FROM THE GAME FIELDS. 



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



A KID, A CUR AND A BEAR. 



In 1884 I was employed as a horse 

 wrangler on a cattle ranch in the Shoshone 

 Indian reservation, Wyoming. I was a 

 mere kid, and a tenderfoot at that, though 

 born on the frontier. 



It was, I think, in November; anyway, it 

 was late in the season for bear to be out of 

 winter quarters. One day I was hunting 

 deer in the bad lands between Crow creek 

 and the North fork of Big Wind river. I 

 shot at and missed several deer, and, be- 

 coming discouraged, set out for home in the 

 middle of the afternoon. On the way I ran 

 across the most forlorn and abjectly 

 wretched specimen of an Indian dog it has 

 ever been my misfortune to meet. The 

 loneliness of the place and the whining ap- 

 peals of the dog, evidently nearly starved, 

 induced me to make friends with the poor 

 creature. When I had cemented friendship 

 by an equitable division ,of what remained 

 of my lunch, the dog followed me to the 

 ranch. 



The boys were all away, and I began pre- 

 paring supper. While thus engaged I was 

 startled by unearthly yowls from the Indian 

 cur, which had been nosing about the out- 

 buildings. It bolted into the house and 

 under my bunk, whining and slavering with 

 mortal terror. I stepped out of the house 

 and looked around the open country and 

 along the timber bordering the river. 

 Seeing nothing alarming I concluded my 

 canine friend was mad, and determined to 

 get him out of the house and put a bullet 

 through him before a worse thing hap- 

 pened. 



When I returned to the house the cur 

 was curled up in an empty trunk, trembling 

 violently and emitting those frenzied yelps, 

 snarls and whines of which only an Indian 

 dog is capable. Slipping a cover over the 

 trunk I dragged it out of doors, and, think- 

 ing the dog secure, went back for my gun. 

 As I again emerged from the house the dog 

 escaped from the trunk, ran between my 

 legs, nearly upsetting me, and took refuge 

 beneath the bed. That I was a little 

 alarmed I admit, but getting a long stick I 

 proceeded to poke the cur out from under 

 the bunk. I finally got a purchase on him, 

 levered him to the door and shoved him 

 out. He ran toward the river and I fol- 

 lowed, waving the stick. When near the 

 timber the dog stopped short ; then with a 

 howl he bolted for the open, his tail be- 

 tween his legs. Looking in the opposite 

 direction I saw an object in the underbrush 

 which I took to be a large black hog. It is 

 true I had never seen a dozen hogs in my 



life and that the hog was, and still is, a 

 mighty rare animal on the cattle ranges. 



Nevertheless, I did not doubt it was a 

 hog, and started toward it, stick in hand. 

 When within 40 steps of the beast I dis- 

 covered it was a big black bear pulling 

 down bull brush to get at the frozen berries. 

 It did not take me long to decide that I 

 needed a gun. I ran to the house, got it, 

 and, from behind the wood pile, fired at the 

 bear as it was making off. 



I heard a roar and, believing I had hit 

 the animal, I ran in closer, firing as I ad- 

 vanced. I finally got within 15 feet of the 

 beast and saw that both forelegs had been 

 badly smashed by my bullets. At that point 

 the bear raised on his hind legs. I don't 

 think he came toward me, but I know he 

 roared and that I snapped the gun at him. 

 It did not go off, but I did, and if ever a 

 frightened kid made far apart tracks it 

 was I. 



I grasped another rifle from the pegs and, 

 mustering up courage, went out again. 

 The bear had gone, but I followed his trail 

 into a dry creek bed and through the bull 

 brush. Ther,e I lost the sign and gave up 

 the chase. 



When I got back to the house one of the 

 boys had returned. I told him my troubles 

 and he volunteered to go with me and see 

 what we could find. He took a shot gun 

 and I my rifle. By blood stains on the 

 rocks we followed my bear some distance. 

 Suddenly the old fellow came out of the 

 brush, advancing on his hind legs. I saw 

 my friend pull up the shot gun, and I yelled, 

 "Don't shoot, Andy, you'll spoil the hide !" 

 A moment later I bagged my game ; but 

 never afterward did I see the Indian dog to 

 which I was indebted for my first bear. 



W. L. Simpson. 



TWO DAYS IN THE OLYMPICS. 



One cool, bright summer morning a friend 

 and I shouldered our packs and started for 

 Lake Crescent, in the Olympic mountains. 

 It is 18 miles from Port Angeles, over a 

 rough road. Crossing the beautiful Elwah 

 as it roars down its deep canyon, we passed 

 through dense forests of fir, cedar and 

 hemlock, seeing occasionally the cabin of a 

 homesteader or a prospector. When we 

 reached the summit we had a splendid view 

 of Lake Sutherland and the snow-capped 

 Olympics. There we had lunch and re- 

 sumed our way to Lake Crescent, only 4 

 miles distant, all down hill. The lake is 9 

 miles long and 40 rods to 3 miles wide. It 

 is surrounded by high mountains, and the 



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