100 CRUISINGS IN THE CASCADES 



deer, a buck and a doe, looking toward us. They 

 had not seen nor scented us, but had merely heard 

 the chatter of the little squirrel, as they supposed, 

 and, though apparently as completely deceived by it 

 as I had been, they had stopped to listen, as they do 

 at almost every sound they hear in the woods. But 

 there was no squirrel there. Pean had taken this 

 method of calling my attention, and had imitated 

 the cry of the familiar little cone-eater so perfectly 

 that even the deer had been deceived by it. 



I cautiously and slowly drew my rifle to my 

 shoulder, and taking aim at the breast of the buck, 

 fired. Both deer bounded away into thicker brush, 

 and were out of sight in an instant. Pean sprang 

 after them, and in a few minutes I heard the dull, 

 muffled report of his musket. He shouted to me, 

 and going to him I found the buck dead and the 

 Indian engaged in butchering it. My bullet had 

 gone a little farther to the left than I intended, 

 breaking its shoulder, and had passed out through 

 the ribs on the same side. The deer had fallen after 

 going but a few yards, but was not quite dead when 

 Pean came up and shot it through the head. We 

 took out the entrails, cut a choice roast of the meat 

 for our supper and breakfast, and hurried on our 

 way. 



We camped at four o'clock on a small bench of 

 the mountain, and you may rest assured, gentle 

 reader, that our conversation in front of the camp 

 fire that night was novel. Pean, you will remember, 

 could not speak half a dozen words of English. He 

 spoke entirely in Chinook, and I knew but a few 

 words of that jargon. I had a Chinook dictionary 



