112CHAPTER XIV.ONGafter the Indians went to sleep I lay there, looking into the fire and thinking. Many and varied were the fancies that chased each other through my restless brain—some pleasant, some unpleasant. I pondered on the novelty, even the danger, of my situation. I was away up there in that wild, trackless, mountain wilderness, alone, so far as any congenial companionship was concerned. Yes, I was worse than alone, for the moment I might close my eyes and sleep I would be at the mercy of these two reckless red men. True, they are not of a courageous, warlike race, but what might they not do for the sake of plunder? They could crush my skull at a blow and conceal my body beyond all possibility of discovery; or they could leave it and, saying I had killed myself by a fall, reveal its resting place to anyone who might care to go in search of me. I had some property with me, especially my rifle, sleeping-bag, and a small sum of money, that I knew they coveted, and I reflected that they might already have concocted some foul scheme for disposing of me and getting possession of my effects.In their native tongue of strange, weird gutturals, hisses, and aspirations, they had conversed all the evening of—I knew not what. John had rather an honest, frank face, that I thought bespoke a good heart, but Seymour had a dark, repulsive countenance that plainly indicated a treacherous nature. From the first I had made up my mind that he was a thief, if nothing worse. He pretended not to be able to speak or understand English, although I knew he could. John spoke our tongue fairly, and through him all communication with either or both was held. Should they contemplate any violence I would welcome them both to an encounter, if only I could have notice of it a second in advance. Their two old smooth-bore muskets would cut no figure against the deadly stream of fire that my Winchester express could pour forth. But I dreaded the treachery, the stealth, the silent midnight assault that is a characteristic of their race. Yet, on further consideration, I dismissed all such forebodings as purely chimerical. These were civilized Indians, living within the sound of the whistle of a railroad engine, and would hardly be willing to place themselves within the toils of the law, by the commission of such a crime, even if they had the courage or the desire to do it, and I hoped they had neither.Then my fancies turned to the contemplation of pleasanter themes. I thought of the dear little black-eyed woman, whom I had parted with on board the steamer nearly a week ago. She is homeward-bound and must now be speeding over the Dakota or Minnesota prairies, well on toward St. Paul. Willshe reach home in safety? God grant it—and that in due time I may be permitted to join her there. Then other familiar images passed and repassed my mental ken. The kind acts of dear friends, the hospitalities shown me by strangers and passing acquaintances in distant lands and in years long agone came trooping through my memory, and a feeling of gratitude for those kindnesses supplanted for the time that of solitude. Gradually and sweetly I sank into a profound slumber and all was stillness and oblivion.Several hours, perhaps, have passed, and I am thirsty. I get up and start to the little brook for water; to reach it a log, lying across a deep fissure in the rocks, must be scaled. With no thought of danger I essay the task by the dying fire's uncertain light and that of the twinkling stars. I have not counted on the heavy covering of frost that has been deposited on the log since dark, and stepping out upon the barkless part of the trunk, my moccasins slip, and with a shriek and a wild but unsuccessful grasp at an overhanging limb I fall twenty feet and land on the mass of broken and jagged granite beneath! The Indians, alarmed by my cries, spring to my relief, carry me to the fire, give me stimulants, bind up my broken arm, and do all in their power to alleviate my sufferings.They are not the crafty villains and assassins that my fancy had painted. They are kind, sympathetic friends. I realize that my right collar-bone and three ribs on the same side are broken, and when I remember where I am, the deplorableness and utter helplessness of my condition appal me.116EN ROUTE TO THE INDIAN VILLAGE.The long hours until daylight drag slowly by, and at last, as the sun tips the distant mountain tops with golden light, we start on our perilous and painful journey to the Indian village and to the steamboat landing. The two red men have rigged a litter from poles and blankets, on which they carry me safely to their homes, and thence in a canoe to the landing below. How the long, tedious journey thence, by steamer and rail, to my own home is accomplished; how the weary days and nights of suffering and delirium which I endureen routewere passed, are subjects too painful to dwell upon. I am finally assisted from the sleeper at my destination. My wife, whom the wire has informed of my misfortune and my coming, is there. She greets me with that fervent love, that intensity of pity and emotion that only awife can feel. Her lips move, but her tongue is paralyzed. For the time she can not speak; the wells of her grief have gone dry; she can not weep; she can only act. I am taken to my home, and the suspense, the anxiety, having been lived out, the climax having been reached and passed I swoon away. Again the surgeon appears to be racking me with pain in an effort to set the broken ribs, and seems to be making an incision in my side for that purpose, when I awake.The stars shone brightly above me, the frost on the leaves sparkled brightly in the fire-light. It took me several minutes to realize that I had been dreaming. I searched for the cause of the acute pain in my side, and found it to be the sharp point of a rock that my cedar boughs had not sufficiently covered and which was trying to get in between two of my ribs. I got up, removed it and slept better through the remainder of the night.117CHAPTER XV.KI-IK-KUL,or Chehalis Creek, as the whites call it, is surely one of the most beautiful streams in the whole Cascade Range. Its size may be stated, approximately, as two feet in depth by fifty feet in width, at or near the mouth, but its course is so crooked, so tortuous, and its bed so broken and uneven that the explorer will seldom find a reach of it sufficiently quiet and undisturbed to afford a measurement of this character. At one point it is choked into a narrow gorge ten feet wide and twice as deep, with a fall of ten feet in a distance of thirty. Through this notch the stream surges and swirls with the wild fury, the fearful power, and the awe-inspiring grandeur of a tornado. At another place it runs more placidly for a few yards, as if to gather strength and courage for a wild leap over a sheer wall of frowning rock into a foaming pool thirty, forty, or fifty feet below. At still another place it seems to carve its way, by the sheer power of madness, through piles and walls of broken and disordered quartz, granite, or basalt, even as Cortes and his handful of Spanish cavaliers hewed their way through the massed legions of Aztecs at Tlascala.Farther up, or down, it is split into variouschannels by great masses of upheaved rock, and these miniature streams, after winding hither and thither through deep, dark, narrow fissures for perhaps one or two hundred yards, reunite to form this headlong mountain torrent. Viewing these scenes, one is forcibly reminded of the poet's words:"How the giant element,From rock to rock, leaps with delirious bound."Series of cascades, a quarter to half a mile long, are met with at frequent intervals, which rival in their beauty and magnificence those of the Columbia or the Upper Yellowstone. Whirlpools occur at the foot of some of these, in which the clear, bright green water boils, sparkles, and effervesces like vast reservoirs of champagne. The moanings and roarings emitted by this matchless stream in its mad career may be heard in places half a mile. At many points its banks rise almost perpendicularly to heights of 300, 400, or 500 feet. You may stand so nearly over the water that you can easily toss a large rock into it, and yet you are far above the tops of the massive firs and cedars that grow at the water's edge. Looking down from these heights you may see in the crystal fluid whole schools of the lordly salmon plowing their way up against the almost resistless fury of the current, leaping through the foam, striking with stunning force against hidden rocks, falling back half dead, and, drifting into some clear pool below, recovering strength to renew the hopeless assault.The time will come when an easy roadway, and possibly an iron one, will be built up this grand cañon, and thousands of tourists will annually standwithin its walls to gaze upon these magic pictures, absorbed in their grandeur and romantic beauty. Nor does the main stream afford the only objects of beauty and interest here. It is a diamond set in a cluster of diamonds, for many of the little brooks, already mentioned as coming down the mountain on either side, are only less attractive because smaller. Many of them tumble from the tops of rocky walls, and dance down among the branches of evergreen trees, sparkling like ribbons of silver in the rays of the noonday sun.Theodore Roosevelt, in his excellent work, "Hunting Trips of a Ranchman;" says: "Thirst is largely a matter of habit." So it may be, but I am sadly addicted to the habit, and I found it one from which, on this trip, I was able to extract a great deal of comfort, for we crossed one or more of these little brooks every hour, and I rarely passed one without taking a copious draught of its icy fluid. The days, were moderately warm, and the hard labor we performed, walking and climbing, made these frequent opportunities to quench thirst one of the most pleasant features of the journey. I was frequently reminded of Cole's beautiful tribute to the mountain brook:"Sleeping in crystal wells,Leaping in shady dells,Or issuing clear from the womb of the mountain,Sky-mated, related, earth's holiest daughter;Not the hot kiss of wine,Is half so divine as the sip of thy lip, inspiring cold water."We arrived at our destination, the foot of Ski-ik-kul Lake (and the source of the creek up which we had been traveling), at four o'clock in the afternoonof the second day out. We made camp on the bank of the creek, and John and I engaged in gathering a supply of wood. After we had been thus occupied for ten or fifteen minutes, I noticed that Seymour was nowhere in sight, and asked John where he was."He try spear salmon.""What will he spear him with?" I said. "Sharp stick?""No. He bring spear in him pocket," said John.We were standing on the bank of the creek again, and as he spoke there was a crashing in the brush overhead, and an immense salmon, nearly three feet long, landed on the ground between us. Seymour had indeed brought a spear with him in his pocket. It was made of a fence-nail and two pieces of goat horn, with a strong cord about four feet long attached. There was a sort of socket in the upper end of it, and the points of the two pieces of horn were formed into barbs. As soon as Seymour had dropped his pack he had picked up a long, dry, cedar pole, one end of which he had sharpened and inserted between the barbs, fastening the string so that when he should strike a fish the spear point would pull off. With this simple weapon in hand he had walked out on the vast body of driftwood with which the creek is bridged for half a mile below the lake, and peering down between the logs, had found and killed the fish. We made a fire in the hollow of a great cedar that stood at the water's edge. The tree was green, but the fire soon ate a large hole into the central cavity, and, by frequent feeding with dry wood, we had a fire thatroared and crackled like a great furnace, all night. It"Kindled the gummy bark of fir or pine,And sent a comfortable heat from far,Which might supply the sun."122SUPPER FOR THREE-SAUMON RÔTI.Seymour cut off the salmon's head, split the body down the back, and took out the spine. Then he spread the fish out and put skewers through it to hold it flat. He next cut a stick about four feet long, split it half its length, tied a cedar withe around to keep it from splitting further, and inserting the fish in the aperture, tied another withe around the upper end. He now stuck the other end of the stick into the ground in front of the fire, and our supper was under way.I have often been reduced to the necessity of eating grub cooked by Indians, both squaws and men, and can place my hand on my heart and say truthfully I never hankered after Indian cookery. In fact, I have always eaten it with a mental reservation, and a quiet, perhaps unuttered protest, but I counted the minutes while that fish cooked. I knew Seymour was no more cleanly in his habits than his kin—in fact, he would not have washed his hands before commencing, nor the fish after removing its entrails, had I not watched him and made him do so; but even if he had not I should not have refused to eat, for when a man has been climbing mountains all day he can not afford to be too scrupulous in regard to his food. When the fish was thoroughly roasted on one side the other was turned to the fire, and finally, when done to a turn, it was laid smoking hot on a platter of cedar boughs which I hadprepared, and the savory odors it emitted would have tempted the palate of an epicure. I took out my hunting knife, and making a suggestive gesture toward the smoking fish, asked John if I should cut off a piece; for not withstanding my consuming hunger, my native modesty still remained with me, and I thus hinted for an invitation to help myself."Yes," he said. "Cut off how much you can eat."You can rest assured I cut off a ration that would have frightened a tramp. Good digestion waited on appetite, and health on both. I ate with the hunger born of the day's fatigue and the mountain atmosphere, and the Indians followed suit, or rather led, and in half an hour only the head and spine of that fifteen-pound salmon remained, and they were not yet in an edible condition. Near bedtime, however, they were both spitted before the fire, and in the silent watches of the night, as I awoke and looked out of my downy bed, I saw those two simple-minded children of the forest, sitting there picking the last remaining morsels of flesh from those two pieces of what, in any civilized camp or household, would have been considered offal. But when a Siwash quits eating fish it is generally because there is no more fish to eat. After such a supper, charmed by such weird, novel surroundings, lulled by the music of the rushing waters, and warmed by a glowing camp-fire, I slept that night with naught else to wish for, at peace with all mankind. Even "mine enemy's dog, though he had bit me, should have stood that night against my fire."CHAPTER XVI.EFOREgoing to bed, Seymour cautioned me through his interpreter, the faithful John, against getting out too early in the morning. He said the goats did not commence to move around until nine or ten o'clock, and if we started out to hunt before that time we were liable to pass them asleep in their beds.But I read the hypocrite's meaning between his words; he is a lazy loafer and loves to lie and snooze in the morning. It was his own comfort, more than our success in hunting, that he was concerned about. Goats, as well as all other species of large game, are on foot at daylight, whether they have been out all night or not, and from that time until an hour after sunrise, and again just before dark in the evening, are the most favorable times to hunt. The game is intent on feeding at these times and is not so wary as at other times. I told Seymour we would get up at four o'clock, get breakfast, and be ready to move at daylight. And so we did.The night had been clear and cold; ice had formed around the margin of the lake, and a hoar frost a quarter of an inch deep covered the ground, the logs, and rocks that were not sheltered by trees. Ski-ik-kul or Willey's Lake, as it is termed by the whites,is a beautiful little mountain tarn about a quarter of a mile wide and four miles long. It is of glassy transparency, of great depth, and abounds in mountain trout, salmon, and salmon trout. It is walled in by abrupt, rocky-faced mountains that rise many hundreds of feet from the water's edge, and on which a scanty growth of laurel, currant bushes, and moss furnish food for the goats. Stunted cedars, balsams, spruces, and pines also grow from small fissures in the rocks that afford sufficient earth to cover their roots.The craft on which we were to navigate this lake was an interesting specimen of Indian nautical architecture. It was a raft Seymour had made on a former visit. The stringers were two large, dry, cedar logs, one about sixteen feet long, the other about twenty; these were held together by four poles, or cross-ties, pinned to the logs, and a floor composed of cedar clapboards was laid over all. Pins of hard, dry birch, driven into the logs and tied together at the tops, formed rowlocks, and the craft was provided with four large paddles, or oars, hewed out with an ax. In fact, that was the only tool used in building the raft. The pins had been sharpened to a flat point and driven firmly into sockets made by striking the ax deeply into the log, and instead of ropes, cedar withes were used for lashing. These had been roasted in the fire until tough and flexible, and when thus treated they formed a good substitute for the white sailor's marline or the cow-boy's picket rope.We boarded this lubberly old hulk and pulled out up the north shore of the lake just as the morning sungave the first golden tints to the mountain tops. Our progress was slow despite our united strength applied to the oars, but it gave us more time to scan the mountain sides for game. I did not find it so plentiful as I had been promised, for I had been told by the Indians that we should see a dozen goats inthe first hour, but we had been out more than that length of time before we saw any. Finally, however, after we had gone a mile or more up the lake shore, I saw a large buck goat browsing among the crags about four hundred feet above us. He had not seen us, and dropping the oar I caught up my rifle. The men backed water, and as the raft came to a standstill, I sent a bullet into him. He sprang forward, lost his footing, came bounding and crashing to the foot of the mountain, and stopped, stone dead, in the brush at the water's edge not more than twenty feet from the raft. We pushed ashore and took him on board, when I found, to my disappointment, that both horns had been broken off in the fall, so that his head was worthless for mounting.We cruised clear around the lake that day and could not find another goat. In the afternoon it clouded up and set in to rain heavily again in the cañon, while snow fell on the mountains a few hundred feet above us. The next morning I went up a narrow cañon to the north, and ascending a high peak hunted until nearly noon, when I found two more goats, a female and her kid (nearly full grown), both of which I killed, and taking the skins and one ham of the kid, I returned to camp. It continued to rain at frequent intervals, which robbed camp life and hunting of much of their charm, so I decided to start for home the following morning. In the afternoon I rigged a hook and line, cut an alder pole, and caught five fine trout, the largest seventeen and a half inches long. Seymour speared three more salmon and roasted one of them, so that we had another feast of fish that night. We also roasteda leg of goat for use on our way home, and spent the evening cleaning and drying the three skins as best we could by the camp-fire, to lighten their weight as much as possible.Meanwhile, I questioned John at considerable length regarding the nature of his language, but could get little information, as he seemed unable to convey his ideas on the subject in our tongue. The language of the Skowlitz tribe, to which he and Seymour belong, is a strange medley of gutturals, aspirates, coughs, sneezes, throat scrapings, and a few words. I said:"Your language don't seem to have as many words as ours.""No; English too much. Make awful tired learn him.""Where did you learn it?""O, I work in pack train for Hudson Bay one year, and work on boat one year.""Where did the boat run?""She run nort from Victoria," he said."Where to, Alaska?""O, I dunno.""How far north?""O, I dunno. Take seven day. We go to de mout of de river.""What river? What was the name of the town?""O, I dunno know what you call 'em."And thus I learned, by continued questioning, that he did not know or remember the English names of the places he had visited, but that they were probably in Alaska. He always appealed to Seymour to reply to any of my questions that hecould not himself answer, and a question or remark that in our tongue had taken a dozen words to express he would repeat in a cough, a throat-clearing sound, and a grunt or two. Seymour's answer would be returned in a half sneeze, a lisp, a suppressed whistle, a slight groan, and an upturning of the eye. Then John would look thoughtful while framing the answer into his pigin English, and it would come back, for instance, something like this:"Seymo say he tink we ketch plenty sheep up dat big mountain, on de top." Or, "He say he tink maybe we get plenty grouse down de creek. To-morrow we don't need carry meat," etc. John seemed to regard Seymour as a perfect walking cyclopedia of knowledge, and, in fact, he was well informed on woodcraft, the habits of birds and animals, Indian lore, and other matters pertaining to the country in which he lived, but outside of these limits he knew much less than John.I was disgusted with his pretended inability to speak or understand English, for on one of my former visits to the village I had heard him speak it, and he did it much better than John could. Beside, Pean had told me that Seymour had attended school at the mission on the Frazer river, and could even read and write, but now that he had an interpreter he considered it smart, just as a great many Indians do, to affect an utter ignorance of our language. I asked him why he did not talk; told him I knew he could talk, and reminded him that I had heard him speak good English; that I knew he had been to school, etc. He simply shook his head and grunted. Then I told him he was a boiled-downfool to act thus, and that if he really wanted to appear smarter even than his fellows, the best way to do it was to make use of the education he had whenever he could make himself more useful and agreeable by so doing. I saw by the way he changed countenance that he understood every word I said, though he still remained obstinate. On several occasions, however, I suddenly fired some short, sharp question at him when he was not expecting it, and before stopping to think he would answer in good English.131CHAPTER XVII.FTERmaking a hearty breakfast on Rocky Mountain kid, salmon, and sea biscuits, we began our return journey down the creek in a drizzling rain. Our burdens were increased by the weight of the three goat skins, and the walking was rendered still more precarious than before by the logs, grass, soil, pine needles, and everything else having become so thoroughly watersoaked. If we had had hard climbing up the steep pitches on our outbound cruise, we had it still harder now. We could not stick in our toe nails as well now as before, and even if we stuck in our heels going down a hill, they would not stay stuck any better than a second-hand postage-stamp. I remembered one hill, or cañon wall, that in the ascent made us a great deal of hard work, and much perturbation of spirit, because it was steep, rocky, and had very few bushes on it that we could use as derricks by which to raise ourselves. I dreaded the descent of this hill, now that the rocks were wet, but we made it safely. Not so, however, the next one we attempted; it was not so rocky as the other, and had a goodly bed of blue clay, with a shallow covering of vegetable mold fora surface, with a little grass and a few weeds. It was very steep, I think about what an architect would call a three-quarter pitch, but we essayed it boldly and fearlessly. Seymour was in the lead, his faithful partisan, John, followed, and I constituted the tail end of the procession. We had just got well over the brow, when the end of a dry hemlock stick caught in the mansard roof of my left foot; the other end was fast in the ground, and, though I tried to free myself, both ends stuck; the stick played a lone hand, but it raised me clear out in spite of my struggles. I uttered a mournful groan as I saw myself going, but was as helpless as a tenderfoot on a bucking cayuse. My foot was lifted till my heel punched the small of my back, and my other foot slid out from under me; I spread out like a step ladder, and clawed the air for succor, but there was not a bush or branch within reach. I think I went ten feet before I touched the earth again, and then I landed head first among John's legs. He sat down on the back of my neck like a trip-hammer, and we both assaulted Seymour in the rear with such violence as to knock him clear out. For a few seconds we were the worst mixed up community that ever lived, I reckon. Arms, legs, guns, hats, packs, and human forms were mingled in one writhing, squirming, surging mass, and groans, shouts, and imprecations, in English, Chinook, and Scowlitz, rent the air. Every hand was grabbing for something to stop its owner, but there were no friendly stoppers within reach; if one caught a weed, or a stunted juniper, it faded away from his herculean grasp like dry grass before a prairie fire. I seemed to have thehighest initial velocity of any member of the expedition, and, though in the rear at the start, I was a full length ahead at the finish. We finally all brought up in a confused mass at the foot of the hill, and it took some time for each man to extricate himself from the pile, and reclaim his property from the wreck. Strange as it may seem, however, but little damage was done. There was a skinned nose, a bruised knee or two, a sprained wrist, and everybody was painted with mud. All were, however, able to travel, and after that, when going down steep hills, the Siwashes kept looking back to see if I were coming.134TRYING TO GET UP.We performed several dangerous feats that day and the next, walking along smooth, barkless logs, that lay across some of the deep gorges; in places we were thirty feet or more above the ground, or rather rocks, where a slip would have resulted in instant death. My hair frequently stood on end, what little I have left, but John and Seymour always went safely across and I could not afford to be outdone in courage by these miserable, fish-eating Siwashes, so I followed wherever they led. We read that the wicked stand on slippery places, but I can see these wicked people, and go them about ten better, for I have stood, and even walked, on many of these wet logs, and they are about the all-firedest slipperyest things extant, and yet I have not fallen off. I fell only that once, when I got my foot in the trap, and that would have downed a wooden man. Just before going into camp that night, John shot a grouse, but we were all too tired and hungry to cook it then, and made our meal on cold kid, fish, and biscuits.After supper, however, John dressed the bird and laid it aside for breakfast, saying we would each have a piece of it then. The rain ceased falling at dark, and the stars came out, which greatly revived our drooping spirits. We gathered large quantities of dry wood and bark, so we were able to keep a good fire all night. I drew from a half-rotten log, a flat, slab-like piece of pine, which at first I failed to recognize. John saw it and said:136TRYING TO GET DOWN."Good. Dat's beech.""Beech," I said. "Why, there's no beech in this country.""No, beech wood, make good fire, good kindle, good what you call him? Good torch.""Oh," I said, "pitch pine, eh?""Yas, beech pine." And this was as near as he could get to pitch.About two o'clock in the morning, it commenced to rain heavily again, and the poor Indians were soon in a pitable condition, with their blankets and clothing wet through. They sat up the remainder of the night, feeding the fire to keep it alive and themselves warm, for they had neither canvas or rubber coats, or any other kind of waterproof clothing. They put up some of the longer pieces of the bark we had gathered for fuel, and made a passable shelter, but it was so small, and leaked so badly, that it was far from comfortable. I pitied the poor fellows, but had nothing I could give or even share with them for shelter. I got up at five o'clock, and we commenced preparations for breakfast. I told John he had better cook the grouse, but he shook his head, and said sadly:"Seymo, he spile de grouse.""How did he do that?" I inquired."He say put him on stick by fire to cook in de night. Then he go to sleep and stick burn off. Grouse fall in de fire and burn.""That's too thin," I said. "Seymour cooked that grouse and ate it while you and I were asleep."Seymour glared at me, but had not the courage to resent or deny the charge. An Indian does not let sleep interfere with his appetite; he eats whatever there is first, and then sleeps. I divided the last of the bacon and biscuits equally between us, and with a remnant of cold broiled salmon, we eked out a scant breakfast on which to begin a day's work. John was clawing some white greasy substance from a tin can with his fingers, and spreading it on his biscuits with the same tools. He passed the can to me, and said:"Have butta?""No, thanks," I answered; "I seldom eat butter in camp.""I like him all time," he replied; "I never git widout butta for brade at home." This by way of informing me that he knew what good living was, and practiced it at home. It rained heavily all day, and our tramp through the jungle was most dreary and disagreeable."The day was dark, and cold, and dreary;It rained, and the wind was never weary."139EN FAMILLEAbout three o'clock in the afternoon, we sat down to rest on the bank of the creek. We had been there but a few minutes, when a good sized black bear came shambling along up the bank of the creek,looking for salmon. The Indians saw him when a hundred yards or more away, and flattened themselves out on the ground to await his nearer approach. I raised my rifle to my shoulder, but they both motioned me to wait, that he was yet too far away. I disregarded their injunction, however, and promptly landed an express bullet in the bear's breast. He reared, uttered a smothered groan, turned, made one jump, and fell dead. Now arose the question of saving his skin; it was late, and we were yet three miles from the Indian village; to skinthe bear then meant to camp there for the night, and as the rain still came down in a steady, heavy sheet, I at once decided that I would not stay out there another night for the best bear skin in the country. Seymour and John held a short consultation, and then John said they would come back and get the skin next day, and take it in lieu of the money I owed them for their services. We struck a bargain in about a minute, and hurried on, arriving at the village just as it grew dark. My rubber coat and high rubber boots had kept me comparatively dry, but the poor Indians were wet to the skin.140CHAPTER XVIII.Narriving at Chehalis John kindly invited me to stop over night with him, but I declined with thanks. I went into his house, however, to wait while he got ready to take me down to Barker's. It was the same type of home that nearly all these Indians have—a large clapboard building about eight feet high, with smoked salmon hung everywhere and a fire in the centre of the room, which, by the way, was more of a smoke than fire, curing the winter provender. A pile of wood lay in one corner of the room, some empty barrels in another, fish-nets were hung in still another, and the family lived, principally, in the fourth. John lives with his father-in-law, mother-in-law, two brothers-in-law, one sister-in-law, his wife and three papooses. Blankets, pots, tinware and grub of various kinds were piled up promiscuously in this living corner, and the little undressed kids hovered and shivered around the dull fire, suffering from the cold. We were soon in the canoe again,en routeto the steamboat landing, where we arrived soon after dark. I regretted to part with John, for I had found him a good, faithful servant and staunch friend. I was glad to get rid of Seymour, however, for I had learned that he was a contemptible sneak, and told him so in as many words.En routehome I had about two hours to wait at Port Moody for the boat. There were great numbers of grebes and ducks in the bay, and I asked the dock foreman if there was any rule against shooting there. He said he guessed not; he had never seen anyone shooting there, but he guessed there wouldn't be any objection. I got out my rifle and two boxes of cartridges and opened on the birds. The ducks left at once, but the grebes sought safety in diving, and as soon as the fusillade began a number of gulls came hovering around, apparently to learn the cause of the racket. I had fine sport between the two, and a large audience to enjoy it with me. In ten minutes from the time I commenced shooting all the clerks in the dock office, all the freight hustlers in the warehouse, all the railroad section men, the ticket-agent and baggage-master, numbering at least twenty men in the aggregate, were clustered around me, and their comments on my rifle and shooting were extremely amusing. Not a man in the party had ever before seen a Winchester express, and the racket it made, the way in which the balls plowed up the water, and the way the birds, when hit, vanished into thin air and a few feathers, were mysteries far beyond their power to solve. At the first lull in the firing half a dozen of them rushed up and wanted to examine the rifle, the fancy finish and combination sights of which were as profoundly strange to them as to the benighted Indians. They soon handed it back to me, however, with the request to resume hostilities against the birds; they preferred to see the old thing work rather than to handle it. The gulls were soaring in close, and six shots,rapidly delivered, dropped three of them into the water, mutilated beyond recognition. This was the climax; the idea of killing birds on the wing, with a rifle, was something these men had never before heard of, and two or three examined my cartridges to see if they were not loaded with shot, instead of bullets. When they found this suspicion was groundless they were beside themselves with wonder and admiration of the strange arm. As a matter of fact, it required no particular skill to kill the gulls on the wing, for they were the large gray variety, and frequently came within twenty or thirty feet of me, so that anyone who could kill them with a shotgun could do so with a rifle.Finally the steamer came in and I went aboard. The train arrived soon after and several of its passengers boarded the boat. The gulls were now hovering about the steamer, picking up whatever particles of food were thrown overboard from the cook-room. One old Irishman, who had come in on the train from the interior wilds, walked out on the quarter deck and looking at them intently for a few minutes, turned to me and inquired:"Phwat kind of burds is thim—geese?""Yes," I said, "thim's geese, I reckon.""Well, be gorry, if I had a gun here I'd shoot some o'thim"; and he went and told his companions "there was a flock of the tamest wild geese out thare ye iver sawed."144A SNAP SHOT WITH A DETECTIVE CAMERA.The return journey to Portland was without incident. There I boarded the steamer and spent another delightful day on the broad bosom of the Columbia river, winding up among the grand basalticcliffs and towering mountain peaks of the Cascade Range. Again the little camera came into requisition, and though the day was cloudy and blusterous, though snow fell at frequent intervals, and though the steamer trembled like a reed shaken by the wind, I made a dozen or more exposures on the most interesting and beautiful subjects as we passed them, and to my surprise many came out good pictures. Most of them lack detail in the deeper shadows, but the results altogether show that had the day been clear and bright all would have been perfect. In short, it is possible with this dry-plate process to make good pictures from a moving steamboat, or even from a railway train going at a high rate of speed. I made three pictures from a Northern Pacific train, coming through the Bad Lands, when running twenty-five miles an hour, and though slightly blurred in the near foreground, the buttes and bluffs, a hundred yards and further away, are as sharp as if I had been standing on the ground and the camera on a tripod; and a snap shot at a prairie-dog town—just as the train slowed on a heavy grade—shows several of the little rodents in various poses, some of them apparently trying to look pretty while having their "pictures took."145CHAPTER XIX.stopped off at Spokane Falls, on my way home, for a few days' deer hunting, and though that region be not exactly in the Cascades, it is so near that a few points in relation to the sport there may be admissible in connection with the foregoing narrative. I had advised my good friend, Dr. C. S. Penfield, of my coming, and he had kindly planned for me a hunting trip. On the morning after my arrival his brother-in-law, Mr. T. E. Jefferson, took me up behind a pair of good roadsters and drove to Johnston's ranch, eighteen miles from the falls, and near the foot of Mount Carleton, where we hoped to find plenty of deer. We huntedthere two days, and though we found signs reasonably plentiful and saw three or four deer we were unable to kill any. Mr. Jefferson burned some powder after a buck and a doe the first morning after our arrival, but it was his first experience in deer hunting, so it is not at all strange that the game should have escaped. Mr. Jefferson was compelled to return home at that time on account of a business engagement, but Mr. Johnston, with characteristic Western hospitality and kindness, said I must not leave without a shot, and so hooked up his team and drove me twenty-five miles farther into the mountains, to a place where he said we would surely find plenty of game. On the way in we picked up old Billy Cowgill, a famous deer hunter in this region, and took him along as guide.We stopped at Brooks' stage ranch, on the Colville road to rest the team, and the proprietor gave us an amusing account of some experiments he had been making in shooting buckshot from a muzzle-loading shotgun. He had made some little bags of buckskin, just large enough to hold twelve No. 2 buckshot, and after filling them had sewed up the ends. He shot a few of them at a tree sixty yards away, but they failed to spread and all went into one hole. Then he tried leaving the front end of the bag open, and still they acted as a solid ball; so he had to abandon the scheme, and loaded the charge loose, as of old. He concluded, however, not to fire this last load at the target, and hung the gun up in its usual place. A few days later he heard the dog barking in the woods a short distance from the house, and supposed it had treed a porcupine. Mr. Brooks' brother, who was visiting at the time, took the gun and went out to kill the game, whatever it might be. On reaching the place, he found a ruffed grouse sitting in a tree, at which he fired. The ranchman said he heard the report, and his brother soon came back, carrying a badly-mutilated bird; he threw it into the kitchen, and put the gun away; then he sat down, looked thoughtful, and kept silent for a long time. Finally he blurted out:THE STAGE RANCH"Say, Tom; that gun got away from me.""How was that?" queried the ranchman."I don't know; but I shot pretty near straight up at the grouse, and somehow the gun slipped off my shoulder and done this." And opening his coat he showed his vest, one side of which was split from top to bottom; he then took out a handful of hiswatch and held it up—one case was torn off, the crystal smashed, the dial caved in, and the running gear all mixed up. The ranchman said he guessed he had put one of the buckskin bags of shot into that barrel, and forgetting that fact, had added the loose charge. He said he reckoned twenty-four No. 2 buckshot made too heavy a load for an eight-pound gun.We reached "Peavine Jimmy's" mining cabin, which was to be our camp, at three o'clock in the afternoon, and busied ourselves till dark in the usual duties of cooking, eating, and gathering wood. Old Billy proved a very interesting character; he is a simple, quiet, honest, unpretentious old man, and unlike most backwoodsmen, a veritable coward. He has the rare good sense, however, to admit it frankly, and thus disarms criticism. In fact, his frequent admission of this weakness is amusing. He says that for fear of getting lost he does not like to go off a trail when hunting, unless there is snow on the ground, so that he can track himself back into camp. He rides an old buckskin pony that is as modest and gentle as its master. Billy says he often gets lost when he does venture away from the trail, but in such cases he just gives old Buck the rein, hits him a slap, and tells him to go to camp and he soon gets there. He told us a bear story that night, worthy of repetition. Something was said that reminded him of it, and he mentioned it, but added, modestly, that he didn't know as we cared for any bear stories. But we said we were very fond of them, and urged the recital."Well, then," he said, "if you will wait a minute,I'll take a drink of water first and then I'll tell it to you," and he laughed a kind of boyish titter, and began:"Well, me and three other fellers was up north in the Colville country, huntin', and all the other fellows was crazy to kill a bear. I didn't want to kill no bear, and didn't expect to. I'm as 'feard as death of a bear, and hain't no use for 'em. All I wanted to kill was a deer. The other fellers, they wanted to kill some deer, too, but they wanted bear the worst. So one mornin' we all started out, and the other fellers they took the best huntin' ground, and said I'd better go down along the creek and see if I couldn't kill some grouse, for they didn't believe I could kill any thing bigger'n that; and I said, all right, and started off down the creek. Purty soon I come to an old mill that wasn't runnin' then. And when I got purty near to the mill I set down on a log, for I didn't think it was worth while to go any furder, for I didn't think I would find any game down the creek, and I didn't care much whether I did or not. Well, I heard a kind of a racket in the mill, and durned if there wasn't a big black bear right in the mill. And I watched him a little bit, and he started out towards me. And I said to myself, says I, 'Now Billy, here's your chance to kill a bear.'"I hadn't never killed no bear before, nor never seed one before, and durned if I wasn't skeered nearly to death. But I thought there wasn't no use of runnin', for I knowed he could run faster'n I could, so I took out my knife and commenced cuttin' down the brush in front of me, for I wanted tomake a shure shot if I did shoot, if I could. And the bear, he come out of the mill and rared up, and put his paws on a log and looked at me, and I said to myself, says I, 'Now Billy, this is your time to shoot'; but I wasn't ready to shoot yit. They was one more bush I wanted to cut out of the way before I shot, so I cut if off and laid down my knife, and then I took up my gun and tried to take aim at his breast, but doggoned if I didn't shake so I couldn't see the sights at all. And I thought one time I wouldn't shoot, and then I knowed the other fellers would laugh at me if I told 'em I seed a bear and didn't shoot at him, and besides I was afraid some of 'em was up on the hillside lookin' at me then. So I just said to myself, says I, 'Now Billy, you're goin' to get eat up if you don't kill him, but you might as well be eat up as to be laughed at.' So I jist took the best aim I could for shakin', an' shet both eyes an' pulled."Well, I think the bear must a begin to git down jist as I pulled, for I tore his lower jaw off and shot a big hole through one side of his neck. He howled and roared and rolled around there awhile and then he got still. I got round where I could see him, after he quit kickin', but I was afeared to go up to him, so I shot two more bullets through his head to make sure of him. And then I set down and waited a long while to see if he moved any more; for I was afeard he mightn't be dead yit, and might be playin' possum, jist to get ahold of me. But he didn't move no more, so I went up to him with my gun cocked and pointed at his head, so if he did move I could give him another one right quick. An' then I punched him a little withmy gun, but he didn't stir. An' when I found he was real dead I took my knife and cut off one of his claws, an' then I went back to camp, the biggest feelin' old cuss you ever seed."Well, arter while the other fellers they all come in, lookin' mighty blue, for they hadn't any of 'em killed a thing, an' when I told 'em I'd killed a bear, they wouldn't believe it till I showed 'em the claw. An' then they wouldn't believe it, neither, for they thought I'd bought the claw of some Injin. And they wouldn't believe it at all till they went out with me and seed the bear and helped skin 'im, and cut 'im up, and pack 'im into camp. An' they was the dog-gondest, disappointedest lot of fellers you ever seed, for we hunted five days longer, an' nary one of 'em got to kill a bear nor even see one. They thought I was the poorest hunter and the biggest coward in the lot, but I was the only one that killed a bear that clip."
112
ONGafter the Indians went to sleep I lay there, looking into the fire and thinking. Many and varied were the fancies that chased each other through my restless brain—some pleasant, some unpleasant. I pondered on the novelty, even the danger, of my situation. I was away up there in that wild, trackless, mountain wilderness, alone, so far as any congenial companionship was concerned. Yes, I was worse than alone, for the moment I might close my eyes and sleep I would be at the mercy of these two reckless red men. True, they are not of a courageous, warlike race, but what might they not do for the sake of plunder? They could crush my skull at a blow and conceal my body beyond all possibility of discovery; or they could leave it and, saying I had killed myself by a fall, reveal its resting place to anyone who might care to go in search of me. I had some property with me, especially my rifle, sleeping-bag, and a small sum of money, that I knew they coveted, and I reflected that they might already have concocted some foul scheme for disposing of me and getting possession of my effects.
In their native tongue of strange, weird gutturals, hisses, and aspirations, they had conversed all the evening of—I knew not what. John had rather an honest, frank face, that I thought bespoke a good heart, but Seymour had a dark, repulsive countenance that plainly indicated a treacherous nature. From the first I had made up my mind that he was a thief, if nothing worse. He pretended not to be able to speak or understand English, although I knew he could. John spoke our tongue fairly, and through him all communication with either or both was held. Should they contemplate any violence I would welcome them both to an encounter, if only I could have notice of it a second in advance. Their two old smooth-bore muskets would cut no figure against the deadly stream of fire that my Winchester express could pour forth. But I dreaded the treachery, the stealth, the silent midnight assault that is a characteristic of their race. Yet, on further consideration, I dismissed all such forebodings as purely chimerical. These were civilized Indians, living within the sound of the whistle of a railroad engine, and would hardly be willing to place themselves within the toils of the law, by the commission of such a crime, even if they had the courage or the desire to do it, and I hoped they had neither.
Then my fancies turned to the contemplation of pleasanter themes. I thought of the dear little black-eyed woman, whom I had parted with on board the steamer nearly a week ago. She is homeward-bound and must now be speeding over the Dakota or Minnesota prairies, well on toward St. Paul. Willshe reach home in safety? God grant it—and that in due time I may be permitted to join her there. Then other familiar images passed and repassed my mental ken. The kind acts of dear friends, the hospitalities shown me by strangers and passing acquaintances in distant lands and in years long agone came trooping through my memory, and a feeling of gratitude for those kindnesses supplanted for the time that of solitude. Gradually and sweetly I sank into a profound slumber and all was stillness and oblivion.
Several hours, perhaps, have passed, and I am thirsty. I get up and start to the little brook for water; to reach it a log, lying across a deep fissure in the rocks, must be scaled. With no thought of danger I essay the task by the dying fire's uncertain light and that of the twinkling stars. I have not counted on the heavy covering of frost that has been deposited on the log since dark, and stepping out upon the barkless part of the trunk, my moccasins slip, and with a shriek and a wild but unsuccessful grasp at an overhanging limb I fall twenty feet and land on the mass of broken and jagged granite beneath! The Indians, alarmed by my cries, spring to my relief, carry me to the fire, give me stimulants, bind up my broken arm, and do all in their power to alleviate my sufferings.
They are not the crafty villains and assassins that my fancy had painted. They are kind, sympathetic friends. I realize that my right collar-bone and three ribs on the same side are broken, and when I remember where I am, the deplorableness and utter helplessness of my condition appal me.
116
EN ROUTE TO THE INDIAN VILLAGE.
The long hours until daylight drag slowly by, and at last, as the sun tips the distant mountain tops with golden light, we start on our perilous and painful journey to the Indian village and to the steamboat landing. The two red men have rigged a litter from poles and blankets, on which they carry me safely to their homes, and thence in a canoe to the landing below. How the long, tedious journey thence, by steamer and rail, to my own home is accomplished; how the weary days and nights of suffering and delirium which I endureen routewere passed, are subjects too painful to dwell upon. I am finally assisted from the sleeper at my destination. My wife, whom the wire has informed of my misfortune and my coming, is there. She greets me with that fervent love, that intensity of pity and emotion that only awife can feel. Her lips move, but her tongue is paralyzed. For the time she can not speak; the wells of her grief have gone dry; she can not weep; she can only act. I am taken to my home, and the suspense, the anxiety, having been lived out, the climax having been reached and passed I swoon away. Again the surgeon appears to be racking me with pain in an effort to set the broken ribs, and seems to be making an incision in my side for that purpose, when I awake.
The stars shone brightly above me, the frost on the leaves sparkled brightly in the fire-light. It took me several minutes to realize that I had been dreaming. I searched for the cause of the acute pain in my side, and found it to be the sharp point of a rock that my cedar boughs had not sufficiently covered and which was trying to get in between two of my ribs. I got up, removed it and slept better through the remainder of the night.
117
KI-IK-KUL,or Chehalis Creek, as the whites call it, is surely one of the most beautiful streams in the whole Cascade Range. Its size may be stated, approximately, as two feet in depth by fifty feet in width, at or near the mouth, but its course is so crooked, so tortuous, and its bed so broken and uneven that the explorer will seldom find a reach of it sufficiently quiet and undisturbed to afford a measurement of this character. At one point it is choked into a narrow gorge ten feet wide and twice as deep, with a fall of ten feet in a distance of thirty. Through this notch the stream surges and swirls with the wild fury, the fearful power, and the awe-inspiring grandeur of a tornado. At another place it runs more placidly for a few yards, as if to gather strength and courage for a wild leap over a sheer wall of frowning rock into a foaming pool thirty, forty, or fifty feet below. At still another place it seems to carve its way, by the sheer power of madness, through piles and walls of broken and disordered quartz, granite, or basalt, even as Cortes and his handful of Spanish cavaliers hewed their way through the massed legions of Aztecs at Tlascala.
Farther up, or down, it is split into variouschannels by great masses of upheaved rock, and these miniature streams, after winding hither and thither through deep, dark, narrow fissures for perhaps one or two hundred yards, reunite to form this headlong mountain torrent. Viewing these scenes, one is forcibly reminded of the poet's words:
"How the giant element,From rock to rock, leaps with delirious bound."
"How the giant element,From rock to rock, leaps with delirious bound."
Series of cascades, a quarter to half a mile long, are met with at frequent intervals, which rival in their beauty and magnificence those of the Columbia or the Upper Yellowstone. Whirlpools occur at the foot of some of these, in which the clear, bright green water boils, sparkles, and effervesces like vast reservoirs of champagne. The moanings and roarings emitted by this matchless stream in its mad career may be heard in places half a mile. At many points its banks rise almost perpendicularly to heights of 300, 400, or 500 feet. You may stand so nearly over the water that you can easily toss a large rock into it, and yet you are far above the tops of the massive firs and cedars that grow at the water's edge. Looking down from these heights you may see in the crystal fluid whole schools of the lordly salmon plowing their way up against the almost resistless fury of the current, leaping through the foam, striking with stunning force against hidden rocks, falling back half dead, and, drifting into some clear pool below, recovering strength to renew the hopeless assault.
The time will come when an easy roadway, and possibly an iron one, will be built up this grand cañon, and thousands of tourists will annually standwithin its walls to gaze upon these magic pictures, absorbed in their grandeur and romantic beauty. Nor does the main stream afford the only objects of beauty and interest here. It is a diamond set in a cluster of diamonds, for many of the little brooks, already mentioned as coming down the mountain on either side, are only less attractive because smaller. Many of them tumble from the tops of rocky walls, and dance down among the branches of evergreen trees, sparkling like ribbons of silver in the rays of the noonday sun.
Theodore Roosevelt, in his excellent work, "Hunting Trips of a Ranchman;" says: "Thirst is largely a matter of habit." So it may be, but I am sadly addicted to the habit, and I found it one from which, on this trip, I was able to extract a great deal of comfort, for we crossed one or more of these little brooks every hour, and I rarely passed one without taking a copious draught of its icy fluid. The days, were moderately warm, and the hard labor we performed, walking and climbing, made these frequent opportunities to quench thirst one of the most pleasant features of the journey. I was frequently reminded of Cole's beautiful tribute to the mountain brook:
"Sleeping in crystal wells,Leaping in shady dells,Or issuing clear from the womb of the mountain,Sky-mated, related, earth's holiest daughter;Not the hot kiss of wine,Is half so divine as the sip of thy lip, inspiring cold water."
"Sleeping in crystal wells,Leaping in shady dells,Or issuing clear from the womb of the mountain,Sky-mated, related, earth's holiest daughter;Not the hot kiss of wine,Is half so divine as the sip of thy lip, inspiring cold water."
We arrived at our destination, the foot of Ski-ik-kul Lake (and the source of the creek up which we had been traveling), at four o'clock in the afternoonof the second day out. We made camp on the bank of the creek, and John and I engaged in gathering a supply of wood. After we had been thus occupied for ten or fifteen minutes, I noticed that Seymour was nowhere in sight, and asked John where he was.
"He try spear salmon."
"What will he spear him with?" I said. "Sharp stick?"
"No. He bring spear in him pocket," said John.
We were standing on the bank of the creek again, and as he spoke there was a crashing in the brush overhead, and an immense salmon, nearly three feet long, landed on the ground between us. Seymour had indeed brought a spear with him in his pocket. It was made of a fence-nail and two pieces of goat horn, with a strong cord about four feet long attached. There was a sort of socket in the upper end of it, and the points of the two pieces of horn were formed into barbs. As soon as Seymour had dropped his pack he had picked up a long, dry, cedar pole, one end of which he had sharpened and inserted between the barbs, fastening the string so that when he should strike a fish the spear point would pull off. With this simple weapon in hand he had walked out on the vast body of driftwood with which the creek is bridged for half a mile below the lake, and peering down between the logs, had found and killed the fish. We made a fire in the hollow of a great cedar that stood at the water's edge. The tree was green, but the fire soon ate a large hole into the central cavity, and, by frequent feeding with dry wood, we had a fire thatroared and crackled like a great furnace, all night. It
"Kindled the gummy bark of fir or pine,And sent a comfortable heat from far,Which might supply the sun."
"Kindled the gummy bark of fir or pine,And sent a comfortable heat from far,Which might supply the sun."
122
SUPPER FOR THREE-SAUMON RÔTI.
Seymour cut off the salmon's head, split the body down the back, and took out the spine. Then he spread the fish out and put skewers through it to hold it flat. He next cut a stick about four feet long, split it half its length, tied a cedar withe around to keep it from splitting further, and inserting the fish in the aperture, tied another withe around the upper end. He now stuck the other end of the stick into the ground in front of the fire, and our supper was under way.
I have often been reduced to the necessity of eating grub cooked by Indians, both squaws and men, and can place my hand on my heart and say truthfully I never hankered after Indian cookery. In fact, I have always eaten it with a mental reservation, and a quiet, perhaps unuttered protest, but I counted the minutes while that fish cooked. I knew Seymour was no more cleanly in his habits than his kin—in fact, he would not have washed his hands before commencing, nor the fish after removing its entrails, had I not watched him and made him do so; but even if he had not I should not have refused to eat, for when a man has been climbing mountains all day he can not afford to be too scrupulous in regard to his food. When the fish was thoroughly roasted on one side the other was turned to the fire, and finally, when done to a turn, it was laid smoking hot on a platter of cedar boughs which I hadprepared, and the savory odors it emitted would have tempted the palate of an epicure. I took out my hunting knife, and making a suggestive gesture toward the smoking fish, asked John if I should cut off a piece; for not withstanding my consuming hunger, my native modesty still remained with me, and I thus hinted for an invitation to help myself.
"Yes," he said. "Cut off how much you can eat."
You can rest assured I cut off a ration that would have frightened a tramp. Good digestion waited on appetite, and health on both. I ate with the hunger born of the day's fatigue and the mountain atmosphere, and the Indians followed suit, or rather led, and in half an hour only the head and spine of that fifteen-pound salmon remained, and they were not yet in an edible condition. Near bedtime, however, they were both spitted before the fire, and in the silent watches of the night, as I awoke and looked out of my downy bed, I saw those two simple-minded children of the forest, sitting there picking the last remaining morsels of flesh from those two pieces of what, in any civilized camp or household, would have been considered offal. But when a Siwash quits eating fish it is generally because there is no more fish to eat. After such a supper, charmed by such weird, novel surroundings, lulled by the music of the rushing waters, and warmed by a glowing camp-fire, I slept that night with naught else to wish for, at peace with all mankind. Even "mine enemy's dog, though he had bit me, should have stood that night against my fire."
EFOREgoing to bed, Seymour cautioned me through his interpreter, the faithful John, against getting out too early in the morning. He said the goats did not commence to move around until nine or ten o'clock, and if we started out to hunt before that time we were liable to pass them asleep in their beds.But I read the hypocrite's meaning between his words; he is a lazy loafer and loves to lie and snooze in the morning. It was his own comfort, more than our success in hunting, that he was concerned about. Goats, as well as all other species of large game, are on foot at daylight, whether they have been out all night or not, and from that time until an hour after sunrise, and again just before dark in the evening, are the most favorable times to hunt. The game is intent on feeding at these times and is not so wary as at other times. I told Seymour we would get up at four o'clock, get breakfast, and be ready to move at daylight. And so we did.The night had been clear and cold; ice had formed around the margin of the lake, and a hoar frost a quarter of an inch deep covered the ground, the logs, and rocks that were not sheltered by trees. Ski-ik-kul or Willey's Lake, as it is termed by the whites,is a beautiful little mountain tarn about a quarter of a mile wide and four miles long. It is of glassy transparency, of great depth, and abounds in mountain trout, salmon, and salmon trout. It is walled in by abrupt, rocky-faced mountains that rise many hundreds of feet from the water's edge, and on which a scanty growth of laurel, currant bushes, and moss furnish food for the goats. Stunted cedars, balsams, spruces, and pines also grow from small fissures in the rocks that afford sufficient earth to cover their roots.The craft on which we were to navigate this lake was an interesting specimen of Indian nautical architecture. It was a raft Seymour had made on a former visit. The stringers were two large, dry, cedar logs, one about sixteen feet long, the other about twenty; these were held together by four poles, or cross-ties, pinned to the logs, and a floor composed of cedar clapboards was laid over all. Pins of hard, dry birch, driven into the logs and tied together at the tops, formed rowlocks, and the craft was provided with four large paddles, or oars, hewed out with an ax. In fact, that was the only tool used in building the raft. The pins had been sharpened to a flat point and driven firmly into sockets made by striking the ax deeply into the log, and instead of ropes, cedar withes were used for lashing. These had been roasted in the fire until tough and flexible, and when thus treated they formed a good substitute for the white sailor's marline or the cow-boy's picket rope.
EFOREgoing to bed, Seymour cautioned me through his interpreter, the faithful John, against getting out too early in the morning. He said the goats did not commence to move around until nine or ten o'clock, and if we started out to hunt before that time we were liable to pass them asleep in their beds.
But I read the hypocrite's meaning between his words; he is a lazy loafer and loves to lie and snooze in the morning. It was his own comfort, more than our success in hunting, that he was concerned about. Goats, as well as all other species of large game, are on foot at daylight, whether they have been out all night or not, and from that time until an hour after sunrise, and again just before dark in the evening, are the most favorable times to hunt. The game is intent on feeding at these times and is not so wary as at other times. I told Seymour we would get up at four o'clock, get breakfast, and be ready to move at daylight. And so we did.
The night had been clear and cold; ice had formed around the margin of the lake, and a hoar frost a quarter of an inch deep covered the ground, the logs, and rocks that were not sheltered by trees. Ski-ik-kul or Willey's Lake, as it is termed by the whites,is a beautiful little mountain tarn about a quarter of a mile wide and four miles long. It is of glassy transparency, of great depth, and abounds in mountain trout, salmon, and salmon trout. It is walled in by abrupt, rocky-faced mountains that rise many hundreds of feet from the water's edge, and on which a scanty growth of laurel, currant bushes, and moss furnish food for the goats. Stunted cedars, balsams, spruces, and pines also grow from small fissures in the rocks that afford sufficient earth to cover their roots.
The craft on which we were to navigate this lake was an interesting specimen of Indian nautical architecture. It was a raft Seymour had made on a former visit. The stringers were two large, dry, cedar logs, one about sixteen feet long, the other about twenty; these were held together by four poles, or cross-ties, pinned to the logs, and a floor composed of cedar clapboards was laid over all. Pins of hard, dry birch, driven into the logs and tied together at the tops, formed rowlocks, and the craft was provided with four large paddles, or oars, hewed out with an ax. In fact, that was the only tool used in building the raft. The pins had been sharpened to a flat point and driven firmly into sockets made by striking the ax deeply into the log, and instead of ropes, cedar withes were used for lashing. These had been roasted in the fire until tough and flexible, and when thus treated they formed a good substitute for the white sailor's marline or the cow-boy's picket rope.
We boarded this lubberly old hulk and pulled out up the north shore of the lake just as the morning sungave the first golden tints to the mountain tops. Our progress was slow despite our united strength applied to the oars, but it gave us more time to scan the mountain sides for game. I did not find it so plentiful as I had been promised, for I had been told by the Indians that we should see a dozen goats inthe first hour, but we had been out more than that length of time before we saw any. Finally, however, after we had gone a mile or more up the lake shore, I saw a large buck goat browsing among the crags about four hundred feet above us. He had not seen us, and dropping the oar I caught up my rifle. The men backed water, and as the raft came to a standstill, I sent a bullet into him. He sprang forward, lost his footing, came bounding and crashing to the foot of the mountain, and stopped, stone dead, in the brush at the water's edge not more than twenty feet from the raft. We pushed ashore and took him on board, when I found, to my disappointment, that both horns had been broken off in the fall, so that his head was worthless for mounting.
We cruised clear around the lake that day and could not find another goat. In the afternoon it clouded up and set in to rain heavily again in the cañon, while snow fell on the mountains a few hundred feet above us. The next morning I went up a narrow cañon to the north, and ascending a high peak hunted until nearly noon, when I found two more goats, a female and her kid (nearly full grown), both of which I killed, and taking the skins and one ham of the kid, I returned to camp. It continued to rain at frequent intervals, which robbed camp life and hunting of much of their charm, so I decided to start for home the following morning. In the afternoon I rigged a hook and line, cut an alder pole, and caught five fine trout, the largest seventeen and a half inches long. Seymour speared three more salmon and roasted one of them, so that we had another feast of fish that night. We also roasteda leg of goat for use on our way home, and spent the evening cleaning and drying the three skins as best we could by the camp-fire, to lighten their weight as much as possible.
Meanwhile, I questioned John at considerable length regarding the nature of his language, but could get little information, as he seemed unable to convey his ideas on the subject in our tongue. The language of the Skowlitz tribe, to which he and Seymour belong, is a strange medley of gutturals, aspirates, coughs, sneezes, throat scrapings, and a few words. I said:
"Your language don't seem to have as many words as ours."
"No; English too much. Make awful tired learn him."
"Where did you learn it?"
"O, I work in pack train for Hudson Bay one year, and work on boat one year."
"Where did the boat run?"
"She run nort from Victoria," he said.
"Where to, Alaska?"
"O, I dunno."
"How far north?"
"O, I dunno. Take seven day. We go to de mout of de river."
"What river? What was the name of the town?"
"O, I dunno know what you call 'em."
And thus I learned, by continued questioning, that he did not know or remember the English names of the places he had visited, but that they were probably in Alaska. He always appealed to Seymour to reply to any of my questions that hecould not himself answer, and a question or remark that in our tongue had taken a dozen words to express he would repeat in a cough, a throat-clearing sound, and a grunt or two. Seymour's answer would be returned in a half sneeze, a lisp, a suppressed whistle, a slight groan, and an upturning of the eye. Then John would look thoughtful while framing the answer into his pigin English, and it would come back, for instance, something like this:
"Seymo say he tink we ketch plenty sheep up dat big mountain, on de top." Or, "He say he tink maybe we get plenty grouse down de creek. To-morrow we don't need carry meat," etc. John seemed to regard Seymour as a perfect walking cyclopedia of knowledge, and, in fact, he was well informed on woodcraft, the habits of birds and animals, Indian lore, and other matters pertaining to the country in which he lived, but outside of these limits he knew much less than John.
I was disgusted with his pretended inability to speak or understand English, for on one of my former visits to the village I had heard him speak it, and he did it much better than John could. Beside, Pean had told me that Seymour had attended school at the mission on the Frazer river, and could even read and write, but now that he had an interpreter he considered it smart, just as a great many Indians do, to affect an utter ignorance of our language. I asked him why he did not talk; told him I knew he could talk, and reminded him that I had heard him speak good English; that I knew he had been to school, etc. He simply shook his head and grunted. Then I told him he was a boiled-downfool to act thus, and that if he really wanted to appear smarter even than his fellows, the best way to do it was to make use of the education he had whenever he could make himself more useful and agreeable by so doing. I saw by the way he changed countenance that he understood every word I said, though he still remained obstinate. On several occasions, however, I suddenly fired some short, sharp question at him when he was not expecting it, and before stopping to think he would answer in good English.
131
FTERmaking a hearty breakfast on Rocky Mountain kid, salmon, and sea biscuits, we began our return journey down the creek in a drizzling rain. Our burdens were increased by the weight of the three goat skins, and the walking was rendered still more precarious than before by the logs, grass, soil, pine needles, and everything else having become so thoroughly watersoaked. If we had had hard climbing up the steep pitches on our outbound cruise, we had it still harder now. We could not stick in our toe nails as well now as before, and even if we stuck in our heels going down a hill, they would not stay stuck any better than a second-hand postage-stamp. I remembered one hill, or cañon wall, that in the ascent made us a great deal of hard work, and much perturbation of spirit, because it was steep, rocky, and had very few bushes on it that we could use as derricks by which to raise ourselves. I dreaded the descent of this hill, now that the rocks were wet, but we made it safely. Not so, however, the next one we attempted; it was not so rocky as the other, and had a goodly bed of blue clay, with a shallow covering of vegetable mold fora surface, with a little grass and a few weeds. It was very steep, I think about what an architect would call a three-quarter pitch, but we essayed it boldly and fearlessly. Seymour was in the lead, his faithful partisan, John, followed, and I constituted the tail end of the procession. We had just got well over the brow, when the end of a dry hemlock stick caught in the mansard roof of my left foot; the other end was fast in the ground, and, though I tried to free myself, both ends stuck; the stick played a lone hand, but it raised me clear out in spite of my struggles. I uttered a mournful groan as I saw myself going, but was as helpless as a tenderfoot on a bucking cayuse. My foot was lifted till my heel punched the small of my back, and my other foot slid out from under me; I spread out like a step ladder, and clawed the air for succor, but there was not a bush or branch within reach. I think I went ten feet before I touched the earth again, and then I landed head first among John's legs. He sat down on the back of my neck like a trip-hammer, and we both assaulted Seymour in the rear with such violence as to knock him clear out. For a few seconds we were the worst mixed up community that ever lived, I reckon. Arms, legs, guns, hats, packs, and human forms were mingled in one writhing, squirming, surging mass, and groans, shouts, and imprecations, in English, Chinook, and Scowlitz, rent the air. Every hand was grabbing for something to stop its owner, but there were no friendly stoppers within reach; if one caught a weed, or a stunted juniper, it faded away from his herculean grasp like dry grass before a prairie fire. I seemed to have thehighest initial velocity of any member of the expedition, and, though in the rear at the start, I was a full length ahead at the finish. We finally all brought up in a confused mass at the foot of the hill, and it took some time for each man to extricate himself from the pile, and reclaim his property from the wreck. Strange as it may seem, however, but little damage was done. There was a skinned nose, a bruised knee or two, a sprained wrist, and everybody was painted with mud. All were, however, able to travel, and after that, when going down steep hills, the Siwashes kept looking back to see if I were coming.
134
TRYING TO GET UP.
We performed several dangerous feats that day and the next, walking along smooth, barkless logs, that lay across some of the deep gorges; in places we were thirty feet or more above the ground, or rather rocks, where a slip would have resulted in instant death. My hair frequently stood on end, what little I have left, but John and Seymour always went safely across and I could not afford to be outdone in courage by these miserable, fish-eating Siwashes, so I followed wherever they led. We read that the wicked stand on slippery places, but I can see these wicked people, and go them about ten better, for I have stood, and even walked, on many of these wet logs, and they are about the all-firedest slipperyest things extant, and yet I have not fallen off. I fell only that once, when I got my foot in the trap, and that would have downed a wooden man. Just before going into camp that night, John shot a grouse, but we were all too tired and hungry to cook it then, and made our meal on cold kid, fish, and biscuits.After supper, however, John dressed the bird and laid it aside for breakfast, saying we would each have a piece of it then. The rain ceased falling at dark, and the stars came out, which greatly revived our drooping spirits. We gathered large quantities of dry wood and bark, so we were able to keep a good fire all night. I drew from a half-rotten log, a flat, slab-like piece of pine, which at first I failed to recognize. John saw it and said:
136
TRYING TO GET DOWN.
"Good. Dat's beech."
"Beech," I said. "Why, there's no beech in this country."
"No, beech wood, make good fire, good kindle, good what you call him? Good torch."
"Oh," I said, "pitch pine, eh?"
"Yas, beech pine." And this was as near as he could get to pitch.
About two o'clock in the morning, it commenced to rain heavily again, and the poor Indians were soon in a pitable condition, with their blankets and clothing wet through. They sat up the remainder of the night, feeding the fire to keep it alive and themselves warm, for they had neither canvas or rubber coats, or any other kind of waterproof clothing. They put up some of the longer pieces of the bark we had gathered for fuel, and made a passable shelter, but it was so small, and leaked so badly, that it was far from comfortable. I pitied the poor fellows, but had nothing I could give or even share with them for shelter. I got up at five o'clock, and we commenced preparations for breakfast. I told John he had better cook the grouse, but he shook his head, and said sadly:
"Seymo, he spile de grouse."
"How did he do that?" I inquired.
"He say put him on stick by fire to cook in de night. Then he go to sleep and stick burn off. Grouse fall in de fire and burn."
"That's too thin," I said. "Seymour cooked that grouse and ate it while you and I were asleep."
Seymour glared at me, but had not the courage to resent or deny the charge. An Indian does not let sleep interfere with his appetite; he eats whatever there is first, and then sleeps. I divided the last of the bacon and biscuits equally between us, and with a remnant of cold broiled salmon, we eked out a scant breakfast on which to begin a day's work. John was clawing some white greasy substance from a tin can with his fingers, and spreading it on his biscuits with the same tools. He passed the can to me, and said:
"Have butta?"
"No, thanks," I answered; "I seldom eat butter in camp."
"I like him all time," he replied; "I never git widout butta for brade at home." This by way of informing me that he knew what good living was, and practiced it at home. It rained heavily all day, and our tramp through the jungle was most dreary and disagreeable.
"The day was dark, and cold, and dreary;It rained, and the wind was never weary."
"The day was dark, and cold, and dreary;It rained, and the wind was never weary."
139
EN FAMILLE
About three o'clock in the afternoon, we sat down to rest on the bank of the creek. We had been there but a few minutes, when a good sized black bear came shambling along up the bank of the creek,looking for salmon. The Indians saw him when a hundred yards or more away, and flattened themselves out on the ground to await his nearer approach. I raised my rifle to my shoulder, but they both motioned me to wait, that he was yet too far away. I disregarded their injunction, however, and promptly landed an express bullet in the bear's breast. He reared, uttered a smothered groan, turned, made one jump, and fell dead. Now arose the question of saving his skin; it was late, and we were yet three miles from the Indian village; to skinthe bear then meant to camp there for the night, and as the rain still came down in a steady, heavy sheet, I at once decided that I would not stay out there another night for the best bear skin in the country. Seymour and John held a short consultation, and then John said they would come back and get the skin next day, and take it in lieu of the money I owed them for their services. We struck a bargain in about a minute, and hurried on, arriving at the village just as it grew dark. My rubber coat and high rubber boots had kept me comparatively dry, but the poor Indians were wet to the skin.
140
Narriving at Chehalis John kindly invited me to stop over night with him, but I declined with thanks. I went into his house, however, to wait while he got ready to take me down to Barker's. It was the same type of home that nearly all these Indians have—a large clapboard building about eight feet high, with smoked salmon hung everywhere and a fire in the centre of the room, which, by the way, was more of a smoke than fire, curing the winter provender. A pile of wood lay in one corner of the room, some empty barrels in another, fish-nets were hung in still another, and the family lived, principally, in the fourth. John lives with his father-in-law, mother-in-law, two brothers-in-law, one sister-in-law, his wife and three papooses. Blankets, pots, tinware and grub of various kinds were piled up promiscuously in this living corner, and the little undressed kids hovered and shivered around the dull fire, suffering from the cold. We were soon in the canoe again,en routeto the steamboat landing, where we arrived soon after dark. I regretted to part with John, for I had found him a good, faithful servant and staunch friend. I was glad to get rid of Seymour, however, for I had learned that he was a contemptible sneak, and told him so in as many words.En routehome I had about two hours to wait at Port Moody for the boat. There were great numbers of grebes and ducks in the bay, and I asked the dock foreman if there was any rule against shooting there. He said he guessed not; he had never seen anyone shooting there, but he guessed there wouldn't be any objection. I got out my rifle and two boxes of cartridges and opened on the birds. The ducks left at once, but the grebes sought safety in diving, and as soon as the fusillade began a number of gulls came hovering around, apparently to learn the cause of the racket. I had fine sport between the two, and a large audience to enjoy it with me. In ten minutes from the time I commenced shooting all the clerks in the dock office, all the freight hustlers in the warehouse, all the railroad section men, the ticket-agent and baggage-master, numbering at least twenty men in the aggregate, were clustered around me, and their comments on my rifle and shooting were extremely amusing. Not a man in the party had ever before seen a Winchester express, and the racket it made, the way in which the balls plowed up the water, and the way the birds, when hit, vanished into thin air and a few feathers, were mysteries far beyond their power to solve. At the first lull in the firing half a dozen of them rushed up and wanted to examine the rifle, the fancy finish and combination sights of which were as profoundly strange to them as to the benighted Indians. They soon handed it back to me, however, with the request to resume hostilities against the birds; they preferred to see the old thing work rather than to handle it. The gulls were soaring in close, and six shots,rapidly delivered, dropped three of them into the water, mutilated beyond recognition. This was the climax; the idea of killing birds on the wing, with a rifle, was something these men had never before heard of, and two or three examined my cartridges to see if they were not loaded with shot, instead of bullets. When they found this suspicion was groundless they were beside themselves with wonder and admiration of the strange arm. As a matter of fact, it required no particular skill to kill the gulls on the wing, for they were the large gray variety, and frequently came within twenty or thirty feet of me, so that anyone who could kill them with a shotgun could do so with a rifle.
Narriving at Chehalis John kindly invited me to stop over night with him, but I declined with thanks. I went into his house, however, to wait while he got ready to take me down to Barker's. It was the same type of home that nearly all these Indians have—a large clapboard building about eight feet high, with smoked salmon hung everywhere and a fire in the centre of the room, which, by the way, was more of a smoke than fire, curing the winter provender. A pile of wood lay in one corner of the room, some empty barrels in another, fish-nets were hung in still another, and the family lived, principally, in the fourth. John lives with his father-in-law, mother-in-law, two brothers-in-law, one sister-in-law, his wife and three papooses. Blankets, pots, tinware and grub of various kinds were piled up promiscuously in this living corner, and the little undressed kids hovered and shivered around the dull fire, suffering from the cold. We were soon in the canoe again,en routeto the steamboat landing, where we arrived soon after dark. I regretted to part with John, for I had found him a good, faithful servant and staunch friend. I was glad to get rid of Seymour, however, for I had learned that he was a contemptible sneak, and told him so in as many words.
En routehome I had about two hours to wait at Port Moody for the boat. There were great numbers of grebes and ducks in the bay, and I asked the dock foreman if there was any rule against shooting there. He said he guessed not; he had never seen anyone shooting there, but he guessed there wouldn't be any objection. I got out my rifle and two boxes of cartridges and opened on the birds. The ducks left at once, but the grebes sought safety in diving, and as soon as the fusillade began a number of gulls came hovering around, apparently to learn the cause of the racket. I had fine sport between the two, and a large audience to enjoy it with me. In ten minutes from the time I commenced shooting all the clerks in the dock office, all the freight hustlers in the warehouse, all the railroad section men, the ticket-agent and baggage-master, numbering at least twenty men in the aggregate, were clustered around me, and their comments on my rifle and shooting were extremely amusing. Not a man in the party had ever before seen a Winchester express, and the racket it made, the way in which the balls plowed up the water, and the way the birds, when hit, vanished into thin air and a few feathers, were mysteries far beyond their power to solve. At the first lull in the firing half a dozen of them rushed up and wanted to examine the rifle, the fancy finish and combination sights of which were as profoundly strange to them as to the benighted Indians. They soon handed it back to me, however, with the request to resume hostilities against the birds; they preferred to see the old thing work rather than to handle it. The gulls were soaring in close, and six shots,rapidly delivered, dropped three of them into the water, mutilated beyond recognition. This was the climax; the idea of killing birds on the wing, with a rifle, was something these men had never before heard of, and two or three examined my cartridges to see if they were not loaded with shot, instead of bullets. When they found this suspicion was groundless they were beside themselves with wonder and admiration of the strange arm. As a matter of fact, it required no particular skill to kill the gulls on the wing, for they were the large gray variety, and frequently came within twenty or thirty feet of me, so that anyone who could kill them with a shotgun could do so with a rifle.
Finally the steamer came in and I went aboard. The train arrived soon after and several of its passengers boarded the boat. The gulls were now hovering about the steamer, picking up whatever particles of food were thrown overboard from the cook-room. One old Irishman, who had come in on the train from the interior wilds, walked out on the quarter deck and looking at them intently for a few minutes, turned to me and inquired:
"Phwat kind of burds is thim—geese?"
"Yes," I said, "thim's geese, I reckon."
"Well, be gorry, if I had a gun here I'd shoot some o'thim"; and he went and told his companions "there was a flock of the tamest wild geese out thare ye iver sawed."
144
A SNAP SHOT WITH A DETECTIVE CAMERA.
The return journey to Portland was without incident. There I boarded the steamer and spent another delightful day on the broad bosom of the Columbia river, winding up among the grand basalticcliffs and towering mountain peaks of the Cascade Range. Again the little camera came into requisition, and though the day was cloudy and blusterous, though snow fell at frequent intervals, and though the steamer trembled like a reed shaken by the wind, I made a dozen or more exposures on the most interesting and beautiful subjects as we passed them, and to my surprise many came out good pictures. Most of them lack detail in the deeper shadows, but the results altogether show that had the day been clear and bright all would have been perfect. In short, it is possible with this dry-plate process to make good pictures from a moving steamboat, or even from a railway train going at a high rate of speed. I made three pictures from a Northern Pacific train, coming through the Bad Lands, when running twenty-five miles an hour, and though slightly blurred in the near foreground, the buttes and bluffs, a hundred yards and further away, are as sharp as if I had been standing on the ground and the camera on a tripod; and a snap shot at a prairie-dog town—just as the train slowed on a heavy grade—shows several of the little rodents in various poses, some of them apparently trying to look pretty while having their "pictures took."
145
stopped off at Spokane Falls, on my way home, for a few days' deer hunting, and though that region be not exactly in the Cascades, it is so near that a few points in relation to the sport there may be admissible in connection with the foregoing narrative. I had advised my good friend, Dr. C. S. Penfield, of my coming, and he had kindly planned for me a hunting trip. On the morning after my arrival his brother-in-law, Mr. T. E. Jefferson, took me up behind a pair of good roadsters and drove to Johnston's ranch, eighteen miles from the falls, and near the foot of Mount Carleton, where we hoped to find plenty of deer. We huntedthere two days, and though we found signs reasonably plentiful and saw three or four deer we were unable to kill any. Mr. Jefferson burned some powder after a buck and a doe the first morning after our arrival, but it was his first experience in deer hunting, so it is not at all strange that the game should have escaped. Mr. Jefferson was compelled to return home at that time on account of a business engagement, but Mr. Johnston, with characteristic Western hospitality and kindness, said I must not leave without a shot, and so hooked up his team and drove me twenty-five miles farther into the mountains, to a place where he said we would surely find plenty of game. On the way in we picked up old Billy Cowgill, a famous deer hunter in this region, and took him along as guide.We stopped at Brooks' stage ranch, on the Colville road to rest the team, and the proprietor gave us an amusing account of some experiments he had been making in shooting buckshot from a muzzle-loading shotgun. He had made some little bags of buckskin, just large enough to hold twelve No. 2 buckshot, and after filling them had sewed up the ends. He shot a few of them at a tree sixty yards away, but they failed to spread and all went into one hole. Then he tried leaving the front end of the bag open, and still they acted as a solid ball; so he had to abandon the scheme, and loaded the charge loose, as of old. He concluded, however, not to fire this last load at the target, and hung the gun up in its usual place. A few days later he heard the dog barking in the woods a short distance from the house, and supposed it had treed a porcupine. Mr. Brooks' brother, who was visiting at the time, took the gun and went out to kill the game, whatever it might be. On reaching the place, he found a ruffed grouse sitting in a tree, at which he fired. The ranchman said he heard the report, and his brother soon came back, carrying a badly-mutilated bird; he threw it into the kitchen, and put the gun away; then he sat down, looked thoughtful, and kept silent for a long time. Finally he blurted out:
THE STAGE RANCH
"Say, Tom; that gun got away from me."
"How was that?" queried the ranchman.
"I don't know; but I shot pretty near straight up at the grouse, and somehow the gun slipped off my shoulder and done this." And opening his coat he showed his vest, one side of which was split from top to bottom; he then took out a handful of hiswatch and held it up—one case was torn off, the crystal smashed, the dial caved in, and the running gear all mixed up. The ranchman said he guessed he had put one of the buckskin bags of shot into that barrel, and forgetting that fact, had added the loose charge. He said he reckoned twenty-four No. 2 buckshot made too heavy a load for an eight-pound gun.
We reached "Peavine Jimmy's" mining cabin, which was to be our camp, at three o'clock in the afternoon, and busied ourselves till dark in the usual duties of cooking, eating, and gathering wood. Old Billy proved a very interesting character; he is a simple, quiet, honest, unpretentious old man, and unlike most backwoodsmen, a veritable coward. He has the rare good sense, however, to admit it frankly, and thus disarms criticism. In fact, his frequent admission of this weakness is amusing. He says that for fear of getting lost he does not like to go off a trail when hunting, unless there is snow on the ground, so that he can track himself back into camp. He rides an old buckskin pony that is as modest and gentle as its master. Billy says he often gets lost when he does venture away from the trail, but in such cases he just gives old Buck the rein, hits him a slap, and tells him to go to camp and he soon gets there. He told us a bear story that night, worthy of repetition. Something was said that reminded him of it, and he mentioned it, but added, modestly, that he didn't know as we cared for any bear stories. But we said we were very fond of them, and urged the recital.
"Well, then," he said, "if you will wait a minute,I'll take a drink of water first and then I'll tell it to you," and he laughed a kind of boyish titter, and began:
"Well, me and three other fellers was up north in the Colville country, huntin', and all the other fellows was crazy to kill a bear. I didn't want to kill no bear, and didn't expect to. I'm as 'feard as death of a bear, and hain't no use for 'em. All I wanted to kill was a deer. The other fellers, they wanted to kill some deer, too, but they wanted bear the worst. So one mornin' we all started out, and the other fellers they took the best huntin' ground, and said I'd better go down along the creek and see if I couldn't kill some grouse, for they didn't believe I could kill any thing bigger'n that; and I said, all right, and started off down the creek. Purty soon I come to an old mill that wasn't runnin' then. And when I got purty near to the mill I set down on a log, for I didn't think it was worth while to go any furder, for I didn't think I would find any game down the creek, and I didn't care much whether I did or not. Well, I heard a kind of a racket in the mill, and durned if there wasn't a big black bear right in the mill. And I watched him a little bit, and he started out towards me. And I said to myself, says I, 'Now Billy, here's your chance to kill a bear.'
"I hadn't never killed no bear before, nor never seed one before, and durned if I wasn't skeered nearly to death. But I thought there wasn't no use of runnin', for I knowed he could run faster'n I could, so I took out my knife and commenced cuttin' down the brush in front of me, for I wanted tomake a shure shot if I did shoot, if I could. And the bear, he come out of the mill and rared up, and put his paws on a log and looked at me, and I said to myself, says I, 'Now Billy, this is your time to shoot'; but I wasn't ready to shoot yit. They was one more bush I wanted to cut out of the way before I shot, so I cut if off and laid down my knife, and then I took up my gun and tried to take aim at his breast, but doggoned if I didn't shake so I couldn't see the sights at all. And I thought one time I wouldn't shoot, and then I knowed the other fellers would laugh at me if I told 'em I seed a bear and didn't shoot at him, and besides I was afraid some of 'em was up on the hillside lookin' at me then. So I just said to myself, says I, 'Now Billy, you're goin' to get eat up if you don't kill him, but you might as well be eat up as to be laughed at.' So I jist took the best aim I could for shakin', an' shet both eyes an' pulled.
"Well, I think the bear must a begin to git down jist as I pulled, for I tore his lower jaw off and shot a big hole through one side of his neck. He howled and roared and rolled around there awhile and then he got still. I got round where I could see him, after he quit kickin', but I was afeared to go up to him, so I shot two more bullets through his head to make sure of him. And then I set down and waited a long while to see if he moved any more; for I was afeard he mightn't be dead yit, and might be playin' possum, jist to get ahold of me. But he didn't move no more, so I went up to him with my gun cocked and pointed at his head, so if he did move I could give him another one right quick. An' then I punched him a little withmy gun, but he didn't stir. An' when I found he was real dead I took my knife and cut off one of his claws, an' then I went back to camp, the biggest feelin' old cuss you ever seed.
"Well, arter while the other fellers they all come in, lookin' mighty blue, for they hadn't any of 'em killed a thing, an' when I told 'em I'd killed a bear, they wouldn't believe it till I showed 'em the claw. An' then they wouldn't believe it, neither, for they thought I'd bought the claw of some Injin. And they wouldn't believe it at all till they went out with me and seed the bear and helped skin 'im, and cut 'im up, and pack 'im into camp. An' they was the dog-gondest, disappointedest lot of fellers you ever seed, for we hunted five days longer, an' nary one of 'em got to kill a bear nor even see one. They thought I was the poorest hunter and the biggest coward in the lot, but I was the only one that killed a bear that clip."