the diet. Egging was one of our 
pleasantest pastimes. We would row 
out to a rocky island in our dory, and 
then each armed with a gunny sack 




THE CUBS ARE BORN IN HIBERNATION AND GET THEIR FIRST TASTE OF THE 
COLD WORLD WITH THE COMING OF SPRING. 



266 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 




RIGHT FOREPAW OF ADULT BROWN 
BEAR, ALASKAN RANGE. 

would clamber along the cliffs. The 
birds flew about us in great clouds; sea 
gulls, terns, mures, guillemots, nurse- 
lets, cormorants, puffins, and eider 
ducks, and our bags would soon be 
filled. 

Climbing among the crags in the clear 
northern sunlight was a constant de- 
light. To the south stretched the great 
barrier of snow-smothered peaks, roll- 
ing down to brown foothills that looked 
like giant bear skins thrown down at 
random; while between the towering 
walls the Bering Sea breakers shot up 
in great spouts of foam. Sometimes we 
used a rope in reaching the isolated 
nesting ledges, and there was a wild joy 
in swinging out into space where you 
could look down between your feet to 
the spouting surf below. As an under- 
tone to the thunder of the sea, the 
moaning of the wind and the mighty 
seabird chorus blended into deep, haunt- 
ing music. So strong is this spell that 
long afterwards, on hearing the deep 
notes of an organ reverberating through 
a cathedral my thoughts flashed back 
to Bering Sea, and I saw again the 
surf-torn cliffs and seabird legions. 

Near one of our camps was a bay 



where thousands of gulls congregated, 
and periodically they would join in a 
chorus of wild cries, which in that deso- 
late spot sounded for all the world like 
the yells that arise from the bleachers 
at a baseball game. We always spoke 
of these gulls as " the fans," and as the 
wild din broke the silence of our camp 
one of the men would say, " Some fel- 
ler's knocked out another home run ! " 

As the short summer passes, the 
brown bears work their way toward the 
salmon rivers, and when the silver le- 
gions come threshing up from the sea 
their heaven is at hand. Their trails 
follow the banks and here and there 
as you travel along you will see a few 
fish bones where a giant "king salmon" 
has g<3ne to make a brown bear's break- 
fast. Alongside the pools and riffles the 
banks are broken down where bears have 
slid clumsily to the shingle below, but 
when it comes to fishing they need no 
teachers, as the remains of salmon on 
the banks will testify. 

Usually they fish in the shallow riffles 




SKULL OF ALASKAN BROWN BEAR, SHOW- 
ING RELATIVE SMALLNESS OF BRAIN. 




BROWN BEAR FROM COOK S INLET, ALASKA, SHOWING GREAT 
STRENGTH OF JAWS AND TEETH. 



above a deep pool. The salmon gather 
in large schools in the deep water, and 
a few at a time attempt the passage of 
the shallows. They will wriggle over 
riffles where there is scarcely enough 
water to cover the pebbles, and as they 
thresh their way upward the waiting 
bear tosses them to the bank with a 
quick stroke of his curved claws. I have 
watched a bear during her fishing opera- 
tions, but I was unable to approach 
close enough to follow her movements 
clearly. An examination of the spot 
later showed that she had seated herself 
in the shallows and waited patiently 
for the salmon to come to her. 

Salmon are often trapped in pools by 
the falling of the water, and they can 
be seen moving through the clear water. 
These pools advertise themselves to the 
four winds by their strong fish smell, 
and usually there is a well-beaten bear 
trail around the pool, although I have 
rarely seen evidences of salmon having 
been caught by bears under these 
conditions, as they remain in the deep 
water. 

After the salmon have gone, and the 
higher peaks are taking on their fresh 
winter snow, comes the bears' dessert 
time. Then the hills are covered with 
berries and the ground in places looks 
like a purple carpet. It is then that you 
can see bears, like grazing oxen, rolling 
across the bare hills above timber line. 



They are taking on fat for their long 
winter sleep, and as the cold weather 
comes on their pelage grows long and 
silky. 

I know of no finer sight than that of 
a large bear swinging easily across the 
hills, his new coat rippling over his great 
muscles with the sheen of satin. It is 
at this time, when the frost is biting 
deeper night by night, and the snow be- 
gins to creep downward toward the val- 
leys, that bear hunting becomes the king 
of sports. 

Much has been written about the 
ferocity of the Alaskan brown bear, but 
modern inventions in firearms are un- 
fortunately reducing the bear's chances 
to a minimum. In the old days of flint 
and percussion caps the brown bear was 
in reality the monarch of all he sur- 
veyed, and the single-handed killing of 
a large specimen was a feat to boast of. 
White-haired Russians have told me of 
the days when they stood aside to let 
the bears pass by, and of how they gath- 
ered into parties when they went hunt- 
ing. An aged Aleute told me of his 
hiding behind a boulder, while "the 
father of all bears," nearly blind from 
age, lumbered past him within a few 
feet. When I asked him why he did 
not shoot, he answered, "Because I had 
only one gun." 

In these days, when men talk know- 
ingly of muzzle velocity and seldom 



267 



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THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



raise their sights, there should be little 
chance of danger, but accidents do hap- 
pen. For a good many years I have 
kept a list of the authentic cases where 
men have been attacked by Alaskan 
bears. A study of this list is of interest, 
as it shows that in almost every case 
the cause is carelessness. 

The only deaths that have come un- 
der my notice were of natives, and in 
two of these cases the victim had become 
panic-stricken and thrown away his gun. 
In the rough Alaskan wilderness a man 
is constantly on the lookout for good 
traveling, and it is natural that he should 
avail himself of the trails that bears 
have made through the long grass and 
alder thickets. In following these, a 
man will occasionally stumble on top 
of a brown bear, and if the animal in 
question should prove to be a cow with 
cubs there is liable to be a row. 

Where Coolness Paid 

Fred Printz, while engineering a pack 
train toward Mt. McKinley, came to 
close quarters with a brown bear with 
cubs. He was unarmed except for a 
hand axe with which he was chopping 
trail. The bear charged him and reared 
up within striking distance. Printz 
stood his ground, refraining from using 
his axe for fear that it would slip from 
his hand. After looking him over for 
a while the bear slowly turned and left 
him. There is not a shadow of a doubt 
that if Printz had lost his head and 
struck her he would have paid for the 
blow with his life. 

A case where carelessness played an 
important role occurred on Cook's Inlet. 
A prospector shot a large brown bear 
that was followed by two young cubs. 
After the bear had rolled downhill into 
an alder thicket, he took it for granted 
that she was dead and attempted to catch 
one of the cubs. While he was in pursuit 
of the active little ones the old bear, who 
had been only wounded, dragged her- 
self some distance from the spot where 
she had fallen, and 'the cubs, circling, 
led the unwary man within reach of the 
waiting demon. A frightful struggle en- 
sued. The man was literally clawed 
and chewed to pieces, and but for his 



great courage and strength and the fact 
that the bear expired from the original 
wound, he would have been killed. 
This accident illustrates the danger of 
leaving a wounded bear without first 
making sure that it can do no damage. 

A case of a bear attacking a man that 
came under my personal knowledge is 
remarkable chiefly for the complicated 
series of happenings that led up to the 
final scene. 

Russel W. Porter (who was the to- 
pographer of the Baldwin-Zeigler Polar 
Expedition) and I were camped high up 
in the Alaskan Range. We were both 
members of the 1906 Mt. McKinley 
Expedition, and were doing some topo- 
graphical work while waiting for our 
pack train to join us, for an advance 
up the Yentna River. We had spent 
our first night at timber line in a strug- 
gle with a deluge of rain. At times the 
shrieking wind threatened to destroy 
our tent, but finally dawn broke and 
the growling of the storm rolled east- 
ward across the ranges. As I was light- 
ing a fire to dry our drenched clothing, 
I saw a brown bear and a cub cross an 
opening in the valley far below us. 
With a word of explanation to Porter 
I picked up my rifle and started down 
hill. As long as I was above the bear 
I had no trouble in following her move- 
ments, and I immediately formed a plan 
to intercept her. She was plowing 
slowly up the valley through the rain 
drenched grass. The glades were 
bright with wild flowers that glistened 
after their bath and away below me the 
whole mammoth sweep of the Susitna 
Valley lay steaming under the morning 
sun. 

As soon as I reached the alder thickets 
the bear was lost to view, and from 
time to time I would raise myself a 
few feet by placing my foot in the fork 
of an alder bush. At last, while stand- 
ing on one of these insecure platforms, 
I caught a glimpse of her tawny back 
as she moved parallel to me. She was 
about sixty yards away, but I could not 
shoot as I was clinging to the bush with 
one hand. 

Dropping to the ground, I moved for- 
ward, every nerve on the alert as I 
reached the spot where I expected to 




IN THE WORK OF EXPLORATION ONE FREQUENTLY MEETS BRUIN MOVING 
ABOUT HIS (OR HER) DAILY AFFAIRS. 



270 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



see her. After waiting for some time, 
I decided that she had made a bed for 
the day in a dense thicket that stretched 
across the valley, and I ascended a little 
knoll to gain a better view. While I 
was standing here, uncertain of my next 
move, I heard a faint hail from Porter, 
but I could not catch his words. 

As I could overlook the thicket I 
fired my gun, knowing that when the 
bear left the brush I would have an 
open shot. To my surprise nothing 
happened, so I turned and ran for high 
ground in hope of seeing her, but she 
had gone. On reaching camp I found 
that Porter had seen more of the bear 
than I had, as she had run up the moun- 
tain side on discovering me and almost 
blundered into our camp. She had then 
turned into a small gully and, driving 
the cub before her, disappeared near the 
top of the mountain. After a comfort- 
able breakfast Porter started toward the 
mountain summit, with his theodolite in 
a heavy leather case strapped on his 
shoulders. I busied myself with the 
camp chores and dried our wet dunnage. 

I was aroused some time later by the 
noise of twigs breaking on the down- 
hill side of our camp, and suddenly 
Porter appeared, moving slowly up hill. 
As soon as I could get a good view of 
him, I realized that something serious 
had happened. His face and hands were 
scratched and his clothes showed the 
effect of contact with the rough moun- 
tain side. As soon as he caught his 
breath he gave me his story. He had 
reached the top of the mountain and 
had finished his topographical work. A 
narrow, snow-covered ridge joined the 
peak he was on to the main ridge. Fol- 
lowing the ridge, he encountered the 
tracks of the bear and her cub, but, 
thinking that they had long since left 
the locality, he moved forward. Sud- 
denly, on ascending a knoll on the 
ridge, he saw the old bear and the cub 
below him, and without a moment's 
warning she charged. 

Porter was in a desperate position. 
He was unarmed and weighted down 
with his heavy theodolite; the bear was 
a large beast and aroused to a pitch of 
savage anger in the defense of her cub. 
He turned at once and ran rapidly along 



the ridge until he reached a spot where 
the bear was hidden by an intervening 
hillock. He had about concluded that 
she had given up the chase, when to his 
horror her great form rose against the 
skyline and plunged down the hill on 
his tracks. Once more he was forced 
to flee, and this time he turned directly 
down hill, sliding over the snow, rolling 
and plunging through thickets of alder, 
until bruised and exhausted he reached 
the valley. 

The whole adventure could not have 
happened more disastrously for Porter 
if it had been carefully planned. In 
the first place, the bear had been thor- 
oughly frightened on discovering that 
I was pursuing her. On blundering 
into our camp she was driven to des- 
peration, and on reaching the top of the 
mountain the cub had collapsed as I 
discovered later by the tracks in the 
snow. Porter's final appearance, when 
she and the cub were cornered on the 
narrow ridge, was the last straw. She 
undoubtedly thought that his presence 
was part of a well executed campaign 
against herself and her cub. 

Where the Odds are on the Bear 

The most dangerous part of bear 
hunting is the tracking of a wounded 
bear into dense cover. The Alaskan 
alder thickets are exceedingly difficult 
to penetrate. They grow in dense 
masses, and the twisted branches are 
tangled in indescribable confusion, 
through which the long Alaskan grass 
forces its way. A bear can move at 
will through the tangle where it would 
require five minutes of strenuous work 
for a man to travel fifty feet. In fol- 
lowing a bear under these conditions it 
is advisable to keep as close to the 
ground as possible, as the grass and 
leaves are denser a few feet above the 
earth. One can usually locate a 
wounded bear by its labored breathing, 
and once located, the hunter by using 
great care can approach until the bear's 
form shows dimly through the branches. 
Sometimes, however, when the brush is 
unusually thick, the hunter may ap- 
proach within a few feet of his quarry 
without knowing it. 



THE BROWN BEAR OF ALASKA 



271 



An experience of this kind happened 
to me in 1 906. Edward Barrill was 
my companion. We were prospecting 
for a horse trail through the heart of 
the Alaskan Range. In our wanderings 
we pushed through a high, cloud-swept 
pass, and lying on our stomachs on the 
green "sheep grass," looked down on 
the Kuskoquim hills. 

It was the wildest and ruggedest 
country that either of us had ever pene- 
trated, and it was the first time on rec- 
ord that anyone had crossed the Alaskan 
Range between Mt. McKinley and Kee- 
chatna Pass. 

While we were moving upward above 
a deep canyon that we had ascended, 
we saw a large brown bear moving 
along the mountain side below us. We 
were badly in need of fresh meat, so I 
started downward to intercept him. 
Barrill was unarmed, but he came along 
to "see the show." I waited for the 
bear on a steep hillside, and when he 
came into view his great, dark hulk 
stood out in strong relief against the 
blue haze of the valley. At the first shot 
he rose to his hind legs and a second shot 
under the shoulder sent him crashing 
downward through the alders. Below 
me was a little knoll which commanded 
the whole hillside. From this view point 
we could see that bruin had rolled into 
a jungle of alders that was broken by 
great glacial boulders. 

I knew that when I reached the spot 
I would not be able to see about me, 
so I asked Barrill to direct me from his 
coign of vantage. The bear's trail 
showed plainly until I reached the 
masses of brush and rock, where it dis- 
appeared. I moved forward with the 
greatest difficulty. Glacial erratics, 
weighing many tons, had been scattered 
about by a glacier long since dead, and 
the grim wildness of the spot made a 
fitting background for a bear killing. 
At last, I found arterial blood and, fol- 
lowing it through the dense brush, came 
to fault in the shadow of an upright 
shaft of rock. Not a sound broke the 
stillness, and knowing that the bear was 
hard hit and close at hand, I decided 
that he was dead. I therefore called to 
Barrill and asked him if I was on the 
right track, and he answered that the 



bear ought to be close to the spot where 
I was crouching. 

I had just raised my gun to crawl 
farther when I heard a slight noise and, 
turning quickly, I saw a great brown 
head rising slowly through the leaves 
about eight feet away. The bear did 
not utter a sound, and his small eyes 
gazed steadily into mine as I pushed 
my gun through the branches and fired. 

He rolled a short distance down the 
mountain side and when I reached him 
he was dead. Since then I have under- 
stood why so many accidents have oc- 
curred in tracking wounded bears, for 
while I was close enough to touch him 
with a fishing rod I was unable to see 
him among the tangle of brown rocks 
and branches. 

Barrill soon joined me, and while we 
were preparing to skin our prize we 
made an interesting discovery ; the 
bear's chest and belly were a patchwork 
of fresh scars. Some of the ugly 
wounds had festered and the great beast 
was in a pitiful state. As he would have 
weighed in the neighborhood of seven 
hundred pounds, the bear that had in- 
flicted the wounds must have been a 
powerful adversary. 

In the work of exploration one fre- 
quently meets bruin moving in a leisure- 
ly way about his daily affairs, and many 
pictures come back to me of days when, 
traveling with pack trains or under the 
straining tump-line, we would stumble 
unexpectedly on these monarchs of the 
wilderness. The novelty of these meet- 
ings never wears off, and bruin's retreat 
is always accompanied by a chorus of 
wild whoops. 

A Comedy, But 



The most amusing adventure of this 
kind that I remember occurred in the 
Alaskan Range. A brown bear and I 
divided the leading part between us, and 
we were ably supported by a large com- 
pany that made up for their lack of 
training by their remarkable enthusiasm 
and lung power. The scene was set on 
a grassy mountain side twenty-five miles 
south of Mt. McKinley, and the jagged 
peaks of the Tokosha Mountains formed 
the background. 



272 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



The comedy opened with the discov- 
ery of a brown bear by the main com- 
pany, which was led by Prof. Herschel 
Parker and Dr. F. A. Cook. They 
had no arms but their ice axes which, 
on the whole, are little suited to bear- 
hunting. They at once began shouting 
to attract my attention, as I was about 
four hundred yards ahead of them and 
had in my possession a high-power pistol. 
This weapon of ill omen was a patent 
arm, covered with complicated safety 
stops and full of ingenious machinery. 
It was guaranteed to shoot a whole 
broadside in one second, and was sighted 
up to a mile — if it had been sighted for 
a ten-foot range it would have suited 
my purpose better. I was carrying it 
for Professor Parker and had had no 
practice with it. 

When I heard the shouts of the main 
party I accepted the leading role and, 
starting toward them, soon discovered 
the bear. I was on a grassy hill, and 
the bear, unconscious of the excitement 
he was causing, was digging at a squir- 
rel burrow in a little ravine between 
me and my friends. Close to him was 
a granite boulder and, selecting this 
rock for a blind, I began the stalk. I 
could see my companions — six in num- 
ber — sitting in an interested line, and a 
thrill of pride swept over me as I 
thought of the large audience that 
would witness my triumph. 

Everything went splendidly — at first; 
I reached the rock without alarming the 
bear, and on looking up I saw him bus- 
ily at work not more than fifteen feet 
away. Without losing a moment I 
aimed my infernal machine at his shoul- 
der and pulled the trigger. Nothing 
happened ! From this point on to the 
curtain of the farce the bear held the 
center of the stage. I was so close to 
him that I was afraid to move away for 
fear that he would show a disposition to 
join me. So I sat down back of the 
rock and tried a rapid repair act on my 
pistol. 

The bear meanwhile had discovered 
my companions, who, realizing that 
something had gone wrong, began to exe- 
cute a song and dance with the idea of 



distracting the bear's attention. Their 
plan succeeded, for he left his digging 
and stalked past me in plain view, and 
sitting down began to study my com- 
panions, turning his head from side to 
side. He was now directly between me 
and my party. Luckily for them, I had 
removed the magazine during my re- 
pairing occupations, or I might have 
added homicide to my other sins. 

Then the bear turned around. and saw 
me. I have never received a look of 
such intense disgust and aversion as the 
one he gave me. I sat in as apologetic 
an attitude as I could, with the pistol in 
one hand and the magazine in the other. 
After giving me a thoughtful examina- 
tion, he turned slowly, the hair on his 
back standing in a stiff ridge, and 
stalked away. As soon as I was sure 
that he was leaving, I returned to my 
repairing and succeeded in driving the 
loosened magazine home. The gun went 
off like a bunch of firecrackers, and 
the bear, wild with terror at the noise, 
dashed downward toward my compan- 
ions. They began to take immediate 
notice, and for a few minutes there was 
a sound of shouting and a dizzy blend 
of figures mixed in with leaping bears, 
until silence settled among the hills. 
Whether they were afraid of my pistol 
or the bear I will never know, for I 
wisely decided to let the matter rest — 
I had had excitement enough for one 
day. 

Just a word as to the coloring of 
the brown bears. No rule holds good 
in this case. Their color ranges from 
the darkest chocolate brown to a light 
creamy yellow. Their underparts, how- 
ever, are darker than their backs, and 
the gray-tipped hair that is partially 
responsible for the grizzly's name is 
lacking. As zoologists are led more by 
the internal bone structure than by the 
color of the hide in determining the dif- 
ferent species, it is practically impossible 
for a hunter to tell one species from 
another. One fact, however, remains 
undisputed — that the hunting of the 
great plantigrades among Alaska's rug- 
ged mountain ranges is as good a sport 
as the world has to offer. 



PHOTOGRAPHY'S DEBT TO 
THE TREETOPS 

BY CHARLES PHELPS CUSHING 

Illustrated ivith Photographs by the Author 



SHE more delight the pho- 
tographer takes in his 
work the better the pic- 
ture — if only -he will add 
gray matter in propor- 
tion to enthusiasm. One 
of the best recipes for taking- better out- 
door photographs this month than in 
the preceding is to think of each object 
or mass that shows in the range finder or 
on the ground glass as something alive, 
which is working to help tell the story 
or suggest an emotion, to balance a 
"composition" or to add a touch of the 
decorative. 

By moving the position of the camera 
you can select, reject, rebuild, or adorn 
a picture or further emphasize its point 
of highest interest. There should be 
nothing formidable in the suggestions of 
that word "composition" ; defined in sim- 
plest terms it is merely the art of arrang- 
ing the elements of a picture in the moot 
effective manner. It is as much a neces- 
sity for the outdoor photographer as for 
the landscape painter. 

Don't laugh at the idea until you 
have tried it. Particularly, see what 
can be done by experimenting with tree- 
tops, for in composing outdoor photo- 
graphs nothing is more important than 
a knowledge of some of the pictorial 
uses of branches and leaves. 

First to mind flashes the remembrance 
of how useful the treetops are in a com- 
position as borders. Every collection of 
outdoor prints is crowded with exam- 
ples. A step farther is the use of tree- 
tops to balance a lopsided arrangement 
of lines or masses. Often enough the 
photographer, even in the beginning, 
gratefully includes in his arrangement 
of details a graceful limb, a mass of 
leaves, or the tips of some branches, ex- 
ulting to see that they add a touch of 
art interest to what otherwise would be 



classified by artists as "merely descrip- 
tive." 

Often enough a little leaf-edged cor- 
ner of a house will stand for the subtle 
spirit of a place of twenty acres — and in 
a fashion infinitely more effective than 
a panorama. When they happen to be 
in a mood for confessions, photographers 
may add to this that in some instances a 
frame of tree trunks and leaves was the 
only way to save the situation when a 
more inclusive picture wasn't possible 
without the use of a wide-angle lens. 
As another intensely practical service, 
treetops often save a photograph by act- 
ing as screens to shut off the sight of 
something ugly or out of character. Set 
up the tripod where foliage is between 
the eye of the camera and that obtrusive 
red barn and an attractive picture is 
made possible. 

But if the true proportions of the debt 
of outdoor photography to the treetops 
were to be suggested, in every sentence 
of this preface there ought to be a men- 
tion of the value of foliage foregrounds. 
Every day of the photographer's expe- 
rience drives home harder the lesson of 
the foreground's tremendous importance 
in his art. 

Some one may now be asking: "If 
foregrounds and treetop borders con- 
tribute so much as accessories, why 
shouldn't treetops by themselves furnish 
complete designs?" Eagerly would I 
carry that idea to its logical conclusion, 
for the answer to the query is an em- 
phatic, "They do!" In the branches of 
evergreens the photographer may find 
many a design that looks like a Japanese 
print. In treetops of the deciduous sort 
he may find suggestions of the art types 
of a score of other schools, some of these 
designs so complicated — or so beautifully 
simple — that they are worth a rather 
careful study. 



273 




BRANCHES AND TREE TRUNKS FRAME THE WHOLE PICTURE, IN THIS VIEW OF 
LIBERTY HALL, PHILADELPHIA. 

It is evident enough that they add greatly to the atmosphere and general impression, but it is 
not so plain that they have come to the aid of a photographer whose traveling equipment did 
not include a wide angle lens. 




FRAMING THE PICTURE. 

The value of leaves and branches for borders has been given a more general recognition than 
any other of outdoor photography's array of advantages. In the example above, the picture 
maker was trying to center attention on the stark and forlorn trunks left standing after a forest 
fire. To add a touch of the decorative and to relieve the picture from some of the disheartening 
gauntness of the dead trees, he had only to include a leafy border and in the foreground the tips of 
some weeds. 



fatisk 




■ ■ 

■ V.-* : : 



&&'j&& 






f^;*%" 



S^j^-* 






' "T-: - tC: 









BALANCING THE PICTURE. 

An intensely practical service that is not well appreciated is the work treetops may do in a 
picture as elements of balance. In this view of an Ozark river bank, the lines all started at the 
left of the page and converged toward the right. Something was required to save the picture 
from lopsidedness. A treetop on the bank where the photographer was standing was used to 
balance the composition. Necessarily, the detail in the leaves became silhouette in the print, for 
the exposure required for water and cliff was insufficient for objects so close. 




LIFE IN THE SHORE. 



Less than half of the beauty of a lake or a river is in the water. The larger part lives in the 
treetops or the cliffs or the reeds along the shore. Divide the honors between water and land 
and the chances of recording in a photograph the real character of the place are doubled. In the 
instance of this shallow, inland lake, a panorama looking outward from shore always fails to suggest 
the real feeling of the spot. 




THE REAL INTEREST OF PANORAMAS. 

In every picture of this or any other set of outdoor photographs it might be easy - t-o o . .show 
the importance of the foreground. Yet nowhere is foreground interest of more use than ^..pano- 
ramas. The human eye, with the keen stimulus of imagination, sees more in the panorama than 
really exists. It appreciates how many miles of distance lie between the blue hills arid the purple, 
and the thought of storing that sight away in a box makes the heart beat double' time.' The eye of 
the camera often sees only some narrow ribbons of shade laid down upon a broad and otherwise 
blank film. To aid the dull imagination of a lens, nothing is more effective than something placed 
in the immediate foreground to furnish an additional tonal value. 

You have noticed in photographs or at the moving picture theaters how a single peanut man or 
an old woman with a cart of apples can enliven the whole vista of a quiet street; or that a wagon 
at a distance of a hundred feet appears to be jogging along lonesomely, while the same object at 
twenty or twenty-five feet will fill the scene with vivid life and motion. The same thing holds 
good in the woods. Set up your tripod where a bush, a clump of flowers, a picturesque stump, 
or some treetops are close to the lens, and the background will draw power and reality from the im- 
pression made by the interest of the foreground. 

The picture here reproduced is a general view of Hahatonka, Camden City, Missouri, which 
may soon become a state park. It is said to be the only district in the Middle West where the 
rainbow trout has been propagated with success. 




COVER THE DECORATION OF BRANCHES IN THE UPPER RIGHT HAND CORNER. 
HOW MUCH OF THE INTEREST OF THE PICTURE REMAINS? 




IN TAKING PHOTOGRAPHS AT AN UPWARD SLANT USE THE RISING AND SLIDING 

FRONT TO COMPENSATE FOR THE SLANT AND REDUCE THE LENS 

APERTURE TO AVOID OVEREXPOSURE. 







AN EXAMPLE OF NATURE'S EVERYDAY WORK IN TREETOP DESIGNS. 










A MORE 



COMPLICATED EXAMPLE OF WORK BY THE SAME RESOURCEFUL DESIGNER. 




BEAUTY IN TREETOPS UNADORNED. 



The poetic belief that a leafless tree is a thing of melancholy has blinded many photog- 
raphers to the beauty of unadorned branches. If this tree were three-quarters hidden with 
leaves, it would look much like ten thousand other green awnings for picnic parties. But in 
winter nakedness it has something appealing and individual, something almost dramatic. 



FOR THE SHORT, LIGHT TRIP 

BY WARWICK S. CARPENTER 

Photographs by the Author 




F "rods and reels and 
traces" sang the poet, and 
at his inspiration we hear 
again the creak of har- 
ness and our shoulders 
long for the pull of the 
pack. That hard portage, the biggest 
load we ever toted, was over the trail 
of "proved desire and known delight" 
and the struggle itself was good. Nev- 
ertheless, it was a struggle and gave 
little chance for anything but the grind. 
The short trip, with a light, well-organ- 
ized outfit, is of a different order. Head 
up and foot free, one then travels jaunt- 
ily, with an eye for all the moods and 
changes of the woods. 

To be sure, one may go with a tin 
cup and a jackknife, but that is ultra- 
refinement and unnecessary on the score 
of weight. On the side of comfort it is 
not to be. considered. There is a mid- 
dle ground, where the cooking outfit will 
consist of a small, light frying pan, 
about six inches in diameter, a small 
mixing pan of about six inches diameter, 
another pan for a kettle, to nest into the 
mixing pan, a large tin cup, made to or- 
der, five inches in diameter and two and 
one half inches high, nesting into the 
pans, and a plate, knife, fork, and des- 
sert spoon. All of these may be picked 
up at any hardware store, at a cost, in- 
cluding the specially made cup, of not 
much over a dollar. 

The pans, being pressed from one piece 
and seamless, make excellent kettles, and 
they are so shallow that water will boil 
quickly in them, if they are set over 
coals raked from the fire. Double bail 
handles crossing at right angles can eas- 
ily be attached to the pan used for a 
kettle by punching nail holes under the 
rim and using pieces of heavy wire for 
the bails. Insert the ends into the holes 



from the inside, to avoid the rim, and 
bend them over on the outside to prevent 
pulling out. The pan is so shallow 
that it will be unstable with only a sin- 
gle bail. 

If you have no frying pan with de- 
tachable handle, it will be convenient to 
cut the handle off to about two inches 
in length and rivet to the stub a sheet 
iron cylinder, about one inch in diam- 
eter, into which a long stick may be in- 
serted. It is unnecessary to carry a 
larger, heavier frying pan. My own 
weighs just four ounces and is quite 
large enough for two or even more per- 
sons. 

A little weight and space can also be 
saved on the plate. Get one six inches 
in diameter instead of the usual eight 
and three quarters. It will pack easier 
and add the finishing touch to this home- 
made, baby-grand camp outfit. 

The logic of the large cup is that it 
combines teapot and cup in one. Just 
set it over some coals until the water 
boils and then drop in a pinch of tea, or 
better, use a tea ball. The joints, of 
course, should be well made and double 
seamed. Incidentally, when off for a 
day's tramp with a cold lunch of sand- 
wiches, take the cup, a little tea, and 
some sugar. The entire lunch will carry 
inside the cup, and in the middle of the 
day, beside a small cheery fire, you will 
readily agree with your friend, Oliver 
Holmes, on the ideal beverage. 

You may have your own ideas about 
grub for short trips, but here are mine: 
Bacon, corn pone, tea, rice, erbswurst, 
sugar, salt, pepper. To make the corn 
pone, I mix at home, before starting, one 
quart of yellow, granulated corn meal, 
one pint of white flour, one half cup of 
sugar, one teaspoonful of salt, four tea- 
spoonsful of baking powder. In camp 



284 




THIS IS ALL YOU NEED FOR A SHORT TRIP AND IT WEIGHS ONLY 
A TRIFLE OVER A POUND. 



it should be mixed in the pan to make 
a fairly heavy batter and allowed to 
stand for a few minutes before frying, 
so that it becomes light and puffy. It 
should then be dropped by spoonfuls, 
without further stirring, into the hot, 
greased pan and not turned until the top 
has begun to set. The bacon grease 
takes the place of butter. 

If less water is used, the entire mix- 
ing may be put in the frying pan at once, 
baked from the bottom up over coals 
until the top has set and then turned. 
It makes delicious johnny cake. Try 
rolling the trout in a little of the dry 
mixture. 

Erbswurst is the pea meal sausage of 
the German army. It is nearly a per- 
fect food, containing meat, meal, and 
vegetables, and makes the most appe- 
tizing and sustaining camp soup. At the 
end of a rainy day it reduces cooking to 
its lowest terms. You simply boil it for 
a few minutes. If erbswurst is not ob- 
tainable, mix equal parts of bean meal 
and pea meal, and salt and pepper to 
taste. If you are not rushed for time, 
boil with it, in camp, a little finely 
chopped bacon. Many a time a light 
weight soup of this sort will justify itself, 
but in going real light, it can be dis- 
pensed with, together with the cereal 
and one of the pans. 

Take matches in a push top tin can. 
Some tobacco cans are excellent for this. 
The foods should, of course, be packed 



in cloth bags against accident. Save old 
sugar and salt sacks for this. There 
should also be a cloth bag to receive the 
entire nested cooking outfit. It holds 
the utensils compactly and keeps the 
blanket from becoming sooty. 

There remains to provide a small, 
serviceable hatchet, a blanket, a pack 
cloth, a sweater, and personal toilet ar- 
ticles. A dish cloth and towel are also 
to be remembered. Presumably you will 
have a hunting or fish knife for slicing 
bacon. The pack cloth will have little 
strain, and accordingly waterproof silk 
will be ideal, but any light, waterproof 
canvas will do. To make a good shelter, 
it should be about six by eight feet in 
size. It can be eliminated, however, 
and the chance of rain risked. 

The easiest way to carry such a small 
outfit is in the blanket roll. Fold the 
blanket so that it is about five feet 
square, then place the bag containing the 
cooking outfit and part of the grub on 
one side, about a foot from the corner, 
and the sweater and balance of the grub 
about a foot from the other corner on 
the same side. Next fold over at each 
end the spare foot of blanket and roll 
the whole affair tightly. About this, 
roll the pack cloth. Secure at the mid- 
dle and half way to each end with string, 
or better, with tapes or straps. Fasten 
the ends tightly with a slip knot, leav- 
ing long ends to the string for tying to- 
gether the ends of the roll. 



285 




286 THE OUTING MAGAZINE 

A special harness for the blanket roll Check List with Food for One Person for 

will' be better than a string or straps, Three Days 

because all in one piece. It can be made Frying pan 

of heavy tape or webbing. It should be Mixing pan 

attached to the roll so that all knots Kettle pan 

and the long connecting strip come on f ea 

i -i <■'• ' i r i i Large cup , 

the outside, away from the shoulder. Plate r pounds. 

The short-handled hatchet can be car- Knife 

Fork 

Dessert spoon 
Hunting knife 

Bacon 2 pounds. 

Corn pone 4 " 

Tea \ pound. 

Rice or other cereal 2 pounds. 

Erbsiuurst 1 pound. 

Sugar 1 " 

Salt 

Pepper 

Hatchet i| pounds. 

Dish towel ) Use moss 1 

THE BABY GRAND READY TO PACK IN Dishcloth \ and sand 

soap I 1 , 

THE BLANKET ROLL Matches I Pounds. 

Sweater i 

ried either on the belt or in the roll Personal toilet articles J 

itself. Much weight on the belt becomes Pack cloth . '.'.'.'. . . . . . '.'.'. 2 " 

uncomfortable unless one is in constant Ties for blanket roll, 

training. 

In the following summarized check When off on a one-day trip the entire 

list of this outfit, the articles which may cooking outfit, with plates, knives, forks, 

be dispensed with are italicized. Ob- and spoons for six persons and uncooked 

viously it is a tolerably complete equip- food for one lunch, can easily be carried 

ment, and even extended trips may be in an ordinary canvas haversack. The 

made by merely increasing the quantity cup, which holds a quart, can then serve 

of food carried. Exclusive of food, the as teapot, and smaller tin cups can be 

weight of the entire pack is about thir- nested inside it. 

teen pounds. Food for three days will The "talking points" of the Baby 

weigh ten pounds. This is on the basis Grand are that it is very light, very shal- 

of one person. For others add a knife, low and compact and hence easy to pack, 

fork, spoon, cup, and plate each and mul- homemade, and inexpensive, and — the 

tiply the grub stake. real test — adequate. 





THE SAINT 

BY F. ST. MARS 



Illustrated by Charles Livingston Bull 




" Be as one who knoweth and yet holdeth his 
tongue." 

ARTLET swears he had 
nothing to do with it, and 
MacGregor says nothing at 
all, and Brown, the animal 
tamer of Benchell's Menag- 
erie, whistles when you ask 
him about it. Nevertheless, as Blatant 
Hardway, Esq., pointed out, the facts 
looked very fishy, very fishy, indeed. 

The facts of the case are odd — Bench- 
ell's Menagerie went to the town of 
Aberdath by road. In his cage in the 
last van of the procession was "the 
Saint." Somewhere, as near as might 
be, at the point where the road to Aber- 
dath runs for two miles through the 
demi-semi-strictly preserved moor and 
forest known as Glenskye, the property 
of Blatant Hardway, Esq. (acquired by 
mortgage, by the way), the Saint es- 
caped, got out of his cage and ran away 
into the gathering night, and no one 
knew anything about it till after the ar- 
rival at Aberdath, when Brown, red in 
the face and perspiring, ran to Benchell 
with the broken lock of the Saint's cage 
in his hands and winged words in his 
mouth. 

It was evident that the jolting of the 
cart — it was a vile road — or the teeth 
of the Saint, or both had broken the lock. 



"But where?" roared Benchell. "It's 
not the 'ow of it, Brown, it's the 
where?" 

"God knows," said Brown. "An' 
somebody else will before mornin', if I 
knows the Saint." 

Then a vision of the Saint careering 
across Scotland on his own seemed to 
strike both men together. Benchell put 
his hand over his mouth and went away, 
and Brown put his hand over his mouth 
and his handkerchief in it and went the 
other way. 

There was no attempt made, to recap- 
ture the Saint. He was entered in the 
books of the menagerie as "Sold," nor 
was anyone living enlightened further on 
the matter either then or thereafter. 

Now Hardway 's Glenskye marched 
with Bartlet's Glenask moor, and the 
two were rivals for the record game bag 
for all Northern Scotland, and Smythe, 
Hardway's head keeper, had that season, 
by means which are said to have been 
crooked, enticed the bulk of Bartlet's 
birds over the border with the result 
that Glenskye beat its own record bag 
and Glenask was nowhere. Naturally 
Macgregor, who was Bartlet's head 
keeper, had sworn vengeance. 

These things happened before the 
looming of Benchell and his menagerie 
upon the horizon. Now, where Hard- 
way makes his point is this: his man, 



287 




AT THE END OF A TEN-FOOT CLEFT OF ROCK TWO FEET ABOVE A PERFECTLY 
INSANE WATERFALL WITH A FIFTY-FOOT DROP. 



THE SAINT 



289 



Smythe, had seen MacGregor and Brown 
in deep conversation in the private, or 
back, parlor of an obscure local "pub" 
shortly before closing time, and Mac- 
Gregor was plying Brown with many 
and wonderful drinks — drinks quite be- 
yond Mac's power to pay for. That 
was at 10.30 p.m., and at 4 p.m., or as 
near as may be, on the following even- 
ing the Saint escaped. 

So far all seems clear. What fol- 
lowed was not so clear, for obvious rea- 
sons. Smythe certainly knows spots and 
dashes of it, as it were. The whole real 
story, however, is locked up in the secret 
history of the wild, whence, because of 
one or two services rendered to wild 
folk, I got it — it came to me, you under- 
stand. The merlin, smallest of falcons, 
he told me some of it that time I warned 
him of danger; the "father of cunning," 
the old gray fox, added more when I 
freed him one day from a trap, and "wise 
one," the long-eared owl, filled in what 
the others had left out when I lay ob- 
serving nature % in a pine wood during the 
long, scented stillness of a moonlit night. 

You picture the Saint putting all the 
yards between himself and Benchell and 
all his works that was possible. Anyone 
not knowing him might have mistaken 
him for a "Teddy" bear with a much 
worn, disreputable mop of a tail added. 
Tail and head pointed at the ground; 
the back arched like the back of pussy 
when she spots a dog; the feet were set 
down flat like hands, or bears' feet; 
there was a glint of longish white claws, 
and they rattled on stones; the coat of 
rusty brown-black looked as if it were 
being shed, only that was its permanent 
state ; the gait of him was his own, none 
others shared it, it was an out-at-heels, 
disreputable, part gallop, part trot, part 
anything you please, and the whole ap- 
pearance of him was of the shades shady. 
This one saw as he removed. 

Then, after a certain time, he stopped 
and looked round, and one saw his face, 
and — ! It was not a face of this earth 
at all. It was the face of a nightmare, 
a very bad nightmare, the visage of a 
strayed fiend who never ought to have 
been allowed above ground at all, even 
by night. Black it was and with a dog- 
like snout; lips raised in an evil leer 



just enough to hint at the steely fangs 
beneath; a low, brutal brow, and eyes 
as of tiny coals smoldering, in which 
lurked all the hate of all the wild folk 
against man concentrated into one brain, 
and something else, not hate, but a 
knowledge and cunning which it is not 
right for any beast to possess. 

To be quite exact, he was a wolver- 
ene, or glutton, from Russia, a beast of 
the weasel tribe, though not in the least 
like a weasel, being in size and in looks 
halfway between a bear and a badger. 
Thus the Saint as he appeared on the 
surface. Comes now that part of him 
which lay beneath the surface. 

He stopped, he looked round, he 
scratched, and then with a growl at 
nothing in particular — or it may have 
been some memory of Brown — he hur- 
ried on. The flame of the setting sun 
smoldered and went out; a pale moon 
peeped wonderingly over a rocky ridge ; 
the bats wove delicate, mazy patterns 
against the white moon's face; the last 
grouse had ceased to crow, the last black- 
cock had gone back to the frowning 
woods; a stag roared suddenly, bursting, 
as it were, the heavy silences of the place, 
and another, farther up the mountain 
side, answered, coughing hoarsely, and 
although the first stag was himself hid- 
den behind a clump of heather, you 
could see the funneled steam of his 
breath shoot out from the cover as he 
roared. 

After a time the Saint came to a pool 
and stopped short. It was not the al- 
most sacred beauty of the place that held 
him; not the frosted silver pool set deep 
in purple ramparts; not the sight of 
the old gray mountain fox, a beauti- 
fully molded form thrown in silhouette 
against the frosted silver; nor the roe- 
buck which stood at gaze on a rock 
higher up so that just his antlered head 
was ringed by the moon — mounted, as 
it were, against the moon. 

None of these things gave him pause. 
The scent of grouse asleep held him 
rigid — a family of grouse, full-feathered 
and ready for shooting. Then the Saint 
moved from place to place very quickly, 
and there were horrible sounds as of flut- 
terings and bird cries of "Murder!" 
Marvelously quick were the movements 



290 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



of the Saint for so clumsy looking a 
beast — a bound here, a slash there, a 
crunch somewhere else, and then silence. 
The grouse had gone, all but four. 
Those four remained, blasted from life 
almost before they knew it. 

The fox, after the first bound of 
alarm, turned and viewed the thicket 
whence came the sounds of murder by 
night. Vermin were scarce on Glen- 
skye by reason of many traps. He came 
to the conclusion, therefore, that this 
must be the work of a polecat that had 
wandered down from the mountains. 
He would investigate. Who cared for 
a polecat ? Besides, one might bully him 
out of his own "kill." 

You know the rules of the stalk as 
laid down in fox-lore; how you must 
crawl belly-flat, how you must place 
each foot down separately and without 
noise, and how you must use every stone, 
every bush, every blade of grass ever 
to screen you? Well, the old gray fox 
did all this, and yet, when with infinite 
caution he had got to within a yard of 
the new animal and cautiously peered 
from cover, he — fell backward and 
went away in a hurry. 

He found the Saint open-mouthed and 
terrible in a setting of corpses and feath- 
ers. The Saint was quite ready for him, 
was expecting him, had, in fact, been 
cognizant of the stalk from the very 
first. No wonder the fox went away. 
It is not every day one comes across 
beasts that can foresee the stalk of foxes. 

The Saint fed the first good feed he 
had tasted since Fate in the shape of a 
trap had taken him from his native wilds 
of Russia half a year ago. Then he 
drank, cleaned from head to heel — even 
he could not disobey this, the strictest 
of nature's laws — and ambled off. A 
dozen pairs of furtive eyes watched him 
go, a dozen alert, moist muzzles came 
and sniffed inquiringly at his tracks after 
his passing, for in the wild there are 
always those that watch and are never 
seen. But the Saint, what did he care? 
Few he knew could face him in open 
combat, and in cunning none at all. 

He moved slightly uphill, our wol- 
verene, to the roughest places, the most 
ghostly gorges, the most bristly thick- 
ets, the blackest pines, the most frown- 



ing cliffs, the angriest streams that 
leaped half their course in clean drops 
and galloped the rest. He prowled here 
by instinct I suppose, for he could not 
have known that here alone he would 
have a fair working chance to survive 
in the days to come, nor that this was 
the wildest spot on all the moors. 

He was now in the heart of the most 
strictly preserved estate in Scotland. 
Only a stray stag was shot here occa- 
sionally, for the grouse was king, the 
blackcock his Heir Apparent, the caper- 
cailzie his Prime Minister, the pheasant 
Governor of the Lower Levels, and the 
gay mallard and gayer teal Pages in 
Waiting. There were also rabbits. 

Vermin here were scarcer than straw- 
berries in winter. There were, as we 
have seen, a few patriarchs at the game, 
but the great majority found many in- 
ducements to stay away. The Saint dis- 
covered one of these inducements as he 
shambled his own particular shamble 
through the glens. Then the trouble 
began. 

Suddenly, without any reason that 
you could see, the Saint's fur sat up all 
along his back, and he sat down on his 
ragged tail. His snout pointed straight 
at the ground like an accusing finger and 
there was a look in his eyes that was 
distinctly dangerous. To the human 
eye he appeared to be snatching at gnats. 
Nothing in the way of danger could lie 
along the soft carpet of moss that formed 
his path. So said his eyes also, but his 
nose told another story. His nose spelled 
out the ominous word "steel." 

Presently you see him walking in in- 
finitely cautious circles round this spot. 
Then, having marked the danger point, 
he started to dig swiftly and angrily. 
He dug with the air of one not alto- 
gether new to this game, and at the end 
of the dig was a chain, and at the end 
of the chain was a steel trap, jaws set 
ready for work, the whole contrivance 
most artfully concealed beneath the in- 
nocent carpet of moss. 

Then was seen in what manner the 
Saint differed from all other beasts. 
The dragging of the trap out of its hid- 
ing place by the chain had sprung it, and 
the cruel, metallic snap of its jaws was 
the signal for a kind of madness on the 



THE SAINT 



291 



part of the Saint. He became in appear- 
ance more fiendish than ever, and he 
gave himself up to venting fury upon 
that trap in a human and ghastly man- 
ner. Then he carried it two hundred 
yards away and hid it past all hope of 
finding in the bowels of a hollow tree — 
hid it, I said, he who was only an 
animal. 

"God knows, and some one else will 
by morning, if I know the Saint," 
Brown had said, and that showed that 
the animal tamer was at least a man of 
discernment. ■ Deeper and deeper the 
wolverene slouched into the heart of the 
preserve, and his progress was one of 
marvelous actions. Carefully following 
the track -of that keeper who had set the 
first trap, he unearthed others — 
goodness and his extraordinary self 
know how he discovered them — 
to the number of twelve. nS V .-,■, 

Each of these he pulled up, 
"threw," carried off, and hid. In 
the case of one trap, Tie found a 
miserable stoat therein. Him he 
killed and partly consumed, leav- 
irg the remainder of the carcass 
as an insolent reminder to any 
whom it might concern that he, 
the Saint, had passed that way. 

Thence he passed — always as- 
cending slowly, through ranked 
and serried larch, or black cathe- 
drals of stately pine — to the level 
of the upper moors. This was 
the big beat, the grand beat, the 
place where Blatant Hardway, 
Esq., and his friends, shooting 
from butts, were wont to make 
their record one day's bag for all 
Northern Scotland. 

You will understand that in Russia 
one eats, as one lives, under more than 
one restriction — and the wolverene had 
come, not willingly, from Russia. Fam- 
ine to him was something more than a 
name merely. He had met famine face 
to face. So had all his fellow wild folk 
of those parts, and that made them both 
scarce and wary. 

If he wanted a meal, and he was of 
that tribe who live under a curse of 
eternally wanting meals, he had to work 
for it. Therefore, when he issued out 
upon the high moor — a long, squat, men- 




THE LAST BLACK- 
COCK HAD GONE 
BACK TO THE 
FROWNING 
WOODS. 



\ e I acing shape steal- 

/ c j! ing in the shad- 

] I ows that lay be- 

\ :• neath the crests 

\ p ■- ■■ ■' of the waves of 
?}..:;:•;'.;. that purple sea 
s&' ': of heather — and 

/ • / found grouse in 

( hundreds he — ■ 

^.^ well, he lost his 

\ head, I suppose. 

You know the 
feeling that comes 
over a schoolboy who finds himself let 
loose in a pastry shop, or of a man who 
after years of poverty finds himself sud- 
denly wealthy? Something of that feel- 
ing must have assailed the Saint at that 
sight of a hunting ground, the fatness of 
which was beyond his wildest ideas. 

There is no official return to show the 
extent of the damage done by that one 
beast on the high moor in that single 
night between midnight and an hour be- 
fore dawn. That he gorged to repletion 
and continued slaying after gorging sim- 
ply for the love of the thing is evident. 



292 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



Not that the wolverene is exactly an 
agile beast, as agility is counted in the 
wild, but the grouse were so pampered, 
so fat, so spoiled by the fostering of man 
that it was mere child's work for a hard- 
ened hunter like himself to slay and slay 
and go on slaying till morning. 

The fox speaks of a vision of him red- 
eyed, red-fanged, threatening, gliding and 
darting with unexpected swiftness among 
the twisted heather stems ; the long-eared 
owl tells of how he alone counted ten 
grouse lying dead and uneaten in the 
path of the Saint; and the merlin has it 
that he beheld the keeper next dawn pick 
up five more, and goodness knows how 
many others were overlooked. 

But though mad for the time being, 
the Saint was no fool. An hour before 
dawn found no Saint, or rather it found 
him at the bottom of an all but impass- 
able gorge, at the end of a ten-foot cleft 
of rock two feet above a perfectly in- 
sane waterfall with a fifty-foot drop, 
and a pool of, for all I know, more than 
fifty-foot depth below. The hanging 
rainbow vapor of the fall hid the cleft 
entirely, the gnarled roots of a single 
towering Scotch fir had rent him an 
obscure back passage in case his exit in 
front were cut off, and in order that any 
pursuer should not find all this too easy, 
it was necessary to make at least four, 
and possibly five, giddy leaps from rock 
to rock above the maniacal waters to get 
to the cleft. 

All that day the Saint slept, lulled 
by the roar of the fall and the cease- 
less chatter of moving waters, while 
sapphire dragon flies with ruby eyes 
passed and passed again -above him, the 
dainty, white-fronted dippers played in 
and out all round him, and an occasional 
sullen, echoing splash told where some 
monster steel-blue salmon, wide-gilled, 
hook-jawed, firm-sided, fresh run from 
the sea, was attempting the passage of 
the falls. 

From time to time a flock of grouse 
burst with a whir of wings overhead, 
to drop out of sight over the opposite 
wall of honey-colored rock. Once it 
was no grouse, but a raking form that 
went by, flying with that slashing win- 
now that is the mark of the peregrine 
falcon all the world over; once, too, a 



•single snipe came and — for reasons alone 
known to itself — hovered exactly above 
the fall, calling, calling, and once with 
a mighty rush of wings and a huge flurry 
and commotion a great cock capercailzie 
went sailing majestically by. 

From the fall of darkness for upward 
of an hour the bats as they wheeled 
and swerved, caught sight of the steady 
glare of two eyes at the edge of the 
cleft. That was all — just the eyes un- 
moving, inscrutable, and indescribably 
malignant. That was the Saint taking 
his bearings. He was no fool. He 
knew that his was no life to expose reck- 
lessly and that such as he are not al- 
lowed to make even one mistake. 
Hence this motionless sitting just within 
the cleft, this frigid watching, this keen 
listening, this testing and analyzing of 
every scent riding on the air currents, 
had a man moved, had a man drawn a 
loud breath even in that vicinity, the 
Saint would have known it. 

Then a cloud slid across the moon, 
and as its shadow passed across the cleft 
and on, something, it seemed just the 
least suspicion of a deeper shadow, passed 
with it — or was it imagination? Any- 
way, when the cloud shadow had gone 
— and that was in almost the same time 
as a man would take to hold a deep 
breath — there was no longer the steady 
glow of those burning coals within the 
cleft. There was nothing at all, the 
place was empty, and — the Saint was 
shambling downhill through dense cover 
a hundred yards away. 

I do not pretend to know how he got 
there, this beast of evasive daring. He 
was just there — one moment in his den, 
the next drifting, drifting, a shadow 
among a dozen shadows, in and out over 
the mottled floor of moss, between the 
crawling stems of age-old heather — 
downhill to the still and stately gloom 
of the woods. 

Once within the cathedral silence of 
the columned aisles the beast paused. 
There was a fine smell of pines in the 
air and pine needles crunched underfoot. 
Far above him the wind was singing a 
romping song to itself among the tops of 
the trees. It sounded like the far-away 
dirge of surf trampling on a sandy shore. 
There was no other sound. 




!&:■: 






HE CARRIED IT TWO HUNDRED YARDS AWAY AND HID IT PAST ALL HOPE OF 
FINDING IN THE BOWELS OF A HOLLOW TREE. 



Suddenly dim stars floated in the 
spaces between the grained boles: twin 
lights swung from trunk to trunk. 
There was a whisper as of fairy feet 
flitting. One could, in that hour and 
setting, have believed anything, believed 
even that he had surprised the fairies of 
the place at their gambols. But they 
were no fairies. The moonlight said so. 

Twenty yards away it was pleased to 
weave a patch of silver tracery shining 
through the branched roof, and a brown 
form trotted — trotted, I say, drifted 
light as a wisp of smoke across it. In- 
stantly, without one second's pause, the 
Saint had projected himself, swift as a 
bolt, across the intervening space, but 
he was met by a tearing blow on the 
face, and the beast that he had sprung 
at was not there. It was — it had been 
— a roebuck. None but the roe could 
have executed that stealthy flitting and 
that perfect rebuff and evasion. Of all 
the deer, none could have acted with 
such agility and — this was the miracle 
— such coolness. 

Then it was that our wolverene re- 
vealed his true colors, and one saw that 
men had not christened him the Saint 
for nothing. With blood streaming 
down his diabolical face, he raged and 



tore like a thing possessed of a devil. 
He growled, he gibbered, he snarled, he 
rolled, he tore up the earth with his long 
white claws, he ran round in circles, he 
bit up dead branches, and finally he set 
off at a canter upon a tour of destruc- 
tion that was to live in the memory of 
the keepers of Glenskye. 

It is on record that on that short 
night he discovered, "threw," wrenched 
up, and hid no less than sixteen traps 
which had been set for vermin ; killed in 
sheer wanton lust of slaughter not less 
than three rabbits, six grouse, and, in 
the lower woods, four low-roosting 
pheasants, and finally ended by pur- 
suing a hare into a sheepfold and then 
terrifying those woolly ones to such an 
extent that they broke away and fled 
four miles across the moors. He must 
have attacked the sheep, too, for more 
than one bore ugly wounds on the flank, 
such wounds as his steely jaws alone 
could inflict — though it was put down to 
the account of poachers' dogs, as the 
traps which vanished were put down to 
the door of poachers. A shepherd's dog, 
a collie, discovered him at this gentle 
pastime at two in the morning, and 
started in to rout the pillager, but he 
was himself routed, and returned to his 



293 



294 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



master at 2.09 A.M., a ghastly and 
wrecked horror. 

The day that followed found the 
Saint hidden in his nearly impregnable 
lair. He slept the sleep of the wild folk, 
which is at the same time the deepest 
and lightest of sleep. Rain storms 
chased one another across the face of 
the moor, black clouds piled up and 
toppled and tore, and men prowled all- 
whither. They were keepers, four men 
with worried looking faces, for which 
fact there was no wonder. 

Smythe was in a state bordering upon 
insanity. His moors were being ruined, 
his woods were being spoiled, and, worst 
of all, his high moor, his daisy, his shoot 
of shoots, was, so far as the grouse were 
concerned, going to the dogs. Nor was 
that all ; the absence of traps was giving 
the vermin a chance, there were already 
signs of an increase of the banned ones. 
Finally, as if this were not enough, that 
old ruffian MacGregor would buttonhole 
him when and wherever it happened to 
be the most inconvenient — in front of 
Blatant Hardway for choice — and com- 
plain of the fact that the vermin from 
Glenskye were spreading all over his 
moors. 

"Can ye no trap, mon? Can ye no 
trap? It's awfu'. Yon high moor o' 
yours 's just crawlin' varmin," cried old 
Mac, and Smythe choked. 

Hardway cursed Smythe, and Smythe 
cursed the keepers, and the keepers hav- 
ing nobody to curse, patrolled them with 
loaded guns, by night as well as day, it 
being thought that poachers stole the 
traps and their dogs did the rest of the 
damage. It was even suspected that old 
Mac had these poachers in pay, for it 
was an open secret among the men that 
Smythe had, by laying trails of dainty 
foods and oils and by paying shepherds 
to let their dogs run free on Glenask 
and keep them "at heel" on Glenskye, 
ruined the shooting on the former to the 
glory of the latter in the previous«season. 

The burning orbs of the Saint saw 
these men pass and repass, their forms 
silhouetted against the sky line when the 
moon got up over the hills that night, 
and he trebled his caution accordingly. 
It was fully an hour and a half after 
dark when he sallied upon his raid that 



night. As before, he was out and away 
long before the keenest watcher could 
have realized it. He trailed the patrols, 
watched them from the heart of the 
thickets, drew circles round them and 
examined them from every point of 
view. 

Finally, he lured one of their dogs on 
his trail till, a quarter of a mile away 
from any help, he turned and rent the 
unfortunate one and sent it howling to 
its master, carved scientifically past all 
recognition. Moreover, as if that did 
not satisfy, he unearthed the keepers' 
suppers hidden in a hollow tree, scat- 
tered them broadcast, and hid what he 
could not scatter — aye, even to the flask 
of "th' wee drappee" hid he the things. 
Then he retired to the serried larch 
woods and dined serenely off blackcock, 
picking, mind you, only the daintiest 
portion of each bird, as the disunited 
corpses next day attested. 

Any stranger who had visited Glen- 
skye in the days that followed that night 
would have declared the land to be in a 
state of war. There was no peace in 
the place at all, though there was silence 
— that silence which discovers waiting 
men armed with loaded guns behind 
thickets, that silence which comes from 
the knowledge of being continually un- 
der observation of at least one pair of 
binoculars had Glenskye. And by night 
there were ceaseless patrols also. In 
those days it was certain death for any 
dog not holding an official position to 
be found upon the shooting estate of 
friend Hardway, and little better for a 
strange man. 

Nevertheless, the position became in 
nowise less strained at all. In fact, it 
was evident from the clouded brow of 
Hardway and the fierce desperation writ- 
ten upon the face of Smythe that some- 
thing very terrible would happen soon. 
It must. There was no hope for it. 

Meanwhile nobody — and there were, 
with local police, not more than thirty 
watchers armed variously, to say noth- 
ing of dogs of terrible and murderous 
aspect — did anything, nobody saw any- 
thing, nobody heard anything. It was 
as if the land were under a spell, as if 
the spirits of all the poachers that had 
ever in days past visited Glenskye had 



THE SAINT 



295 



chosen that time to rise from 
their graves and visit it again. 

Traps continued to saunter 
apparently into spook land; co- 
veys of grouse, which to-day were a 
wondrous fine sight in the face of the 
sun, were to-morrow a scattered and 
panic-stricken remnant fleeing blindly 
from the death in the night that they 
could not see; pheasants which roosted 
carelessly low one night roosted in the 
other world the next, and even the 
great, pompous capercailzie cocks, the 
pride and glory of Glenskye, appeared 
to be slowly dissolving, like vapor into 
the deadly nights. 

Nor was that all. A keeper left his 
gun in a locked hut on the high moor at 
sundown, and by sunrise it had gone, 
walked into the darkness and no more 
returned, and half a dozen other things 
— game bags, sticks, traps, and little 
things of that sort — had gone with it. 
Here, however, there was at least some- 
thing to go upon. A Thing had broken 
in at the back of the hut, and this, un- 
less it had been a dog or a badger, must 
certainly have been a boy. No man 
could have crawled through that hole. 
Then it is on record that Smythe went 
temporarily but completely mad, and old 
Mac ceased suddenly from sauntering 
up and down the boundary, mocking the 
while in a loud voice, because Smythe 
had run after him with a loaded gun and 
an under keeper hanging desperately 
round his waist. 

From this you will perceive that not 
at this time, and possibly at no time, 
was the presence of the r , 

Saint suspected, or even ?\ .'". 

hinted at. Probably not 
a man there knew that 
such a beast existed in 
any part of the world, let 
alone here in the grouse's 
holy of holies. It was al- 
ways the same theme, the 
same quest, poachers must 
do the stealing and their 
dogs the killing, and thus, 
partly because of his un- 
paralleled caution, partly 
because of his marked 
nocturnal habits, his im- 
mense fighting powers, 





#?*■■ "^'^fT'SiiisA 



A COLLIE STARTED IN TO ROUT THE PILLAGER, BUT HE WAS 
HIMSELF ROUTED. 



and, above all, his uncanny — I had al- 
most said human — knowledge and cun- 
ning, the Saint might for all I know 
have continued filibustering at Glenskye 
to this day had he been content. 

Unfortunately, however, as happened 
to Alexander, he sighed for other worlds 
to conquer. He had done every conceiv- 
able sort of harm that he could do to 
Glenskye, had "knocked the stuffing out 
of the place," in fact, and was now 
prompted — possibly by the devil his mas- 
ter — to extend his sphere of influence. 
Then calamity descended upon him. 

It was on the seventeenth night after 
his escape, a night of tearing wind, rac- 
ing clouds, bursts and spatters of rain, 
and velvet blackness, that the Saint 
evacuated the cleft, and removed, at his 
indescribable slouch, over the hills. 
Something of that restless nomad spirit 
which afflicts all the weasel tribe must 
have come upon him in that hour, I 
think. 

For a moment he paused on the edge 
of the heather and hesitated. He shook 
himself with a swirl of flying wet and 
sniffed the hammering gale. Whither? 
He had all the compass to choose from, 
but fate had turned her face from him 
at last. He shambled off westward, and 
westward lay Glenask, and, what was 
the main point, old MacGregor — but 
how was he to know that? 

Once, on his way, he heard men whis- 



pering and knew by the taint in the air 
that they were not ten yards off; these 
were keepers lying in wait for him, had 
they known it, but they never knew. 
Once, too, he "froze" at the vibration 
of footsteps — man's assuredly, for they 
were too clumsy for any beasts — and as 
he "froze" Smythe's dog, following at 
his master's heels, growled suddenly and 
checked. Smythe stopped, rooted. The 
Saint was still as a tree. Then Smythe 
said something low and quick, and the 
dog sprang with a roar. 

Followed a whirl in the inky void, a 
quick and horrible growling, a rush of 
smothered snarlings, a yell from the dog, 
and silence. The dog came back with 
a three-inch gash on his shoulder, and 
the Saint went away in a hurry because 
both barrels of Smythe's gun had sent 
quite a number of shot singing and whin- 
ing at his heels. But Smythe never saw 
him. He only heard the rustle of his 
passage. 

When the Saint struck Glenask things 
happened. He was hungry, he was an- 
gry, and here was a moor full of game ; 
a close-trapped place where Hardway's 
harried ones had found shelter. No 
need was there for his marvelous hunt- 
ing knowledge, a single bound scooped 
up one grouse, and a second, lightning 
quick as the covey rose, slashed down 
a second. 

Later, his hunger appeased, he turned 



296 



ROUTE SKETCHING 



297 



to the cooling of his anger. From far 
away, on the gale, came the sound of 
a thing that was in trouble, so that it 
could not refrain from yelling. Him the 
Saint stalked, and the stalk ended in a 
trapped stoat, which swiftly, with the 
wolverene's assistance, became a dead 
stoat. The rest was easy; needed only 
to trail MacGregor, who had set that 
trap, and every trap on that part of the 
moor — ten in all — was successfully dealt 
with after his own gentle and peculiar 
fashion. After that he moved down to 
Mac's cottage itself, where he spent the 
rest of that night, mocking at the chained 
dogs, sampling the blood of Mac's fowls, 
and generally stirring things up. 

Next dawning Mac's flaming beard, 
thrust in at the fowl shed door, fairly 
bristled at the sight of the butcher's 
shop that was within. 

"Ach," said Mac. "I'm thinking he's 
coome." 

Then Mac fetched his rifle, cast loose 
four beagles, flung them once round 
the fowl house, and in five minutes was 
toiling, panting, up the glen in the wake 
of as fine a burst of hound music as ever 
wakened the echoes in the hills on a 
misty morning. 

The Saint heard the din from the 
bowels of a hollow tree in a pine wood, 



and bared glistening fangs superciliously. 
It was a new discord to him. It might 
mean anything, or nothing. Anyway, 
he was in good hiding — he would sleep. 
But the riot increased until, with a crash, 
it broke round his tree — broke and raged 
and surged again. Then it ceased. 

The wolverene was full awake now. 
He was, as nearly as could be, alarmed, 
and for good reason. Mac was chop- 
ping down the tree. Ignominiously he 
turned him out of the crashing trunk, 
turned him out blinking into blinding 
sun, to fight for his life; with his back 
against another tree, in a flash, he faced 
the hounds. He had to. There was 
nothing else for it. Followed a barlike 
gleam as the sun glinted along a rifle 
barrel, a tiny stab of flame, a sharp, 
short report, and the Saint stiffened all 
over, drew himself up to his full height, 
leaped straight at the pack, and fell in 
mid-leap — dead. 

Silently Mac buried him, and silently 
he went home. He said nothing about 
the matter to anyone and has continued 
to say nothing ever since. You ask him 
to-day what is a wolverene? He will 
simply answer : 

"Now ye'll understand I'm in no 
sense paid to study natural heestory." 

And that is all. 



ROUTE SKETCHING 

BY HORACE KEPHART 



With Sketch Maps by the Author 




MONG the pleasures of 
life in a wild country I 
count first the thrill of 
exploring new ground. 
"Something hidden: go 
and find it!" He who 
does not respond to that mainspring is 
out of order — his works need looking 
into. 

Of course, the whole earth has been 
rambled over by somebody before our 
time; but it suffices one of us to bore 
into some wild region that is unknown 
to himself, unknown to his companions, 



and which never has been mapped in 
detail. 

I used to go hunting, every fall, with 
two or three comrades who felt as I did 
about such matters. We never hired a 
guide. On arriving at a blank spot we 
would spend the first day or two ascout- 
ing. We would scatter, scour the coun- 
try, and then, around the camp fire at 
night, we would describe, in turn, what 
we had found. 

Verbal reports, such as these, are more 
entertaining than useful. The crudest 
sort of a sketch on paper would have 



298 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



taught us much more. By combining 
our route sketches we might have pro- 
duced a serviceable map of the country 
for miles around. I wish we had made 
such maps. I would love to pore over 
them in these later years. 

We thought that route sketching 
would take too much time and trouble. 
That was a mistake. Anybody who can 
read a compass and draw lines of direc- 
tion can make a practical route sketch 
without losing more than twenty-five per 
cent of a steady jog. The only instru- 
ments and materials needed are a pocket 
compass, a watch, a lead pencil, and a 
notebook, or a bit of paper tacked on a 
piece of thin board. 

As examples, I give here a couple of 
sketches showing, respectively, the back- 
woods half of the wagon road and the 
over-mountain trail to "the last house 
up Deep Creek," where I abide. I made 
these, while still new to the country, 
without losing more than half an hour 
from regular marching time. First, I 
walked into the railroad station, sketch- 
ing the trail as I went. The next day 
I returned by wagon, mapping the road 
and the creek, without once checking 
the horses. 

My rough sketches were made in a 
vest-pocket memorandum book that was 
quadrille ruled. My compass has a dial 
of only i-| inch, which is very small for 
such work, but handy, since I can wear 
it in a leather wrist strap buckled around 
my left wrist. This is the best way for 
a woodsman to carry a compass: it is 
never in the way, yet always right un- 
der his eye when needed. To orient the 
instrument, it may be slipped out of its 
guard in a second or two. 

Considering that the country here is 
rough and so densely timbered that there 
are few outlooks, I was pleased to find 
that my "closures" required very little 
"humoring in," as a surveyor would say. 

In sketching a route, it is convenient, 
though not necessary, to use paper ruled 
in little squares. Any dealer in draft- 
ing instruments can supply cross-section 
paper ruled ten lines to the inch. A 
piece of such paper, about 7 x 10 inches, 
should be tacked on a thin board and 
carried in the hand. If this is too cum- 



bersome, use a notebook and, when you 
come to an edge of the paper, begin 
again on a fresh page., 

At the start, take the bearings by com- 
pass of some object that you can see in 
advance. Then jog along, at customary 
stride, counting every other pace (right 
foot) as you go. To count every pace 
would be needlessly wearisome. Drop 
a pebble in your pocket for every hun- 
dred double paces. When the object you 
sighted is reached, mark it on the paper, 
draw a line from the starting point cor- 
responding to the course, number this 
first stop "1," and note on the margin 
the number of paces from o to 1. Then 
take a fresh bearing, if the course shifts, 
and continue in the same way. (See 
Fig. 1.) 

The conventional surveyor's pace is 
thirty inches. I do not believe in alter- 
ing one's normal pace to an arbitrary 
standard. That is unnatural, fatiguing, 
and cannot be kept up on a long march. 
Walk at your customary stride back and 
forth over a measured distance, and 
average the result. Do this over fairly 
level ground, and then up and down 
steep places, learning to make allow- 
ances. 

In my own case I find that my normal 
pace, on a steady march over fair road, 
is thirty-three inches, and the cadence 
one hundred steps to the minute. This 
would be 1,920 paces to the mile. Al- 
lowing for ordinarily uneven ground, I 
figure on 2,000 paces to the mile, which 
is eighty-eight yards to the hundred 
paces, and three miles an hour. This 
happens to be convenient in plotting, for, 
when mapping on a scale of two inches 
to the mile, as in Fig. 2, each of the -fe 
inch squares on my cross-section paper 
represents exactly eighty-eight yards, or 
one hundred paces of 31.68 inches. 

In the wilderness, where roads are 
generally bad, if there are any at all, 
the distance traversed is of less conse- 
quence than the time taken to cover it. 
So, in sketching a route for some other 
person's guidance, it is important to give 
a time table from point to point. Your 
estimates of distance may be faulty, but 
your watch can be relied on. 

Time measurements also are good 




FIG. I. 



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FIG. 2. MAP MADE BY COMBINING TWO ROUTE SKETCHES. 



ROUTE SKETCHING 



301 



enough for open country and fairly 
straight courses, where it is not neces- 
sary to count paces in order to keep the 
bearings correct. 

In thickets, swamps, blow-downs, 
steeps, and other places so rough that 
one can neither pace steadily nor judge 
distance by time, he must estimate by 
eye alone. This should seldom be done 
for intervals of over one hundred yards. 

Pedometers for automatically register- 
ing paces are of no use in the wilderness, 
since they record every step taken, re- 
gardless of whether it is in the course 
or not. 

The paces of saddle animals can be 
determined by test, both at walk and 
trot. The pace of a horse is almost as 
uniform as that of a man. A mule's 
gait is still steadier and the stride more 
even. 

Floating down a river of fairly regu- 
lar current, one may estimate distances 
pretty closely by keeping his boat in mid- 
stream and timing it from point to 
point. 

My sketches show how landmarks are 
noted along the route. In the wild and 
uninhabited country beyond our house I 
would have noted old camp grounds, 
splash dams, gaps, bad thickets, cliffs, 
etc., in a similar way. Where the forest 
and contours are of uniform character 
it may be well to establish, here and 
there, some artificial landmarks, by 
which anyone following the sketch map 
can make sure of his position. I seldom 
blaze a tree for this purpose, because 
blazes are everlasting and may cause 
trouble in years to come. It is wiser 
to pile a few stones in a peculiar way, 
and note them on the map, or bend over 
a couple of bushes, and cut them half 
through, so that they lean in a certain 
direction. 

It seldom pays to try to show con- 
tours on a mere route sketch. The time 
table of actual marching, in connection 
with the plotted route, shows plainly 
enough where the going is slow. It is 
a mistake to encumber a sketch map with 
details that are of no use in pointing the 
way or verifying a location. 

Written notes will help anyone who is 
to follow the route. The examples here 



printed were made for a friend who 
wanted to visit me, but who could not 
foretell, a day in advance, when he could 
get away from business. I sent him the 
following letter : 

My Dear Andy: 

There are two ways to our place. One 
is a wagon road over which a team can 
haul one thousand pounds when Jupiter 
isn't pluviating. There are eighteen fords 
in the last six miles. The creek is impass- 
able for a few hours after a smart rain. 
Ford 10 ("the deep ford") always wets a 
wagon bed. Ford 12, at the Perry gap, is 
dangerous when there is ice. No footbridge 
between Hunnicut's and McCracken's, nor 
any habitation. 

The other way is by trail across the 
mountain from Hunnicut's. This is always 
practicable for a mountain-bred horse or 
mule with light pack, but he must do some 
sliding down from either the McCracken 
gap or the Pullback. 

Send a nicl'el coin (not stamps) to The 
Director, U. S. Geological Survey, Wash- 
ington, D. C, for the Cowes sheet of the 
U. S. topographical survey. This sheet 
takes in Bryson City, N. C. (our railroad 
station) and the Deep Creek country north 
to Jenkins's, where my sketch map begins. 
It is accurate, and all the guide you need 
up to that point. It is joined on the north 
by the Mt. Guyot sheet, which is worthless — 
whoever depends on it for the country be- 
tween Clingman Dome and Mt. Guyot will 
get lost. Nearly all of the minor details 
on this latter sheet are fictitious, and some 
of the greater landmarks (peaks of 5,000 to 
6,000 feet) are miles astray. 

Trail at Hunnicut's stable swerves sharply 
to the right, up a steep bank, and thence 
onward goes through thick forest. At Mc- 
Cracken gap our fork of the trail is marked 
by a small oak, with burl at height of your 
head, blazed last year with a cross, and 
pencil-marked with arrow. The trail to 
Indian Creek and the Cherokee reserve on 
Lufty is much fainter than ours. 

Observe that a mere route sketch is 
only intended to show the way from one 
point to another, and tell the user where 
he is at any stage of the journey. Hence 
it need not be mathematically accurate, 
and hence it can be made swiftly, with 
crude instruments. Mapping proper is 
much slower work. Still, a very useful 
and practical map of a region several 
miles square can be made in a few days 
by one man, combining his route 
sketches, provided he takes a little more 
pains in locating a few prominent land- 
marks as "controls." 



FOR BED AND BOARD 



BY LLOYD ROBERTS 



WAS out of regular work and barely 
meeting my expenses by picking up 
any odd jobs that came along. So 
when an official of the Canada East- 
ern sent word that he wanted a man 
to mend the guard pier above the 
railway bridge, I gladly reported for 
duty. I was told to hire an assistant and 
rush the work through, for it was then 
the last week in March, and if the ice 
began to run before the repairs were 
made there was a good chance of the pier 
being entirely demolished. 

That same day Jimmy Briggs and I 
collected the necessary tools and mate- 
rial and started in. The pier I'm refer- 
ring to stands near the middle of the 
river, about fifty yards above the draw- 
span and unconnected with anything but 
the bottom gravel. To get to it, then, we 
were forced to slop across a quarter mile 
of wet ice, which was already honey- 
combed with seams and cracks — some as 
wide as your foot. Sleds and pedes- 
trians had given up using the river as 
a highway, for though the ice was nearly 
three feet thick, the melting snows and 
rains had swollen the river until it was 
too big for its jacket and there was an 
open stretch of water ten or twelve feet 
wide skirting both shores. 

We bridged this gap with a plank, 
and had to do the same thing at the pier, 
where the ice had shrunk back and left a 
circular patch of black, eddying currents, 
like a moat around a castle. We found 
that the last freshet had played havoc 
with the upper side of that pier, tearing 
the sheets of iron from the two-by-four 
deals as if the half-inch metal had been 
paper and crushing the woodwork into 
slivers. It wasn't very difficult work, as 
long as we took care not to lose our foot- 
ing and slide into that black hole be- 
neath us. 

We hooked a twelve-foot ladder to the 
top and began at the bottom of the slope, 
which was about as steep as an ordinary 



rocf. First we cut away the broken 
deals and spiked new ones in their place. 
Then we riveted on the iron plates. 

Men, crossing the bridge just below, 
used to stop and watch us, and after we'd 
been there a week or more one fellow 
shouted that we'd better move lively or 
the ice would catch us. But we weren't 
afraid of that. The surface seemed as 
firm as ever, though the water kept ris- 
ing and widening the gap about the base 
of the pier. A few days later, however, 
we heard that the ice was moving in the 
upper reaches and a jam had formed at 
Savage Island, ten miles above the town. 
That spurred us on, for we didn't relish 
the idea of being marooned on our arti- 
ficial island. 

By the seventh of April we were with- 
in a couple of days of the end of the 
job. It had been raining all that morn- 
ing, and when we returned to work after 
lunch we noticed that the river was com- 
ing up faster than ever. Half of our 
new plates were submerged and the 
patch of open water around the pier was 
boiling like a pot on a hot stove. It had 
become quite a ticklish performance to 
cross that narrow plank, with the prom- 
ise of death beneath the ice if you lost 
your balance. The sun came out warm 
and cheery as I mounted the ladder and 
gained the top of the pier. 

"We'll be through by to-morrow 
night," I called to Jimmy, stooping to 
pick up the sledgehammer. 

He had just stepped on the bottom 
rung and his face was level with my feet, 
when I saw it suddenly go white. Then 
he swung round shouting, "Come on, 
Roy, the ice's moving!" and went over 
the plank on the run. 

I dropped the hammer to follow him, 
but it was too late. His flight had dis- 
lodged the bridge, and he had scarcely 
left it before it slipped into the water 
and was dragged from sight. At the 
same time the pier seemed to glide up 



302 



FOR BED AND BOARD 



303 



river, due to the ice starting down, of 
course, and the air became filled with a 
dull, grinding roar, deep and ominous. 

I knew I was in a bad fix, but for the 
moment all my anxiety was for Jimmy. 
He was racing as hard as he could go 
for the draw-span, over a surface that 
bucked and gaped and closed again, and 
each second I thought he was a goner, 
only to see him clear a fissure or dodge 
some up-thrusting, jagged blade of glit- 
tering ice in the nick of time. If he 
had lost his head or his foot had slipped, 
nothing on earth could have saved him. 
But at last he made the bridge, and with 
a desperate spring succeeded in catching 
the lowest girder with his hands and 
drawing himself up. Then I straight- 
way forgot him, and everyone else for 
that matter, in the fight for my own ex- 
istence. 

The noise had increased to a confus- 
ing, deafening bedlam. The main vol- 
ume was like heavy surf or a continuous 
roll of thunder, interspersed with an 
irregular fusillade of small-arms, while 
close around me rose a dry, rustling 
whisper as the smaller particles of ice 
grated with each other and the pier. 

On every side and as far up river as 
I could see there was not a patch of 
open water as big as your fist; just ice 
and more ice, in all shapes and sizes, 
charging down as fast as the torrent 
could drive them, until I grew dizzy and 
bewildered and sought to rest my eyes 
by turning again to the solid bridge be- 
low. But it too seemed to have motion 
and was rushing upon me, each of its 
sharp, knifelike piers hurtling huge 
blocks to either side as it plowed a wide 
furrow in this frozen field. I felt as 
if I were in a dory in the track of a 
fleet of Dreadnoughts. 

The one stationary object was my 
small refuge, and even it was trembling 
under the terrific onslaughts. Not be- 
ing wedge-shaped, it could not cleave a 
way as readily as the piers it protected, 
and the cakes would drive nearly to the 
summit before they would lose their bal- 
ance and topple back among their fel- 
lows. Each moment I expected one to 
succeed in its efforts and come tumbling 
upon me, and needless to say I stood as 
near the back of that pier as I could get. 



I remembered how previous freshets 
had thrust huge blocks to the top, where 
the receding waters had left them to 
withstand the rot of rain and sun for 
weeks after the last vestige of ice had 
disappeared from the river, but I prayed 
that the flood would be lower this spring. 
It was a vain hope. Glancing over the 
edge, I saw that the waters had been 
rising fast — so fast, indeed, that a par- 
ticular log I had noticed a couple of 
feet above the surface that very morning 
was no longer visible. 

I gazed desperately toward the distant 
shores and saw people collecting on the 
banks, others running toward me on the 
bridge. But what could they do? I 
was caught like a rat on a sinking ship, 
with not even a chance to swim for it. 
How I envied Jimmy at that moment! 

Then what I was dreading suddenly 
happened. A huge pan of ice struck the 
pier squarely and glided up until it stood 
like a thick, gleaming wall seven feet 
above the top. For one sickening mo- 
ment it poised there, its stupendous 
weight combating the pressure of the 
currents, and then it lurched sideways 
and toppled into the river with such an 
impact that I was showered with slop- 
ice and spray. It was a close call for 
me, and after that I watched the charg- 
ing ice-pack with painful interest. 

The smaller chunks didn't concern me, 
for they would slew and tumble back 
every time ; but anything the size of a 
dinner-table or larger had a likely chance 
of riding me down. In the next fifteen 
minutes at least half a dozen came peril- 
ously near gaining the deck, only to lose 
their balance and be shouldered aside in 
clumsy impotence by those behind. 

But always the water was rising and 
my chances were growing proportion- 
ately less. The pier was scarcely five 
feet above the surface now and the ice 
was skidding up the iron slope with lit- 
tle difficulty. Even the average-sized 
hunks were topping my refuge and form- 
ing a ragged mound along the edge, and 
at last I knew it was only a matter of 
seconds before a big one came over and 
swept me off into the grinding jaws. 

I guess a man's brain works quicker 
than usual when he's in a tight place. 
Anyway, when I saw a monster bearing 



3°4 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



directly for me and knew something had 
to be done, I did it. The top of the 
pier is not planked over like the four 
sides, but is laid with logs spiked about 
three feet apart and parallel to the river. 
My idea was to lie on the broken rocks 
between two of them and let the ice pass 
over me. There was no time to weigh 
the possible risks. 

A shudder ran through the pier, and 
as a huge, yellowish-green slab rose high 
above my head, hung motionless an in- 
stant, and crashed forward, I threw my- 
self into my niche. The light was imme- 
diately blotted out, while a souse of icy 
water drenched me to the skin. There 
was not over three inches of space be- 
tween my nose and the bottom of the 
cake, and its damp breath froze my 
blood. The timbers shook and creaked 
beneath its tons of weight until I feared 
they might spread or give way. Well, 
they didn't! 

It seemed to me as if that pan was a 
whole glacier, it took so long to pass. 
But in reality it was only a few seconds 
before the sunlight blazed into my eyes 
again and I heard the roar of the mass 
spilling back among its fellows. I was 
exultant over the success of my ruse and 
sprang to my feet and waved a hand at 
the crowd on the bridge. Faintly above 
the uproar I could hear them cheer their 
sympathy and encouragement. 

But my triumph was short-lived. The 
river had risen so that my refuge was no 
higher above the surface than the top 
logs of a lumber raft, and even the small- 
est chunks were scaling the slope and 
stacking themselves on the glistening 
white mound along the upper end. As 
for the huskier lumps, they would cut 
clean through the pile like a knife 
through cheese and come skating for my 
legs in a way that kept me jumping and 
prevented me feeling the cold. I also 
had to heave overboard any that lodged 
in my nook, and altogether I had a 
pretty lively time of it. 

It was some minutes before another 
big pan struck the pier just right. I 
watched it cave over the edge of the 
plates, crush and grind the opposing 
barrier to powder, and, with its drip- 
ping wings stretching far out on either 
side and its center resting on the five 



timbers, swoop back at me like some 
ponderous monster of a nightmare. I 
had barely time to shrink into my crev- 
ice before it gained the spot where I'd 
been standing. 

Again came the gloom, the trickle of 
icy water, and the terrifying coldness of 
its breath. But because of its great 
weight it moved more slowly than the 
first had done and I became aware that 
the rumbling roar of its passage was 
sinking lower and lower. Then, to my 
horror, the noise ceased entirely and, 
lifting my hand, I found that the block 
was motionless. My cave had become a 



prison 



I can't begin to describe my sensations 
— they were too awful. Imagine if you 
can how you'd feel to be buried under 
tons of solid ice in a space no bigger 
than a grave! I couldn't turn over or 
even move a limb more than a few 
inches, while the bitter water continued 
to drain over me and the sharp rocks dug 
into my back. For a full minute all my 
strength was needed to control my brain, 
which was trying to fly off the handle 
and turn me into a hysterical idiot. 

"Keep cool now, Roy," I said to my- 
self over and over. "There's no good, 
in losing your nerve. Keep still and 
trust in the Almighty." 

And after a while I quieted down 
and began to weigh my chances of es- 
cape. I couldn't burrow out, for there 
was too much small ice blocking the 
crevice, even if I had had room to try; 
only a derrick or a jack-screw could 
have lifted the roof. My one hope lay 
in another ice-pan coming to my rescue 
and ramming this one off, and it would 
be just as likely to land on top of it 
and double the thickness of my ceiling. 
All the time the pier was shaking and 
creaking; a dull, heavy booming, like a 
distant water-fall, filled my ears, and a 
muddy glimmer penetrated to my cell. 

I have no knowledge of the minutes — 
maybe hours — I lay there waiting, just 
waiting and praying, for the torture to 
mind and body, combined with the numb- 
ing cold, was lulling me into a sort of 
stupor, before I became aware that my 
right hand was resting in water. I 
moved my fingers and found that it was 
an inch or more deep over the shale. 



FOR BED AND BOARD 



305 



That meant just one thing; the river 
had gained the top of the pier, and my 
prison was to be my tomb ! 

You would think that would have 
stirred me, but it didn't. I was done 
with worrying and pretty indifferent as 
to whether I lived or died. "Drowning 
isn't so bad," I told myself, "and it will 
soon be over with." 

I remember thinking in a dull sort of 
way of my wife and children and the 
trouble they would have to get along 
without me, and hoped they would col- 
lect my last week's wages all right. 
Finally I got too sleepy to think of any- 
thing, and I guess my heart was coming 
to a standstill. 

Anyway I wasn't aware that my roof 
had begun to move until I was aroused 
by the pain of the sun striking fiercely 
in my eyes. Bewildered and surprised, 
I put my hands on the two logs and 
dragged myself into a sitting posture and 
stared stupidly at the blue sky and the 
glistening rush of ice-cakes that were 
almost on a level with my chin. As I 
realized my position, the instinct of self- 
preservation asserted itself once more. I 
staggered to my feet, resolved to die in 
the open, if I must. 

The mound was still growing and 
falling and the small blocks driving 



through and filling up the crevices be- 
hind. I stepped from the water onto 
the logs, which appeared to be floating 
stationary in the midst of this white con- 
fusion and prepared for a last desperate 
effort. 

Almost immediately another monster 
smashed down the rampart and came at 
me. Just at the right moment I threw 
myself face downward upon its slippery 
back and dug my fingers into a crack. 
I felt the mass cross the timbers, dip and 
crash overboard again, while a wave of 
water and slob-ice flooded my body, cut- 
ting my hands and face and almost tear- 
ing me loose. Then everything about 
me became steady and motionless and I 
knew I had become a part of that racing 
navy of ice-cakes. 

Well, I might have floated down river 
until I had died of cold and exhaustion 
and my body have found a grave in the 
Bay of Fundy, for I had no more 
strength to help myself. But there was 
one point where they could intercept me, 
and that was at the bridge. The water 
was now within four feet of the lower 
girders, and as I passed beneath I was 
dimly conscious of strong hands clutch- 
ing my clothing and of being dragged 
from my clammy raft. Then — I guess 
I must have fainted. 




TROLLING AND TROLLING 

TACKLE 



BY SAMUEL G. CAMP 



T goes without saying that trolling 
is a method of angling not particu- 
larly favored by the sportsman 
skilled in the use of the fly- or bait- 
casting rod. Regarded solely as a 
sporting proposition, the method is 
admittedly inferior to fly- or bait-cast- 
ing; primarily it lacks action; secondar- 
ily there is little chance for initiative on 
the part of the angler; however, the fact 
remains that almost any time — when 
skilfully done — trolling produces "re- 
sults," sometimes even when other ways 
of fishing have failed dismally. 

Nor should it be understood that 
trolling is an angling method utterly in- 
dependent of "know how " and a cer- 
tain degree of skill for ultimate success. 
There is surely far more to the game 
than casually and merely dragging some 
sort of a bait behind your boat or canoe 
in the fond hope that some sort of a fish 
may accidentally or otherwise strike it 
or be struck by it. The fact that this 
happy-go-lucky sort of trolling — chiefly 
practiced with a "hand line" by the one- 
day picknicker and other fishermen who 
are not anglers — is the kind most fre- 
quently observed does not alter the fur- 
ther fact that the method may be fol- 
lowed in a sportsmanlike way, with good 
tackle, and with satisfactory results, both 
sportwise and otherwise. 

Often, as above suggested, trolling is 
the only successful way of going after 
certain game fish. This may be due to 
temporary conditions of wind, weather, 
or water, or possibly to the habits of the 
fish sought. In midsummer fairly deep 
trolling is the most resultful way of tak- 
ing the black bass, either large- or small- 
mouthed. Usually at this time bait- or 
fly-casting for bass is not very successful. 
As a general rule the bass are in the 
deeper portions of lake and river and are 
feeding mostly at night. Obviously sur- 



face fishing, casting either fly or artificial 
lure, is not apt to prove very killing. 

Early in the morning and from sun- 
down until dark — throughout the night, 
indeed, if you care for night fishing — 
the bait- and fly-caster may find fair 
sport, but during the daytime the odds 
are many in favor of the troller. This 
is almost equally true of the pickerel. 
For the lake trout deep-trolling is the 
only practicable method at any time. 
Latterly bait-casting has been very suc- 
cessfully done for muscalonge, but troll- 
ing still remains the most general and 
possibly successful way of taking this 
game fish. 

In running water and, under the 
most favorable conditions, in lacustrine 
waters, the landlocked salmon rises to 
the fly ; the larger specimens and the ma- 
jority of them are, however, taken by 
trolling. Many large brook trout, too, 
are annually taken by trollers in the 
deeper parts of lakes inhabited by fonti- 
nalis. It would seem, then, viewing the 
matter without prejudice and not from 
the viewpoint of the fly-casting purist 
or the bait-casting fanatic, that trolling 
is an angling method worthy of the an- 
gler's most careful consideration as to 
the proper tackle and the most probably 
successful ways and means. 

Beginning, of course, with the black 
bass, since by far the greater number of 
anglers will in all likelihood be inter- 
ested in the best tackle and trolling 
methods for our most democratic game 
fish, it may be said that the rods formerly 
known as " trolling rods " have been 
largely superseded for trolling purposes 
by the modern short bait-casting rod. 
Emphatically the short rod is the most 
efficient and permanently satisfactory 
tool for the troller for black bass, since 
it is capable of handling the long line 
customarily used and also the somewhat 



306 



TROLLING AND TROLLING TACKLE 



307 



weighty bait without danger of strain 
and resultant " set." 

It would seem best to say at once that 
a fine fly-rod should never be used to any 
considerable extent for trolling. In al- 
most all forms of trolling, under normal 
conditions, a long line is necessitated for 
the simple reason that your boat passes 
over the ground ultimately fished by the 
trailing bait and there must obviously 
be a certain lapse of time for things to 
" get settled " ; while, of course, this does 
not apply to trolling deep, as for " lak- 
ers," still in deep-trolling a long line is 
clearly necessary. 

The continual drag of a lengthy, wa- 
ter-soaked line will " set " a fly-rod as 
sure as fate, no matter how well con- 
structed or of what degree of strength 
and resilience. Of course, the better the 
rod the longer it will resist the strain; 
eventually, however, the result will be 
the same with the best of fly-rods as with 
the cheap and nasty one — a lovely bro- 
ken-backed appearance and a new rod 
" next spring." While it is true that, 
properly gone about, a set rod may be 
straightened, it is also true that once the 
resilience of the rod has been affected in 
this manner the rod will again become 
set in the same way with half the amount 
of use given it in the first place. 

The longer bait-casting rods, such as 
the " Henshall," will also in time be- 
come decidedly warped from the strain 
of trolling. The short bait-casting rod, 
from five and a half to six feet, has ad- 
ditionally, aside from little liability to 
strain, other advantages for trolling pur- 
poses. As an instance, getting out the 
long line requisite for resultful trolling 
is always a difficult job for the angler 
who goes out alone; handling oars or 
paddle in addition to rod and line, par- 
ticularly in a swift river current or when 
there is a strong and contrary wind over 
the lake, results in a situation wherein 
the " lonesome " troller could advan- 
tageously use four hands. 

The use of a bait-casting rod prop- 
erly rigged for casting, provided the 
angler is even passably skilful in casting, 
will obviate all this ; it is necessary only 
when you wish to get out the line to 
make a cast, to throw the click or drag 
on the reel, place your rod conveniently 



to hand in case of a strike — the rod-rest 
furnished by the tackle dealers is a good 
scheme — and resume oars or paddle. 

If used exclusively for trolling, the 
rod may well be of bethabara or green- 
heart, and even the lancewood rod, if not 
too whippy, is serviceable in this sort of 
angling. However, if casting is to be 
done as well as trolling, and in any event 
if you wish a rod of the best possible ma- 
terial, select a six-strip split-bamboo — 
and do not practice false economy in the 
matter. Remember that in the long run 
the most expensive split-cane rods are far 
the cheapest. 

Whether of solid wood or split-bam- 
boo the rod should have German silver 
reel-seat and ferules, and either German 
silver or bronzed steel guides with aper- 
tures of sufficient diameter to permit the 
line to run out freely when casting or 
paying out the line by hand from the 
reel. Agate hand- and tip-guides are 
not only ornamental but extremely use- 
ful ; they save a very appreciable amount 
of line-wear — a factor of due importance 
in view of the cost of good casting lines 
— allow the line to run out with less fric- 
tion and, as a consequence, increase the 
angler's average distance by a number of 
feet. 

About Reel and Line 

In the matter of the reel and line to 
use when trolling it depends upon how 
you intend to go about it. If you are 
to troll for the most part without the aid 
of a guide or friend at the oars or paddle, 
your best plan is to use a quadruple cast- 
ing reel and a fine caliber silk bait-cast- 
ing line, so that you may, as above sug- 
gested, get out your line initially by cast- 
ing. If, on the other hand, you are to 
have the help of a boatman, or if you do 
not know how to cast, select a double- 
multiplying reel, as this has more wind- 
ing-in power than a quadruple reel, and 
an enameled or oiled silk line of size F 
or G, fifty to seventy-five yards in length. 

For black bass trolling, the artificial 
bait-casting baits are now very largely 
used, and may be relied upon for success 
under normal angling conditions. Par- 
ticularly useful to the man who does 
much trolling alone are the various forms 
of floating baits since, if using a lure of 



3 o8 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



this sort, there is no danger of becoming 
fouled on the bottom if for any reason 
the progress of the boat is delayed. 

The wooden minnows make first- 
class trolling baits — use one which spins 
easily as otherwise you will be compelled 
to row or paddle too fast for comfort 
or resultful trolling in order to keep the 
spinners in motion. Also the light- 
weight spoons and single-hook spinners, 
in the smaller sizes and preferably with- 
out swivels, used with some of the well- 
known flies for black bass such as the 
coachman, both royal and plain, Par- 
machene belle, oriole, Montreal, etc., are 
generally dependable. 

The Best Bait 

Of natural baits the lake " shiner " is 
usually the best, although at times frogs 
are far and away the most successful — 
generally when other lures, both natural 
and artificial, are entirely unnoticed by 
the bass. Broadly speaking the black 
bass is decidedly catholic in its tastes, 
taking everything from a " garden hac- 
kle " to a six-inch wooden minnow, but 
as a rule the bass is finicky, and at a cer- 
tain time desires only a certain form of 
food ; for instance when they are taking 
frogs well the minnow is generally quite 
useless, and when a floating bait is taken 
with regularity an underwater lure is 
often good for nothing. 

The tackle used for black bass will do 
for pickerel and pike, although where 
the fish average large it is well to use a 
slightly heavier line. In any event, when 
trolling for these sweet-water sharks use 
a short, fine leader of steel or phosphor 
bronze. The writer has already dis- 
cussed deep-trolling for lake trout in a 
former article. Trolling with flies for 
landlocked salmon, brook trout, and 
black bass should be gone about differ- 
ently in the matter of tackle. 

Undoubtedly no angler with a fair 
idea regarding the eternal fitness of 
things would care to use a short bait- 
casting rod when trolling with flies. In 
view of the fact that the weight of a cast 
of flies is negligible, and that one may 
well use an enamel line of the smallest 
practicable caliber, size G, in this form 
of trolling, and also that if due care is 



taken the line may be shortened some- 
what, the fly-rod may be used and, in- 
deed, should be preferred. Trolling with 
flies is hardly real fly-fishing, notwith- 
standing which the tackle should be prac- 
tically the same. 

The worth of an ounce of prevention 
is well-known, and to lessen the liability 
of damage to your fly-rod through the 
strain of trolling, it is well to have the 
rod fitted with an independent handle. 
If the rod is thus made, one may from 
time to time while fishing turn the 
handle so as to relieve the rod from a 
constant strain in one direction. It 
seems hardly necessary to say that a 
featherweight fly-rod should not be used 
for trolling. A ten-foot, six and a half 
or seven-ounce rod is best adapted for 
the purpose. 

For lake trolling for any game fish 
larger flies should be used than those 
customarily employed for casting in 
either lake or river. For black bass the 
best sizes are from I to 2-0 inclusive ; for 
brook trout and landlocked salmon use 
sizes 6 to 2. The flies should not be 
tied to gut but either eyed or with gut 
loops. For trolling it is best to use a 
double multiplying reel, although to the 
fly-caster who plays the game strictly 
according to Hoyle — and that is the only 
way to play it — a multiplier of any sort 
always seems out of place on a fly-rod. 
Leaders must be of good length and best 
quality, and rather heavier than for fly- 
casting; it is sometimes a good plan to 
pinch one or two split-shot on the leader 
in order to get down to the fish. 

For small-mouthed black bass and 
brook trout troll at the inlet or outlet 
of the lake, over rocky shoals and bars, 
and in the heat of summer over the 
spring-holes. For large-mouthed black 
bass, pike, pickerel, and muscalonge, 
fish always close to or right in the weeds. 
Use a bait with the fewest possible num- 
ber of hooks in order to avoid fouling 
constantly in the weeds. Flies for black 
bass may be had with " weedless " guards 
of hair or metal. 

It is always well to avoid using a 
longer line than is absolutely necessary 
for good fishing; if a canoe is used you 
may use a shorter line than when trolling 
from the average row-boat — the canoe, 



BAD MEDICINE 



3°9 



if skilfully paddled, creates far less dis- 
turbance in the water. Have your pad- 
dler or oarsman maintain an even pace 
just fast enough to keep the bait play- 
ing along nicely at the proper depth. 

The course of the boat should never 
be changed abruptly as this causes the 
bait to hunt bottom at once; rather, 
make the turns in a wide semi-circle. 
The landing net should be used by the 
oarsman who, also, when a fish is struck 
should as soon as possible work the boat 
into deep water, at the same time so 



handling the craft that the angler may 
not be handicapped for room in playing 
his fish. 

In trolling much depends upon the 
skill of the man at the oars or paddle. If 
you are wise and seriously out for results 
you will go it alone rather than with 
someone with little fishing experience. 
The mere fact that you yourself are to 
do all the fishing does not alter the case 
— the tenderfoot will see to it that your 
luck is strictly of the sort called " fisher- 
man s. 




BAD MEDICINE 

BY HULBERT FOOTNER 

Illustrated by R. W. Amick 



CHAPTER V 

In the Old Woman's Cabin 



^\ \F T ] 



'ITH the coming of 
darkness on Christ- 
Vk jf\ II mas eve, the tem- 
xi / X< / perature rose and, as 

W W St. Pierre had fore- 

told, snow began to 
fall — large flakes dropping silently in a 
calm, clinging to the spruce boughs, and 
like the hand of Time smoothing the 
edges of all things. Within her cabin 
the old woman scampered about pre- 
paring supper for her two children. 
Ralph she expected from the fur camp 
to spend Christmas with her. As she 
worked she hummed cheerfully to her- 
self, and often broke into inconsequen- 
tial speech in the hurrying, toneless voice 
of those whose lonely hearts force them 
to talk to themselves. 

The shelf over the mantel as she put 
the lamp down started a new train of 
thought. She felt of the edge with her 
fingers. 



"The tack holes are still here," she 
murmured wistfully. "He won't be 
hanging up his stocking this year. Poor 
mannie! there was always little enough 
to put in it! — Well, they grow up!" 

It was a typical Northern interior, the 
rafters crouching low and the tiny win- 
dows and doors queerly out of plumb. 
Unlike most of the shacks, this had an 
inner room. On one side there was a 
rough fireplace, a cook stove on the 
other. The furniture was all home-made 
— Ralph's bed in the corner, the cup- 
boards, the table, and the old woman's 
quaint slab-sided rocker by the fire. 
Empty boxes served for seats at the 
table. 

From the inner room the old woman 
brought a white tablecloth, last relic of 
her civilized housekeeping. Spreading 
it, she smoothed out the creases with 
loving palms, and stood off to observe 
the effect. 

"Now you ought to have a cut-glass 
bowl in the middle filled with roses," she 
murmured, "spicy pink ones. Ah, roses!" 
she sighed. "Will I ever see them 



3io 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



again ? — and silver knives and forks and 
a chihy teapot!" 

With one of her quick impulses she 
darted into the bedroom again, and pres- 
ently reappeared with the silver and the 
bottles from Annis's dressing case. She 
placed them about the table, and, stand- 
ing off, clasped her hands at the sight. 

"Silver and glass and white linen!" 
she murmured ecstatically — then, with 
the comical break in her voice: "Bessie 
Croome, I believe you'd be glad to die, 
so you had nice things of your own for 
a little while first!" 

The old woman's wistful fairy tales 
always took the same trend — going 
home! She sat herself down at the end 
of the table. 

"Annis, there," she went on, pointing 
to her right, "in her pretty party dress; 
Ralph at the head of the table in a white 
choker and dickey; yourself in a black 
silk that would stand alone, and not 
knowing any more than the man in the 
moon what was coming on the table! 
Asparagus and scalloped oysters and ice 
cream and strawberries — and not have 
to fix a bit of it yourself ! Ralph would 
say: 'What shall we do to-night, girls? 
Shall it be "East Lynne" or "Uncle 
Tom's Cabin?"'" 

The latch on the door was lifted, and 
the old woman jumped like a child 
caught in the pantry. She swept up the 
silver articles and ran quickly into the 
bedroom. 

Annis came in powdered with snow to 
her eyelashes. She fought back weari- 
ness and languor, and the drive home 
had put color in her cheeks. Her mother 
could never have guessed from the look 
of her what had just happened at the 
church. 

The old woman returned with the 
elaborately unconscious air of the same 
guilty child. At sight of the snow her 
face changed. 

"Snowing!" she cried, anxiously. 
"Bless my soul! I had no idea! Do 
you realize what lost in the snow is up 
here, child?" 

"I wasn't alone," said Annis. "Aleck 
Whitebear carried me on his sledge." 

The old woman frowned. "That 
surly bear!" 



"Perhaps you'll find him better after 
this," Annis said. 

The old woman was above all hos- 
pitable. "Anyway, he should have 
stopped," she said. 

"He wants to make Duncan McPhat- 
ter's for supper," Annis said. " He's 
starting for the fort to-morrow." 

"Traveling on Christmas Day!" ex- 
claimed the old woman. "What for?" 

Annis looked at her mother's worn 
face and quickly decided not to distress 
her with the news of what had happened. 
"I don't know," she said, carelessly. 

"Did you hear anything of Ralph?" 
asked the old woman, anxiously. 

Neither could Annis nerve herself to 
tell that story yet. She shook her head. 

"The snow may keep him until to- 
morrow," the old woman said. "But 
he'll surely come early. Perhaps he's 
had luck, a silver fox, or, as long as 
we're wishing, why not a black one! 
That would cure all our troubles at 
once!" 

This was almost too much for Annis. 
She swallowed a great lump that rose in 
her tired throat. 

"What is a black fox worth?" she 
asked. 

"The last one brought four hundred 
skins," her mother said. "It sold for 
twelve hundred in London." 

"What foolish people there are in the 
world," said Annis. 

"Meanwhile we'll have our supper," 
said the old woman, brightly. "Would 
you put on your pretty party dress?" she 
asked wistfully. "I just love to look 
at it!" 

While Annis was dressing there was a 
knock at the door. "Come in, Parson 
Dick!" cried the old woman instantly. 

It was Dick. He looked done up, but 
he forced a smile for the old woman. 
"How did you know?" he asked, as he 
beat the snow out of his cap. 

"You're the only one who knocks," 
she said. "It's the custom to walk in." 

"I know," he said, "but surely a white 
woman's house — " 

"Bless your heart, they don't think of 
that! When I'm not presentable you 
may be sure I'm in my own room. I 
have a lock on that door. The outer 



BAD MEDICINE 



3ii 



door has none, and this room is always 
at the service of travelers." 

He refused to take off his things. 

"Man! when do you eat and sleep!" 
she cried impatiently. 

"The fact is," he said diffidently, "I 
came to see if I could take you along 
with me." 

"What! Christmas eve!" cried the 
old woman, promptly flying into one of 
her innocent rages. 

Parson Dick let her talk herself out. 
"Hooliam Trudeau came for me to see 
his sister," he said, when he had a chance. 
"And Mary Zero's fever will reach its 
crisis during the night." 

"Mary Zero;" cried the old woman, 
working herself into a fine passion. 
"You have the face to ask me to sit up 
with her! The impudent fat brown 
hussy! She mocks me to my face!" 

Dick let the tirade run its course. He 
was beginning to learn how to manage 
the old woman. When she paused for 
breath he made a move toward the door. 

"What are you going to do now?" she 
demanded sharply. 

"Perhaps I can get Mrs. Sashermah," 
he suggested innocently. 

"The very thing!" cried the old wom- 
an scornfully. "Sashermah knows as 
much about nursing as my cow!" 

"She's the only one I can reach." 

"Thought you asked me to go!" 

"You said you wouldn't." 

"Can't I blow off steam? Here, 
bring the grub box from under the cup- 
board and put it on the table. The chil- 
dren will be hungry — but they'll be well 
scrubbed first, I promise you !" 

"Old woman, you're an angel!" cried 
Dick. * 

"Angel fiddlesticks!" she said scorn- 
fully. "Nice piece of heavenly furni- 
ture Yd make!" 

When it was packed, Parson Dick 
carried the grub box out and put it on 
the sledge. When he came back it was 
to be struck dumb by the door. The 
old woman was getting ready within and 
the room was empty except for Annis, 
standing in the center, illuminating the 
dingy place like the good fairy in the 
first act of a pantomime. She wore a 
pink dress that seemed to him to be 



woven of rose petals, and her bare neck 
and arms were softer and lovelier still. 
Her hair was twisted up cunningly, and 
a pink fillet showed through its folds. 
Dick stood against the door with parted 
lips and wide, rapt eyes, like a man who 
sees a vision and scarcely dares breathe 
for fear of dissipating it. 

Annis's heart was sore against him, 
and she felt a wicked little pleasure in 
tantalizing him with her beauty. 

"How lovely you are!" he murmured. 

"Nonsense!" she said coldly. "This 
is only a little dancing dress!" 

"It's a symbol," he said dreamily, "a 
symbol of all one lacks and longs for 
up here." 

"I didn't think you were so frivolous," 
she said. 

"To be sure," he said dryly. "You 
picture me as a kind of abstraction of a 
man. You said as much." 

"I'm sorry for what I said this after- 
noon," she said stiffly. 

There was a silence between them. 
In spite of herself Annis began to soften. 
He looked so brave and clean and manly 
after the unspeakable St. Pierre ! More- 
over, she had done him a great service, 
saved his life perhaps, and you cannot 
continue to hate a person you have saved. 
Dick was no more than two years older 
than she, and his face was streaked with 
the lines of anxiety and weariness, his 
young eyes dwelt on her, craving rest 
and laughter — and love! Much as she 
wished to, she could not steel her breast 
against that look. 

Dick, with a sigh, dragged his eyes 
away from her and tried to talk of ordi- 
nary things. "You stayed late at the 
church," he said. 

Pride forbade Annis to tell him any- 
thing of what had happened there. "I 
was delayed," she said evasively. 

"What good magic did you succeed 
in working?" he asked. 

"Who has been talking to you? " she 
asked quickly. 

"No one. But before I left Zero's 
Paul came in. He was always one of 
the surliest, you know, but he shook my 
hand, was anxious to be friendly. It 
seemed he had been to the church — I 
never could get him there." 



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"I just talked to them," said Annis. 
"Afterwards I played the organ." 

"I wish you'd teach me the trick," he 
said. 

They were silent again. Such silences 
work powerfully upon a generous, im- 
pulsive nature such as Annis's. After 
all, Dick was more to her than the 
brother she had not seen all her life, who 
had repulsed her affectionate advances. 
Annis began to burn to make up to him 
for her cruel gibes earlier in the day. 

"Parson Dick, how long is it since 
you've been to bed ?" she suddenly asked. 

"Only three nights," he said lightly. 
"I've had naps." 

"You must rest," she said. 

"I'm all right." 

Annis could stand it no longer. She 
stood up straight and looked him in the 
eye like a brave boy confessing a fault. 
"Parson Dick, I'm truly sorry for what 
I said this afternoon. Of course you 
only did your duty. I wish to be friends 
again." 

The hard tense lines of his face broke 
up. His eyes beamed. "Annis!" he 
cried joyfully. 

But halfway to her he stopped, lamely 
took the hand she offered, dropped it and 
turned away, looking wearier and grayer 
than ever. Annis, with a little catch in 
her breath, wondered why he did not 
take her in his arms. The mystery 
about his conduct was as impenetrable 
as ever. 

The old woman had a thousand last 
directions to give. As she and Parson 
Dick were at the door Annis thought of 
staying in the lonely shack four miles 
from a neighbor, and of St. Pierre, and 
her heart failed her a little. 

"Mother, couldn't I come, too?" she 
asked wistfully. 

"Mercy, no ! It's a typhus case !" said 
the old woman. "Besides, Ralph may be 
home." 

Annis and Dick exchanged a look. 

"You're not afraid, are you, my pet?" 
asked the old woman anxiously. "Noth- 
ing ever happens in the North but freez- 
ing, you know, and there are two cords 
of wood cut." 

"I am not afraid," said Annis proudly. 



CHAPTER VI 

The Visitor 

WHEN she was left alone Annis 
reasoned calmly with her fears 
and put them down. She had 
a little revolver which she kept in the 
bottom of her trunk, because she had 
found that revolvers as a means of per- 
sonal defense were ridiculed in the 
North. But she got it now, and loading 
it, slipped it in the bosom of her dress 
and felt better. She decided to eat her 
supper and go to bed, so she did not 
change the pink dress, merely wrapping 
a shawl about her shoulders. 

The silence was the hardest thing to 
bear — it brought to mind the awful, il- 
limitable wastes of snow lying between 
her and the land of homes. Any sud- 
den crackling of the fire made her jump 
in spite of herself. She left the kettle 
on the front of the stove because its 
cheerful humming comforted her. She 
marveled that her mother had endured 
this for eighteen years and kept sane. 

Less than an hour after they had gone, 
as she rose to put the things away, the 
outer door opened and St. Pierre Fraser 
stepped across the threshold. Annis put 
down her plate very quietly and drew 
the shawl closer about her shoulders. 
She was not surprised, she had vaguely 
expected him, but not so soon. At the 
sight of him her uncertain terrors fled. 
"Now I shall have my work cut out for 
me," she thought, and her spirits actu- 
ally rose. Some of her confidence was 
the result of inexperience and she trusted 
implicitly to moral force, overlooking 
the dangerous physical odds against her. 

St. Pierre stood his snowshoes by the 
door and dropped his roll of blankets 
beside them. He came forward with a 
mask over his glittering eyes and his thin 
lips wreathed in the pleasantest of smiles. 
Annis, watching him, was forced to con- 
fess that he was handsome and graceful 
in his lithe way. A savage dress would 
have become him better. 

"Excuse me for forgetting to knock," 
he said smoothly. "We get out of the 
way of it up here." 

"It does not matter," said Annis. 



BAD MEDICINE 



3i3 



She was anxious to placate him, but 
she could not take the hand he offered 
— that was too much for flesh and blood. 
She looked elsewhere. 

He forced her to notice it. "Won't 
you shake hands?" he said with an ad- 
mirable frank smile. "It's the custom 
up here." 

"It's not my custom," said Annis 
quietly. 

He shrugged his shoulders without 
ceasing to smile. 

"Sit down and eat," said Annis po- 
litely. "Everything is on the table. I 
will get you a plate." 

St. Pierre declined. "I had supper at 
the store," he said. 

Annis coolly set about clearing the 
table. For all their friendly conversa- 
tion, she had none the less a sense of a 
deadly enemy there in the room, wait- 
ing to spring on her if she betrayed the 
slightest weakness. And there was no 
help from the outside to be looked for. 
She marked the bread knife as she put 
it on the shelf. It was ground to a long, 
slender point. It might be useful later. 
She had a stout heart. 

"How does it happen that you are 
left alone on Christmas eve?" asked St. 
Pierre ingratiatingly, "and dressed as if 
for a party?" 

"I am not alone," said Annis quickly. 
"My mother is in her room." This was 
a tactical error. 

St. Pierre rose lazily. "That so?" he 
said. "I wanted to speak to her." 

"She's asleep," said Annis. "Do not 
waken her." 

"Why, it's no more than eight 
o'clock !" 

"She is not well." 

St. Pierre sat down. "It's this busi- 
ness about Ralph, I suppose," he said 
feelingly. "Heaven knows I did what 
I could to prevent it, but Parson Dick 
was determined. He means well, but 
his religious theories work the very devil 
up here!" 

"Let us not talk about that," said 
Annis quietly. 

"There you go!" he said with his air 
of humble, humorous frankness. "The 
more I try to please you, the harder I 
get turned down!" 



"Don't try to please me so much and 
I'll be better pleased," she said. 

"What am I to understand by that?" 
asked St. Pierre sharply. 

"Be downright and outspoken with 
me, as if I were a man," said Annis. 

St. Pierre began to tire of his play 
acting. His lip curled. "Like Parson 
Dick, eh? After his work to-day is he 
still your model of a man ?" 

"Now, you are insulting," she said 
quietly. 

St. Pierre sprang up. "What do you 
want?" he said, snarling. "I come in a 
friendly spirit, and you with your high 
and mighty air, treating me like the dirt 
beneath your feet, throwing your parson 
in my teeth!" 

"I have not mentioned Parson Dick," 
she said. 

St. Pierre had come expecting to find 
her aroused against Dick. Reading the 
contrary in her eyes, his savage jealousy 
flamed out. "The white-livered priest! 
I hate him !" he cried, striking the table. 
"There's frankness for you!" 

A chill struck to Annis's heart. He 
must be very sure of himself to let the 
truth come out, she thought, but she 
kept her colors flying. With a level look 
at him, she turned and walked to the 
door of her room without hurrying. St. 
Pierre could not meet her eyes, but with 
a glide like a panther he reached the 
door as soon as she, and as her hand fell 
on the latch, his hand closed over it. 

Wrenching free, she fell back a step. 
St. Pierre commanded the door. 

"How dare you!" murmured Annis, 
trembling a little with indignation. 

St. Pierre's eyes bolted, but he stood 
his ground. "Don't go — yet," he said 
mockingly. "Let's have a little of your 
frank conversation. That was a smart 
trick you played me this afternoon with 
your petition to my employers." 

Annis was silent. 

"You see I know," he went on. "I 
know everything up here. I knew when 
Aleck started for the Fort with the 
paper — and I had him stopped." 

He showed her the very paper — the 
flyleaf of a hymn book, hurriedly 
scrawled. He tore it up with a laugh 
and tossed the pieces in the air. 



3H 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



Annis's heart contracted. What had 
happened to Aleck, she thought. "What 
did you come here for?" she demanded. 

"I came because a woman — a pretty 
woman — defied me," he said with mock- 
ing insolence. "She must be humbled!" 

"You've been drinking!" said Annis 
scornfully. "Let me go to my mother." 

St. Pierre turned quickly and beat 
upon the bedroom door. "Old woman ! 
Old woman!" he cried. "Is it possible 
she's not there?" he said with affected 
surprise. "Is it possible that the lady 
who recommended me to be frank could 
have been lying herself?" His tone 
changed. "What's the use? I met the 
old woman on the way to Paul Zero's." 

A gleam of hope appeared in Annis's 
eyes. 

He observed it. "Saw her, I should 
say," he amended. "She didn't see me; 
we won't be interrupted." 

There was something unspeakably 
horrible to Annis in his furtive eyes, 
which could not rest on hers, even while 
he threatened her. "Let me go to my 
room," she said proudly. 

St. Pierre drew out the key and, pock- 
eting it, mockingly threw the door wide. 
"Certainly," he said, sauntering across 
the room. 

Annis, as cool as he, turned and went 
back to the table. "Very well," she said. 

"What's the use," he said at last. 
"You can't escape me, Annis. There 
isn't a living soul within four miles, and 
no chance of rescue before morning. I 
offer you an honorable surrender." 

"What do you mean by that?" she de- 
manded. 

"Cast in your lot with mine!" 

Annis's eyes flashed. 

St. Pierre could not quite face her 
down. He scowled. "Softly," he said. 
"You're not exactly in a position to be 
scornful." He resumed his bantering 
tone. "Perhaps you want to be courted 
— I never bent to a woman yet — but I'll 
court you!" 

He dared to gaze at her at last. His 
expression changed. For the moment 
his hard eyes had the stricken look of a 
genuine passion. "You are worthy of a 
man!" he said hoarsely. "When I heard 
how you bent the poor breeds to your 



will, I laughed. There is the woman 
for me, I cried. I'll stake my life to get 
her!" 

He approached her a little. She 
scornfully stood her ground. "You and 
I together!" he went on swiftly; "what 
couldn't we do ! Here is an empire wait- 
ing for you in the North ! I know you 
better than the others do, you love to 
rule the breeds — call it educating them 
if you like — well, come with me, and 
you shall queen it under the eyes of the 
stupid government!" 

"Do I understand you are offering 
to marry me ?" asked Annis a little un- 
steadily. 

"Sure," he said. "I'll take care of 
you. I haven't been trading whisky all 
these years for nothing. I'm rich. And 
you shall know what it is to be mated 
to. a man!" 

"And if I refuse?" she murmured. 

"I'll take you anyway," he said. "I'll 
carry you to-night to the Beaver Indian 
village. The people will do anything 
these days for a little pork and flour. 
I'll be back in the store before morning, 
and all tracks covered by the snow. 
Later I'll have you taken to the Death 
River country, where no white man has 
ever been." 

"I would soon be found," said Annis 
confidently. 

"Not right away," said St. Pierre. 
"Sooner or later, of course — but then" 
— he smiled evilly — "you wouldn't leave 
me." 

Annis shuddered. There is always 
one way to protect myself, she thought, 
her hand stealing inside the bosom of 
her dress. 

"Well, what do you say?" he de- 
manded. 

"Go!" she said coldly. 

St. Pierre smiled, with narrowed eyes. 
"It will be the sweeter to tame you," he 
murmured. He approached her slowly, 
like some cat animal, and purring: "How 
pretty you are when your eyes flash — 
Annis!" 

He put out his hand to her. Annis 
drew the revolver. "Keep your dis- 
tance," she said sharply. 

He fell back in surprise. "Armed, 
eh?" 




HE WRENCHED THE DOOR SUDDENLY OPEN, AND SEIZING HER IN HIS ARMS 

DRAGGED HER OUT, UTTERING PEAL UPON PEAL OF MOCKING, 

DEVILISH LAUGHTER. 



316 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



The ancient arrogance of the race 
surged up in Annis's blood. Her eyes 
glowed like living embers. "Go, breed !" 
she cried. "How dare you talk of mas- 
tering one of white blood! What can 
you understand of the nature of white 
men? Go back to your own people!" 

St. Pierre cringed. 

"Give me the key to my room and go," 
commanded Annis. 

He sparred for time, affecting humil- 
ity. He begged her pardon. "If I go 
quietly, you won't inform on me?" he 
whined. 

Like young people generally, Annis 
exulted too soon. "Not if you behave 
yourself hereafter," she said scornfully. 
"Give me the key." 

He hung his head and held it out on 
the palm of his right hand. She ap- 
proached him, covering him with the re- 
volver and watching his face narrowly. 
In order to take the key it was necessary 
for one instant to glance at his hand. 
Like a flash he flung up his left hand, 
knocking the revolver out of her grasp. 
It exploded and the bullet went through 
the roof. St. Pierre pounced on the 
weapon where it fell. He kept the key 
also. 

"Now, my girl, what will you do?" 
he said coolly. "You see the supremacy 
of white blood is largely a matter of 
bullets." 

Annis stared at him, white and des- 
perate. St. Pierre rolled a cigarette. 
"Get your things," he said. 

Annis suddenly recollected the bread 
knife with the thin, sharp blade. She 
flew to the shelf. He saw the knife and 
instantly divined her intention. 

" Stop, for God's sake!" he cried. 

"You'll never get me now!" she cried 
wildly. 

With the point at her breast, her hand 
was arrested by the ring of the key on 
the table, where he tossed it. The breed 
had turned as yellow as new saddle 
leather. 

"I know damned well you'd do it," 
he murmured. 

"I shall not trust you again," she said 
warily. 

He retired to the farthest corner of 



the room and turned his back. Annis 
picked up the key and, keeping the point 
of the knife at her breast, backed to the 
door of her room. 

At the sound of the latch as it fell be- 
hind her, St. Pierre whirled about and 
glided silently to the door. He bent his 
head and heard her working at the key- 
hole inside. He guessed she must have 
put down the knife. He wrenched the 
door suddenly open and, seizing her in 
his arms, dragged her out, uttering peal 
upon peal of mocking, devilish laughter. 

"So sorry! . . . Made a mistake! 
. . . Gave you the key to my place in- 
stead ! ... I've got you — you pretty — 
pretty Annis!" 

Waves of a shuddering, sick weakness 
surged over Annis and she could strug- 
gle no more. She closed her eyes, and 
with the whole force of her soul prayed 
that this might be death. Surely a mer- 
ciful God would not require her to go 
on living after — 

The sinewy arms around her sudden- 
ly relaxed, and St. Pierre with one of 
his swift glides was at the other side of 
the room, crouching and gazing, not at 
her, but at the door, with savage eyes 
and lips drawn back over his fangs. 

Annis, too dazed for the moment to 
understand what had happened, swayed 
and clung to the wall behind her. Then 
from far off she heard the yelping of 
dogs and afterwards the chiming of bells. 
Unspeakable relief flooded her breast. 
The sounds rapidly drew nearer. 

"It's Parson Dick," snarled St. Pierre. 
"I know his dogs." He approached her 
threateningly. "Remember, I have the 
gun," he said. "If you tell him a word 
of what has happened, I will shoot him 
dead before your eyes!" 



CHAPTER VII 

The Two Men 

WHEN Parson Dick entered the 
old woman's cabin he found 
Annis pale but steady, and St. 
Pierre as ever, friendly and talkative. 
Dick was surprised to find him there, 



BAD MEDICINE 



317 



but, knowing nothing of the events of 
the afternoon, was unsuspicious. The 
old woman's was a popular stopping 
place. 

"Mary Zero is dead," he said gravely. 
"They let her escape from the house in 
her delirium. The old woman insisted 
on going on to Trudeau's, and sent me 
back to sleep." 

Annis quietly set about getting his 
supper. Her eyes scarcely ever left St. 
Pierre. The breed made a cigarette 
and, lighting it, dropped carelessly in the 
old woman's chair by the fire. His 
sleepy eyes were aware of the slightest 
moves of the other two. Dick, sitting 
at the table, had his back to St. Pierre. 
To Annis the situation was like one of 
those dreams where one walks amid un- 
nameable horrors with an insane calm- 
ness. There they sat, the three of them, 
talking quietly — with murder and worse 
keeping them company. Her nerves 
were stretched like violin strings. 

Dick had not been long in the cabin 
before he sensed that something was 
wrong. The very air was charged with 
it. He discovered a strange shadow in 
Annis's face that had not been there be- 
fore, and he realized that St. Pierre was 
too affable, too anxious to please. 

"Don't wait on me," he said to Annis 
gently. "You're tired." 

The touch of kindness almost un- 
nerved the overwrought girl. She stood, 
struggling with mounting sobs. Both 
men rose. St. Pierre, keeping his back 
partly turned to Dick, half drew the 
revolver from his pocket. A catastrophe 
hung by a hair. Annis saw St. Pierre's 
act and with a desperate effort forced 
back the sobs. 

"Yes, I'm tired," she said quietly. 
"But it's nothing." 

St. Pierre sat down. "Miss Croome 
should go to bed," he said in his silkiest 
tones. 

Dick frowned. He did not relish sug- 
gestions to Annis from that quarter. 
Annis observed his gathering suspicions 
and was torn in an agony of indecision. 
On the one hand, how could she leave 
Dick at the other man's mercy? On the 
other hand, if she remained in the room 
it was plain there would be an explosion 



within five minutes. She finally decided 
to go; she did not believe St. Pierre 
would dare shoot down Dick in cold 
blood, and from behind her door she 
could at least listen to all that occurred. 
But first she must find a way of warn- 
ing Dick. 

"I'll go directly," she said carelessly. 

St. Pierre glanced at her in sheer ad- 
miration of her coolness. 

Annis sat at the other end of the table 
from Dick. "About to-morrow — " she 
began in an ordinary voice, and went on 
to tell him in detail about the plans for 
the Sunday-school celebration. 

There was not a word in it to arouse 
St. Pierre's suspicions, but Dick instant- 
ly guessed that she was sparring for 
time, because he knew already all that 
she was telling him. As she talked, she 
picked up a fork idly and made marks 
on the tablecloth. Dick, without seem- 
ing to, followed her hands. She was 
printing the word : "Watch !" Beneath 
it in five strokes she indicated a revolver. 

Dick's face turned grim. He glanced 
at her to show that he understood, and 
looked from her to the door of the inner 
room to tell her she was better there. 
Annis, with a sigh of relief, got up and, 
bidding them both good night, went in, 
closing the door after her. 

St. Pierre, finding it impossible to 
draw Dick into conversation, coolly pro- 
ceeded to spread his bed before the fire. 
With a sharp glance at Dick, he put the 
straps from around his blankets in his 
pocket. Blowing out the lamp, he rolled 
up, and in a few minutes was breathing 
as in deep sleep. 

Dick pulled the old woman's rocking 
chair up to the stove and sat there smok- 
ing. He had not been in bed for three 
nights, he had just come in from a long 
run, and the food and the warm room 
had the inevitable effect. A delicious,, 
overpowering numbness crept over him. 
He shook himself and brought his mind 
to Annis and her danger. 

Imperious Nature was not to be de- 
nied. Sleep seized on his faculties as irre- 
sistible as death. For an hour he fought 
it, walking up and down ceaselessly 
and ever and again opening the outer 
door to breathe the cold air. He stag- 



3*8 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



gered as he walked and sometimes slept, 
but never ceased to struggle. At length, 
feeling better, he permitted himself to 
sit down only long enough to fill his 
pipe. The instant his limbs relaxed in 
the chair, his head rolled forward on his 
chest and the pipe clattered to the floor. 

With a bound, St. Pierre was at An- 
nis's door, locking it. The key was ready 
in his hand. Back at Dick's chair imme- 
diately, he bound him fast with the 
straps he had saved for that. Dick 
struggled silently and impotently. 

St. Pierre stood back, rolling a ciga- 
rette. "Well, Parson Dick! Wide 
awake again, eh?" he drawled, with 
cool, devilish malignity. "I'll put you 
to sleep directly. Damned awkward, 
your turning up when you did. I'll have 
to put her to sleep now — why? — to ac- 
count for your corpse, my man. You 
see, this is her gun. I'll leave it in her 
hand — you catch the idea?" 

"As for me," he went on, "I went to 
bed drunk this evening, and there I will 
be found in the morning when the awful 
news is brought — all tracks covered by 
the snow!" He threw the cigarette 
into the fireplace. "Are you ready? 
Here's a message to take with you " — 
he drew himself up with the incurable 
braggadocio of his race — " Let the white 
man beware how he despises his step- 
brothers!" 

St. Pierre raised the revolver. 

From the inner room came a wild cry. 
"St. Pierre! Help! St. Pierre!" 

His extended arm wavered and fell. 
In his own way he loved that voice. 

The cries were repeated. "St. Pierre! 
Come ! Come !" 

St. Pierre went swiftly to the door 
and, unlocking it, threw it wide. He 
could see nothing in the dark interior. 
Revolver in hand he stepped warily 
over the threshold. 

Within, Annis had her back against 
the wall in line with the door. As St. 
Pierre entered, she hooked her arm 
around his neck and, exerting a man's 
strength, jerked him reeling into the 
room. Before he recovered his balance 
she was outside. She slammed the door 
on him and locked it. 

Almost instantly there was a crash 



of breaking glass within. "He's out by 
the window," she gasped. Running 
across the room, she caught up the pail 
of water in the fireplace and dashed the 
contents hissing on the fire. The room 
was plunged in total darkness. 

Annis groped her way back to Dick 
and, drawing the knife from her belt, 
sawed frantically at his bonds. 

"Drop to the floor," she whispered 
when he was free. 

But Dick picked up the chair to which 
he had been bound and stationed himself 
by the door. 

Waiting in the dark, they heard the 
latch click and the door swung slowly 
open, letting in a breath of sweet, cold 
air. Dick brought down his chair with 
a crash on the floor, but St. Pierre had 
retreated. They sensed the outline of 
his crouching body against the snow. 

St. Pierre fired through the doorway 
in the direction whence the chair had 
fallen. Dick dropped to the floor like 
a log. Annis's heart failed her then ; she 
screamed in wild distress; she caught up 
the knife — but her hand was seized by 
a strong, warm one. 

"That was to bring him in," Dick 
whispered. She understood and con- 
tinued to cry out. 

Inch by inch, St. Pierre snaked his 
lithe body over the door sill. Dick 
could see him. He waited until he was 
well within and then dropped silently 
on his back. 

Instantly th«- room was in an uproar. 
They rolled and thrashed from wall to 
wall. The revolver was discharged once 
more. The table went over with a 
crash, the stovepipe rattled down, and 
the stove emptied its expiring embers 
on the floor. There were sudden, ap- 
palling pauses when only the hissing 
breath of the two adversaries could be 
heard. 

Dick cried for a light, and Annis with 
shaking hands found the matches and 
the lamp. It seemed like an age to her 
before she got it lighted — it was per- 
haps forty-five seconds. Before the light 
flamed up, the struggle ceased, and the 
men were dreadfully quiet. Holding up 
the lamp, Annis turned, dreading to see 
the man she loved wounded and over- 



SADDLE AND CAMP IN THE ROCKIES 



3*9 



come. A sob of relief escaped her. Dick 
was planted squarely between St. Pierre's 
shoulders and Dick had the revolver. 

Dick bound St. Pierre beyond the pos- 
sibility of escape and dragged him into 
the inner room, that they might be re- 
lieved of his presence. St. Pierre made 
no move nor sound during this. 

For Annis the inevitable reaction set 
in, and now that the danger was over, 
she trembled on the verge of collapse. 
She waited in the outer room deathly 
white and shaking piteously. As Dick 
came back to her she thought: "Surely, 
now, he cannot help but take me." 

Dick was transformed by the fight. 
All his weariness was gone ; his step was 
light and his eyes shone like a boy's. 
He, too, was thinking: "She's mine! 
I've won her fairly!" and his promise 
was forgotten. 

But Annis, standing there utterly 
foredone with weariness, had a startling 
look of her mother. Dick remembered 
and stopped dead. The thought fell 



like a heavy hand on his heart: "This 
is what the North does to women!" 

Annis raised her face to his. "You 
have saved me," she murmured. She 
picked up his hand and would have car- 
ried it to her lips, had he not snatched 
it away. 

"You mustn't! You mustn't!" he 
cried in a kind of horror. "It was you 
who saved me. I should be at your feet." 

Annis turned away, hurt and shamed 
beyond the power of replying. It was 
as if she had held up her heart to him 
in her two hands and he had pushed it 
away. She lay down on the bed with- 
out speaking and turned her face to the 
wall. 

The devil kept Dick company by the 
stove, ceaselessly whispering: "You have 
only to put out your hand and she is 
yours." To which Dick answered over 
and over, like a dull scholar painfully 
committing his lesson to memory: "She 
is young; she'll get over it. I have 
promised. I have promised." • 



(To be concluded) 



SADDLE AND CAMP IN THE 

ROCKIES 

BY DILLON WALLACE 

Illustrated with Photographs by the Author and S. N. Leek 

THE END OF THE TRAIL 



ALL night rain fell stead- 
ily and it did not cease 
until mid-forenoon on 
the day following my 
arrival at Booth's Fer- 
ry. Then the sun 
broke through the clouds to look upon 
a drenched world. Booth and Rogers 
warned me that it would be foolhardy 
to venture into the canyon with the 
treacherous "Blue Trail" wet and slip- 
pery, as it necessarily was so soon after 
the storm, and hearkening to their ad- 
vice I remained the day with them. 

Rogers was an old prospector who 
had followed elusive fortune all his life 



as the donkey followed the wisp of hay 
held before its nose. Booth was a typ- 
ical Rocky Mountain prospector, min- 
er, hunter, and trapper. Fifteen years 
before my visit he had established his 
ferry and built his cabin at the lower 
end of the Grand Canyon of the Snake. 
Since then he has hunted and trapped 
in this and the Canyon of John Day's 
River, which flows into the Snake near 
the ferry. During the summer he and 
Rogers operate the ferry and work a 
salt mine up Star Valley, which Booth 
discovered some years ago. 

Booth's cabin stands at the foot of a 
high, barren mountain which rises well 



320 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



above timber line. Sometimes mountain 
sheep are to be seen on this mountain 
from the cabin door. Some fifty, the 
remnant of a once large flock, inhabit 
the heights. Each year the huntsman's 
rifle, however, is diminishing the num- 
ber, and very shortly they will be ex- 
terminated. These are the most avail- 
able sheep for the people of Afton and 
the other settlements of Star Valley, 
and the few settlers in the valley below 
the canyon depend almost wholly upon 
wild game — chiefly elk, but occasionally 
sheep — to supply their tables with meat. 
It is usual for settlers to corn sufficient 
elk meat to carry them over the summer. 

Their Last March 

During the first years that Booth 
lived here a herd of about fifteen hun- 
dred elk passed down the canyon each 
autumn, on their way to their winter 
range in the Snake River valley below, 
and regularly returned in the spring to 
their summer ranges in higher altitudes. 
When the settler came with his repeat- 
ing rifle the herd began noticeably to 
diminish with each annual migration, 
until five years ago its last remnant, 
numbering eighty-eight, passed out of 
the canyon, and no member of it ever 
returned. 

Booth observed and counted these 
eighty-eight when they came down the 
canyon, and his curiosity led him to in- 
quire their fate. He learned definitely 
where ranchmen had killed eighty-six of 
them. The other two apparently es- 
caped, but no elk have since come out of 
the canyon or been seen upon the ancient 
elk range in the valley. 

The rain at our level had been snow 
in the higher altitudes. The weather 
turned cold and the morning was crisp 
with frost when I turned into the canyon 
to resume my journey. The sun shone 
brilliantly, and the atmosphere possessed 
to a high degree that tonic, transparent 
quality so characteristic of Rocky Moun- 
tain regions. These conditions com- 
bined to make the day ideal. 

While now and again the trail 
dropped down close to the water, for the 
most part it hung upon the edge of a 
steep bank or well-nigh perpendicular 



cliff several hundred feet above the rush- 
ing river. It was not, however, in any 
sense a dangerous trail for one using 
ordinary caution, and I found it from 
end to end of the canyon well-beaten 
and in good condition. Once I met a 
cowboy drifting some cattle down the 
canyon, and had to find foothold for 
the horses at the edge of the trail and 
wait for them to pass me single file. 

My bivouac that night, at the edge 
of the pines on a level spot above the 
Blue Trail, I recall as one of the most 
delightful of my journey. The atmos- 
phere was sweet with the odor of pines ; 
below me the singing river sparkled in 
the starlight; around me rose high 
canyon walls, dark with clinging timber 
and fringed at the top with pine trees 
standing out in silhouette where sky and 
canyon rim met. A cozy, cheerful 
camp fire gave material comfort, for the 
night was cold. 

The Grand Canyon of- the Snake is 
peculiarly attractive, and its wild and 
primitive grandeur makes it one of the 
most inspiring and lovely bits of country 
in this whole region. The river holds 
an abundance of trout, and I can recall 
no more ideal spot, comparatively easy 
of access, than this, for a camper's and 
angler's holiday. 

Above my night's bivouac I passed an 
abandoned placer miner's cabin, not far 
beyond forded the river, and presently 
came upon the little log cabin of Jack 
Davis, an old placer miner who has 
lived here alone, washing gravel, for 
more than twenty years. For months 
at a time no human being passes his way, 
and he was very glad to see me. He 
lives on fish and game mainly, supple- 
mented, when he has them — and that is 
not always by any means — by bacon and 
flour, which he packs fifty miles on his 
back. His claim has never yielded him 
more than a scant living, but with the 
miner's never-failing optimism he ex- 
pects some day to " strike it rich." 

All the gravel along the Snake, even 
high up on the mountain sides, the 
length of the canyon, is filled with flake 
gold. One can find " color " anywhere, 
but the flakes are too light to separate 
from the gravel by any known process. 
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322 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



get, however, sufficient to keep his cour- 
age and hope alive. And so he will 
continue digging and working until life 
goes out. A chance passer-by will some 
day find his poor old body in the canyon, 
where he and his hopes have died to- 
gether. He is now seventy-seven years 
of age. 

Old Jack was frying bacon when I 
dismounted and stopped for a quarter 
hour's chat with him. He urged me to 
join him at dinner. It was twelve 
o'clock, he said, " by the sun," and I 
" better stop." My watch verified his 
guess, but I excused myself on the plea 
of short days and the necessity of tak- 
ing advantage of all the daylight to 
travel. I was well aware that he had 
little enough for himself to eat, without 
entertaining strangers, and it would 
have insulted his sense of hospitality had 
I even suggested using my own provi- 
sions, for Jack Davis is a remnant of the 
early Western frontier. 

My trail carried me thence to the 
fording of the Hoback, the lower winter 
range of the great elk herds that con- 
gregate along the Snake River valley, 
through Jackson's Hole, to the Gros 
Ventre. Descending thence into Jack- 
son's Hole, once the resort of horse 
thieves and bad men, now the home of 
peaceful, thriving ranchmen, one night 
was spent at Cheney, which from its ap- 
pearance on the map I expected to find a 
settlement, but which proved to be a 
single ranch, and the following morning 
I rode into the village of Jackson. 

Several days were spent in Jackson's 
Hole, while investigating the elk condi- 
tions described in The Outing Maga- 
zine for May. Here S. N. Leek, a 
ranchman, one of the early settlers, 
joined me, and together we proceeded to 
the Gros Ventre valley, pitching our 
tent by the river, at a point where a 
precipitous mountain rose opposite. Here 
we were encamped for three nights. 

As previously stated, this is the upper 
winter range of the Jackson's Hole 
country, and here, as in the lower valley, 
though to a smaller extent for fewer 
elk winter here than there, we found the 
remains of many animals that had per- 
ished. Leek found one old head with a 
sixty-three-inch spread and measuring 



sixty inches along the outside of the 
horn, not a record head, but close to the 
largest bona fide head extant, for it must 
be remembered that some of those that 
at one time passed as record heads of 
enormous proportions had been patched. 

This, too, is a good mountain-sheep 
country, and several are killed each year 
on Sheep Mountain, on the mountain 
opposite our camp, and on others of the 
higher peaks nearby. Indeed, an old 
buck came down to the river not more 
than four hundred yards below us while 
we were camped there. 

In a previous article I stated that 
Wyoming probably has five hundred of 
the approximately seven thousand sheep 
remaining in the United States. This 
is, let me say, a liberal estimate. The 
actual number doubtless falls somewhat 
short of it. 

Wyoming and Her Sheep 

Of these five hundred, one hundred 
inhabit the Tetons. On the west side 
of the Tetons domestic sheep are invad- 
ing the lower edge of the mountain- 
sheep range, with the result that scab 
has appeared among the latter. There 
is no question that the mountain sheep 
have been infected, but how far the in- 
fection has spread among them it is 
at present hard to say. It is not hard, 
however, to prophesy the result. 

The number of mountain sheep killed 
each year by hunters in Wyoming is con- 
siderably in excess of the increase, and 
with the Teton sheep infected with scab, 
what will be the result unless hunting 
is very promptly prohibited in Wyo- 
ming? 

What is Wyoming doing? Letting 
the hunting go merrily on, while she 
concentrates her efforts upon overstock- 
ing with elk an already largely over- 
stocked range and giving little or no 
attention to her mountain sheep. The 
fact is that unless Wyoming very 
promptly establishes a permanent closed 
season on mountain sheep, as Colorado 
has done, she will have no sheep to pro- 
tect. 

Formerly there were considerable 
numbers of antelope in northwestern 
Wyoming. Though the warning was 




THE CABIN OF CHARLES NEIL, THE TRAPPER IN BUFFALO FORK. 



sounded that they were rapidly decreas- 
ing in numbers, hunting was permitted 
until 1909, and as a result antelope have 
practically disappeared from northwest- 
ern Wyoming. This is what is certain 
to happen to her sheep. 

What is known as the Gros Ventre 
" slide " is situated some two miles 
above the place where we were camped. 
This is a section of mountain perhaps 



one mile wide and extending up the 
mountainside five miles, which is grad- 
ually changing its positions and sliding 
down toward the river gorge. The first 
movement was noticed in 1907, and 
though the mountainside is sliding too 
slowly to be noticeable to the naked eye, 
save by the constant rolling of pebbles, 
or the trickling of gravel upon slopes, 
the area affected now has the appearance 




ANTELOPE FEEDING ON THE ALFALFA FIELD IN THE PARK AT GARDINER, 

MONTANA. 
323 



SADDLE AND CAMP IN THE ROCKIES 



325 



of having been shaken by a terrific earth- 
quake. Trees have been rolled under ; 
crevasses fifteen feet deep have opened; 
high pressure ridges have formed ; in 
level places ponds have been filled and 
other ponds formed ; and the Gros Ven- 
tre River, at the foot of the slide, has 
been pushed out of its old channel and 
against the base of a precipitous moun- 
tain opposite. 

The slide is indeed pushing against 
this other mountain, gradually raising 
the river and forming a lake above, 
where none formerly existed. Above the 
river gorge, formed by the slide on one 
side and the mountain on the other, is a 
large basin, and the prospect is that this 
basin will ultimately become a lake of 
considerable proportions. The river is 
very muddy below the slide, and one 
morning while we were camped there 
we found it had fallen nearly three 
inches, the result of a large body of earth 
having been pushed into it by the slide. 

My route lay down the Gros Ventre 
to Slate Creek, thence up Slate Creek, 
over Mt. Leidy ridge past Leidy Lake, 
down to Spread Creek, over another 
ridge past Lilly Lake to the Buffalo 
Fork, and thence northward through the 
Wyoming game refuge to Yellowstone 
National Park, which I was to enter at 
Snake River station and traverse its 
width northward to Gardiner, Montana. 

Leek kept me company to Mt. Leidy. 
Beyond a maze of fallen timber on the 
slope of Mt. Leidy he turned back, to 
return to his camp on the Gros Ventre, 
while I rose to the summit of the 
pass, covered with the snow of recent 
storms. The last reach of the ascent 
was abrupt and there was no trail to 
follow, but once at the top I was treated 
to a magnificent panoramic view of the 
valley I had just left. 

Far beneath me the silver thread of 
Slate Creek wound down to join the 
Gros Ventre. Beyond the Gros Ventre 
rose Sheep Mountain with other moun- 
tains and ranges beyond, in a mighty 
tumbled mass, some of them, like Mt. 
Leidy, where I stood, partially covered 
with fir and the summits of all white 
with snow. 

On the opposite side of the ridge I 
dropped down past Lake Leidy, a beau- 



tiful bit of water romantically situated 
among the fir-clad peaks. In the de- 
scent from Leidy Lake to Spread Creek 
were the tracks of a large band of elk, 
chiefly cows and calves, with unmistak- 
able signs that the animals had been 
driven. The tracks were fresh — not 
above a few hours old. That evening 
I was startled by the bugle call of an 
elk. It startled me, for this was late 
in the season for bulls to be bugling. 

The weather was growing cold. 
Spread Creek, where the water was not 
too swift, froze hard that night, and the 
earth became like flint. My course car- 
ried me down the creek for some dis- 
tance, over a low ridge, and thence 
across the North Branch of Spread 
Creek, which I reached during the fol- 
lowing forenoon. I aimed to come out 
at Lilly Lake — which is, in fact, only a 
small pond — thence cross another ridge, 
make past a butte Leek had described to 
me, and strike for a ford of the Buffalo, 
on the opposite side of which is an old 
military road which leads into the direct 
route to the southern entrance of Yel- 
lowstone Park. 

A "Dude Outfit" 

In emerging from the timber to de- 
scend into the gorge of the North 
Branch, I descried some tents on a hill 
opposite and to the right. Upon riding 
up to them I found it to be the camp of 
Roy McBride, a Jackson's Hole guide 
who with three assistants had an Eng- 
lishman and his wife on a hunting trip 
— a " dude outfit," as one of the men 
put it. 

Travelers here are classified as 
"dudes," "sage brushers" or "rough 
necks." Anyone who travels or hunts 
with a guide is a "dude," no matter 
how rough or unkempt his personal ap- 
pearance. Those who travel with 
wagons on beaten roads, camping in 
more or less comfort, with the para- 
phernalia they are able to carry in this 
way, are "sage brushers." A horseback 
traveler, doing his own cooking and 
camp work, unassisted by a guide, and in 
fact roughing it in the true sense, is a 
"rough neck" — that is, one traveling as 
the people of the country travel. They 



326 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



do not consider that a man is roughing 
it who has a guide to care for him and 
his camp equipment, nor one who travels 
by wagon on beaten roads. This classi- 
fication extends over Yellowstone Park 
as well as the surrounding region. 

McBride's "dudes" were a Mr. and 
Mrs. Henderson, who had come from 
England to secure elk trophies. I was 
introduced to them, and accepted Mc- 
Bride's invitation to remain to dinner. 
Mr. Henderson, as well as others of the 
party, informed me that they had seen 
soldiers from the camp on Slate Creek 
firing indiscriminately into herds of cow 
and calf elk, and were certain some of 
the cows had been killed. McBride had 
no doubt the animals whose tracks I had 
seen between Leidy Lake and Spread 
Creek had been driven by soldiers. 

It was mid-afternoon when I re- 
mounted and turned past Lilly Lake, 
riding now in forest, now in open, with 
no definite trail but taking the general 
direction in which, according to my map, 
the Buffalo Fork lay. Once crossing a 
knoll I discovered some elk feeding in 
a hollow. I swung behind another 
knoll, and unobserved approached within 
fifty yards of them before they saw me. 
Then one of them raised its head, took 
a good look at me, surprise and wonder 
in his eyes, and with the whole bunch 
broke for the cover of nearby timber. 

A Night Camp 

This was shortly before sunset, and 
when darkness came I had not yet made 
out my landmark, the butte. A strong 
west wind had sprung up, and the eve- 
ning grew raw. I had hoped to make 
Buffalo Fork before camping, and rode 
a full hour after dark. The woods 
were so thick, however, that it was dif- 
ficult to pick a route in the darkness, 
and when at length I came upon a 
grassy, open hollow I unpacked in the 
lee of the timber skirting it and turned 
the horses loose to graze. 

I rarely troubled to pitch my tent, 
and a fire made the shelter of the trees 
so comfortable that after supper and a 
pipe I rolled in my blanket under the 
sky. Snow on my face roused me during 
the night, and I drew my poncho over 



me, not to awaken until dawn. Five 
inches of snow covered me, and I made 
coffee that morning from melted snow. 

Saddling and packing was scarcely 
accomplished when the storm resumed 
and the snow fell so thick that I could 
scarcely see a hundred yards. Shortly 
after starting I crossed two elk tracks, 
and the track of a big timber wolf, 
doubtless following the elk, but I saw 
nothing of the animals. It is said that 
wolves are increasing rapidly in num- 
bers in the game refuge just north of 
this, where all hunting is prohibited. 

Presently the snow ceased, the clouds 
scattered, and the sun broke out with 
blinding, dazzling brilliancy. At my 
feet, and below the snow line, lay the 
valley of the Buffalo, beyond it the tim- 
bered stretches of the State game reserve, 
to the westward through a purple haze 
the majestic Tetons, raising their jagged 
peaks high above the surrounding land- 
scape. 

The snow balled on the horses' feet, 
causing them to slip and slide badly in 
the descent to the valley, and I was glad 
to reach bare ground again. They had 
been on short rations before, and the 
night's snow had covered the grass so 
deeply that their breakfast had been 
light that morning. Therefore when I 
came to the cabin of Charles Neil, an 
old trapper, shortly after fording the 
Buffalo, and learned he had oats and 
hay, I halted for the day. 

Neil has been a fur trapper for more 
than thirty years and for the early sea- 
son had a good showing of fall pelts, 
indicating that some fur-bearing animals 
still survive here. Mink and muskrat 
pelts were chief among his catch. 

The road northward to Yellowstone 
Park was through a romantic and pic- 
turesque region. To the left lay the 
Tetons, rising bleak and rugged, their 
glacier stubs gleaming white in the sun- 
light, and the atmosphere bore the per- 
fume of the pine and fir forest spread- 
ing far away in every direction. 

This is a magnificent game cover and 
refuge. It is the sanctuary of Wyo- 
ming's moose, numbering now about 
four hundred. While any considerable 
number of elk would starve here in the 
winter, it is an ideal winter as well as 




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328 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



summer range for moose and deer, both 
of which are browsing animals, while 
the elk normally is not. In connection 
with Yellowstone Park it offers a wide 
area of protection to bear, fur-bearing 
animals, and game herds. A great many 
beaver are breeding here. 

The close season on moose will end 
in Wyoming in 191 2, unless it is ex- 
tended, and it is hardly to be supposed 
that the legislature will do otherwise 
than extend it, for one year's hunting 
would put a setback upon the moose that 
would spoil the work of years. 

There is some poaching on the refuge, 
but not a great deal. Two weeks be- 
fore I passed through it, an army wagon 
was overturned on a rough bit of road. 
A mounted lieutenant, with two 
soldiers, escorted the wagon. A forest 
ranger, happening along, dismounted to 
assist the driver and soldiers in righting 
the wagon, and what was his surprise to 
discover in the cargo which had rolled 
out upon the ground the head and part 
of the carcass of a freshly killed moose. 
The forest ranger put the lieutenant and 
his men under arrest, and when they 
were haled before a magistrate it de- 
veloped that the lieutenant was already 
under bond to appear in answer to a 
charge of killing ducks within the pro- 
hibited bounds of the refuge. 

At three o'clock on the day after leav- 
ing Neil's cabin on the Buffalo, I reined 
up before the Snake River soldiers' sta- 
tion, at the entrance to Yellowstone 
Park. 

The Park's season for travelers was 
closed and red tape held me at Snake 
River station until the midday after my 
arrival. I was anxious to cross the high 
altitude as quickly as possible for 
heavy snows were now to be expected. 
Winter had already set in. That morn- 
ing the thermometer at the station regis- 
tered 22° of frost, and any day was 
likely to dawn with a blizzard. The 
ground was covered with snow of a pre- 
vious storm when I crossed the conti- 
nental divide on the afternoon I left 
Snake River station, and ice did not 
melt there even at midday. 

The expected snow began on the 
morning of my third day in the Park 
and fell pretty steadily for a day and 



a half. Hayden Valley was very bleak, 
with snow blowing thick in my face, and 
the wind cold and penetrating. Once 
or twice I met mounted troopers, and 
north of the Yellowstone Canyon sev- 
eral freighters with wagon loads of ma- 
terial for the new hotel at the canyon. 
Otherwise the Park was quite deserted 
save by the regular details of soldiers at 
the stations, where I halted to register, 
and some emigrants bound for Alberta, 
who were encamped for the night at 
Norris Basin, when I passed there. Few 
animals were to be seen. Once I saw a 
bear, once a fearless coyote trotted for 
a mile or two in front of me, innumer- 
able waterfowl lined the Yellowstone 
River, and beyond Norris Basin I en- 
countered several deer. 

Between Norris and Mammoth Hot 
Springs I met government scouts Mc- 
Bride and Brown, and we dismounted 
to light a fire and discuss for an hour 
the game situation, and particularly the 
condition of Park game. 

Once I halted to extinguish a blaze, 
started doubtless by transportation com- 
pany teamsters who had stopped here for 
luncheon and had failed to scatter their 
fire. The wind had carried the embers 
to the edge of a mass of dead fallen 
timber, and but for my opportune pass- 
ing considerable destruction would have 
resulted. 

Into Yellowstone Park 

It was dusk when I reached Mam- 
moth Hot Springs. The sky was heavily 
clouded, and when I entered the canyon 
below the Springs darkness was so in- 
tense I could not see Heart's ears from 
my seat in the saddle. The river roared 
at my side, but was wholly invisible, and 
I had to depend upon the instinct of the 
horses to keep the road. When I 
dropped during the afternoon below 
7,500 feet altitude I had left the snow 
behind, and here the footing was dry and 
hard and traveling, therefore, even in the 
heavy darkness, quite free from danger. 

At eight o'clock I reached the Park 
gate, only to find it closed. A soldier on 
guard at the station declined to open it 
and permit me to pass, on the ground 
that it was against orders to open the 




A LAKE FORMED BY THE GROS VENTRE SLIDE WHERE DEBRIS IS DAMMING 

THE RIVER. THE BASIN SHOWN HERE IS DOUBTLESS 

DESTINED TO BECOME A LAKE. 



gate after seven o'clock. Some argu- 
ment, however, persuaded him that it 
was quite right to do so in this instance, 
and half an hour later Heart and But- 
ton were feeding in a comfortable stable 
in Gardiner, and I was enjoying my 
supper at a hotel. 

Here I fell in with Deputy Game 
Wardens P. W. Nelson and Henry Fer- 
guson, who had just brought in a 
poacher charged with killing moose. 
The next morning, in company with 
Nelson, I crossed into the Park to view 
some immense stacks of hay that had 
been standing here, unused and rotting, 
for years, with the bones of elk that had 
starved to death the previous winter 
scattered about the stacks. I mounted 
late in the afternoon, and the following 
evening, after dark, rode into Fridlay in 
a snow squall. The next afternoon I 
saddled Button, left Heart to rest in a 
stable, and rode north to see Henry 
Lambert, one-time guide, rancher, and 
pioneer, whose ranch lies twenty miles 
from Fridlay. I had been directed to 
turn into the first lane to the right, after 
passing a small church, and to follow 
the lane up a canyon. It was dusk when 
I passed the church and found the first 
lane, and dark before I reached the 
canyon. The lane road had petered out 
into a path, and when I entered the 



canyon there was no indication that it 
was inhabited. Neither trail nor sur- 
roundings could be seen, and I turned 
back to make inquiries at a cottage near 
the church. A clerical-looking indivi- 
dual answered my knock. 

"Can you direct me," I inquired, "to 
Henry Lambert's ranch?" 

"I can direct you, sir," said he, "but 
Mr. Lambert's ranch would be difficult 
to find at night unless you are quite 
familiar with the country." 

"I've never been here before." 

"Then, sir, you could scarcely hope 
to find the ranch in the darkness with 
any directions I might give you." 

"Could I get accommodations for the 
night for myself and pony, with you or 
probably at some ranch?" 

"No one here, sir, accommodates 
strangers at night." 

At this juncture a gruff voice within 
shouted: "He kin bunk with me." 

"One of my neighbors, who is paying 
me a call," said the clerical gentleman, 
"offers you accommodations, sir, with 
him." 

A tall, powerfully built man joined 
us. He was rough in appearance, and 
a real frontier type. 

"Yep," said he, "I'm bachin' over 
here. Glad t' have you." 

As we walked over, and I led Button, 



329 



33° 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



to a little log cabin not far away, I 
inquired, "Are you one of the dominie's 
parishioners?" 

"What's them?" he asked. 

"Do you attend his church?" 

"Nope. Don't go to no church. I 
ain't much on churches and religion." 

When Button was made snug we en- 
tered the cabin, and I stood in the door 
while he lighted a bit of rag floating in 
oil in a tin dish. The weird flicker dis- 
played a very filthy room with a cook 
stove in which a wood fire burned. 

"Now make yourself 't home," he ex- 
claimed. "Mighty glad to have you 
come. I get plumb lonesome here some- 
times. That's why I was over t' th' 
preacher's. I reckon you'd like a cup of 
coffee," he continued, immersing a finger 
in a tomato can on the stove to test 
the temperature of the coffee it con- 
tained. "Set up t' th' table and have 
a bite." 

A Pleasant Evening with Bill 

With a finger he wiped the stale 
grounds from an enameled cup, filled it 
with coffee, set out some bread, and I 
accepted his hospitality. Bill, he told 
me, was his name, and Bill, to say the 
least, was as eccentric as he was hos- 
pitable. We sat until midnight, while 
he related blood-curdling tales of per- 
sonal experiences and adventures with 
Indians and wild animals. 

"Why," said Bill, waving his arms 
in wild gestures, "maybe you wouldn't 
believe it, but I've spent a hull year t' 
a slap out on th' plains killing buffalo 
fer hides, without ever clappin 'eyes on 
a petticoat." 

I had brought neither blanket nor 
baggage from Fridlay, and my bed that 
night was under the same dirty quilts 
with Bill, upon a dirty mattress on the 
floor alongside the stove. Bill talked in 
his sleep, waved his arms, and now and 
again gave mighty kicks, but on the 
whole I slept fairly well. 

At dawn I fed Button, and when he 
had eaten, bade my friend Bill adieu, 
with thanks, and in due course reached 
Lambert's ranch, where Mr. and Mrs. 
Lambert gave me a true Western greet- 
ing and I enjoyed a breakfast of fried 



grouse, with home-made jelly. When 
I told them where I had spent the night, 
Mrs. Lambert held up her hands in 
horror and exclaimed : 

"Of all places! With crazy Bill! 
Why, he escaped from an asylum not 
long ago, and he's hiding up there. He's 
a lunatic !" 

"Never mind," said I, "Bill took me, 
a stranger, into his cabin and gave me 
the best he had — and told me some good 
yarns." 

In my article last month, discussing 
the elk situation in Jackson's Hole, it 
was stated that a large part of the elk 
wintering there are Yellowstone Park 
elk. It was stated at the same time 
that large numbers of Park elk also 
winter in Montana, north of the Park. 
Mr. Amos Hague, of Fridlay, who per- 
haps more than any one else on the 
Montana side has been active in efforts 
to better the condition of the animals, 
had written me that they were starving 
in great numbers every winter on de- 
pleted ranges. Every one whom I inter- 
viewed — hunters, guides, game wardens, 
and park scouts — confirmed this state- 
ment, and all traced it to the one cause 
— overstocking the ranges with domestic 
sheep. This has resulted not only in the 
destruction of thousands of elk, but of 
large numbers of the park antelope as 
well. 

The situation is this: north of Yel- 
lowstone Park and adjoining it lie the 
Gallatin and Absaroka National Forest 
Reserves. In these reserves, as in all 
other national reserves, the federal 
authorities permit domestic sheep to 
range, and here graft plays a large part 
in admitting the sheep in excessive num- 
bers. 

A sheep man wishing to take in a flock 
of sheep makes application for license for 
a stated number of animals. The sheep 
man "sees" the forest ranger patrolling 
the district which it is desired to enter, 
and the ranger, his conscience having 
been duly quieted, reports that there is 
ample pasturage for an estimated num- 
ber of sheep always in excess of the 
number for which the sheep man has 
asked license. The license is duly 
granted, and on the strength of it 
usually a greater number of sheep than 




ONE OF MR. WALLACES CAMPS IN YELLOWSTONE NATIONAL PARK. 



the license calls for are run in, and not 
infrequently a friend's sheep as well. 

The result can easily be imagined. 
The range is stripped utterly, before 
snow falls, of every vestige of grass and 
small browse, and when the elk and an- 
telope come down from the Park 
nothing remains for them to eat and they 
starve by thousands. 

It is unbelievable that a Christian 
nation would permit, to say nothing of 
being responsible for, such a condition as 
exists. Our government is nurturing 
wild animals during the summer in Yel- 
lowstone National Park, on ample 
ranges, and in winter turning them 
loose, without provision, to starve. The 
snow becomes so deep in the Park that 
it is utterly impossible for any consider- 
able number of animals to winter there, 
and those that do remain throughout the 
winter fare badly. 

Humanity cries out against this ut- 
terly heartless course. It makes me 
heart-sick now to remember what I saw 
in Jackson's Hole. Every one wants to 
see the animals preserved if they can be 
provided for. No one wants to see them 
preserved, however, through one season 
only to be starved to death the next. 
If they cannot be provided for, let us 
kill them in the name of mercy, as a 
ranchman kills steers he cannot feed, and 
be done with it once and for all. 



If this were the only unoccupied pub- 
lic range where domestic sheep could 
graze, it might be argued that the sheep 
are of greater value to the country than 
wild animals. But this is not the case. 
There are thousands of square miles of 
unoccupied public ranges elsewhere 
where the sheep barons might take their 
flocks, and leave these ranges to the ani- 
mals to which they belong, and this 
without the slightest loss to the country 
at large. But it would inconvenience 
the sheep barons to do this, and the 
federal authorities with the utmost do- 
cility have surrendered everything to 
these sheep men. 

In the spring of the present year 
(1911) the carcasses of more than one 
thousand elk that had starved to death 
during the last winter lay along the Yel- 
lowstone River within a distance of 
twenty-one miles north of Gardiner. I 
have been unable at the time of writing 
this to get even an approximate esti- 
mate of the large number of animals 
that perished during the winter east of 
the Yellowstone and north of the Park, 
but the starvation rate was horrible. 
Reports from the western part of Galla- 
tin County and in Madison County, 
west to the Madison River, including 
the territory north of Henry Lake in 
Idaho, west and northwest of the Park, 
show that immense numbers of animals 



332 



SADDLE AND CAMP IN THE ROCKIES 



333 



starved to death throughout this whole 
region between January, 191 1, and the 
opening of spring. 

In spite of this, previous to April first 
permits had been granted to sheep men 
to graze forty thousand sheep this sum- 
mer (1911) on the Gallatin National 
Forest Reserve. Doubtless many addi- 
tional licenses have since been issued. 

Hague and others have been working 
for several years to have the govern- 
ment take steps to exclude sheep from 
an ample range contiguous to the Park. 
On the fourth of March of the present 
year Governor Norris of Montana 
signed a bill creating what is to be 
known as the Gallatin County Game 
Preserve, its special object being to pro- 
vide a winter range for the Yellowstone 
National Park elk moving northward 
from the Park. The Federal Govern- 
ment will of course exclude sheep from 
this preserve in which Montana prohibits 
hunting. But it is a vastly insufficient 
area, extending but four miles northward 
from the Park boundary and but twenty 
miles in length. It is, however, a step 
in the right direction, but it must be 
extended considerably to be of any great 
value in preventing wholesale winter 
starvation. 

There is absolutely no excuse for per- 
mitting sheep to denude this territory. 
Plenty of other unoccupied range will 
accommodate all the sheep that are here 
and many thousands more. Let the 
sheep, in the name of good policy, 
economy, and humanity, be excluded 
from the territory here suggested, and as 
soon as the range has an opportunity to 
rejuvenate, the elk situation will be re- 
lieved and the animals will show vast 
improvement. 

Mention was made of rotting hay in 
the Park, near Gardiner, with bones of 
starved elk lying around the stacks. This 
hay was cut and stacked for the wild 
animals in seasons of stress. The park 
superintendent conceived the notion that 
if feeding were begun the animals would 
cease to forage for themselves. A con- 
siderable number of antelope and elk are 
drawn to this spot by alfalfa fields. 
When in the winter the alfalfa was so 
far eaten off that the animals could no 



longer exist upon it, cavalrymen were 
detailed to drive them away. The ef- 
forts of the cavalrymen were futile, and 
many of the animals remained. Then 
the superintendent said, "Let them 
starve, but don't feed the hay." And 
within the view of Gardiner homes sev- 
eral elk starved to death around the 
hay stacks. 

Perhaps there is no man connected 
with Yellowstone National Park who 
knows more about the Park animals and 
their general condition than Scout Mc- 
Bride. He informed me that failure 
to feed distressed antelope caused many 
to leave the Park in winter for distant 
ranges, in search of food, and that few 
of those that left ever returned. He 
was certain that failure to feed the hay 
at Gardiner had thus caused the loss of 
a great many antelope. 

In this connection he advocates the 
cutting and stacking of hay at various 
points in the Park where it grows in 
abundance, to be fed the antelope in 
winter. He told me that several thou- 
sand tons of hay could thus be put up 
at nominal cost to the Government. 

It is to be hoped that the present 
superintendent will hearken to the ad- 
vice of Scout McBride and others who 
have made a lifelong study of the 
situation, and that he will take such 
steps as lie in his power for animal pres- 
ervation. 

One word should be said as to the 
destruction of animals by sheep herders. 
Every man of them is armed, and in 
season or out of season they live on 
fresh game. They kill whenever oppor- 
tunity offers, and this is not seldom. 
They are the worst game poachers of 
the whole region, and the wardens admit 
that it is practically impossible to catch 
them in the act. 

My horseback journey of nearly two 
thousand miles ended at Fridlay. But- 
ton had been with me, serving as saddle 
or pack pony over the whole journey, 
and Heart from the Cibicue in Arizona. 
They had earned a rest, and I turned 
them out on a ranch and parted from 
them with regret, as one parts from old 
and tried companions of the camp and 
trail. 



(The End) 



SHEPPARD, KING OF MIDDLE- 
DISTANCE RUNNERS 



BY HERBERT REED 




ART IN SHERIDAN 

and Sparrow Robertson, 
the veteran trainer, star- 
ter, and track builder, 
who has seen the cham- 
pions of the cinder path 
come and go, and has an uncanny faculty 
of predicting just when they are due to 
go, were examining one day a curious 
bit of photographic trickery. The cam- 
era man had taken two negatives of 
Melvin W. Sheppard, the brainiest mid- 
dle distance runner the world has ever 
seen, and by combining the results in a 
single print had evolved a picture of the 
champion defeating himself in a terrific 
finish. 

" That," said Sheridan, " is the only 
way he can be licked — there's only one 
thing on two feet that can whip Shep 
these days, and that is Shep himself." 

As a matter of cold fact, and with all 
due deference to men who have beaten 
him indoors and out, this remarkable 
runner wins and loses — suffers his share 
of defeat and disappointment — but only 
his own lack of condition can bring about 
disaster at his pet distances, and this very 
lack of condition almost always results 
from a stubborn display of the very 
courage that has helped to earn his won- 
derful string of victories. He fights ill- 
ness as he fights to the tape, and by call- 
ing constantly upon his wonderful fund 
of reserve vitality too often bankrupts it 
before going to the mark. The quality 
that has made him famous from Canada 
to Australasia has cost him many a race. 
It is in this one matter alone that his 
judgment deserts him, for when fit he 
has what is called the genius of pace and 
is as dangerous against the watch as he is 
from the back mark in a handicap race. 
When the Irish-American Athletic 
Club athlete is at his best he is unbeat- 
able at any distance from and including 
a quarter to a mile, and above the quar- 



ter he is faster than was Lon Myers. He 
knows more to-day about pace and rac- 
ing than Myers ever did, and although 
he has been handled by the best trainers 
in the country, he has been largely self- 
taught. Sheppard is the last word in that 
theory of athletics that is based on the 
command " know thyself." He has made 
a study of his own running — began it 
when a boy of eighteen. There is no 
form of running that he has not tried. 
He began as a sprinter, and as a boy was 
a capable cross-country performer. 

But there was one thing he could not 
learn, and Sheppard was the first to real- 
ize it. Born a sprinter, with a turn of 
speed — two or three in one race if nec- 
essary — beyond the powers of all but the 
very best hundred and furlong men, and 
endowed with the courage of the two- 
miler, Sheppard knew that he could 
never learn the sprinter's start. To-day 
he is still slow off the mark, heartrend- 
ingly slow. The start was not in him, 
but the finish was, and Sheppard knew 
it. 

He chose his distances by a process of 
elimination, until he found himself, never 
to go wrong again. I like to think that 
Sheppard learned from football to some 
extent the lessons that he apparently has 
never forgotten. He began athletics 
early — soon after he left his father's 
farm at Almonessen Lake, N. J., to 
settle in Philadelphia — and he tried foot- 
ball as a starter. The middle distance 
champion played end on the eleven of 
the Preston Athletic Club of Philadel- 
phia, a team that won every game for 
three years and was not scored upon. 
The pluck that comes of such an experi- 
ence is valuable in any form of sport- 
notably in the stretch of a hard race — and 
this, with his natural sprinting ability, is 
the foundation of his running career. 

Slow starter though he was, he began 
to make things hum on the track when 



334 




SHEPPARD BREASTING THE TAPE IN THE FINALS OF THE 1 ,500 

METER IN THE LONDON OLYMPIC GAMES — " THE GREATEST 

RACE OF HIS CAREER." 



he entered the Brown preparatory school, 
and he was a nine days' wonder long be- 
fore the average runner has mastered the 
groundwork of the game. Sheppard and 
the late J. B. Taylor, the Pennsylvania 
negro runner against whose name is still 
set the intercollegiate quarter-mile rec- 
ord, were schoolboys together. Oddly 
enough, in those days Sheppard was the 
better at the quarter and Taylor was 
master at the half, a distance that is now 
Sheppard's masterpiece. 



33 



In after years when he was at his best, 
Taylor said of his old school friend : 

" If he would only really train for 
the quarter I couldn't beat one side of 
him," another tribute to the versatility 
of the keen-thinking runner, who in spite 
of his supremacy at the half and from 
the half to a thousand yards, has done 
two miles in 9 mins. 30 sees., and can 
still defeat any but the top-notchers at 
six miles: 

Sheppard's records at many distances 

5 



336 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



would occupy more space than can be 
accorded them here, from the time he 
made his first appearance wearing the 
winged fist in 1 906, twice in five weeks 
breaking the mile record for any athlete 
in training at that time, to the sunny 
July day last year when he ran 1,000 
yards in 2 mins. 12 2-5 sees., clipping 
3-5 of a second from Lon Myers's mark 
of twenty-nine years' standing — a record 
at once the hope and despair of every 
champion in all that period. But it is 
not the performance and the resulting 
figure that count in a study of this man 
and his work so much as a scrutiny of his 
carefully laid plans, the plans of a man 
who knows himself so thoroughly that 
he can run at once against a big and 
straggling field, with all of hindrance 
and overturn of judgment that that im- 
plies, and against the chronometer that 
will not wait and recks nothing of acci- 
dents by the way. 

Breaking Records in a Race 

Great runners like Wendell Baker, 
Maxwell W. Long, and Lon Myers 
have in the past chosen to make their 
record trials against the watch and with 
a free track and timers stationed at vari- 
ous points to cry out the time, but on the 
day when the ex-Philadelphian ran one 
of the most remarkable races of his ca- 
reer, he chose to set sail for the record 
against a big field of long mark men 
and without any specially assigned pace- 
makers to carry him along. Some said 
it was a display of "nerve," but those 
who knew Sheppard realized that it was 
confidence in his own powers of a very 
solid sort. 

Sheppard mapped out his race with 
the utmost care and with the serene con- 
fidence that he could run not within a 
fifth of a second, but exactly, to his 
schedule. He planned to run the first 
quarter in 54 seconds, and the half in 
I min. 55 sees. He finished the quarter 
in fourth position and on the tick of the 
flying watch-hand, and practically ran 
the half in the appointed time. 

But here an accident occurred. His 
last stride would have carried him over 
the mark in exactly 1 155, and no one 
knew it better than Sheppard, but just 



as he was making his last stride one of 
the long-mark men quit the race and 
clumsily tried to leave the track by cross- 
ing in front of the man who was out for 
the record. Sheppard was jostled just 
enough to steal a second from him, and 
this, too, he knew without a word from 
the timer. 

It remained now for the burst of speed 
to make up the deficiency, but it was not 
quite enough, for he had already allowed 
for it, and he crossed the finish line, with 
a new record to be sure, but in time one 
second slower than he had planned. It 
was a masterpiece of preliminary prepa- 
ration and judgment in actual racing, 
and the visible sign of his supremacy 
over all comers. 

But after all, it was in the Olympic 
games held in the Shepherd's Bush stad- 
ium, England, that he set the standard 
to which the hosts of middle-distance 
men continually aspire to-day. The con- 
ditions were exceptionally difficult, the 
preliminaries that led up to the final of 
the 1,500 meters — roughly 120 yards 
short of a mile — particularly disheart- 
ening to the Americans. As it turned 
out, to win the event, Sheppard had to 
defeat J. P. Halstead, of Cornell, at that 
time considered the best mile runner in 
America, and then dispose of the fastest 
milers in England, who were in rare 
form at the time. 

The trial heat in which, through the 
luck of the draw, the two fastest men at 
the distance in America had to run 
against each other, will never be forgot- 
ten by those who saw it. Sheppard de- 
feated Halstead by a yard, in a splendid 
finish, and both men finished in front of 
Butterfield, the former mile champion of 
England, who was run off his feet. In 
this heat Sheppard hung up the time of 
4 mins. 5 sees., breaking Lightbody's 
Olympic record by 2-5 of a second. 

In the final Sheppard stepped to the 
mark accompanied by only one other 
American, J. P. Sullivan, who, by the 
way, was far below his accustomed 
form. Five of the starters wore the 
colors of Great Britain, and the quintet 
included such splendid performers as 
Hallows and Wilson and Tait, the 
Canadian. The Englishmen were as 
sure of running Sheppard into the 



SHEPPARD, KING OF MIDDLE-DISTANCE RUNNERS 337 



ground as they were that they were alive. 
Sheppard was sure of nothing but him- 
self. He ran that day, I believe, the 
greatest race of his career. 

At the crack of the pistol Hallows, 
who himself had a wonderful turn of 
speed, shot out in front and made the 
pace, closely followed by the other Eng- 
lishmen and the Canadian. Sheppard 
and Sullivan hung back, but it was soon 
apparent that the latter was laboring, 
and that the Britishers were certain of 
killing off at least one of the Americans. 
Turning into the stretch, the English- 
men made their effort, and a good one it 
was. But as it turned out, the judgment 
of the three men who were ahead of the 
American at the time was not as good as 
the judgment of the lone wearer of the 
stars and stripes. Sullivan had dropped 
out by this time, and Hallows and Wil- 
son broke into their sprinting strides, 
but without an answering change on 
Sheppard's part from the measured stride 
that was as accurate as the second hand 
of the finest chronometer. 

Wilson's sprint carried him past Hal- 
lows — then Sheppard started his terrific 
sprint. Instantly the Englishmen were 
in panic. In a fraction of a second they 
realized that they were beaten men. 
Sheppard was " kicking the track oftener 
than the other fellow," as Jack Moakley 
would put it, and the sound of his drum- 
ming feet was the long roll of England's 
hopes. Fifteen yards from the finish 
Sheppard shot into the lead by a yard. 
Maintaining his sprint to the tape he 
crossed the line a game winner with Wil- 
son in second place, Hallows third, and 
Tait fourth. 

The very next day Sheppard won the 
800 meter race in hollow fashion in 1 
min. 52 4-5 sees. Fairbairn-Crawford, 
the English crack, made the pace for 
three hundred yards, where Sheppard 
passed Just, another Englishman, and 
Lunghi, the Italian. Just quit in the 
stretch, run out, and the American gal- 
loped home with speed to spare. Lunghi 
finished second, and Braun, the German, 
third. 

I lay so much stress on these perform- 
ances of Sheppard's, not alone because 
they were beautifully planned and exe- 
cuted, but because of the almost psycho- 



logical effect on the rest of the team of 
an American victory in two events prac- 
tically sacred to the Englishman. Shep- 
pard's victories hurt the Englishmen in- 
versely as they heartened the Americans. 
And this is always the value of Sheppard 
and his work, that his heart is hot and 
his head is cold when the great test 
comes. Confidence begets confidence, 
and this is why when Sheppard is en- 
tered in an all-important event and is in 
condition, his followers predict a victory 
for him and settle back in their seats in 
solid comfort, knowing that the event 
will justify the prophecy. 

Here is Sheppard's own training re- 
cipe, given not because it is a standard, 
but because it is different from the ave- 
rage and the result of the runner's long 
and careful study of his own needs : 

Monday — A fast quarter, two good 
men to make pace. 

Tuesday — Six hundred yards. 

Wednesday — Seven hundred yards. 

Thursday — One thousand yards. 

Friday — Half a mile. 

Saturday — A fast quarter, or two fast 
three hundreds. 

One day off every week. 

No running for two days before a 
race. 

Eat plenty of meat to build up burned 
tissue. 



What the Middle Distance Demands 

" The middle distance," says Shep- 
pard, "offers a chance for good sprinters 
who are poor starters, or speedy milers 
who lack stamina for a fighting finish. 
I never knew my own ability until as a 
schoolboy I had tried sprints, then dis- 
tances, and finally cross-country. There 
should be no strain on the lungs with 
loosely swinging arms. 

" The middle distances require the 
greatest will power and concentration. 
The middle distance man should run the 
first quarter in the half three seconds 
faster than the last. He should leave 
the pistol at the same speed as for the 
quarter, and should then settle into his 
stride. The great difference between the 
English and the American methods is 
that the Americans reserve less." 

It cannot be said that the good runner 



33* 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



following the Sheppard regime will at 
once or ever develop into great middle 
distance men, for no man can attain to 
the champion's class without careful self- 
study. This is the great lesson of Shep- 
pard's career — that all other conditions 
being equal, or even a little unequal, 
brains make the champion. 

Perhaps one of the best examples of 
Sheppard's ability to sprint, and sprint a 
second time in the same race — a quality 
that is born in a man — was his trial for 
the Olympic team, at 800 meters on 
Franklin Field, Philadelphia. This time 
the Irish-American started as if to run 
against the watch, and his plan was to 
get out in front and stay in front to the 
finish. So accurate was his knowledge 
of his own condition that he felt that he 
could stave off any rush, by whomsoever 
made, from behind. 

Once more his judgment of his own 
powers stood him in good stead. There 
were in the race besides Sheppard two 
first-class middle distance men, Sheehan 
of Boston, and Bromilow of New York. 
Both challenged in turn, and each was 
in turn shaken off. Twice Sheppard 
sprinted like the fastest hundred yard 
man, and twice kept it up until he had 
" cooked " his man. And yet he crossed 
the finish with the same marvelous burst 
of speed that he shows in all his races. 

So much for speed. Now for the 
hardy side of it. In 1905 he ran five 
perfect races in three days, and traveled 
every day. None but the stoutest of 
heart and soundest of wind and limb can 
hope to equal a record like that. In 
1 9 10 the middle distance champion had 
one of his best seasons. He scored a 
total of 122 points in the hardest kind 
of racing, while Martin Sheridan rolled 
up 120, but in field events which do not 
take so much out of a man. 



Sheppard has had his disappointments 
as well as his triumphs. One of his de- 
feats by Harry Gissing, another speedy 
man, came after he had got out of a sick 
bed and gone to work, still suffering 
from the grippe. He should have been 
in bed at the very moment that he toed 
the mark. There was another bitter dis- 
appointment in store for him on October 
10, 1906, when at Travers Island he 
made an effort to break Charlie Kilpat- 
rick's record for the half mile. Shep- 
pard planned his race in the customary 
fashion, but was so badly interfered with 
by a wabbly pacemaker that he could not 
keep anywhere near his schedule. 

For the final estimate of Sheppard's 
achievement in any one meet I cannot 
but go back to his Olympic record, for 
it marks the triumph of combined speed, 
courage, and brains. He was the largest 
point winner at the meet, scoring n^4 
points. He won the 800 and 1,500 me- 
ter races from the cream of the world's 
runners, and was also a member of the 
winning four-man relay team. 

His times in the 800 and 1,500 meters 
are Olympic records. Watches were also 
held on him at the half, which he ran out 
after finishing the 800 meters, and he 
finished in 1 min. 54 sees., breaking the 
previous English half-mile record of 1 
min. 54 3-5 sees., made by F. J. K. Cross 
of Oxford in 1888. 

For those who love summaries here is 
another that everlastingly ought to clinch 
Sheppard's supremacy: 

In the summer and fall of 1908 he 
won twenty-three out of twenty-six half 
miles, and ran twenty-one of them in 
1 :59 or better. In one season he made 
five world's records, and he has broken 
one record that stood twenty-nine years 
and another that had been on the books 
for fourteen years. 





'""' : V'' : ^f %:->-- & '/• ' 



SOME BEAR, BUT MOSTLY 
PARSON 

BY PERCY M. CUSHING 
Illustrated by George C. Harper 



r y AHWEAMBELEWAGA- 



K 



MOT it was to the Indians 
who built their tepees along 
its silver length before the sun 
struck red on the first white 
face to look upon the region. 
Kahweambelewagamot — the sound was 
strange, and the lips of this first white 
man and the others who followed him 
stumbled over it. So as best they could 
these early traders asked its meaning of 
the Indians. And the Indians raised a 
long shout, and then pressed their fin- 
gers to their lips — the sign to listen. 

For a moment there was silence ; then 
from rocky crags, from the black wil- 
derness shores, far and farther from the 
far distances, rolled and swelled an an- 
swering shout of mighty volume, to peal 



away ripple by ripple into the silence 
from which it had come. The white 
men understood then and they called it 
the Lake of Many Sounds, which was 
easier to say and to understand. 

To-day the traveler who drives his 
cedar canoe through the country will 
look at his map and still find on it the 
old Indian name, but the few straggling 
settlers he chances to meet, three or four 
perhaps in all, will tell him it is Hollow 
Lake, for the demand for condensed 
brevity which comes of advancing civili- 
zation has found its way even up into 
the Canadian pine and spruce lands. 

We went to Hollow Lake, the three 
of us, for what fun we could find, for 
perhaps a black bear and for those mot- 
tled-backed, pink-fleshed fish which the 



339 



340 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 






M 



period that I, laboring 
with another canoe, lent 
mental support to Frank 
and called silent maledic- 
tions on the Parson, for, 
being younger, I had not 
yet learned to treat him 
with proper disrespect. 

But though a century 
had separated that trip 
from the present, I could 
never forget the hour when we squared 
for those jeers on our first successful 
fishing trip, when the ministerial dignity 
was humbled by the spike branch of the 
gnarled tree, and Frank was permitted 
to outswear himself unreprimanded. We 
got lost the first night out, because the 
Parson had refused the kindly sugges- 
tion of the hotel keeper at Dorset that 
we better* take a guide. 

"What?" our ministerial companion 

j , , ; had declared with fine scorn. "Why 

long and three miles wide, and nowadays , , , . . , - TT J 

.. • , . c _„ i ._.. ,.!__ j _-__i_ should we take a guide: Have we not 

two sound, able-bodied young men to 

do our work?" And pointing triumh- 




HE DIDN T TAKE NO STOCK IN 

THEM ORNERY TIME-TABUL 

MAPS NOHOW." 

handful of Hollow Lakers call lake 
trout, and which are probably a type of 
land-locked salmon. It is not a hard 
task to find the lake, for it is ten miles 



it is not so far above the dress circle 
of mature civilization. To be precise, 
it lies in Haliburton, Ontario, to the 
north and east of the Muskoka district, 
and directly south of Algonquin Park, 
that great game preserve of the Cana- 
dian Government 



antly to Frank and me, he had picked up 
the frying pan and fishing rods and, di- 
recting us how best to carry the canoes, 
had assailed the obstacles of Toe Nail 



To reach it from Toronto, one takes *= . . ' t 

the railroad, rides all day, disembarks £ ™ as rainm S wh , en , we P addled into 

from the train to embark on a small a blind bay a mile off the main lake that 

steamer, sails through the Lake 'of Bays night— a cold, mean rain. Sitting in the 

to the tiny town of Dorset, where he bow of m Y canoe > the Parson had dl ~ 

spends the night. Next day Toe Nail rected our route from the chea P railroad 



Hill, thus named for its steepness and 
roughness, must be traversed, the mile 
sweep of Loon Lake crossed, a short 
portage made, and lo! the Lake of 
Many Sounds flares northward, a rugged 
shored and picturesque sweep with ro- 
mance and promise leering behind every 
point 



map and time table which he treasured 
in his inside pocket and constantly re- 
ferred to as "Our Chart." Frank and 
I, soft after long months of idleness, had 
paddled our arms off keeping up with 
those directions, and we were not in a 
pleasant frame of mind when, with dark- 
ness at hand, with two inches of rain 



Maybe things are changed now, for it water in the bottom of the canoes, and 



was a long time ago that Frank, who 
was the Parson's brother, cursed his way 
up and down Toe Nail Hill and over 
the Loon Lake portage with a sixty- 
pound canoe on his back. It was a long 
time ago that the Parson himself, fol- 



our clothing soaked, we found ourselves 
in the edge of the swamp with not a 
foot of dry ground anywhere on which 
to camp. 

I ran my canoe alongside Frank's, em- 
boldened by weariness, and suggested 



lowing bowed down under the tremen- that I was weary carrying dead freight, 

dous weight of a fishing rod and frying whereupon Frank reluctantly ordered 

pan, administered jeers and religious re- the Parson into his boat. Then we held 

buke. And it was at an equally distant a council of war and the majority opin- 



SOME BEAR, BUT MOSTLY PARSON 



34i 



ion was that the Parson's time-table map 
was next in uselessness only to the Par- 
son himself. So we hit the back trail in 
the coming gloom, and at about ten 
o'clock tumbled ashore on a rocky point, 
where we crawled under the canoes and 
the rubber ponchos and tried futilely to 
sleep. 

Soon after daybreak, the first of the 
three residents of the Hollow Lake re- 
gion we encountered in our two weeks' 
stay there came over from his cabin 
half a mile away. He had seen our 
smoke and he said his name was Crum- 
bie, probably his own corruption of 
Crombie, an old Toronto family of 
which he said he was a membe-r. He 
had been on Hollow Lake five years; 
had found it *a sort of relief from the 
thickly settled regions below, where there 
were some unpleasant memories he 
wished to forget — or escape. But people 
were getting so plentiful along the lake 
— there were three families there — that 
he thought he'd have to be moving far- 
ther north. 

Mr. Crumbie was a thirsty man, and 
after he had explored the contents of 
the Parson's "medicinal" flask to the 
extent of a two-minute examination, he 
gladly directed our course down the 
lake, at the same time. lowering his stock 
in the Parson's eyes by declaring in un- 
biased terms that he didn't "take no 
stock in them ornery time-tabul maps 
nohow." 

With a stiff head wind and the Par- 
son to hamper us, it took the greater part 
of the day to reach the head of the lake, 
where we found a deserted lumber camp. 
The bunkhouse stood intact, and from 
casual observance the bunks seemed to 
contain nothing but dead leaves and dust, 
but the Parson, ever particular, feared 
the smallpox and other scourges that not 
infrequently sweep lumber camps. 

Down on the sandy beach, which ran 
along shore for two hundred yards, a 
log supply house had been built on spiles 
ten feet above the water. The ladder 
with which the building was reached still 
lay near, and exploration indicated that 
the single room was clean and would 
make a good camp house. Into it we 
lugged our outfit — that is, Frank and I 



did the lugging while the Parson di- 
rected. 

It was still light when we had fin- 
ished, so the Parson said he would go 
down to the creek that emptied into the 
lake a few hundred yards away and 
catch some trout for supper. In a few 
minutes he came running back to tell us 
he had found deer tracks in the sand 
along the edge of the creek. We went 
down and looked them over, and there 
was no doubt about it, they were deer 
tracks, hundreds of them crossing and 
recrossing and trampling each other 
down into a squdgy mire where the ani- 
mals had come down to drink. 

We had difficulty in getting the Par- 
son to turn in after that, for he was 
eager to take his 38-55 and go down to 
wait for a buck to pop out of the brush, 
though it was September and close sea- 
son, which shows how eligible he was to 
the bad sportsmans' club. In the middle 
of the night we were awakened by dread- 
ful howls. Frank and I banged our 
heads together in the dark, leaping from 
our pine-bough bunks at the same in- 
stant. A ray of moonlight fell through 
the square hole that served for a win- 
dow in the log building, and fell on the 
camp cot which the Parson had insisted 
on lugging along and setting up. The 
cot was empty. 

"Something's happened to him, he's 
gone, gasped Frank, and before I could 
reply, another series of yells went up 
from outside the cabin, mingled with a 
tremendous thumping and banging. We 
leaped to the door and stumbled down 
the ladder to the beach. There in the 
moonlight stood a specter in white, 
wielding a ponderous club upon a dark, 
object that huddled against the distorted 
outline of an uprooted stump. The 
formless yells we had heard now took 
shape. 

"I've got him, boys, I've got him. 
Come on — a bear cub," the Parson was 
bawling. 

Before we could reach him, the object 
by the stump lay inanimate. Frank 
struck a match and bent over it. Be- 
hind him the Parson was hopping about 
in his underwear, gurgling, "I got iiim 
— bear cub — killed him with a tree." 



342 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



Then Frank snorted and straightened 
up. "Porcupine," he said briefly, and 
crawled up the ladder to his balsam 
couch. As for the Parson, there was no 
more sleep for him. He sat up on his 
cot and kept us awake the remainder of 
the night by grunting unintelligibly to 
himself. Next morning he told us the 
porcupine had awakened him by fool- 
ing around the foot of our ladder, drawn 
to our camp probably by the bag of salt 
the Parson had spilled on the beach in 
the afternoon. 

It was the fourth day in our new 
camp that we began to realize that some- 
thing ailed our operations. The Par- 
son's palate had rebelled long ere this at 
canned army ration, a mixture of mule 
meat and poor potatoes with which we 
had supplied our larder before starting, 
and ours were beginning to rebel. We 
had counted on plenty of fish, but three 
days of patient effort had failed to pro- 
duce a single specimen. In one corner 
of the lake we had found as pretty a 
little stream as one usually sees. We 
had fished its riffles and its black pools 
faithfully with flies the first day, and 
with bait the second day when we were 
hungry, without so much as a sign of a 
trout. 

The third day we had tried the lake 
with flies with no better luck, and on 
this, the fourth, when the name army 
ration staggered us, we resorted to the 
stream again, and lo! the Parson hauled 
from a tiny pool, at the foot of a baby 
rapids, an infant brook trout of four 
inches. As we were dividing that trout 
in the evening, out of the purple twi- 
light that was weaving its enchantment 
across the silent surface of the lake slid 
noiselessly a long canoe. So quietly did 
it come that we hardly saw it until the 
soft purr of gravel under its bows as it 
touched the beach sounded in our ears. 
Then we looked up into the expression- 
less face of a solitary Indian. 

He was going up Kimball Lake, up 
Bear Lake, both beyond ours, and then 
up and up and beyond until he reached 
his cabin, a cry of sixty miles or more. 
We asked him of the fishing, and then 
we met our mistake face to face. In 
broken English he told us that at this 



season, September, the trout had all left 
the small streams and were out in the 
deep, cold water of the lake, from which 
there would be trouble luring them. 

If we fished in the right way, how- 
ever, we could catch plenty of lake trout. 
This way was to troll with much line 
and much lead on the line in very deep 
water. Before our Indian friend de- 
parted into the twilight he showed us 
some large and murderous gangs of troll- 
ing hooks, most unsportsmanlike in ap- 
pearance, and for one of these the Par- 
son surreptitiously bartered a perfectly 
good clasp knife. For to the Parson 
another day of army ration would, I 
believe, have spelled suicide. 

In our own outfits we had a couple 
of bass spoons which we had brought 
against emergency, and at dawn we 
started out on serious business. As 
usual, when there was sport to be had, 
the Parson was up first, and when we 
began preparing for breakfast — a task 
he never assisted in performing — we no- 
ticed him pottering around in a muddy 
backwash from the creek. Presently he 
came over, fixed up a bit of rope between 
two trees, and hung his spare clothes and 
blankets on it, as he explained, to air. 
When breakfast was ready he appeared 
with our tin kettle in his hand and sat 
down and eyed us quizzically. We paid 
little attention to him, until, shouldering 
the larger canoe, we set out over a half- 
mile portage to Kimball Lake, where 
the Indian told us we would find the 
best fishing. Then we perceived our 
Parson, carefully carrying rods and the 
kettle, following in our Wake. 

"What are you going to do with that 
pot?" demanded Frank hastily. 

The Parson grinned. "Put it back," 
ordered his brother. But the Parson 
sidestepped a hampered kick from 
Frank's boot as the latter struggled to 
reach him without dropping the canoe. 

It was not till we had embarked on 
Kimball Lake that the Parson revealed 
the contents of his kettle. "Chub and 
shiners," he announced proudly. "The 
Red Monarch told me they were neces- 
sary — after I gave him Frank's pipe." 

Frank felt quickly and vainly at his 
hip pocket, then glared over his shoul- 







INSTANTLY THE PARSON S ROD BEAT THE AIR FRENZIEDLY, AS HE GAVE 
A MIGHTY SWIPE WITH IT. 



der at the Parson. It was no time to 
risk upsetting the canoe to administer 
punishment then, but I noted agreeably 
the click of his teeth and saw things 
coming for the Dominie when shore was 
reached again. But the Parson's vision 
did not seem to extend beyond the imme- 
diate moment, for, ignoring all indica- 
tions of coming storm, he declared jubi- 
lantly that we hadn't any show to catch 
fish without chubs, and that he didn't 
propose to share any of his with idiots 
who couldn't forage for themselves. 

We said nothing, while our partner 
gleefully began to rig his rod and tackle. 
He sat amidships in the canoe facing for- 
ward. Frank was paddling in the bow, 
I in the stern. The Parson then ex- 
tracted the largest and fattest chub from 
his kettle, which he placed carefully out 
of our reach between his knees, baited 
his murderous gang hooks, and dropped 
the line overboard at the moment Frank 
shot a veiled glance over his shoulder at 
me which meant wonders. 

I waited till the Parson person had 
stopped the flow of line from his reel. 



Then, as he was fishing on the same 
side on which I was paddling, I caught 
his line between my hand and the pad- 
dle on the back stroke and gave it a 
sharp tug. 

Instantly the Parson's rod beat the air 
frenziedly, as he gave a mighty swipe 
with it. "Golly, I had him that time, 
I did. He bit like a whale," he blub- 
bered. And then : "I told you fellows 
you'd have to fish near bottom with 
chub and gang hook. I told you, but 
you were knowitalls." 

"Maybe he got your bait," suggested 
Frank, without looking around. 

The idea seemed to impress our 
friend, for he began to reel in hurriedly. 
When his line was most in, I gave an- 
other vicious yank, and he retorted with 
a wild jerk that slashed his tackle out 
of the water over his head and shook the 
chub from the hooks. 

"Gee willikers, he followed it right 
up, that's what he did. Almost yanked 
him into the boat. Get him next time." 
And as the Parson bent excitedly over 
his bait kettle, Frank turned quickly 



343 



344 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



and his lips formed three words that 
were the expression of a grand idea. 

So when the Parson dropped his line 
again over his shoulder, I caught a bight 
of it in my hand, pulled in till I reached 
the hooks, twisted off the chub, and let 
go the tackle before he noticed the ab- 
sence of the drag of the weighted line. 
Then quietly I slipped the pilfered chub 
behind me into the canoe. I let our 
Parson run out his entire line before I 
gave him another bite. He struck wildly 
again. 

"Lost the fiend," he shouted. "Can't 
seem to hook 'em. Maybe he got the 
bait, too." 

Well, we cut into the Parson's supply 
of chubs and shiners until he hadn't one 
left. Then came our turn. 

"Say, Frank," I remarked seriously, 
"the Parson can't seem to hook his fish. 
You're an older hand, suppose you try 
it." And I handed up one of the pur- 
loined chubs. 

"Hey," gasped the Parson person, 
"where'd you get any minnows? I 
didn't see you catching any." 

"Of course you didn't," said Frank 
meaningly. "Look here, old sky pilot, 
do you suppose we tell you everything 
we do? You've had your chance and 
you've fizzled. Now watch a real fisher- 
man catch fish." 

There was a good deal of rashness in 
this remark, for we didn't know whether 
we could catch anything or not, but we 
reasoned that we had as good a percent- 
age as the Parson, since he had been 
angling for fully an hour with baitless 
hooks. 

Frank baited his bass spoon, follow- 
ing the advice of the Indian that bait 
was necessary, and I paddled him quietly 
along the deep water, my nerves on 
edge for fear the dull strike of the lake 
trout wouldn't fulfill his boast. But I 
needn't have worried. In ten minutes 
I saw the tip of his rod shoot sharply 
down toward the butt, and I knew by 
the sawing of the line in the water that 
it was not a snag. 

"You'll lose him, you'll lose him — I 
did," yelled the Parson, trying to stand 
up in the canoe. But his Dominieship 
guessed wrong. In ten minutes a three- 
pound fish, his shining sides heaving 



multi-colored in the sunlight, lay in the 
bottom of the canoe. And Frank was 
getting square on the Parson. "Blink- 
ety, blankety, blink!" Goodness, I gave 
him credit for being an artist, but this 
was beyond my wildest dreams. 

"Fish, fish," spluttered the Parson, 
groping vaguely in the blue smoke for a 
Scriptural quotation to stay the sulphur. 

"Fish, you bet, the blankiest blank 
sort of a blankety fine fish your blankety 
eyes ever fell on, blank it!" roared 
Frank. 

And then the Parson took another 
look at the flapping beauty in the canoe 
and the sight was too much for him. 
He gave up trying to put the kibosh on 
his brother's eloquence, waved his arms 
about his head, threw his hat overboard 
and howled for joy, while Frank went 
methodically ahead, uncensured, until he 
was exhausted. It was great — the great- 
est ever, to be able to go the limit on 
the Parson and to have the events make 
him accept it. 



*s*~!ir£ 




SOME BEAR, BUT MOSTLY PARSON 



345 



We tarried long enough 
for Frank to land another 
of the beauties, and to en- 
joy the sensation of refusing / - 
to loan the Parson one of "" 
"our chubs" that he might 
try his hand again, and 
then we paddled for the foot of the lake 
and the portage back to camp, for heavy 
clouds had been piling up in the north 
for an hour, and even as Frank was reel- 
ing in the second trout the sun went 
down under them. 

We decided to stow the canoe in the 
bushes instead of lugging her back across 
the portage, as we intended coming over 
to fish again the next day. We had just 
agreed that trolling for trout with live 
bait was pretty poor sport and equally 
unsportsmanlike, and satisfied our con- 
sciences by declaring that in the present 
case it was necessary for food, when the 
tons of water that had been working to- 
gether in the black clouds burst through 
the tree tops upon us. A hissing, drench- 
ing downpour, driven by a rising wind, 
it soaked through our clothing in a trice, 
and we hunched our backs to it and 
hurried. 

The Parson led the way. I followed. 
Frank trailed. Presently I felt him 
pluck at my arm. 

"Watch him," he said, pointing to the 
Parson's narrow back. "He's forgotten 
he hung all his clothes out to air." 

A moment later we came out of the 
trail and in sight of camp. An array of 
shirts and underdrawers flapped us a 
soggy welcome, and for us a joyous one. 
But for our Parson — with a yell he 
rushed upon them, tore them from the 
line, and then, realizing the futility of 
haste at that late moment, he — well, he 
set about methodically and without re- 
serve proving himself a close relative of 
Frank's. 

"Blankety rain on my blankety 
pants — " But we blush with shame to 
repeat it. 

It was the first and only time save one 
that we had ever heard our Parson speak 
thus. That other occasion was when he 
barked his bare left shin on the gunwale 
of a canoe, and even Frank admitted 
that then the provocation was just. But 




HALFWAY UP THIS TREE, CAUGHT IN 

SOME INEXPLICABLE MANNER BY 

THE REAR OF HIS TROUSERS, 

DANGLED THE PARSON. 

Frank had himself barked his own shins 
in the same place ten minutes before. 

At least the day had been a success, 
for we had found fish, and how good 
they were broiled on green spits over the 
fire that night. Also we knew where 
more were to be had, and though the 
method of taking them was poor sport, 
we deemed even unsportsmanlike meth- 
ods superior to army rations. At dawn 
next day, the Parson called us in high 
excitement. We rushed out into the 
chill air in our underwear. 

"Hark!" commanded the rude awak- 
ener. We hearkened. Presently from 
somewhere in the brush came the strange- 
ly musical note of a bird. It was a kind 
of song, long drawn out, and it ended 
abruptly in a soft silence like the last 
breath of a June wind. It was a song 
not to be forgotten, never to be mistaken 
once heard again. 

The Parson broke in on our thoughts. 



346 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



"That," said he, "is the song of the rare 
Golden Canadian Warbler. Few ever 
have the privilege of hearing it." 

"Golden Canadian Warbler," we re- 
peated dreamily. "Well, to me it's like 
a day out of a boy's tenth year or there- 
abouts," said Frank, his face grown 
thoughtful. 

"You chaps are going fishing," said 
the Parson. "I'm going bear hunting. 
Yep," he continued when we looked as- 
tonishment, "saw the tracks down along 
the creek while you were snoozing. I'll 
have bruin in camp when you get back." 

He had to have his way, so we left 
him. It was noon and we had come 
ashore with a dozen beauty trout, when 
we heard the crack of a rifle, and then 
heard it again. 

"He'll get in trouble, the little pin- 
head," exclaimed Frank earnestly, for 
despite brother's peculiarities, he was a 
pretty decent sort of brother after all. 
I was about to say I didn't think so, 
when far off through the woods we 
heard a wild yell, and then another and 
another. 

There was something tragic in those 
yells, something desperate. Frank was 
on his feet in a flash. I was a second be- 
hind him. We left our rods and the 
fish lying where they were, and started 
toward whence the cries had come. As 
the brush broke before his ponderous 
bulk, I saw Frank loosening the 32 at 
his hip. 

I was unarmed save for a hunting 
knife, a useless weapon. But in an ex- 
treme a man could use a knife. I felt 
at my hip to see' that it was secure. I 
thought of the rifles. They were back 
in camp, too far to go, especially as the 
crie9 were coming more frequently now, 
and in them I thought I could detect a 
note of agony. 

I knew black bears were cowards at 
the best, but I knew also that they 
would fight if cornered, or if their cubs 
were molested, and as we tore through 
the briars that clutched at our feet and 
burst our way by sheer strength through 
tangled clumps of bushes, I wondered if 
we could reach the Parson in time. 

Just ahead I could hear Frank pant- 
ing and muttering to himself as he 



fought onward. Once the shouting 
stopped, and I went sick at heart, for 
I knew we were too late. And the next 
instant the cries flung out again, pitiful, 
bloodcurdling, and — we burst into a lit- 
tle clearing with a lone stunted tree in 
its center. Halfway up this tree, caught 
in some inexplicable manner by the rear 
of his trousers, dangled the Parson, a 
ridiculous and pathetic object. 

A sharp knotted spike of a broken 
branch had speared through the waist- 
band of his small clothes in such a way 
as to hold him pointing head outward 
from the tree trunk at an angle of about 
forty-five degrees. The tips of his toes 
just touched a lower branch, but not 
sufficiently to give him footing. There 
was nothing within reach of his arms, 
and he was so poised that had he loos- 
ened himself from the peg on which he 
stuck, he must have fallen face down- 
ward to the ground, a distance of fifteen 
feet. 

We were so surprised and so disgusted 
that for a minute we gaped at him mo- 
tionless. Then Frank tramped over to 
the tree and made out to shake it. 

"Don't! Don't!" yelled the Parson. 
"You'll shake me down. I can get down 
myself, but if I do, I'll come down too 
fast. Come up here and help me." 

Frank considered a moment and then 
went up. When the Parson was on 
terra firma, his big brother demanded 
wrathfully: "Why, you little pinhead, 
how did you get up there?" 

The Parson's tale was long. He had 
seen the bear at the edge of the clear- 
ing. He thought it safer to shoot the 
bear from the tree than from the ground. 
So he had climbed up. He had fired 
once, and again, and at the last shot 
the rifle's recoil had unbalanced him 
from his perch, and he had started a 
Steve Brodie for earth, when the kindly 
spike of a limb caught and held him. 
Then he had been afraid to free himself 
for fear he would have continued his 
downward flight, as there was nothing 
near enough for him to grab, so he had 
decided to summon aid. 

Suddenly the Parson paused, his face 
grown eager, intent. He raised his hand 
for silence. Somewhere in the bush to 




THERE WAS BLOOD ON HIS HANDS, AND ON HIS FACE WAS A 
PIRATICAL GRIN. 



the right a bird was singing — a song 
long drawn out, not to be forgotten, 
never to be mistaken once it had been 
heard. 

"That," said the Parson reverently, 



Later when we were gathering our 
catch together we heard the report of a 
rifle and a whoop which we recognized 
as having been released by our Parson, 
but we set our teeth, and Frank re- 



"is the song of the rare Red Eared Star marked grimly that he'd let the little 
Finch. Few have the privilege of hear- pinhead hang by the neck this time for 
ing it." all he was concerned. It was a long 
Frank stared. His face worked with carry across the portage, and when we 
restrained emotion. I swallowed hard, reached camp dusk was settling. Be- 
Silently and wearily we turned back for tween the trunks of the trees we caught 
our fish, leaving the Parson alone. the gleam of a fire. The Parson had 

347 



348 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



beaten us home. As we burst onto the 
beach, he arose quietly from the ground, 
and the firelight playing on his figure 
revealed an astounding spectacle. In his 
hand he held a long sheath knife from 
which blood was dripping. There was 
•blood on his hands, and on his face was 
a piratical grin. 

"For the love of Heaven," began 
Frank, and stopped. 

"Oh, nothing," said the Parson non- 
chalantly, "just that bear that I said I 
would get." 

We tiptoed over and peered beside 
him. And what do you suppose — that 
little pinhead did have a bear, a big, 
black, shaggy fellow that lay there 
humped in a limp mass with its hide half 



off. He had found it foraging in camp 
on his return, and had sneaked up be- 
hind and ended its dream of a happy 
feeding ground. 

"Well I'll be — you little — ," began 
Frank ; but the Parson's hand, lifted 
suddenly in an attitude of warning, 
stayed him. 

"Hark," breathed our Dominie, 
breathless. The song of a bird, unmis- 
takable, not to be forgotten, lifted in the 
twilight. "That," said the Parson, 
thoughtfully, is the song of a Hungarian 
fly catcher — " 

But with the cry of an infuriated ani- 
mal, Frank gripped him by the trousers' 
seat, and we rolled him in the sand — 
oh! how we rolled him. 




GETTING THE MOST OUT OF 
THE MAGNETO 

BY HAROLD WHITING SLAUSON 



^O many a motor car owner 
the magneto spells mys- 
tery, as well as modern- 
ism. That the magneto 
is modern is certain, for 
of the two hundred and 
odd thousand motor cars that will soon 
be placed upon the market this year, but 
few of their manufacturers do not make 
a strong feature of this form of ignition 
as a part of the regular equipment of 
their output. 

The operation of the magneto is sim- 
ple, its whys and wherefores are logical, 
and if one investigates the subject, even 
superficially, he will discover that the 
much-maligned machine seldom gives 
trouble, and that when it does, such ac- 
tion, or failure to act, is due to neglect, 
abuse, or some other perfectly legitimate 
reason, rather than " pure cussedness " 
on the part of the instrument itself. 

Much of the mystery surrounding the 
magneto has probably been due to the 
fact that the machine is concerned with 



electricity, and this fluid has always 
seemed so intangible that any instrument 
that has had to do with its generation is 
immediately classed with the scientific 
and theoretical to a degree beyond the 
ken of the layman. But if the mere me- 
chanical aspect is considered ; if it is real- 
ized that the magneto consists mainly of 
a bundle of wires which, when revolved 
near the ends of a magnet, collects that 
magnetism and sends it through the cir- 
cuit in the form of the electric current, 
and that consequently the magneto is a 
converter that changes part of the me- 
chanical energy of the motor into the 
spark-forming fluid, the chief idea may 
be more easily grasped. 

To be sure, the magneto is delicate, 
and for that reason it should never be 
dissected by the amateur, but inasmuch 
as what few adjustments it has are read- 
ily accessible, it is seldom that the ma- 
chine need to be taken apart. The plati- 
num points of the contact breaker, usu- 
ally located in the small box on the end 



GETTING THE MOST OUT OF THE MAGNETO 349 



of the armature shaft, may need to be 
smoothed with emery paper occasionally 
if they have become pitted from excessive 
sparking, but this is a simple operation 
and is not greatly different from the 
care given to the vibrator of the dash- 
board spark coil. 

A few drops of oil should be fed to the 
lubricating cups or holes of the armature 
shaft as often as the directions call for — 
usually about once every five hundred 
miles — but aside from this, the owner 
can generally forget that he has a mag- 
neto, and will only be reminded of the 
fact by the pleasing absence of ignition 
trouble. If ignition trouble does occur, 
it is more than probable that the fault 
lies with the plugs, timer, or wires, ra- 
ther than with the magneto. 

The man who drives a magneto-equip- 
ped car knows that the current producer 
is run by a gear connected, either di- 
rectly or through the medium of other 
gears, with the crank shaft of the motor. 
He knows, then, that the magneto is 
driven positively and that there is a con- 
stant relation between its speed and the 
number of revolutions of the motor. 

But does he know that it is absolutely 
necessary that a certain position of the 
armature shall always correspond with 
a similar position of the crank shaft of 
the motor, and that consequently the 
same teeth of the driving gears must al- 
ways mesh? He will most assuredly 
be made aware of this if he disconnects 
his magneto and then fails to replace the 
gears so that exactly the same teeth are 
in mesh, for even the difference of a sin- 
gle tooth between the normal positions of 
the armature and crank shaft will pre- 
vent the magneto from delivering a suffi- 
cient spark to enable the motor to run. 

The reason for this is simple. All of 
these direct-driven magnetos are of the 
alternating current type, as this form 
allows of the simplest construction of 
armature and windings. The alternat- 
ing current generator obtains its name 
from the fact that there are no regularly- 
defined north and south poles at any 
part of the circuit, as these keep chang- 
ing continuously, or alternating. 

During each revolution of the arma- 
ture of the alternating current magneto, 
there are but two positions at which a 



current will be formed. Now the spark 
in any cylinder of a motor is required at 
the top of the compression stroke of the 
piston in that cylinder. Consequently 
when the piston is at the top of its com- 
pression stroke, ready for the spark that 
will ignite the charge, the armature of 
the magneto must be in one of its two 
current-generating positions, and there 
must therefore be a constant relation be- 
tween the position of the crank shaft, to 
which each piston is connected, and that 
of the revolving part of the magneto. 

If, now, the driving gear of the mag- 
neto is returned to its place without re- 
gard to the teeth of the next gear with 
which it meshes, it will be seen that the 
proper relation between the position of 
the armature and that of the crank shaft 
will not be maintained. Under these 
conditions, when the piston is at the top 
of the compression stroke, ready for the 
spark, the armature will not be in a posi- 
tion at which a current can be generated, 
and there can consequently be no spark 
formed at the plug. Conversely, when 
the armature has been revolved to the 
position at which a current will be 
formed, none of the pistons will be re- 
quiring the spark, and this consequent 
lack of " team work " will prevent the 
operation of the motor. 

In order to maintain this team work 
between the armature of the magneto 
and the crank shaft of the motor, the 
intermeshing teeth of the gears should 
be marked with a prick punch before 
they are removed, so that they may be 
returned to their proper place without 
trouble. Only in this manner can ac- 
curate results be obtained, if it is at any 
time necessary to remove all or part of 
the magneto driving gear. 

The Heart of the Machine 

The magnets forming the " fields " of 
the magneto in which the armature re- 
volves are of the permanent kind ; that 
is, they do not depend upon windings 
and a separate electric current for their 
excitation, as is the case with some of 
the larger generators. These magnets 
may be considered to be the most faith- 
ful part of the machine, for they gen- 
erally retain their strength under all 



35° 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



conditions of rest or work, and it is upon 
them that the proper operation of the 
magneto largely depends. 

A magneto in which the magnets have 
become weakened is useless for ignition 
purposes until the fields can be remag- 
netized, and as this can only be done at 
the factory, the machine in its entirety 
must be removed from the motor. It is 
a comparatively easy matter to deter- 
mine whether or not the fields have lost 
their magnetism by placing a piece of 
iron or steel within close range of the 
base or sides of the magneto. An ap- 
preciable pull will be exerted by the 
magnets if they still retain their strength, 
although it is not to be supposed that 
the force thus exhibited will be very 
vigorous from such a small machine. 

If the magneto has been disconnected 
from its driving gear for any reason, 
the amount of magnetism remaining in 
the fields will be best determined by 
turning the armature shaft with the 
hand. A resistance should be offered to 
the turning at first until a certain point 
is reached, after which the armature 
should exhibit a strong tendency to fly 
forward to a new position, 1 80 degrees 
beyond its former normal position of 
rest. This activity of the armature is 
one of the best guides to the amount of 
magnetism remaining in the fields. 

Inasmuch as the almost universal ap- 
plication of the magneto to ignition pur- 
poses is one of the recent improvements 
and refinements in automobile manufac- 
ture and design, it is but natural that 
there are many motor cars still in daily 
service, the engines of which have never 
known what it was to " spark " from any 
source save from dry cells or a storage 
battery. Many high-class cars built four 
or five years ago were not equipped with 
magneto ignition, and it has been only 
during the last two seasons that the 
smaller and cheaper machines have been 
provided with what had always been 
considered as an expensive and luxurious 
accessory, fitted only to be used on the 
five or six thousand-dollar automobile. 

There are consequently many owners 
who feel that their cars are satisfactory 
in every respect, except as regards the 
source of their ignition current, and they 
wonder if their automobiles cannot be 



modernized by the installation of a mag- 
neto. Some enthusiasts have purchased 
a modern, high-priced magneto ignition 
outfit such as is now used on some of 
the best cars, and those who succeeded 
in installing this plant have been more 
than repaid for their outlay of time, 
trouble, and money. 

But magnetos of this sort, as has al- 
ready been pointed out, must be gear 
driven, and this means that motors de- 
signed for the attachment of such an out- 
fit will be provided with special lugs 
and castings on their base, crank case, 
and front-gear cover for the accommo- 
dation of the necessary gears and shaft. 
Consequently, except in rare cases, it is 
a very difficult job so to rebuild those 
parts of the motor that the plant will 
successfully accommodate a gear-driven 
magneto, and the owner of the magneto- 
less car is therefore advised not to place 
his hopes and ambitions too high. 

Easy to Place the Magneto 

But if these older cars cannot be pro- 
vided with an ignition system exactly 
like their more recently-constructed 
cousins, they can at least be equipped 
with a different form of magneto which, 
to all intents and purposes, is as efficient 
and reliable as is the more expensive type 
furnished with the modern models. In- 
asmuch as this magneto cannot be gear 
driven, it must be of the direct-current 
type, which is the kind that delivers cur- 
rent with well-defined and constant posi- 
tive and negative poles. The armature 
of such a machine must be especially 
wound, and a commutator and brushes 
must be provided, but this construction 
enables a maximum current to be formed 
at any position throughout a turn of the 
magneto, and thus there is no necessity 
for a constant relation between its arma- 
ture and the crank shaft of the motor. 

The location of the direct-current 
magneto depends upon the type of motor 
to which it is to be attached and the 
amount of room afforded under the en- 
gine bonnet. As a rule, however, it can 
adapt itself to circumstances and can be 
placed in almost any out-of-the-way 
corner near the front or rear of the 
motor. Its installation, also, is com- 



GETTING THE MOST OUT OF THE MAGNETO 351 



paratively simple, and where an expert 
machinist would probably require sev- 
eral days for the application of a gear- 
driven magneto to an old car, this ma- 
chine can be set up by the owner in as 
many hours. 

If the automobile to be rejuvenated 
is of the four-cylinder type, the magneto 
can probably be set alongside the for- 
ward part of the engine on one of the 
lugs or on a special bracket attached 
to the top of the crank case. When 
so located, it can be driven by a small 
belt attached to the forward end of the 
crank shaft, but a small pulley must be 
provided for. On some cars this pulley 
may be keyed to the forward end of the 
crank shaft between the crank case and 
clutch that engages with the starting 
handle, but other models require extra 
provision to allow for the attachment of 
the pulley, and it is in such cases that 
the owner will have to " use his head " 
in order to overcome obstacles of this 
nature. 

In case the pump or the exhaust or in- 
take manifold occupies so much room un- 
der the hood that the magneto cannot be 
placed at the forward end of the motor, 
it is probable that space can be found 
at the rear, near the flywheel. One ad- 
vantage possessed by a magneto is that 
it will work as well in one position as 
in another, and it makes no difference 
whether it is placed on end, upside down, 
or " on the bias." A solution of the 
difficulty may sometimes be found by at- 
taching a bracket to the top of the rear 
cylinder, and then suspending the mag- 
neto from this. Of course, if the mag- 
neto is of the belt-driven type, its arma- 
ture shaft must be set parallel to the 
crank shaft of the motor, and this con- 
sequently limits the number of positions 
from which to choose the best location 
for the machine. 

One of the most satisfactory forms 
of mechanical-current generators, and 
one which admits of the greatest variety 
of locations and positions of attachment, 
is the friction-driven magneto. In place 
of the gear or pulley on the end of the 
armature shaft, a cone-shaped piece is 
keyed, to the base of which is attached 
a disc of a compound high in frictional 
qualities. The outer edge of the face 



of this disc is to be set against the peri- 
phery of the side of the rim of the fly- 
wheel of the motor, and thus the neces- 
sary friction is obtained which drives the 
magneto. 

This system provides for a great 
variety of positions of the magneto, as 
it can be set at any angle or in any 
location along the circumference of the 
circle described by the periphery of the 
flywheel. Consequently, if room can- 
not be found for the installation of the 
magneto between the rear cylinder of 
the motor and the rim of the flywheel, 
the machine may be placed on a bracket 
attached to one of the lugs supporting 
the crank case, and in this position the 
friction disc will revolve against the 
periphery of the flywheel and the arma- 
ture shaft will point in a radial direc- 
tion toward the hub. It will be under- 
stood, of course, that in this position the 
friction disc and the flywheel of the 
motor revolve in planes perpendicular to 
each other, and that consequently the 
crank shaft is set at right angles to the 
armature shaft. 

Look Out for Leaks 

This manner of placing the friction- 
driven magneto is often the only method 
of attaching it to a single- or double- 
cylinder motor located under the seat, 
but the fact that the machine can be in- 
stalled on old-style cars of this type, and 
in places generally well filled with the 
moving parts of the power plant, is a 
striking illustration of the adaptability 
and compact form of this little current 
generator. The installation of a mag- 
neto of this type is a simple matter on 
horizontal, double-opposed motors lo- 
cated under the front hood, for in this 
design the machine may generally be 
placed on top of the flat crank-case cover 
and driven by the side of the rim of 
the flywheel, against which the face of 
the friction disc should be set. 

Two or four holes can be drilled 
through the crank-case cover for the 
accommodation of the cap screws or bolts 
of the base of the magneto, but care 
should be taken to use packing, or gas- 
kets, at these points to prevent a leak- 
age of oil which will be thrown up by 



352 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



the movement of the connecting rods 
and crank shaft in the case. 

On account of the difference between 
the size of the flywheel of the motor 
and that of the friction disc of the mag- 
neto, the latter will be turned at high 
speed, even when the car is running 
slowly, and consequently a spark can be 
formed whenever the engine is in oper- 
ation. But the strength and amount of 
the current generated by a magneto of 
this type vary with the speed at which 
the armature is turned, and this current 
might become excessive at high revolu- 
tions of the motor were there no govern- 
ing device provided for. Consequently, 
in order to prevent the generation of an 
excessive current which might burn out 
the windings of the magneto, the slid- 
ing cone on the armature shaft to which 
the friction disc is attached is held 
tightly against the flywheel surface by 
means of a spring through the medium 
of two fly-ball arms. 

When a certain speed has been at- 
tained, these fly-ball arms are thrown 
out by centrifugal force, the spring pres- 
sure against the sliding cone is relieved, 
and slipping takes place between the 
friction disc attached to it and the sur- 
face of the flywheel against which it 
turns. The higher the speed of the 
armature becomes, the more is the spring 
pressure of the friction disc against the 
flywheel surface reduced, and conse- 
quently the magneto cannot be turned 
beyond a certain number of revolutions 
per minute. When the magneto is at 
rest, or when the armature is being 
turned only at slow speeds, the spring 
holds the cone and friction disc against 
the flywheel surface with a sufficient 
pressure to prevent slipping, and conse- 
quently a practically uniform current 
can be formed at all speeds of the motor. 

Although it is probable that complete 
directions for installing will be furnished 
with such direct-current magnetos as 
those described above, particular atten- 
tion should be paid to the setting of the 
machine to obtain the best results from 
the governing device and the longest 
wear from the friction disc. The base 
of the machine may be attached to its 
bracket, or other support, by means of 
cap screws or bolts that pass through 



slotted holes. These slots will allow for 
longitudinal motion of the machine, and 
by this means it may be set at the point 
which will give the proper pressure of 
the friction disc against the flywheel sur- 
face. 

If the flywheel is greasy and slippery, 
the magneto will need to be set closer 
than would otherwise be the case in 
order to give a greater pressure to allow 
for the decreased friction. The holes 
should be drilled or the bracket should 
be placed so that, when the magneto 
is properly set, the base screws will be 
in the center of the slots, as this will 
provide for pressure readjustment in 
either direction. 

Contrary to what would naturally be 
supposed, the face of the friction disc 
should not be placed flat against the sur- 
face of the flywheel, but the magneto 
should be set at a slight angle so that 
the outer edge of the face of the friction 
disc comes into contact with the fly- 
wheel. This will form a very flat " cone 
of friction " and will reduce the slipping 
between the various points of the sur- 
faces in contact that would otherwise 
take place. 

In view of the trouble to which a man 
will be put who desires to modernize 
his old car by the addition of magneto 
equipment, it may be cheering to him to 
know that his rejuvenated machine will 
have some advantages not possessed by 
the automobile boasting a regular alter- 
nating-current, gear-driven magneto. 
While it is of no vital importance, the 
man who is forced to use the friction- 
or belt-driven, direct-current magneto 
instead of the alternating-current type, 
has at his disposal a source of electricity 
from which storage batteries may be 
charged, and even electric lamps lighted. 

While the alternating-current machine 
could be used with electric lights, a 
storage battery cannot be employed in 
connection with it, and consequently the 
lights would be available only when the 
motor was running at a high speed. But 
the direct-current generator can be 
wired so that it will deliver all of its 
excess current to a storage battery which 
may be used either for supplementary 
ignition, or for lighting electric lamps 
when the motor is at rest. 




THE LARGEST ONE WAS OVER FOUR FEET LONG. 

THE TARPON OF TURNER'S 

RIVER 

BY A. W. DIMOCK 

Illustrated with Photographs by Julian A. Dimock 




ARCO is the name of a 
post office, but the place is 
called Collier's. Ask any 
child on the West Coast 
of Florida about Marco 
and he will shake his 
head, but mention Collier and the infant 
will brighten up and say: " Dat's Tap'n 
Bill!" 

Island, bay, hotel, houses, boat-build- 
ing plant, and even the atmosphere are, 
and always have been, Collier's. When 
Ponce de Leon was cavorting about the 
peninsula pestering the inhabitants with 
his inquiries about a spring, he stopped 
at Collier's. Everybody who goes down 
the coast stops there. The only way to 
avoid a long detour around the Cape 
Romano Shoals is to go through Col- 
lier's Bay to Coon Key, and one cannot 
pass through Collier's Bay without call- 
ing at the store. 



Summer is the time to visit Collier. 
When the little mail boat lands me with 
my family at the dock Captain Bill 
meets me with : 

"Well, how are you ? The hotel isn't 
open, you know." 

"Glad of it. That's why I am here. 
Where's that baggage truck?" 

Then I wheel our baggage to the 
hotel, we select the choice rooms, and 
spread our belongings all over the place 
as if we owned the whole business. 
When the dinner bell rings we sit down 
with the family and occasional tramps 
like ourselves who stop in on their way 
down the coast. Instead of the color- 
less crowd of tourists who occupy the 
tables when the hotel is open, we meet 
itinerant preachers and teachers, light- 
house keepers and land seekers, scientists 
and Seminoles. Best behaved of the lot 
are the Indians, for they sit quietly, say- 



353 



354 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



Ing nothing, while their eyes take in 
everything, and they touch neither knife, 
fork, nor spoon till they have seen how 
others handle them. 

We take possession of the island, and 
wandering forth with big baskets return 
laden with a score of varieties of fruits 
from avocado pears, bananas, and cocoa- 
nuts down through the alphabet to sapa- 
dilloes and tamarinds. 

As evening approaches we sit on the 
sheltered piazza that overlooks the bay, 
and, if the tide favors, watch the por- 
poises at play, and, more rarely, witness 
the dizzy leaps of a dozen or a score of 
tarpon each minute. 

From Collier's Bay to Coon Key the 
channel twists and turns among sand 
flats and oyster reefs, between wooded 
banks and around tiny keys without 
blaze or buoy, stake, or sign to point out 
the path. After years of observation 
and practice I can take a boat over the 
course, if the day is clear, without run- 
ning on a bank more than once in three 
trips. 

Yet a boy to the manner born has 
piloted me through the maze on a night 
so dark that I could scarcely see his face 
as I sat beside him. He chatted with 
me throughout the trip with his hand 
resting carelessly on the wheel which he 
idly swung to and fro without apparent 
thought or purpose. His every act was 
so casual that I had just figured out that 
we were hopelessly lost somewhere in 
the Ten Thousand Islands when he 
leaned past me to shut off the gasoline 
from the motor. A minute later the boat 
rubbed gently against some object that 
I couldn't see. 

"Where are we?" I asked. 

"At your own dock," was the amaz- 
ing reply. 

My captain carried us over the same 
course in the same mysterious manner 
and I was only sure we had passed Coon 
Key through the broader sweep of the 
wind and the gentle rise and fall of the 
boat on the slight swell from the Gulf. 
Going down the coast I got my bear- 
ings and felt rather than saw its famil- 
iar features. I was conscious of the 
nearness of Horse and Panther Keys, 
and off Gomez Point I had a mental 
picture of the old man for whom it was 



named as I last saw him at his home. 
He was then well along in his second 
century, and year by year his recollec- 
tion of the first Napoleon, under whom 
he served, became clearer and the details 
of their intimacy more distinct. 

Sand-fly Pass, leading to Chokoloskee 
Bay, was our goal for the night, and 
nothing but a nose was needed to find 
it even in cimmerian darkness. Its 
mouth was guarded by a pelican key, 
from which a rookery of the birds sent 
forth lines of stench as a Fresnal lens 
radiates light. 

In the morning we entered Choko- 
loskee Bay, and crossing it anchored 
within the mouth of Allen's River, near 
the Storter store. 

For nearly two miles Allen's River 
is a considerable stream. Beyond that 
distance it divides and spreads over flats 
until it is only navigable to a light draft 
skiff. Near the mouth of the river we 
caught and released a few tarpon of 
good size, but when a mile up the stream 
I struck a ten-pound fish I returned to 
the Irene and rigged up an eight-ounce 
fly rod. The fish rose best to a tiny 
strip of mullet, cast and skittered along 
the surface, or trolled. They preferred 
light flies to those of more brilliant col- 
oring. Yet their tastes changed as often 
as the colors of a chameleon, and they 
turned up their noses to-day at the lure 
that best pleased them yesterday. 

The light fly rod is too flexible to 
fasten the hook in the hard mouth of the 
tarpon with any approach to certainty. 
In the beginning the fly fisherman will 
fail, nine times out of ten, to fasten the 
hook in the mouth of the striking tar- 
pon. Then he will learn to thrust the 
butt of his rod away from the fish when 
it seizes the bait, and clutching the line 
or reel bring a strong, straight pull to 
bear on the hook in the mouth of the 
fish. 

My first fish on the fly rod in Allen's 
River weighed about four pounds, but 
it took longer to land than its prede- 
cessor of twenty times that weight. It 
led me into a narrow creek where an 
out-thrusting branch from the bank 
forced me to step out of the canoe into 
water waist deep. I followed the fish 
up the shallowing stream, walking on 



35 6 



THE OUTING MAGAZINE 



the bank when the bushes permitted and 
wading in the channel when trees came 
to the water's edge. 

When the tarpon had had fun enough 
with me in shallow water it led me back 
to the deeper river. I nearly capsized 
the canoe as I got aboard while playing 
the fish, which cavorted up and down 
and across the stream, leaping several 
feet in the air every minute or two for 
a quarter of an hour before yielding. 

In two days I had a score of strikes 
and landed half that number of tarpon 
after an average contest of an hour with 
each. The largest one was four feet 
long and weighed therefore about thirty- 
two pounds, but it was an exceptionally 
active fish and wore itself out in half an 
hour by a series of frantic leaps, one of 
which took it over the bow of the canoe 
within reach of my hand. 

During the two days' fishing there 
was seldom an interval of ten minutes 
between the landing of one tarpon and 
the strike of its successor. On the third 
day the tarpon were as abundant as ever 
and jumped all around the canoe, but 
not a strike could I get. If Solomon 
had ever fished for tarpon he would 
have added the way of a tarpon in the 
water to that of an eagle in the air, a 
serpent on a rock, and the other things 
that were beyond his comprehension. 

We sailed to the south end of Choko- 
loskee Bay, where Turner's River con- 
nects it with the network of waterways 
through which tidal water flows in all 
directions around the big and little keys 
of the Ten Thousand Islands which 
extend from Cape Romano to Sable. 
Channels navigable to tarpon of the 
greatest draft connect Turner's River 
with the Gulf of Mexico, while from 
scores of tiny streams and shallow water- 
courses it collects the output of many 
tarpon nurseries. 

I began business on Turner's River 
with an eight-ounce fly rod, and soon 
was fast to a ten-pound tarpon which 
thirty minutes later was captured and 
freed half a mile up the stream. Scarce- 
ly had a fresh lure been thrown out 
when there was a tug on my line and, 
as I believe, the largest tarpon that was 
ever caught on a fly rod shot a dozen 
feet in the air. Three times in quick 



succession it leaped violently, shaking its 
head to dislodge the hook. 

Down the river the tarpon dashed till 
only a few feet of line was left on my 
little reel. The slight strain I could put 
on the line wouldn't have feazed a fish 
one tenth the size of the one to which I 
was fast. I needed more yards than I 
had feet of line to offer a chance of tir- 
ing this creature whose length exceeded 
mine by a foot. One more stroke of 
that propeller tail and my goose would 
be cooked. 

I yelled to the captain to paddle for 
his life, regardless of the fact that he 
was already putting in licks that endan- 
gered it. Soon he was gaining faster 
than I could take in line and I shouted 
to him to slow up, changing the next 
instant to a cry to go ahead. When the 
trouble was over I asked the captain if 
I had screamed at him very often. 

"Most all the time, but I didn't 
mind. I knew you was excited and 
didn't rightly know what you said," was 
his reply. 

The line never again ran so low as 
in that first dash of the tarpon. Yet a 
hundred times the end of our hopes 
seemed near, but always the fish swam 
slower, or the captain paddled faster. 
The wild leaps of the creature were 
startling but welcome, for they tired the 
tarpon without carrying away line. We 
had followed the fish up, down, and 
across the river, and after an hour's 
struggle were well out in the bay, yet at 
all times we had kept within two hun- 
dred feet of our quarry. 

Always we feared the tarpon's getting 
too far away. Sometimes the danger 
was of its coming too near, and more 
than once it sprang at us with wide-open 
jaws, falling short of the canoe by inches 
only, and once it sprang fairly against 
the captain, nearly capsizing the craft. 

The sport of fishing is in inverse ratio 
to the size of the tackle compared with 
the activity, strength, and weight of the 
fish. Linus Yale, as skillful with trout 
as he was ingenious with locks, used to 
hitch his horse to a tree by a mountain 
brook near