280 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 



Buchanan, and the newly-formed Republican party had 

 named John C. Fremont as its candidate. Our little 

 party of six was divided in its choice, and in the evenings 

 the argument waxed warm, but always in respectful 

 shape. The date for the election had passed, but we 

 knew nothing of the result. But what hundreds of 

 bushels of oysters were bet! It would have required sev- 

 eral smacks to have carried all these oysters if the stews, 

 fries and raws had all been eaten. The fact is that no 

 record of bets was kept, and each night the old score 

 was forgotten and new bets were made. When we got 

 back in the vicinity of Crow Wing about December 

 20 we first heard the result, and the Buchanan men were 

 jubilant. It served us well as a topic of interest, for it 

 was not a jolly crowd, and what it would have done for 

 amusement without the election is a question. 



Unless Henry or Gibbs was in camp I did not dare 

 leave it. These Indians might be honest enough, but in 

 our case it was well not to take any risks on our pro- 

 visions. One day, while out with my rifle, I came to a 

 lake of which I had a glimpse through the trees. Stand- 

 ing awhile, there came a faint whining sound, which I at 

 once diagnosed as the talk of a bear. Here was a chance 

 to get a shot at bruin, and perhaps some fresh meat. 

 Carefully looking at the cap on the rifle, I cautiously 

 worked down into the marshy ground and underbrush in 

 the direction of the sound. The marsh was frozen, or 

 the passage would have been impossible. The sound 

 came from one direction, but did not seem to increase as 

 I advanced; but it was a bear, sure. Getting near the 

 edge of the lake, as could be seen off to the right, the 

 game must be close, and that creepy, trembling feeling 

 came on. I halted and listened; it was but a few feet 

 away. Through the brush a dark object could be seen 



