180 MY SPORTING HOLIDAYS 



torture and scalp all the white men they could catch. 

 Here is an example. A certain white emigrant 

 waggon-train was crossing the plains of Nebraska, 

 and some of the fire-eaters of the party had boasted 

 that they would kill the first Indian they met. Un- 

 fortunately, as it turned out, for them, the first Indians 

 they saw were two squaws gathering berries in the 

 brush. One of the squaws, disgraceful to relate, was 

 shot by the white emigrants. But the other escaped 

 to tell the tale to her tribe, then camped not far off. 

 Next morning the tribe surrounded the emigrant 

 camp in overpowering numbers, and demanded the 

 surrender of the men who had done the deed. Two 

 men were, perforce, given up to the Indians, who 

 there and then tied them to the wheels of a waggon, 

 and skinned them alive in the presence of their white 

 companions. 



But I am wandering somewhat from my sporting 

 yarn. We camped one night on Snake River, where 

 a family of half-breeds had a primitive ranch. Old 

 Man Baker, as Jack Roberts called him, had married 

 an Indian squaw, and had reared a dusky progeny. 

 The girls of the family, Jack said, were as wild as 

 antelope, and always ran into the brush on the ap- 

 pearance of strangers. However, we paid a friendly 

 call, and interviewed Old Man Baker on the subject 

 of sport. The girls of the household did not appear, 

 but a young half-breed son was there, who, beyond 

 displaying some interest in our rifles and general 

 outfit, took no part in the conversation. 



That afternoon my saddle, that had been deposited 

 outside Baker's shanty, disappeared. My binoculars 

 and mackintosh were fastened to it, and the loss 

 would have been distinctly vexatious. That same 



