164 RECREATION. 

LIVER-EATING JOHNSON. 
R. H. 
John Johnson, of Montana, is the modest 
name of the man who is better known to 
fame as Liver-Eating Johnson. | first 
met him in the ’60’s. He gained his san- 
guinary title in the stockades on the Mus- 
selshell, where for many weeks he, in com- 
pany with Crow Davis, Jesse Mabbitt and 
a few others, kept the Indians at bay and 
almost every day sent one or more of them 
to join the other good Indians. Even be- 
fore that time Johnson was known as a 
fearless scout and Indian fighter, a good 
hunter and a skilful trapper. He was invaria- 
bly cool, even in the greatest danger; and 
though fearless he was never reckless. Even 
in his old age Johnson had a wonderful phy- 
sique. He was gray haired, over 6 feet tall, 
weighed about 270 pounds, wore number I2 
shoes and had hands the size of average 
hams. His voice gave forth fog horn tones, 
and over his expressionless face no smile 
was ever seen to flit, but in his eyes the 
close observer could notice an almost per- 
petual twinkle. It was nis delight to have 
around him a circle of tenderfeet who hung 
spellbound on his blood curdling tales. On 
these occasions he showed a strong aver- 
sion to the truth, and seldom allowed it to 
obtrude. A few years ago I heard him tell 
the following: 
“It makes me tired to hear people say 
there is any danger or excitement on the 
ocean. I sailed all over the world when I 
was a kid, just looking for tough times, and 
couldn't find them. I was shipwrecked 6 
times, but there wasn’t any excitement 
about that. I only floated around a little 
for a few weeks on a leaky raft, seeing 
nothing but sky and water. The only 
lively time I had was when I jumped 
into the loop of a lariat and towed a raft 
with 7 men and 8 women aboard into 
Charleston harbor, a little swim of about 
385 miles. 
“But I never could find any real excite- 
ment on the ocean, so I came out to the 
mountains to see if I could kick up some 
among the Indians. Now, you folks might 
not believe it, but I did find some with the 
Indians, wounded bears, cloud bursts, snow 
slides and that kind of cattle. After pros- 
pecting 10 years, Wild Cat Bill, Flap- 
Jack Dick, Sour Dough Ike and I made a 
big cleanup in Boomerang gulch and dis- 
solved partnership. Bill struck out for the 
Whoop Up country, Dick and Ike loafed 
around until they were taken in by the In- 
dians, while I ran down the trail to Bos- 
ton, to take another look at the ocean and 
see if it was all there. I tried to put up at 
a place they call Harvard, but the boys 
were sassy and wouldn’t let me camp there. 
Guess old man Harvard was out at the 
time. I went down to Mr. Parker’s tavern 
and hadn’t taken a dozen cocktails when I 
met a man who had sailed with me when he 
was a kid. His name was Ebenezer Higin- 
botham. I had taught him all about navi- 
gating the trails and he kept right on until 
he became captain of a whaler. He told me 
the ship was hitched somewhere outside and 
begged me to go with him hunting whales. 
I studied over this through 20 cocktails, and 
then made up my mind to go. 
“We struck up North, rubbed out all the 
lines of longitude and shortitude, and many 
a whale did we sight. I wanted to set a 
bear trap or 2 for them, but Eb laughed at 
me, One day the fellow that was roosting 
up among the lariats yelled out, “A whale, 
a whale!” as if it was going up there to 
bite him. The men got 2 boats over the 
side, and rowed away as if a lot of Apaches 
were hot on their trail. The captain watched 
them through a glass. I never use a glass 
except for whiskey and then only when I 
can’t get at the bottle. The fellows rowed 
out and stuck 2 pike poles into that whale. 
He just swung his rudder round, sort of 
careless like, and smashed one boat into 
splinters. Then he opened his mouth and 
chawed the other boat up in one chaw. The 
men swam around a little and finally got 
into a boat the captain sent out to them. 
At last I says, “Lower the biggest Mack- 
inaw you have, put in your stoutest and 
longest lariat, my express rifle, and the 
whiskey bottle. Lively now!” They jumped 
to obey orders. I got into the boat, struck. 
out for that whale, and got up pretty close 
to him. You ought to have seen the look on 
that critter’s face! He acted as if he had 
never been in a school of whales. I swung 
the lariat a time or 2 about my head and 
let drive. It caught him in the upper jaw 
and tight over the nose. I hauled in the 
slack and fastened the end to my belt. Why 
didn’t he dive? How could he? Didn't 
I just tell you I was rowing? I kept up a 
lively gait and the whale just laid back on 
the lariat; but at last he saw it was all up 
with him, so he came along as gentle as a 
calf. I got ashore and snubbed him to a 
tree. Then I rowed out, and putting up my 
rifle, shot him through the brain. I didn’t 
want to risk a shoulder shot, as he was so 
deep in the water. Then the captain and 
crew came to tow the varmint to the ship. 
The captain cried when I told him I was 
not going back with him, but was going to 
row down to Boston, some 4,500 miles by 
the nearest cut off. Then he knew what I 
wanted the whiskey and crackers for. He 
said anyway I must share in the proceeds. 
I told him I only wanted as much as the 
other men got; no more. Three weeks af- 
ter I got to Boston a banker sent me word 
I had to my credit in gold, $30,000—my 
share of the whale’s lard. Big whale? Say, 
Mister! Do I look like a man who would 
tackle a little one?” 
“Miss Passé was kissed in a dark hall- 
way the other night.” 
“Is that so?” ; 
“Yes, and there hasn’t been a light in 
her house since.”’—Life. 
ee ee ee ee ee eee ee 
Soe 
