A Sportsman 29 



any about of late. Capt. John, the chief of a small 

 band, was an old friend of mine, but has evidently 

 gone the way of his fathers. Attended by a small 

 group of bucks and squaws he would regularly round 

 up at my house, and, after a pleasant greeting, would 

 accept an invitation to grub up with a load of cold 

 meats, hams, bread, canned goods, etc., accompanied 

 by sundry parcels of old clothes and hats; then, with 

 an oleaginous smile over his swarthy visage, he would 

 go to the clover valley below for encampment. 



Almost weekly during Capt. John's stay he would 

 call around for a personal interview, the substance 

 of which was to procure a dollar to purchase powder 

 and balls to kill wild-cats, in evidence of which he 

 would pull out of his hunting and grub sack a badly 

 worn pelt of some ancient nondescript of abnormal 

 origin, which would immediately satisfy me with the 

 importance of his request. 



One of the first duties of Capt. John and his at- 

 tendants was to disrobe and roll in the unctious 

 mud of the mineral springs in the valley, and after- 

 wards to sit in the sun on the ground for an hour or 

 two coated with the mud, which was replenished at 

 intervals by another application. The new portions 

 added were poured down from the top of the head, 

 and the appearance of those mud-cure zealots would 

 discount any appearance yet given of the witches in 

 Macbeth. From the mud to the water, and then 

 with invigorated appetite to the clover beds, and in 

 sequence to sweet repose, restful to the savage breast 

 as to the luxurious visitor of modern curative sta- 

 tions, was a frequent act of our first families of 

 America. Capt. John seriously assured me that it 



