14 



RECREATION. 



the bighorn vacate his dizzy perch. Then, 

 ■as the last shot died away, he quitted his 

 -accommodating pose and bounded away 

 into the fast returning darkness. 



"He's gone to bed," said Batterman, "so 

 I move we follow suit." 



Time passes quickly with a tired man 

 when in camp, hence it did not seem more 

 than 2 hours when a deep guttural voice 

 broke our slumbers with, 



"Chaco!" (come.) 



Three sleepy men yawned and sat up in 

 the little tent. It was the first gray of 

 dawn. We looked out through the parted 

 flaps. In front of the tent crouched One- 

 Ear, busily engaged in fanning a flickering 

 fire to life. When he had produced a re- 

 spectable blaze he flecked a bloodthirsty 

 mosquito from his nose and said: 



"Chaco iskum muck-a-muck nesika mit- 

 lite copa lemonta tenas sun." (Come and 

 eat; we want to be on the mountain at 

 sunrise.) 



Breakfast was hastily dispatched. Then 

 strapping on ammunition belts, likewise 

 knives, with rifles in hand we began the 

 ascent of Haiker. I have hit many a trail 

 through the great Northwest, but they all 

 pale into insignificance compared to the 

 Nature-made route leading up to the apex 

 of Sheep mountain. It was climb, climb, 

 climb, and more climbing still. Huge, 

 toppling blocks of stone barred the cre- 

 vasse; leaping waterfalls deluged us to the 

 skin, yet we pushed on and on, in our en- 

 deavor to keep pace with the tireless guide. 

 One-Ear was like a fleet-footed chamois. 

 One minute he would be seen, always sure- 

 footed, jumping from rock to rock; then 

 he would disappear for minutes at a time, 

 to come again in view, hundreds of feet 

 farther up, and wave us on. 



"Will this never end?" panted Batter- 

 man. "Shall we never reach the top?" 



It had often puzzled me while quartered 

 at Sheep camp to understand how the coast 

 Indians hunted bighorns so successfully. 

 It was no uncommon thing to see them 

 return to camp after an absence of an hour 

 or so laden with game. Batterman and I 

 tried to do likewise, but in vain. We al- 

 ways returned empty handed. Then we 

 appealed to our dusky friends. The Chil- 

 cats have no regard for the truth. Time 

 and time again we were promised enlight- 

 enment on the modus operandi, but when 

 the time came the wily aborigines would 

 make themselves conspicuous by their ab- 

 sence. 



The Indian art of hunting, however, was 

 explained to our profound satisfaction 

 shortly after reaching the table land. 

 Striding across the 2-mile stretch, One-Ear 

 hurried the 3 of us up the snow clad side 

 of the mountain to the summit. Numerous 

 bighorn were jumped on the way up, but 



the guide would suffer no one to shoot. 

 From the apex of Haiker to the level be- 

 low is one of the grandest places conceiv- 

 able for rock rolling, there being a straight, 

 steep runway for 2 miles or more. This 

 was the secret of Indian bighorn hunting, 

 and it seemed as though Providence had 

 strewn the mountain top with boulders for 

 our especial benefit that day. All that was 

 necessary to set them going was a slight 

 push. At a signal from One-Ear each man 

 singled out a stone, gave it a shove, has- 

 tily picked up his rifle, and awaited re- 

 sults. 



"Gee! See 'em go!" Lou exclaimed. 

 "The fast mail isn't in it." 



It was enough to make one enthusiastic. 

 To see those big boulders start slowly off, 

 then gather headway and bound into the 

 air with a whiz and a roar, and thence go 

 rolling, crunching, grinding down the 

 mountain at railroad speed, with great 

 blinding clouds of dust in their wake, was 

 well worth the climb to Haiker's crest. 



"Hyu rock, hyu sheep," said One-Ear, as 

 the thunderous intonations began to die 

 away. 



Perhaps 5 minutes went by. .Then across 

 the perspective, at right angles, there 

 emerged from a stunted growth of timber 

 a pair of scraggy, wide-spreading horns. 

 Then another; then another. Just then 

 One-Ear started a boulder down the moun- 

 tain. As the big rock sailed through the 

 air the trio bunched, coming to a stop on 

 an exposed ledge some 300 yards below. 

 It was not at us they were looking, but 

 at the meteoric flying missile, plunging 

 down the slope. This is characteristic of 

 the bighorn. If anything assails him in the 

 line of danger ahead, he will always turn 

 and look in the opposite direction. 



"Now, boys," said Batterman, raising his 

 rifle, "let 'em have it. There's one 

 apiece." 



Huddled up as they were, the bunch was 

 a fair target, and we all 3 banged away. 

 One-Ear held his rifle for a more auspic- 

 ious time. Whether it was owing to a down- 

 hill shot or excitement I cannot tell, but 

 at any rate we scored a miss each. In less 

 time than it takes to tell it, too, the 3 ani- 

 mals came tearing up the incline, making 

 a bee-line over the crest. Then old One- 

 Ear showed his hand. He did not get ex- 

 cited, neither did he lose his head. His 

 trusty Winchester came to his shoulder, a 

 black, piercing eye looked along the pol- 

 ished barrel, a scrawny finger pressed the 

 trigger, and as a white puff of smoke 

 went up the largest bighorn it was ever 

 my lot to see bounded high in the air and 

 fell dead, almost at the Chilcat's feet, 

 pierced through and through by his unerr- 

 ing missile. 



As One-Ear's rifle soit fire there came 



