62 The Wilderness Hunter 



leaped behind, until gradually things straightened 

 out of their own accord. I soon found, however, 

 that I could not allow him to carry a rifle; for he 

 was an inveterate game butcher. In the presence 

 of game the old fellow became fairly wild with ex- 

 citement, and forgot the years and rheumatism 

 which had crippled him. Once, after a long and 

 tiresome day's hunt, we were walking home to- 

 gether; he was carrying his boots in his hands, 

 bemoaning the fact that his feet hurt him. Sud- 

 denly a whitetail jumped up; down dropped Old 

 Tompkins's boots, and away he went like a college 

 sprinter, entirely heedless of stones and cactus. By 

 some indiscriminate firing at long range we dropped 

 the deer; and as Old Tompkins cooled down he 

 realized that his bare feet had paid full penalty for 

 his dash. 



One of these wagon trips I remember because 

 I missed a fair running shot which I much desired 

 to hit; and afterward hit a very much more diffi- 

 cult shot about which I cared very little. Ferguson 

 and I, with Sylvane and one or two others, had gone 

 a day's journey down the river for a hunt. We 

 went along the bottoms, crossing the stream every 

 mile or so, with an occasional struggle through 

 mud or quicksand, or up the steep, rotten banks. 

 An old buffalo hunter drove the wagon, with a 

 couple of shaggy, bandy-legged ponies; the rest of 

 us Jogged along in front on horseback, picking out 



