FROM THE GAME FIELDS. 



37 



I was after Mose and he said the old fel- 

 low was up there, but advised me to go 

 back. I did not know much of Mose at 

 that time, but wanted to get a look at 

 him, so I moved over to Waugh's, now 

 known as Stirrup ranch, and early the next 

 morning I started for Poncha mountain. 

 I had not gone far when I sighted the plain 

 trail of old Mose. He seemed to be walk- 

 ing leisurely along the gulch leading to 

 the top of the mountain. I followed cau- 

 tiously for half a mile and suddenly came 

 within ioo paces of him. He saw me at 

 the same time I saw him. There was a 

 cedar bush between us, and I stepped to 

 one side to get a good shot, but I stepped 

 on ice and fell. Mose was standing on 

 his hind feet, looking at me over his 

 shoulder, and before I could get up he had 

 got behind some spruce shrubs, out of sight 

 of me. That was the only time I ever had 

 the pleasure of looking at this monster of 

 the Rockies. I had no traps at that time, 

 but I hunted him 15 days, saw signs of him 

 every day, but never got sight of him again. 



Then I went over on Poncha park, killed 

 a large buck antelope, and started for 

 Canon City, but stopped on lower Cotton- 

 wood and got a big cinnamon bear that had 

 just killed a 3 year old steer for Joe Hall. 



Every week brought new reports of 

 Mose's scaring prospectors, killing cattle 

 and raising Cain generally ; so, for 5 years, 

 each season when his hide was supposed to 

 be in good shape, I, among others, loaded 

 up grub and bear traps and went after him. 

 Each year I found one or 2 carcasses of ani- 

 mals he had killed. He would lie around 

 and eat, only going for water; and he 

 would never return to the same spot after 

 he had finished devouring his prey. 



In the fall of '95 Whort and I camped 

 above Stirrup ranch. One morning Whort 

 went up the gulch about a quarter of a 

 mile. All at once I heard what sounded 

 like the battle of Bull Run, and Whort 

 came down to camp looking as if he had 

 been in the run part of the fight. After 

 breakfast he showed me where he had stood 

 and shot at an old bear and 2 cubs. I 

 went over and found one fine fat cub he 

 had shot through the head. Next morning 

 we went up the mountain about a mile. 

 Suddenly 2 prospectors dashed into view, 

 running down the mountain at the rate of 

 about 20 miles an hour. 



"Hi there !" shouted I, "what are you 

 running for?" 



"Because we can't fly !" roared one. 



They had seen Mose, and had given him 

 a chance to run; but he wouldn't. 



One summer Joe Hall went up the moun- 

 tain for wild raspberries. He had picked a 

 big bucketful besides eating many more, 

 when Mose happened along and took after 

 him. Joe ran around a big log, with Mose 



after him. Joe gave up his berries, bucket 

 and all, climbed a tree and yelled so loud 

 that for the first time on record Mose ran, 

 after the fight had commenced. It took 2 

 days for the color to come back into Joe's 

 face, and it is said he never wore the same 

 suit of clothes again. 



The bear I killed was the one that killed 

 Jake Radcliff, and its weight was 1,213 

 pounds. Mose had larger tracks than the 

 supposed Mose senior, and I consider him 

 the shrewdest bear ever known in these 

 parts. 



I like your stand on the game question. 

 I have killed game of all kinds, but never 

 wasted a pound of meat or killed an animal 

 for the skin. 



J. J. Pike, Slagle, Mo. 



MY BIGGEST KILLING. 



In the fall of '69 my wife and I and her 

 brother and his wife moved from the Wil- 

 lamette to Eastern Oregon and settled in 

 a small village through which ran a moun- 

 tain stream emptying a few miles below 

 into the John Day, 90 miles above its 

 mouth. 



The hostile Snake Indians had just been 

 driven out, while as yet there was but a 

 sprinkle of white settlers. It was a beauti- 

 ful country. Bench lands on which were 

 scattering junipers extended back from 

 the rivers 6 or 8 miles. Then came a spur 

 of the Blue mountains, 15 miles across, 

 covered with an open forest of pine, with 

 fir and tamarack in the gulches and on the 

 hillsides. Beyond this a plain, marked with 

 an occasional canyon, rolled North 60 miles 

 to the Columbia. There was bunch grass 

 everywhere, uncropped save by wild ani- 

 mals or Indian ponies. 



This plain is now netted with barbed 

 wire fence and its surface is scarred into 

 unsightliness by the gang plow. In the 

 mountains and on the benches the bunch 

 grass that was cured like hay by the cloud- 

 less sun of summer, has been almost 

 stamped out of existence by bands of sheep, 

 horses and cattle. Stock men have fought, 

 bled and died over the division of the re- 

 maining mountain range. The great herdi 

 of deer that used to come from the moun- 

 tains to winter in the John Day country 

 have vanished like the bunch grass. 



During the winter following our entrance 

 into this country, our little party became 

 meat hungry. Whitetail and mule deer were 

 numerous. With a small bore, rusty, muz- 

 zle loading rifle I had climbed the foot hills. 

 for the whitetail and had crept up behind 

 rocks and junipers for the mule deer, but 

 without success. 



One morning as I shouldered my rifle 

 my sister-in-law, who was an invalid, ban- 

 teringly remarked that she would carry in 

 all the game I killed that day. A short dis- 



