THE RIFLE IN THE SACRAMENTOS.BY WILLIAM H. JOHNSTON, JR., U. S. A.TTHERE has been so much said and written of hunts phenomenally successful and so little of those phenomenally unsuccessful, that it occurs to me to record a few memories of a recent hunt of the latter class, a hunt which could by no charitable figure of speech be termed successful. It has, however, left recollections to be cherished with pleasure, as the sailor looks fondly back to a storm outridden, or the soldier to an engagement won.From our little fort on the Rio Grande, but a few yards from sunny Mexico and its tropical climate, the distant mountains to the northeast, crowned with snow, were until this hunt a fairyland. Beyond their confines all the wonders and delights of a Northern winter might be found—and perhaps more, for snow and ice and frost, glaciers perhaps, and slides, almost within the tropics, were indeed loadstones to the adventurous and curious. All these “delights” of a Yankee Christmastide we found, and this is the way it happened.Late in November Mr. X. and I were granted leave of absence for twenty days for the purpose of hunting. Several days were devoted to preparations for the expedition, which promised as much success and glory, content and happiness, as the average candidate for office and solicitor of votes. Sufficient guns, knives, ammunition and generalhardware were procured to establish ourselves in business, as my cook expressed it, “on an expensive scale,” while our provisions, clothing, bedding, tents and equipage would have kept a polar expedition in comfort for years. We had to travel more than one hundred miles over sand-flats before reaching the first water—the Sacramento River—so we deemed it wise to go prepared to live on our mess-chest rather than “on the country.”The first wagon, called through courtesy and time-worn custom an ambulance, carried us, with two soldiers, a driver and a cook, and “Grover Cleveland.” The last mentioned name refers, by the by, not to the Commander-in-chief of our Army and Navy, but to a dog of the setter type and lazy variety, who, though of good blood, from want of training was only valuable as a watch-dog. If he should not prove of much use in hunting deer or retrieving a few elk, it was thought he might scare away wolves, “lions” and wildcats, or do noble service with the lizards and field mice scented on the way. In the hope that he might not care for all the interior of the wagon, we threw into it a general stock of rifles, shot-guns, ammunition, canteens, belts, field glasses, overcoats, etc. Our hope was vain. Grover could cover more territory than a litter of less distinguished dogs. Changing base frequently from our shoulders to the doorstep, and from the front seat to the lunch-basket, he was very largely an element of the party. Two men rode on the heavy wagon, loaded down as it was with grain for eight mules, two barrels of water, tents, bedding, rations and camp implements.With as much noise as possible we drove through the main streets of the little city adjacent, to excite the envy of those at home. We moreover procured a few delicacies for our mess until the skies should rain venison steaks and turkey giblets.Even on dress occasions Texas is not intensely interesting. For scenery one could as well go to sea. Indeed, the endless “flats” so abundant in its western portion, seemingly bounded by watery limits—mirages—might well be thought oceans by travelers more than half sober. Their vast expanses are covered with sand and dry bunch-grass or cactus, with occasional patches of a few miles of alkali or gypsum. On our first day the sand came almost to the wagon’s hubs, and in six hours we had gone only eighteen miles. The first camp was dry—quite so, as most of the water hauled had leaked, and the rest had been given to the mules, though the animals could live without it for three days. For fuel we had “soap weed,” the fibrous root of the cactus, called Spanish bayonet, which we gathered near camp. Its odor is disagreeable, and food cannot be broiled over it, but in a Sibley tent stove it “comes out strong” for warmth and comfort. With a supper characteristic of a soldier’s prodigality on ration day, pipes, cards and chips, we were able to forget even the ills of Texas sand for an evening. The city tenderfoot wedded to sheets and pillows knows not the solid comfort to be found in a bed of blankets under canvas and in the sand. Nothing more delightful can be imagined than waking before daylight, after an eight hours’ sleep, to hear the camp-fire puffing and cracking and the fresh meat broiling and sizzling over the coals, as the cook prepares a starlight breakfast. Here is a perfect cure for dyspepsia, and no charge is made for the prescription.We commenced our second day’s march without a drop of water, while the coffee that morning, either because of a surplus of sediment or scarcity of dilution, would have surprised the average boarding-house customer by its strength. But during the morning we found hope and water at once and in a barrel. A label attached warned off all poachers in this language:“Tip Whyo owns this.Let it alone,Dam yer soles.By order of the V. C.”Trusting to luck and the absence of Mr. Whyo and the V. C., we sampled his water; so did the mules, and we now look suspiciously at persons likely to bear such uncanny names.At noon we came to some bare rocky peaks on both sides of the road, and finding some stagnant rain-water at the base of one, camped. These were the Hueco Tanks. Any shallow rock that will hold rain-water is called in this country a tank. It may be only a few inches deep and fewer feet in circumference, but it is a tank. From the level of the plain to the height of two hundred feet we discovered numerous tanks, some holding soil and good water. The summit of each great mass of boulders was capped with a stone monument to indicate to travelers the presence of water. As on the same day we had to dig up mesquite roots for fuel, we realizedthe truth of the proverb, that in Texas one climbs for water and digs for wood. With great care and labor we scooped up enough stagnant rain-water to fill our kegs, and next day resumed the drive, with sixty-five miles still between us and the Sacramento. The country improved, grass in tufts succeeding the sand, and rolling prairie, called “jumps” by the natives, following level deserts. At Owl Tanks the water had gone, so we depended upon our kegs again, with green grass and soap-weed for the fires. No game had come to cheer us, but the blue outline of the wooded Sacramento was dotted with white patches of snow, and we could almost scent the victims of our guns. On the fourth day we came to the foot-hills and walked ahead of the teams to keep deer and elk from the mules and to learn the way. Our road, on which we had not met a single team since leaving the vicinity of El Paso, had dwindled to a mere cattle trail, and at times this scattered into several, each leading up a different cañon. It was absolutely necessary to cross this first range to reach the river—the only permanent water in the country.At dark we came to the river. It should have been labeled, for only a shrewd detective would have believed that the dry line of rocks at the bottom of the cañon had ever seen water. After the fashion of most rivers in this portion of our prairie land, the Sacramento had sunk in a few miles above its “mouth,” if such eccentric streams may have a mouth, possessing a range of ten miles or more.However, we found a well, a house, and some log fences. So, with water from the first, wood from the last, and hay from the barn, we camped with all the comforts of the season. Finding no one at home, we excused the host and helped ourselves. “Home” was a log cabin by the side of a hill, but in the choice language of Lincoln County (we had then reached New Mexico), it became a “chosy,” from the Spanishcasa, a house. When its owner, Mr. Shorthorns, a typical cowboy, appeared, we took him in to supper, and gained his good will and permission to help ourselves to everything in sight. If soldiers ever neglect such an invitation, they must be quite unworthy of their calling. I think Sacramento fences will average less in height than was once fashionable, and that potatoes and turnips will be scarce for a season. But I can testify that no “slow deer” (calves, sheep and goats), were killed by our party.Shorthorns assured us that in the Piñon country turkeys grew on the trees, deer ranged with cattle, and elk were lassoed for sport and released. We dreamed of game all night, and imagined ourselves climbing the ladder of fame over the backs of monster bucks and sailing through life on turkey wings and elk antlers.Next morning we chose an objective in the Piñons and entered the theatre of war.At daylight Mr. X. and I, followed by the light wagon, with a teamster and cook, our blankets, mess-chest and a keg of water, led the attack. “Grover Cleveland” was scout, and his black and white hair was ever seen where snow-birds and robins, lizards and rabbits, were thickest. We on foot as the vanguard preceded the light wagon up a cañon toward Piñon Tanks, while our heavy troops—that is, the heavy wagon—remained at the “chosy.”At noon we had walked eight good country miles, and established our first foothold in the enemy’s territory. Not satisfied, we left the cook in command of the garrison (four mules and the dog), and selecting divergent lines of operations, reconnoitred the hostile country. In military parlance, this country was close—close in all possible constructions of the expression. The stunted piñons were close to the ground and to themselves, ravines and draws were quite numerous, thorns, cactus and sharp rocks were uncomfortably close to one’s feet and shins, and after walking on a seemingly straight, though really circuitous course, one would turn up close to camp. Each column of troops—or troop—carried a rifle, shot-gun, two ammunition belts, and enough implements to care for the dead and wounded of the enemy. Each column advanced and retreated, marched and countermarched, deployed and rallied, charged and halted, and when at dark all assembled at the base of operations for rations and rest, the enemy seen consisted of one jack rabbit, at which I had almost fired, and one “sign.” This word is here inserted to indicate the professional training of our troops. Always used in the singular, it means the mark of anything sought—in this instance, a deer’s footprint. Had Longfellow been versed in mountaineer dialect, his great men might leave sign, rather than footprints in the sands of time.But if we could not hunt, we could certainly eat. As we rallied about our Chief Commissary, and toasted bacon on longswitches, drinking coffee right from the coals, we agreed that dining was our favorite occupation. Our fire would have filled a fair house, and was replenished at intervals by entire cedar trees, shooting flames up high into the stars, apparently, and defying the deer and elk. We had heard that game would approach a bright fire by night, so we rather hoped to see pairs of anxious eyes peering through the trees. If they did, it must have been after we retired. To retire meant literally to bivouac.It was grand to sleep, wrapped in blankets and tent-flies, with one’s feet to a roaring fire, gazing at the same stars which shone down upon countless deer, elk, lions, wolves, and so on. It was a little less grand to wake in the night with a chill, and to renew the fire with a piñon tree. And it was far from grand to wake at daylight and find the fire quite out and frost all over our blankets.Sunrise found our expedition of the day before on the march. Game has never been hunted with closer adherence to all the rules and superstitions, yet two-thirds of our force failed to establish even a speaking acquaintance with the animals which we had been led to believe existed in such abundance. The other third, Mr. X., saw two deer, but as he had been accustomed to shooting game in the same county only, he did not hit either. So we changed base to the river within striking distance of Shorthorns’ fence-rails and hay.In the evening, at the chosy, we heard just why we had missed the game, which was attending a political convention up at the summit. So the cowboys all said, and cited numerous “sign” pointing in that direction as their authority. Resolved to attend this convention and exert a little “influence” upon its members, we started next day with both wagons and all our troops and camp followers for the summit, twenty-five miles northwest of Shorthorns’ place.This was an operation unexcelled in the military annals of Dona Ana County, and occupied two days. The road, whenever we found it, followed the river—either a bank, a bluff, or the bed of the river—losing itself in water a few feet deep occasionally, and reappearing on a hillside a mile or two farther. We crossed the eccentric little stream, which is sometimes ten, sometimes thirty miles long, and always greater as one approaches its source. The two-thirds of a crossing was made when our heavy wagon slipped off a hillside into the water, and Mr. X. and the men had to dig and swear it out. Being ahead as advance guard, and a novice in profanity as well, I escaped this duty. The experience gained was something remarkable. We cut down trees frequently, took down log fences, and (were anyone in sight) put them up again, broke and mended each wagon daily, and lost a mule. We tried to lose the way, but the cañon’s sides were so steep that it was impossible.As we ascended the stream, cedar and piñon were succeeded by pine and quaking asp, and snow, first in patches, then covering the ground, appeared. Wherever the cañon was wide enough, some enterprising mountaineer had enclosed a few acres, and as the little garden thus formed received the alluvial deposit of the hillsides, grain and vegetables had been cultivated successfully and extensively.At the summit, nearly ten thousand feet above sea level, we found snow so deep that we took possession of Shorthorns’ summer residence, a log-hut twelve feet square. As we had cached our grain at the lower ranch, we helped our mules to Shorthorns’ hay and settled down for a week’s good hunting. The hut had been plastered with adobe, but this was so conspicuous by its absence that innumerable holes rendered the building capable of defense by musketry, and promised unwelcome draughts at night.We hunted all that afternoon, tramping about in snow several inches deep, but my bag contained only one squirrel, while a teamster reported the slaughter of one squirrel and “about” two jays—from which we gathered that he had killed one and missed another of those carrion birds. And we had now consumed eight days of our leave!At night Shorthorns turned up rather unexpectedly, and as I saw no blankets on his saddle, I had “many a doubt, many a fear,” which were vividly recalled when he chose me for his bed-fellow. Tradition says that a cowboy can pull his hat over his eyes and sleep oblivious of the weather. As I woke several times that night on the floor and saw my host snugly tucked up in my bedding, I weaken on tradition and call for more valuable testimony.My heart ceased beating for a whole second when next morning, charmed with our fare and my bed, Shorthorns offered to accompany us on the hunt and back to El Paso. The pleasure of hunting lost alittle of its lustre, and we were one more step removed from Paradise.One day at the summit Shorthorns promised to show me game. I thought it must be time, so saddled a little buckskin mule and rode out with him. It was as cold as Christmas, and had I been alone I should have chosen a later hour and a milder day. But with the honor of the entire army resting on my shoulders I did not complain of frosted toes and aching fingers. I rode in the rear that he might not notice my squirms of anguish, and when he ventured the opinion that it was “right peart,” I nonchalantly kicked the mule’s ribs and said nothing. What could I say, when my teeth played a reveille and tattoo and fire alarm all at once? Doubtless he suffered as much as I and had the same pride in concealing it.The first sign was a homesteader’s, two logs across two others—all on snow a foot deep. A notice on a pine-tree adjacent stated that this was the foundation of a house and claim to 160 acres under the homestead law. Two witnesses vouched for this claim, though quite unnecessarily, as no sane man would live at that bleak place, and deer and elk, despite their reputed domesticity, are not given to jumping homesteads.We saw several sign, and trailed all morning on foot or mule-back. At noon we struck it rich. I didn’t see the riches, but Shorthorns did, as he ordered a dismount to fight on foot. We tied the animals in a little aspen thicket, and my guide sent me in one direction, while he chose the deer trail, with a little advice about springing a cross fire on the buck. I wondered why I had been sent in an opposite direction from that taken by the deer, but when presently I heard Shorthorns shoot, I saw the reason. Abandoning my course, I rushed toward the location of the shots, plunging through snow to my boot-tops. I heard him shoot again, and pushed ahead to obtain a shot on my own account.I found the tracks, and for a mile Shorthorns trailed the deer and I trailed Shorthorns.Receiving no encouragement, and yielding to hunger and fatigue, I followed the trail back to the animals in order to get to my lunch. This consumed much time, as the woods were so full of an undergrowth of shin oak, called there “shinnery,” that it was very difficult to find a way, or to follow it when found.After calling to my guide in vain, I mounted the mule, slung my guns over my shoulder and led the pony with one hand, following the tracks. The finest prescription for dampening the ardor of a sportsman is to require him to try what I did that day. Even in light doses it works like a charm. It dampened not only my ardor but also my feet, and—when my saddle turned and I landed in a snowdrift—my head and arms too. After various accidents and involuntary dismounts, I lost all desire for venison and wanted to go home.Playing horse-holder for a cow-puncher was not my ideal sport.Then the mule cut his foot and refused to be comforted; so I mounted the broncho and led Buckskin. This arrangement was worse. Whenever we came to a log, Broncho would take it as a circus horse does a hurdle, but Buckskin would stop short and almost wrench my arm from its socket.Sometimes the beasts decided to take different sides of a tree, and I was powerless to prevent them. Overhanging boughs would brush me from the saddle as Buckskin jumped under them, or deluge me with snow as he ran against them. All this time I had to follow the footprints of my escort—the man who had promised to show me game. At sunset I gave it up and returned to the main cañon to wait for him. Tying the animals, I built a huge fire as a beacon and ate Shorthorns’ lunch. At dark I fired my rifle three times as a signal, and later he appeared, though without any deer. He claimed to have seen them, but of course had some good excuse for not shooting one. Excuses all the way from poor ammunition to tenderness of heart, are as thick in that country as “leaves in Valombrosa.” Mr. X. had not even had the excitement and happiness (?) of trailing a deer—or a cowboy.Besides a few snipe killed at a swamp called by Shorthorns a “cineky,” from the Spanishsieneca, we still depended upon Uncle Sam’s subsistence stores for our daily bread.Preferring hunting to mule whacking, I one day tramped all over the mountain tops, and halting for lunch at therincon(Spanish for inner corner) of the range, enjoyed some of the finest scenery outside a modern theatre. Here the ground fell precipitously for several hundred feet, and at a height of 9,000 feet I could look down upon several neighboring ranges. Peaks andranges that from the plains seemed mountains, were now but ant-hills and ploughed furrows in an otherwise velvet carpet of rich brown. The Guadaloupe range, covered with snow and ice, was a vast iceberg, beyond what my friend Shorthorns called the “mirredge.” The distant Rio Grande was plainly visible, and one could fancy smoke rising from the site of El Paso, more than a hundred miles to the south. A gypsum formation, called the White Sands, covered miles of the prairie, and from my lofty position resembled a sea lashed to foam.It was beautiful, but it was not game.One Saturday night, a fierce rain-storm added to the complications. It came to stay, too. All day Sunday we could do no more than hug the chosy fireplace and tell lies about former hunts. One newspaper was found, and we read an account of a polar expedition’s suffering. We feared we should need a few points before escaping from our situation, and studied “Grover Cleveland’s” ribs and hams, and our well-oiled hunting-boots, and wondered how long canine steaks and leather soup would prove palatable. As no abatement of the storm came at night, we reached the good resolution stage and agreed never to do ever so many things.On Monday it cleared slightly, and we lost no time in packing up and moving to a lower altitude and milder climate. Going down the cañon, ropes were tied to the wagons, and all hands lowered each in turn over the dangerous places. With an abrupt descent, our teams made good time, and we were proud of the veteran manner in which our wagons shot down the cañon with the reckless abandon of mountain trains. On the way, we bought a side of fresh pork, and it was surprising how game it did taste when seasoned with jelly and a good appetite.That night, while camped on the way to Shorthorns’ place, something dropped. It was snow. Early in the morning, the cook lighted a fire in our tent and said it was cold. We thought so too, and as we dug our clothing from drifts inside the tent, we wished the author of “Beautiful Snow” could have a little of it in his. We washed our faces in the beautiful white article and looked at the weather. The animals were tied to the wagons only a few feet from our tent, yet so fierce was the storm, that we could hardly see them. Breakfast that morning was light—all except the bread—as Sibley stores are not intended for cooking, and no fire could live outside. We devoted the day to shoveling snow from the tents, feeding the fire and wondering how the deer and elk enjoyed the weather. Our curiosity on this score, however, was not sufficient to lure us from shelter.Next morning, cold and still snowing. Peeping out at daylight, I saw only three mules. Strange the others should have deserted us! But they were trailed through the snow and recovered. To keep warm we had to remain in bed. Wood was too scarce and too wet to waste for other than cooking purposes.In the afternoon we gave in, and with superhuman efforts packed the wagons and pushed ahead toward the foothills. Game had now become a question of secondary consideration.The wagons ploughed through snow to their hubs, and we walked to avoid a sudden immersion in a drift.Once more near Shorthorns’ many supplies, we camped to spend our last day in rest, before returning to the post.At dark mine host, who had ridden off to look for his stock, came into camp with a deer across his saddle. The lucky cowboy, who cared nothing for sport, had ridden right over four deer, and, as he was always armed, had killed one. To see our whole party, from Mr. X. to the junior teamster and “Grover Cleveland,” gather about this interesting spectacle, would have proved the condition of our game-bag. The venison was given to us, and as we had as little pride as game, we accepted it. It proved that there was, or had been, one deer in the country anyhow.On this, our last day of grace, Shorthorns and I rode out to continue the motion. The weather had moderated, and being in the foothills, snow was only of depth sufficient to facilitate trailing. When I least expected it, of course, my guide bleated as a fawn, and I saw a great buck jump from under a piñon. We both fired and the deer dropped, but limped off at a lively gait. Of course, my bullet went off to meet the moon, while Shorthorns’ cut several legs and pierced the intestines of the buck. At least, so the modest cowboy told me. Just which intestine he did not say, though with a frontier veracity he would doubtless have deposed to it, if asked. We could easily follow the trail by the blood on the snow, and found several places where he had lain down to rest and bleed. At one such halt Shorthorns dismounted, and, giving me his bridle, ran on to finish the buck.But I was not to be taken in in that manner again. Tying the animals, I outran him, and found him hot on the trail. His welcome was not as cordial as it might have been, but together we chased the wounded buck over hills and cañons, in snow and mud, through brush and over stones and cactus, for five miles, finally losing his trail in that of four others almost at the prairie’s edge. Shorthorns showed me four black spots on a hillside, distant several hundred yards. He called them deer, but they might have been calves, goats, sheep or dogs for aught I knew, and I had lost some confidence in his veracity since gaining his acquaintance. Still I thought that if the black spots should wait long enough, or if they could be lassoed and tied, I might make it lively for at least one of them. So we sneaked and sneaked and sneaked. Almost within range we halted, drank some melted snow from a tank, took some cartridges in the left hand and instinctively fingered the triggers of our rifles. It became intensely interesting. I could smell venison steak broiling, and began mentally to distribute deer hams and saddles to our less fortunate friends at the post.Just below where the black spots should be we ascended the hillside, cautiously stopping just this side of the summit; we had seen no deer and none were in sight. Black spots? Yes—lots of rocks; but whether or not there had ever been deer there, I must not say, as I may wish to go there again, and Shorthorns is a good shot.On the weary tramp back to the animals, I heard my guide repeat his little fawn solo in a minor key and saw him fire at two does that seemed to spring from a hole in the ground. Then followed one of the grandest displays of firearms—if not of marksmanship—known to Fourth of July celebrations.Each fired as often as his rifle permitted, and if we did not hit either doe, we at least scared them well for the next sportsmen.Shorthorns explained that if his first cartridge had not snapped, he would have pierced the upper right-hand corner of the first doe’s heart, and the sixth rib and left lung of the second doe. If you don’t understand how this could have been, draw a plan, or let Shorthorns draw it for you in the sand, and it will at once assume the perspicuity of all hunting stories.It was late when we found our animals and ate lunch, and when we returned to camp our record consisted still of one wounded buck and four black spots. Mr. X. had hunted quail near the ranch and killed more than a hundred, many others having been wounded and lost. We regretted our soaring ambition for large game, which had deprived us of much real sport.Early next morning, with Shorthorns’ deer, Mr. X.’s quail, some ancient elk horns picked up by one of the men, and a small allowance of bacon and hard bread, we commenced our return drive.Only one incident of importance marked our progress homeward. This was on Sunday, and assumed the form of a sick mule: one more variety of experience for us.Every driver of large teams has a favorite animal upon whom he vents all his anger or affection. The pet of our ambulance team was a large black wheeler which the driver called “Bill.” No matter which mule lagged, the crack of the whip was accompanied by vigorous advice to Bill, and the driver’s sentences and oaths were liberally punctuated by blows upon poor Bill’s hide. Bill stood this seventeen days and then, without warning, dropped in harness.Having thus asserted his independence, he swelled up, not with pride alone, but with wind also, and though we took him from harness, jumped on his ribs, rolled him and rode him, and performed other kind offices dear to a sick mule, Bill lay on his back, kicked his heels in the air and looked unhappy. So I undertook to lead his muleship to camp—ten miles ahead. A teamster followed, lashing Bill into a trot to prevent him from lying down, while I, giving the mule the road, stepped along the side over cactus and mesquite bushes. He would stop to roll occasionally. On one such roll the soldier tried to help Bill, and grasped his off forefoot with great familiarity. In a second the man was seen flying over cactus stalks, propelled by a kick in the shin. He rode after that, and no longer rolls sick mules.After a while we decided to give Bill a dose. Mr. X. emptied a bottle of choice pickles and mixed a drench of salt and water. Then came the circus. As there were no trees in the vicinity we were obliged to administer the drench on the ground. One man held the halter-strap, another knelt on Bill’s shoulder to hold him down, a third held the bottle, and a fourth held the mule’s tongueand opened his mouth. At the critical moment, when Bill’s cavernous mouth opened, we had to dash the bottle’s contents into it, hold his nose, finger his throat, look out for his heels, hang on to the halter-strap and seek safety in flight. This dose was repeated many times, once or twice successfully, while its possible sameness was relieved by acrobatic exercises by a soldier on the mule’s ribs. At times we moved him a short distance towards camp.Then, as evening approached, we tied a rope to the strap, started Bill by twisting his ears or threatening as a dose, and passed the rope to Mr. X. in the ambulance. The buckskins were whipped into a canter and Bill towed along to camp. As I rode on the step to catch the rope should the mule drop, Mr. X. looked through the rear window and gave bulletins of his symptoms.In camp Bill was tenderly wrapped in canvas and fed on gunpowder, salt and soap, with a little grain to prevent the formation of extravagant tastes.On the last day of our leave we drove through El Paso, not triumphant exactly, nor with undue pride, but by as quiet a route to the post as we could select.Parties desiring to hunt in the Sacramento Mountains will consult their best interests by calling upon us for information. Anyone wishing to establish a hardware store may buy of us sufficient ammunition to stock his business for years.
THE RIFLE IN THE SACRAMENTOS.BY WILLIAM H. JOHNSTON, JR., U. S. A.
BY WILLIAM H. JOHNSTON, JR., U. S. A.
T
THERE has been so much said and written of hunts phenomenally successful and so little of those phenomenally unsuccessful, that it occurs to me to record a few memories of a recent hunt of the latter class, a hunt which could by no charitable figure of speech be termed successful. It has, however, left recollections to be cherished with pleasure, as the sailor looks fondly back to a storm outridden, or the soldier to an engagement won.
From our little fort on the Rio Grande, but a few yards from sunny Mexico and its tropical climate, the distant mountains to the northeast, crowned with snow, were until this hunt a fairyland. Beyond their confines all the wonders and delights of a Northern winter might be found—and perhaps more, for snow and ice and frost, glaciers perhaps, and slides, almost within the tropics, were indeed loadstones to the adventurous and curious. All these “delights” of a Yankee Christmastide we found, and this is the way it happened.
Late in November Mr. X. and I were granted leave of absence for twenty days for the purpose of hunting. Several days were devoted to preparations for the expedition, which promised as much success and glory, content and happiness, as the average candidate for office and solicitor of votes. Sufficient guns, knives, ammunition and generalhardware were procured to establish ourselves in business, as my cook expressed it, “on an expensive scale,” while our provisions, clothing, bedding, tents and equipage would have kept a polar expedition in comfort for years. We had to travel more than one hundred miles over sand-flats before reaching the first water—the Sacramento River—so we deemed it wise to go prepared to live on our mess-chest rather than “on the country.”
The first wagon, called through courtesy and time-worn custom an ambulance, carried us, with two soldiers, a driver and a cook, and “Grover Cleveland.” The last mentioned name refers, by the by, not to the Commander-in-chief of our Army and Navy, but to a dog of the setter type and lazy variety, who, though of good blood, from want of training was only valuable as a watch-dog. If he should not prove of much use in hunting deer or retrieving a few elk, it was thought he might scare away wolves, “lions” and wildcats, or do noble service with the lizards and field mice scented on the way. In the hope that he might not care for all the interior of the wagon, we threw into it a general stock of rifles, shot-guns, ammunition, canteens, belts, field glasses, overcoats, etc. Our hope was vain. Grover could cover more territory than a litter of less distinguished dogs. Changing base frequently from our shoulders to the doorstep, and from the front seat to the lunch-basket, he was very largely an element of the party. Two men rode on the heavy wagon, loaded down as it was with grain for eight mules, two barrels of water, tents, bedding, rations and camp implements.
With as much noise as possible we drove through the main streets of the little city adjacent, to excite the envy of those at home. We moreover procured a few delicacies for our mess until the skies should rain venison steaks and turkey giblets.
Even on dress occasions Texas is not intensely interesting. For scenery one could as well go to sea. Indeed, the endless “flats” so abundant in its western portion, seemingly bounded by watery limits—mirages—might well be thought oceans by travelers more than half sober. Their vast expanses are covered with sand and dry bunch-grass or cactus, with occasional patches of a few miles of alkali or gypsum. On our first day the sand came almost to the wagon’s hubs, and in six hours we had gone only eighteen miles. The first camp was dry—quite so, as most of the water hauled had leaked, and the rest had been given to the mules, though the animals could live without it for three days. For fuel we had “soap weed,” the fibrous root of the cactus, called Spanish bayonet, which we gathered near camp. Its odor is disagreeable, and food cannot be broiled over it, but in a Sibley tent stove it “comes out strong” for warmth and comfort. With a supper characteristic of a soldier’s prodigality on ration day, pipes, cards and chips, we were able to forget even the ills of Texas sand for an evening. The city tenderfoot wedded to sheets and pillows knows not the solid comfort to be found in a bed of blankets under canvas and in the sand. Nothing more delightful can be imagined than waking before daylight, after an eight hours’ sleep, to hear the camp-fire puffing and cracking and the fresh meat broiling and sizzling over the coals, as the cook prepares a starlight breakfast. Here is a perfect cure for dyspepsia, and no charge is made for the prescription.
We commenced our second day’s march without a drop of water, while the coffee that morning, either because of a surplus of sediment or scarcity of dilution, would have surprised the average boarding-house customer by its strength. But during the morning we found hope and water at once and in a barrel. A label attached warned off all poachers in this language:
“Tip Whyo owns this.Let it alone,Dam yer soles.By order of the V. C.”
“Tip Whyo owns this.Let it alone,Dam yer soles.By order of the V. C.”
“Tip Whyo owns this.Let it alone,Dam yer soles.By order of the V. C.”
“Tip Whyo owns this.
Let it alone,
Dam yer soles.
By order of the V. C.”
Trusting to luck and the absence of Mr. Whyo and the V. C., we sampled his water; so did the mules, and we now look suspiciously at persons likely to bear such uncanny names.
At noon we came to some bare rocky peaks on both sides of the road, and finding some stagnant rain-water at the base of one, camped. These were the Hueco Tanks. Any shallow rock that will hold rain-water is called in this country a tank. It may be only a few inches deep and fewer feet in circumference, but it is a tank. From the level of the plain to the height of two hundred feet we discovered numerous tanks, some holding soil and good water. The summit of each great mass of boulders was capped with a stone monument to indicate to travelers the presence of water. As on the same day we had to dig up mesquite roots for fuel, we realizedthe truth of the proverb, that in Texas one climbs for water and digs for wood. With great care and labor we scooped up enough stagnant rain-water to fill our kegs, and next day resumed the drive, with sixty-five miles still between us and the Sacramento. The country improved, grass in tufts succeeding the sand, and rolling prairie, called “jumps” by the natives, following level deserts. At Owl Tanks the water had gone, so we depended upon our kegs again, with green grass and soap-weed for the fires. No game had come to cheer us, but the blue outline of the wooded Sacramento was dotted with white patches of snow, and we could almost scent the victims of our guns. On the fourth day we came to the foot-hills and walked ahead of the teams to keep deer and elk from the mules and to learn the way. Our road, on which we had not met a single team since leaving the vicinity of El Paso, had dwindled to a mere cattle trail, and at times this scattered into several, each leading up a different cañon. It was absolutely necessary to cross this first range to reach the river—the only permanent water in the country.
At dark we came to the river. It should have been labeled, for only a shrewd detective would have believed that the dry line of rocks at the bottom of the cañon had ever seen water. After the fashion of most rivers in this portion of our prairie land, the Sacramento had sunk in a few miles above its “mouth,” if such eccentric streams may have a mouth, possessing a range of ten miles or more.
However, we found a well, a house, and some log fences. So, with water from the first, wood from the last, and hay from the barn, we camped with all the comforts of the season. Finding no one at home, we excused the host and helped ourselves. “Home” was a log cabin by the side of a hill, but in the choice language of Lincoln County (we had then reached New Mexico), it became a “chosy,” from the Spanishcasa, a house. When its owner, Mr. Shorthorns, a typical cowboy, appeared, we took him in to supper, and gained his good will and permission to help ourselves to everything in sight. If soldiers ever neglect such an invitation, they must be quite unworthy of their calling. I think Sacramento fences will average less in height than was once fashionable, and that potatoes and turnips will be scarce for a season. But I can testify that no “slow deer” (calves, sheep and goats), were killed by our party.
Shorthorns assured us that in the Piñon country turkeys grew on the trees, deer ranged with cattle, and elk were lassoed for sport and released. We dreamed of game all night, and imagined ourselves climbing the ladder of fame over the backs of monster bucks and sailing through life on turkey wings and elk antlers.
Next morning we chose an objective in the Piñons and entered the theatre of war.
At daylight Mr. X. and I, followed by the light wagon, with a teamster and cook, our blankets, mess-chest and a keg of water, led the attack. “Grover Cleveland” was scout, and his black and white hair was ever seen where snow-birds and robins, lizards and rabbits, were thickest. We on foot as the vanguard preceded the light wagon up a cañon toward Piñon Tanks, while our heavy troops—that is, the heavy wagon—remained at the “chosy.”
At noon we had walked eight good country miles, and established our first foothold in the enemy’s territory. Not satisfied, we left the cook in command of the garrison (four mules and the dog), and selecting divergent lines of operations, reconnoitred the hostile country. In military parlance, this country was close—close in all possible constructions of the expression. The stunted piñons were close to the ground and to themselves, ravines and draws were quite numerous, thorns, cactus and sharp rocks were uncomfortably close to one’s feet and shins, and after walking on a seemingly straight, though really circuitous course, one would turn up close to camp. Each column of troops—or troop—carried a rifle, shot-gun, two ammunition belts, and enough implements to care for the dead and wounded of the enemy. Each column advanced and retreated, marched and countermarched, deployed and rallied, charged and halted, and when at dark all assembled at the base of operations for rations and rest, the enemy seen consisted of one jack rabbit, at which I had almost fired, and one “sign.” This word is here inserted to indicate the professional training of our troops. Always used in the singular, it means the mark of anything sought—in this instance, a deer’s footprint. Had Longfellow been versed in mountaineer dialect, his great men might leave sign, rather than footprints in the sands of time.
But if we could not hunt, we could certainly eat. As we rallied about our Chief Commissary, and toasted bacon on longswitches, drinking coffee right from the coals, we agreed that dining was our favorite occupation. Our fire would have filled a fair house, and was replenished at intervals by entire cedar trees, shooting flames up high into the stars, apparently, and defying the deer and elk. We had heard that game would approach a bright fire by night, so we rather hoped to see pairs of anxious eyes peering through the trees. If they did, it must have been after we retired. To retire meant literally to bivouac.
It was grand to sleep, wrapped in blankets and tent-flies, with one’s feet to a roaring fire, gazing at the same stars which shone down upon countless deer, elk, lions, wolves, and so on. It was a little less grand to wake in the night with a chill, and to renew the fire with a piñon tree. And it was far from grand to wake at daylight and find the fire quite out and frost all over our blankets.
Sunrise found our expedition of the day before on the march. Game has never been hunted with closer adherence to all the rules and superstitions, yet two-thirds of our force failed to establish even a speaking acquaintance with the animals which we had been led to believe existed in such abundance. The other third, Mr. X., saw two deer, but as he had been accustomed to shooting game in the same county only, he did not hit either. So we changed base to the river within striking distance of Shorthorns’ fence-rails and hay.
In the evening, at the chosy, we heard just why we had missed the game, which was attending a political convention up at the summit. So the cowboys all said, and cited numerous “sign” pointing in that direction as their authority. Resolved to attend this convention and exert a little “influence” upon its members, we started next day with both wagons and all our troops and camp followers for the summit, twenty-five miles northwest of Shorthorns’ place.
This was an operation unexcelled in the military annals of Dona Ana County, and occupied two days. The road, whenever we found it, followed the river—either a bank, a bluff, or the bed of the river—losing itself in water a few feet deep occasionally, and reappearing on a hillside a mile or two farther. We crossed the eccentric little stream, which is sometimes ten, sometimes thirty miles long, and always greater as one approaches its source. The two-thirds of a crossing was made when our heavy wagon slipped off a hillside into the water, and Mr. X. and the men had to dig and swear it out. Being ahead as advance guard, and a novice in profanity as well, I escaped this duty. The experience gained was something remarkable. We cut down trees frequently, took down log fences, and (were anyone in sight) put them up again, broke and mended each wagon daily, and lost a mule. We tried to lose the way, but the cañon’s sides were so steep that it was impossible.
As we ascended the stream, cedar and piñon were succeeded by pine and quaking asp, and snow, first in patches, then covering the ground, appeared. Wherever the cañon was wide enough, some enterprising mountaineer had enclosed a few acres, and as the little garden thus formed received the alluvial deposit of the hillsides, grain and vegetables had been cultivated successfully and extensively.
At the summit, nearly ten thousand feet above sea level, we found snow so deep that we took possession of Shorthorns’ summer residence, a log-hut twelve feet square. As we had cached our grain at the lower ranch, we helped our mules to Shorthorns’ hay and settled down for a week’s good hunting. The hut had been plastered with adobe, but this was so conspicuous by its absence that innumerable holes rendered the building capable of defense by musketry, and promised unwelcome draughts at night.
We hunted all that afternoon, tramping about in snow several inches deep, but my bag contained only one squirrel, while a teamster reported the slaughter of one squirrel and “about” two jays—from which we gathered that he had killed one and missed another of those carrion birds. And we had now consumed eight days of our leave!
At night Shorthorns turned up rather unexpectedly, and as I saw no blankets on his saddle, I had “many a doubt, many a fear,” which were vividly recalled when he chose me for his bed-fellow. Tradition says that a cowboy can pull his hat over his eyes and sleep oblivious of the weather. As I woke several times that night on the floor and saw my host snugly tucked up in my bedding, I weaken on tradition and call for more valuable testimony.
My heart ceased beating for a whole second when next morning, charmed with our fare and my bed, Shorthorns offered to accompany us on the hunt and back to El Paso. The pleasure of hunting lost alittle of its lustre, and we were one more step removed from Paradise.
One day at the summit Shorthorns promised to show me game. I thought it must be time, so saddled a little buckskin mule and rode out with him. It was as cold as Christmas, and had I been alone I should have chosen a later hour and a milder day. But with the honor of the entire army resting on my shoulders I did not complain of frosted toes and aching fingers. I rode in the rear that he might not notice my squirms of anguish, and when he ventured the opinion that it was “right peart,” I nonchalantly kicked the mule’s ribs and said nothing. What could I say, when my teeth played a reveille and tattoo and fire alarm all at once? Doubtless he suffered as much as I and had the same pride in concealing it.
The first sign was a homesteader’s, two logs across two others—all on snow a foot deep. A notice on a pine-tree adjacent stated that this was the foundation of a house and claim to 160 acres under the homestead law. Two witnesses vouched for this claim, though quite unnecessarily, as no sane man would live at that bleak place, and deer and elk, despite their reputed domesticity, are not given to jumping homesteads.
We saw several sign, and trailed all morning on foot or mule-back. At noon we struck it rich. I didn’t see the riches, but Shorthorns did, as he ordered a dismount to fight on foot. We tied the animals in a little aspen thicket, and my guide sent me in one direction, while he chose the deer trail, with a little advice about springing a cross fire on the buck. I wondered why I had been sent in an opposite direction from that taken by the deer, but when presently I heard Shorthorns shoot, I saw the reason. Abandoning my course, I rushed toward the location of the shots, plunging through snow to my boot-tops. I heard him shoot again, and pushed ahead to obtain a shot on my own account.
I found the tracks, and for a mile Shorthorns trailed the deer and I trailed Shorthorns.
Receiving no encouragement, and yielding to hunger and fatigue, I followed the trail back to the animals in order to get to my lunch. This consumed much time, as the woods were so full of an undergrowth of shin oak, called there “shinnery,” that it was very difficult to find a way, or to follow it when found.
After calling to my guide in vain, I mounted the mule, slung my guns over my shoulder and led the pony with one hand, following the tracks. The finest prescription for dampening the ardor of a sportsman is to require him to try what I did that day. Even in light doses it works like a charm. It dampened not only my ardor but also my feet, and—when my saddle turned and I landed in a snowdrift—my head and arms too. After various accidents and involuntary dismounts, I lost all desire for venison and wanted to go home.
Playing horse-holder for a cow-puncher was not my ideal sport.
Then the mule cut his foot and refused to be comforted; so I mounted the broncho and led Buckskin. This arrangement was worse. Whenever we came to a log, Broncho would take it as a circus horse does a hurdle, but Buckskin would stop short and almost wrench my arm from its socket.
Sometimes the beasts decided to take different sides of a tree, and I was powerless to prevent them. Overhanging boughs would brush me from the saddle as Buckskin jumped under them, or deluge me with snow as he ran against them. All this time I had to follow the footprints of my escort—the man who had promised to show me game. At sunset I gave it up and returned to the main cañon to wait for him. Tying the animals, I built a huge fire as a beacon and ate Shorthorns’ lunch. At dark I fired my rifle three times as a signal, and later he appeared, though without any deer. He claimed to have seen them, but of course had some good excuse for not shooting one. Excuses all the way from poor ammunition to tenderness of heart, are as thick in that country as “leaves in Valombrosa.” Mr. X. had not even had the excitement and happiness (?) of trailing a deer—or a cowboy.
Besides a few snipe killed at a swamp called by Shorthorns a “cineky,” from the Spanishsieneca, we still depended upon Uncle Sam’s subsistence stores for our daily bread.
Preferring hunting to mule whacking, I one day tramped all over the mountain tops, and halting for lunch at therincon(Spanish for inner corner) of the range, enjoyed some of the finest scenery outside a modern theatre. Here the ground fell precipitously for several hundred feet, and at a height of 9,000 feet I could look down upon several neighboring ranges. Peaks andranges that from the plains seemed mountains, were now but ant-hills and ploughed furrows in an otherwise velvet carpet of rich brown. The Guadaloupe range, covered with snow and ice, was a vast iceberg, beyond what my friend Shorthorns called the “mirredge.” The distant Rio Grande was plainly visible, and one could fancy smoke rising from the site of El Paso, more than a hundred miles to the south. A gypsum formation, called the White Sands, covered miles of the prairie, and from my lofty position resembled a sea lashed to foam.
It was beautiful, but it was not game.
One Saturday night, a fierce rain-storm added to the complications. It came to stay, too. All day Sunday we could do no more than hug the chosy fireplace and tell lies about former hunts. One newspaper was found, and we read an account of a polar expedition’s suffering. We feared we should need a few points before escaping from our situation, and studied “Grover Cleveland’s” ribs and hams, and our well-oiled hunting-boots, and wondered how long canine steaks and leather soup would prove palatable. As no abatement of the storm came at night, we reached the good resolution stage and agreed never to do ever so many things.
On Monday it cleared slightly, and we lost no time in packing up and moving to a lower altitude and milder climate. Going down the cañon, ropes were tied to the wagons, and all hands lowered each in turn over the dangerous places. With an abrupt descent, our teams made good time, and we were proud of the veteran manner in which our wagons shot down the cañon with the reckless abandon of mountain trains. On the way, we bought a side of fresh pork, and it was surprising how game it did taste when seasoned with jelly and a good appetite.
That night, while camped on the way to Shorthorns’ place, something dropped. It was snow. Early in the morning, the cook lighted a fire in our tent and said it was cold. We thought so too, and as we dug our clothing from drifts inside the tent, we wished the author of “Beautiful Snow” could have a little of it in his. We washed our faces in the beautiful white article and looked at the weather. The animals were tied to the wagons only a few feet from our tent, yet so fierce was the storm, that we could hardly see them. Breakfast that morning was light—all except the bread—as Sibley stores are not intended for cooking, and no fire could live outside. We devoted the day to shoveling snow from the tents, feeding the fire and wondering how the deer and elk enjoyed the weather. Our curiosity on this score, however, was not sufficient to lure us from shelter.
Next morning, cold and still snowing. Peeping out at daylight, I saw only three mules. Strange the others should have deserted us! But they were trailed through the snow and recovered. To keep warm we had to remain in bed. Wood was too scarce and too wet to waste for other than cooking purposes.
In the afternoon we gave in, and with superhuman efforts packed the wagons and pushed ahead toward the foothills. Game had now become a question of secondary consideration.
The wagons ploughed through snow to their hubs, and we walked to avoid a sudden immersion in a drift.
Once more near Shorthorns’ many supplies, we camped to spend our last day in rest, before returning to the post.
At dark mine host, who had ridden off to look for his stock, came into camp with a deer across his saddle. The lucky cowboy, who cared nothing for sport, had ridden right over four deer, and, as he was always armed, had killed one. To see our whole party, from Mr. X. to the junior teamster and “Grover Cleveland,” gather about this interesting spectacle, would have proved the condition of our game-bag. The venison was given to us, and as we had as little pride as game, we accepted it. It proved that there was, or had been, one deer in the country anyhow.
On this, our last day of grace, Shorthorns and I rode out to continue the motion. The weather had moderated, and being in the foothills, snow was only of depth sufficient to facilitate trailing. When I least expected it, of course, my guide bleated as a fawn, and I saw a great buck jump from under a piñon. We both fired and the deer dropped, but limped off at a lively gait. Of course, my bullet went off to meet the moon, while Shorthorns’ cut several legs and pierced the intestines of the buck. At least, so the modest cowboy told me. Just which intestine he did not say, though with a frontier veracity he would doubtless have deposed to it, if asked. We could easily follow the trail by the blood on the snow, and found several places where he had lain down to rest and bleed. At one such halt Shorthorns dismounted, and, giving me his bridle, ran on to finish the buck.
But I was not to be taken in in that manner again. Tying the animals, I outran him, and found him hot on the trail. His welcome was not as cordial as it might have been, but together we chased the wounded buck over hills and cañons, in snow and mud, through brush and over stones and cactus, for five miles, finally losing his trail in that of four others almost at the prairie’s edge. Shorthorns showed me four black spots on a hillside, distant several hundred yards. He called them deer, but they might have been calves, goats, sheep or dogs for aught I knew, and I had lost some confidence in his veracity since gaining his acquaintance. Still I thought that if the black spots should wait long enough, or if they could be lassoed and tied, I might make it lively for at least one of them. So we sneaked and sneaked and sneaked. Almost within range we halted, drank some melted snow from a tank, took some cartridges in the left hand and instinctively fingered the triggers of our rifles. It became intensely interesting. I could smell venison steak broiling, and began mentally to distribute deer hams and saddles to our less fortunate friends at the post.
Just below where the black spots should be we ascended the hillside, cautiously stopping just this side of the summit; we had seen no deer and none were in sight. Black spots? Yes—lots of rocks; but whether or not there had ever been deer there, I must not say, as I may wish to go there again, and Shorthorns is a good shot.
On the weary tramp back to the animals, I heard my guide repeat his little fawn solo in a minor key and saw him fire at two does that seemed to spring from a hole in the ground. Then followed one of the grandest displays of firearms—if not of marksmanship—known to Fourth of July celebrations.
Each fired as often as his rifle permitted, and if we did not hit either doe, we at least scared them well for the next sportsmen.
Shorthorns explained that if his first cartridge had not snapped, he would have pierced the upper right-hand corner of the first doe’s heart, and the sixth rib and left lung of the second doe. If you don’t understand how this could have been, draw a plan, or let Shorthorns draw it for you in the sand, and it will at once assume the perspicuity of all hunting stories.
It was late when we found our animals and ate lunch, and when we returned to camp our record consisted still of one wounded buck and four black spots. Mr. X. had hunted quail near the ranch and killed more than a hundred, many others having been wounded and lost. We regretted our soaring ambition for large game, which had deprived us of much real sport.
Early next morning, with Shorthorns’ deer, Mr. X.’s quail, some ancient elk horns picked up by one of the men, and a small allowance of bacon and hard bread, we commenced our return drive.
Only one incident of importance marked our progress homeward. This was on Sunday, and assumed the form of a sick mule: one more variety of experience for us.
Every driver of large teams has a favorite animal upon whom he vents all his anger or affection. The pet of our ambulance team was a large black wheeler which the driver called “Bill.” No matter which mule lagged, the crack of the whip was accompanied by vigorous advice to Bill, and the driver’s sentences and oaths were liberally punctuated by blows upon poor Bill’s hide. Bill stood this seventeen days and then, without warning, dropped in harness.
Having thus asserted his independence, he swelled up, not with pride alone, but with wind also, and though we took him from harness, jumped on his ribs, rolled him and rode him, and performed other kind offices dear to a sick mule, Bill lay on his back, kicked his heels in the air and looked unhappy. So I undertook to lead his muleship to camp—ten miles ahead. A teamster followed, lashing Bill into a trot to prevent him from lying down, while I, giving the mule the road, stepped along the side over cactus and mesquite bushes. He would stop to roll occasionally. On one such roll the soldier tried to help Bill, and grasped his off forefoot with great familiarity. In a second the man was seen flying over cactus stalks, propelled by a kick in the shin. He rode after that, and no longer rolls sick mules.
After a while we decided to give Bill a dose. Mr. X. emptied a bottle of choice pickles and mixed a drench of salt and water. Then came the circus. As there were no trees in the vicinity we were obliged to administer the drench on the ground. One man held the halter-strap, another knelt on Bill’s shoulder to hold him down, a third held the bottle, and a fourth held the mule’s tongueand opened his mouth. At the critical moment, when Bill’s cavernous mouth opened, we had to dash the bottle’s contents into it, hold his nose, finger his throat, look out for his heels, hang on to the halter-strap and seek safety in flight. This dose was repeated many times, once or twice successfully, while its possible sameness was relieved by acrobatic exercises by a soldier on the mule’s ribs. At times we moved him a short distance towards camp.
Then, as evening approached, we tied a rope to the strap, started Bill by twisting his ears or threatening as a dose, and passed the rope to Mr. X. in the ambulance. The buckskins were whipped into a canter and Bill towed along to camp. As I rode on the step to catch the rope should the mule drop, Mr. X. looked through the rear window and gave bulletins of his symptoms.
In camp Bill was tenderly wrapped in canvas and fed on gunpowder, salt and soap, with a little grain to prevent the formation of extravagant tastes.
On the last day of our leave we drove through El Paso, not triumphant exactly, nor with undue pride, but by as quiet a route to the post as we could select.
Parties desiring to hunt in the Sacramento Mountains will consult their best interests by calling upon us for information. Anyone wishing to establish a hardware store may buy of us sufficient ammunition to stock his business for years.