A DELAYED SHOT. 



A. D. II. 



In the spring of '93 I was placer mining 

 on Burnt'creek, in the heart of the white 

 pine belt of Idaho. I had long wished to 

 take a trip to the headwaters of the North 

 fork, at that time considered inaccessible. 

 Accordingly I sold my placer claim and 

 moved camp 4 miles to Swamp creek, 

 where I found 15 or 20 miners and pros- 

 pectors camped, cursing n^onopoly and 

 telling each other how rich the creek was. 

 Inquiring into the trouble, I found the 

 entire creek had been located for the Spo- 

 kane Placer Mining Co. They were ex- 

 pecting the company's expert, and he ar- 

 rived that day. He rode up on the bank 

 of the creek and, without dismounting, 

 condemned the claim. His judgment has 

 proved correct, as no one has ever made 

 the ground pay. Strange as it may seem, 

 when he told the men they could have the 

 ground, not one moved, and in the 3 days 

 I stayed there not a claim was located. 



That evening Frank Shrole and I 

 watched, from a scaffold in a tree, a deer 

 lick in a meadow of 5 or 6 acres. Just at 

 isundown a doe loped in and stopped about 

 30 yards distant, with her right side to- 

 ward us. Frank shot. The deer turned 

 her head and ran, exposing her left side 

 to us. I sent one .45-60 at her, and as she 

 reached the timber she went down. 



Next morning Harry Mead, the mining 

 expert, started up river 40 miles to the 

 mouth of Little North fork, where he in- 

 tended crossing and continuing up the 

 main North fork to a gravel bar he was to 

 pass judgment on. Two days later I left 

 for the headwaters of the great North fork, 

 accompanied by Frank and George Shrole, 

 Lafe Woodpile, Bill Breeding, Tom Mar- 

 tin, Deaf John, and a man named John 

 Newmann, who had been all over earth 

 and half way back. We went to Gold 

 creek the first day. There we found Mr. 

 Mead snowbound and feeding on a fat 

 buck he had killed from his tent that 

 morning. Next day we tackled the snow 

 and got through all right, reaching the 

 main river at mouth of Robertson creek, 3 

 miles below Little North fork. There, as 

 in all other canyons, it is impossible to 

 follow the water's edge for any distance; 

 so Lafe and I started to find a route to 

 the mouth of Breakfast creek, up the Little 

 North fork. I carried the blankets strapped 

 to my back and went ahead; he followed 



with his Winchester and the grub in a 

 flour sack hung by a loop over his arm. 

 We had gone probably % of a mile along 

 a game trail, through open timber, when 

 suddenly, about 60 yards in front of us, we 

 saw a huge black bear rear on his haunches 

 and stand in the trail. I was 15 feet in ad- 

 vance, but in a sharp bend of the trail, so 

 Lafe could shoot without endangering me 

 even if the bear had been within 20 feet. 



Bruin threw his head to right and left 

 and sniffed the air. Convinced that noth- 

 ing unusual had occurred, he dropped to 

 his feet and came quietly toward us, his 

 nose close to the ground, swinging his 

 head from side to side in bear fashion. I 

 turned my head to look at Lafe. He had 

 brought the gun to his shoulder. I looked 

 toward the bear coming steadily forward 

 unconscious of danger. Not hearing the 

 gun, I looked back again to see what was 

 wrong. Lafe had dropped to one knee 

 and was using the other for a rest. The 

 bear was then within 40 feet of me, coming 

 slowly but surely, and yet the gun did not 

 speak. When I turned again toward Lafe, 

 blest if he hadn't stopped sighting and 

 was taking tHe grub sack off his arm. 



There I was with the bear not 30 feet 

 away; no gun, knife nor clawhammer, and 

 the blankets strapped solidly to my back, 

 knowing that if the bear should run against 

 me he would probably bring me an upper 

 cut and disfigure me for life. But I knew, 

 also, that if I spoke to Bruin in as mild 

 and gentle tones as I could assume he 

 would most likely kill himself getting 

 away. There was then but 20 feet between 

 us, and I suddenly disturbed the solitude. 

 I spoke, not in the tender tones a man 

 uses to address his wife when he has been 

 detained at the lodge, but I fairly roared, 



"Why in thunder don't you shoot that 

 bear?" 



"A word in season, how good it is!" 

 Immediately the long looked for explosion 

 occurred, and the bear went down in his 

 death agony. Lafe seated himself on a 

 log and laughed as though he was wound 

 up. 



"What's the matter with you?" I asked. 



"Lou," he said, "you were scared; you 

 yelled like a Comanche. Why did you?" 



I told him I wanted some bear steak 

 and wanted it young and tender, and feared 

 he was going to let the bear die of old age. 



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