FROM THE GAME FIELDS. 



f heman who quits when he gets enough, with plenty of game still in sight, is a real sportsman. 



TIGER. 



Old Tiger has gone over the range ; gone 

 to meet Dell, who quit her saddle when 

 the soap weed bloomed last year. 



As Tiger has so often, in the past 10 

 years, crossed the trail before the readers 

 of Recreation, I believe you will be in- 

 terested in this, his last great journey. 

 Not that I would try to tell the many in- 

 cidents in his eventful career. Their re- 

 cital would fill Recreation from cover to 

 cover. Neither do I say "he is dead;" for 

 he passed on so peacefully it hardly seemed 

 like death, but just the going from one 

 good hunting ground to a better one. 



During the past few months we could 

 see that his 12 years of active life, and 

 the swift pace he had set during his hunt- 

 ing and trapping seasons, were telling on 

 him. Twice within the past 2 months he 

 received loud calls from beyond the big 

 mountains ; but each time we coaxed him 

 back; and each time took a little better 

 care of him. We gave him a good bed in 

 the house, when he wished it, and the only 

 password, day or night, was a whine at 

 the door, which was always answered. 

 When the nights were cold, or the fire 

 burned low, we covered him with his old 

 Navajo blanket. Few children have better 

 care than old Tiger had in his last days, 

 and as spring came he seemed quite 

 his old self again ; but early one beautiful 

 May morning when the old cottonwoods 

 down by the river were feeling proud over 

 their first tiny leaves ; when great bunches 

 of cactus up Wildcat gulch were getting 

 ready to put on pink ; when the graceful 

 quaking aspens, higher up the mountain 

 were swelling little bits of green, we found 

 him under the trees at home. 



No indication of pain, or sign of strug- 

 gle could be seen; just the good Lord, not 

 the uncertain God of doubtful justice that 

 theology teaches, but nature's real God of 

 everlasting love, had blazed the trail for 

 him to the land beyond the mortal thought 

 The dream that we call mortal life had 

 changed for him into the reality that is 

 eternal. 



I sent word to my partner, one of Ti- 

 ger's best friends, who had camped for 

 •weeks at a time with only Tige for com- 

 pany. He came, without waiting for his 

 breakfast. 



"We'll bury him," I said, "out by the 

 old trapping grounds. Will you order a 

 carriage? Get Tim Roan if you can, for he 

 is a real Westerner." 



At 9 o'clock my partner came, with Tim 

 and his carriage. My business engagement 

 with the St. Louis man for 8.30 was 



broken. Over the telephone came word 

 that the committee would meet at 9.30. 



"Tell them I can't be there. We're go- 

 ing to bury Tiger," 1 said. 



"But we have got the committee to- 

 gether from the ends of the earth, almost. 

 Can't—" 



"Tell them I shall not be there, They 

 will have to wait," went back over the 

 wire. 



Partner also had important business on 

 hand : a big mining deal. 



"Can you spare the time?" I asked. 



"They can do something else till I get 

 back," he replied. 



So we started. It is a long way to the 

 old trapping grounds with a carriage, for 

 civilization, that messenger cf doubtful 

 good, has made vast strides about Canon 

 City in the past few years, and we had 

 many fences to go around before reaching 

 our destination. On a little bluff high 

 above the danger line from floods we dug a 

 grave. Pine boughs, laid like a camp 

 bed, covered the bottom. Over them Dell's 

 best blanket was spread, and to make it 

 still softer, Tige's old Navajo; and with a 

 copy of Recreation containing a story of 

 "Old Mose," a bunch of lilacs from the 

 lawn where Tiger liked best to sleep, .and 

 a cutting of rose buds from the choicest 

 bush, we laid him to rest, close by his old 

 hunting grounds. A bunch of cattle, on 

 the hillside above, stopped grazing and 

 looked down in silent approval. Off to the 

 North loomed the wonderful Beaver moun- 

 tains, Tiger's first camping grounds ; this 

 side of them old Cooper, Felch creek and 

 Lawrence canyon ; he has hunted there ; to 

 the West the Tallahassee country, Bur- 

 rows mountain, and the dear old Stirrup 

 ranch ; he knows them all. To the South 

 lie Virden mountain, Copper gulch and 

 Grape creek ; he has been there, too, and 

 in many other places far beyond ; to the 

 East, his old home, and an empty kennel. 



We miss the whine in the early morning, 

 and the trot of tired feet through the day. 

 We miss the quiet doze of an evening, on 

 his blanket in the corner, or curled up, as 

 he liked best, on the big Navajo at the head 

 of my bed. It would be selfish indeed to 

 wish him back and I like to think of him 

 as he is, in a country beautiful beyond 

 description, chasing coyotes, but not to kill. 

 I can see the spikes on his old hunting 

 collar, but they are turned to gold, and 

 his brindle coat is creamy white. He is 

 getting ready for a big camping trip and I 

 wonder if I shall ever meet him, away over 

 that wonderful trail far above timber line. 

 Who can tell? N. H. Beecher, 



Canon City, Colo. 



35 



