Aug. 4, 1887.] 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



>umt Jf## mid (§1111. 



Address all communications to the. Forest and Stream Pub. Co. 



IN THE CHEROKEE STRIP.-Vll. 



WE were much pleased one pleasant evening at the 

 2 1 ranch to see a light rig drive into camp, whose 

 two occupants were recognized as Mr. Kirkpatrick, the 

 foreman of the 2 1 , and Mr. D. R. Streeter, owner of the 

 Z brand, with range just below Kiowa, adjoining the 

 Territory line. We had left Mr. Kirkpatrick ill at Kiowa 

 and Mi - . Streeter was absent from his range on business 

 when we passed through, but we more than half expected 

 them to come on down to 2 1 sometime, as both are ardent 

 greyhound men, and as fond of a big hunt as anybody 

 well could be. The appearance of these two gentlemen 

 infused new life into our party, as indeed it would into 

 any party. 



Mr. Kirkpatrick is an old cattleman, who has been all 

 over the cattle country, from Texas to Montana. He is 

 perhaps the most popular man on the Southern range, 

 and any boy in that whole country will fight if one but 

 looked so much as cross-eyed at "ole man Kirk." He is the 

 most restless man I ever saw. His first move was to grasp a 

 broom and begin to sweep out our not over-tidy boudoir; 

 that finished, he carried in wood and then went down 

 and amused himself carrying hay to the big black Gallo- 

 way bulls. He talked very little, but we could see he 

 looked pretty happy, though much to our sorrow he in- 

 formed us that he was not well enough to ride after the 

 hounds. 



Mr. Streeter was looking well enough for two, and the 

 event proved that no hunt was so long that he was not 

 first in it. Cattleman par excellence, blessed beyond care 

 for this world's goods, of abundant health and spirits, and 

 a sportsman as useful as ardent, Mr. Streeter is not only 

 a comfort to himself but to others — one of the rare men 

 whom one instinctively indorses. I don't know that I 

 would spill over so much in so personal a matter if I had 

 not noticed one particular thing about this gentleman, he 

 always went in for the greatest amount of sport for the 

 greatest number, and though he had an honest pride in 

 his own dogs — as well he might have — he didn't argue 

 that they were the best dogs on earth, or insist that it 

 was his dog that caught the deer every time. I say a 

 man like that deserves a public monument. 



The newcomers brought down two more greyhounds, 

 both grand ones, one the big blue dog of the Eagle Chief 

 Pool, and the other Mr. Streeter's great fawn dog, Prince, 

 the she of the pups we had already seen do such good 

 work on the 2 1 range. 



I do not know better how to describe Prince than to 

 call him enormous. He is the largest greyhound I ever 

 saw. While the massive build of his huge head indicates 

 rather courage than great speed, he has a good foot (as do 

 all of his progeny), is well-limbed, and has a well set-up 

 back, which clears him of all appearance of awkward- 

 ness. Not so fast as perhaps many smaller dogs, he is 

 just tireless, and of such courage and strength that he 

 will seize and hold any animal that runs in that country. 

 For the purposes required in a ranch dog, I should say 

 Prince would be hard to beat. The proof of the pudding 

 is in the eating. Prince's record for the month of Decem- 

 ber, 1886, is twenty -six coyotes, three deer, and one gray 

 wolf. I do not know that he has been beaten, although 

 my great favorite, Mr. Allison's Mike, has caught eleven 

 antelope in one week. We did all we could to induce 

 Mr. Streeter to bring Prince up the coursing meet at 

 Great Bend next fall, and hope to see him there. He 

 may be beaten, but I will wager he will be running when 

 the other dog catches the rabbit; or if that latter does not 

 happen within three miles, it will not happen at all for 

 his competitor. 



We now had nineteen dogs in all at the ranch, including 

 what are doubtless the very best game dogs in the whole 

 western country, as well as the champion dogs Sandy, 

 Jim and Terry — themselves not by any means to be ex- 

 cluded from the list of game dogs. I don't go much on 

 champions; but Jim and Terry I have seen afield too often 

 not to like heartily. 



Barring us younger men, it was a party of veterans who 

 lounged about the big ranch room that night, and blew 

 big clouds of smoke, and gravely told stories of experi- 

 ences which would set a novice all afire. Were it good 

 journalism to speak too much of things whereto one can 

 not speak himself, or to fill up columns already overtaxed 

 by me, I could tell for the novices much of interest heard 

 at our symposiums on the Cimarron. Mr. Kirkpatrick;, 

 Mr. Streeter and Mr. Allison were each well on to fifty 

 years of age — though none looked it by ten years — and 

 all had been long " on the front." The ranch boys had 

 all lived lives so full of event that nothing seemed other 

 than matter of course. Naturally, there were some ex- 

 periences in that crowd. 



At length Mr. Kirkpatrick quietly arose, took down a 

 long buggy whip from the wall, opened the door, and 

 began gen ly to stir around under the bunk with the 

 whip. Great exodus of greyhound puppies followed, all 

 yelping lustily, thinking it was Red who was after them. 

 The latter was sometimes vigorous in his way of saying 

 good-night to them, but Mr. Kirkpatrick would not hurt 

 anything. The puppies were not allowed in the house. 

 I think they came in through the keyhole. Old Jack, a 

 retired and pensioned shepherd dog, was always per- 

 mitted to remain, a fact which he thoroughly under- 

 stood; and an exception was made for the crippled grey- 

 hound Boots, whose wounds would not do well out on 

 the cold ground. 



At the good-night signal each man gave his roll of 

 blankets a flip, and presto! there were a row of sleepers. 

 Fiend Business, where wert thou then? Sure not by the 

 Cimarron. 



In the morning we scattered in various quests. I tried 

 to photograph nineteen dogs and five horses all at once 

 with the little 4x5 camera, and caught a whole horizon 

 full of ears and tails. Mr. Streeter and Mr. Allison took 

 three pairs of hounds and rode off for the flats for a deer 

 hunt. Mr. Kirkpatrick and I made some landscape views. 

 Packer disappeared, but whether he was sketching or 

 reading up the rules on still-hunting, I never knew. He 

 had a pretty good lot of sketches when we came up out of 

 the Nations, but he was also suspiciously well posted on 

 the rules and duties. 



At a little after nightfall the deer hunters got in. They 



thought they could give account of two deer. The big 

 blue dog had killed one, and just at dusk Mr. Streeter 

 saw Terry throw another twice, and though the chase 

 was lost in the dark after that, Terry was so long gone 

 and came back in such condition that it was considered 

 heyond doubt that he had killed his deer. This deer we 

 never found, though we looked for it afterward. It is 

 almost impossible to locate a spot in that country, among 

 sandhills which are all nearly exactly alike, and with no 

 landmark to distinguish one place from another. Deer 

 were reported plenty. Over twenty-five had been seen, 

 usually standing around in full view on the buffalo grass, 

 like antelope — a rather unusual thing. 



I wish I could tell all the excursions we made and all 

 the fun we had; but I can't do that, you know. We cer- 

 tainly did have a pleasant time. The weather came off 

 very fair and warm. Meadowlarks and robins appeared, 

 though it was midwinter; the streams broke open; all the 

 life of the wood seemed to bestir itself; "sign" of all 

 sorts grew plentiful. In crossing one little hollow in the 

 sandhills, Mr. Kirkpatrick and I found the fresh trails of 

 two wilcats, a coyote, three raccoons and a skunk. We 

 didn't care for the latter so much, but determined to try 

 the foxhounds once more along the Wildcat swamps. 

 The country anywhere without a mile from the camp was 

 fairly alive with small "varmints," though the hounds 

 had killed most of the coyotes. Only one coyote was 

 killed by the hounds during our stay on the 2 1 . Red 

 killed that with the puppies, who did the business in 

 great shape. 



The coyotes, and worse yet, the gray wolves, make such 

 havoc among the calves that the ranchmen in that coun- 

 try are forced to make persistent war on them. One 

 coyote is good for about ten calves; and one ranchman 

 told us that on his range alone the gray wolves had kihed 

 twenty yearlings during the past season, and he did not 

 know how many calves, though probably a hundred. No 

 poisoning was allowed on 21, though some ranches 

 poison systematically (a fact which hunters should bear 

 in mind, if they are in that country with dogs). As to 

 the efficacy of keeping a pack of hounds — a plan quite 

 generally growing in favor on the ranches — it will do to 

 say that we had fresh eggs at the 2 1 , often two or three 

 dozen a day. Kill the hounds and the chickens would 

 last about one week. 



Well, we did saddle up and go down along the Wildcat 

 with the foxhounds one fine afternoon, and we had hardly 

 gotten near the creek before Drum began to sing, and as 

 Buck joined him and both tailed out on the full jump 

 down the creek we saw that it meant business and fol- 

 lowed on the run. Just as we were engaged in the deli- 

 cate operation of crossing a wire fence with our horses (a 

 thing often necessary on the range, where gate3 only 

 happen every forty or fifty miles) we heard the yelp of 

 the little shepherd dog Frank, who never opened unless 

 game was in sight; and a moment later the foxhounds 

 were baying and all the greyhounds racing to then assist- 

 ance. We hurriedly put up the fence again and got 

 down to the creek where the dogs were swarming in the 

 rushes as thick as bumble bees. 



There was a big log lying out in the swamp about half 

 out of the water. Ricker and Streeter sprang out upon 

 this and soon called out that the dogs had treed a coon. 



The coon sat in the mouth of the log and calmly chewed 

 the anatomy of any dog which was fool enough to try to 

 make the log carry double in that end. The uproar of 

 the dogs was fearful — we had nearly the entire pack with 

 us. Wanting to get a little nearer I sprang out on the 

 log, slipped and got wet. The log proved to be holiow 

 throughout, and by a good shove with a long pole we 

 managed to shunt the coon out into the water, where the 

 dogs were swimming, floating and wading, and breaking 

 down the tough cover of wild flags. The whole dozen 

 and a half of dogs tried to get hold of him at once — all 

 but the staghound, who discreetly withdrew to the bank 

 and looked on. One valiant puppy caught the coon by 

 the tail and began to drag him out of the swamp. In 

 turn the coon caught the shepherd dog by the nose and 

 pulled him along with the procession. The young fox- 

 hound Druin went entirely crazy with lust of battle, and 

 seeing the shepherd and the coon in such close relations 

 suspected there was something wrong, and promptly 

 jumping upon the unfortunate shepherd, was proceeding 

 to do him up, while the coon yet held him by the nose. 

 This mistaken zeal of Drain's set us all off in a peal of 

 laughter, and even Mr. Kirkpatrick roared with merri- 

 ment. The coon seemed in a fair way to lick the whole 

 pack, until Mr. Streeter stooped over and caught it by the 

 tail, throwing it out on the bank, where it was soon des- 

 patched. After it was dead Druin seemed still to have 

 some sort of an idea that that coon belonged to him, and 

 he pitched into one of the big greyhounds to drive him 

 away from it. The latter would probably have bitten 

 him in two if we had not interfered. This funny notion 

 of Drain's was something new to us. It seemed a case of 

 genuine "Berserker madness." 



Ricker and I being desirous of obtaining some views 

 among the broken timbered canons on the Bouth side of 

 the Cimarron, an expedition was organized one lovely 

 morning, Mr. Streeter and Mr. Allison going along as 

 guides for us. We hitched up our Black Maxia for this 

 trip, Mr. Allison taking old John along, and Mr. Streeter 

 riding his black hunting horse. This last animal was so 

 well trained that one could shoot from his back with per- 

 fect steadiness. As we crossed the Cimarron Ricker shot 

 at some ducks, and one falling crippled in the shallow 

 water he mounted Mr. Streeter's horse and rode out to 

 retrieve it. The duck flew again and Ricker killed it 

 from the saddle, the black seeming rather to enjoy the fun 

 than otherwise. Yet he was by no means a slow or stupid 

 horse, but to the contrary very fast and spirited. 



Following up the canon of "Greever Creek," some four 

 or five miles, and being then about twelve miles from 

 camp, we left the wagon, saddled up, and each shortly 

 taking a separate canon were soon far away from each 

 other, each man leaving his horse tied at the head of 

 navigation in his canon and then going on up afoot. 



The entire country over in that region appeared to have 

 been burned off in the recent great fires. The fine ashes, 

 caught up by the strong wind, were indescribably trying 

 to the eyes. The game appeared all to have left for the 

 time, though we did see a good many fresh deer trails in 

 the canons and also some fresh turkey signs. 



I had put my "photograph machine" in the pockets of 

 my shooting coat, all but the legs, which I left at the 

 wagon. I passed through a series of lovely and Btriking 

 views, and at last, (xaning out on a hillside which gave a 



grand panorama of the entire system of oaflon-heads, I 

 determined to bottle up that landsc <pe for my own pri- 

 vate use. As I had no tripod, I set the little camera on 

 my knee, and tried to get the focus on a certain bold 

 bluff in the middle distance; bub as fast as I could pull 

 the dark cloth over my head the win ] whipped it off 

 again. Then the camera fell off my knee and rolled down 

 the hill just as I got the cloth over my head nicely, and 

 by the time I had got that and pounded the; brass things 

 out straight again, or part way straight., old Bugler, my 

 horse, commenced trying to break away, and nearly 

 walked on the woodpecker gnu. I administered cor- 

 poreal punishment to the horse and sat down again. 



You know Rachel refused to be comforted, don't you? 

 Well, it was just that way with Bugler. He sighed for 

 his absent one, the little wall-eyed, pigeon-toed^ pot-bel- 

 lied thing that Ricker was riding for a horse, and that we 

 drove on the right hand side of Bugler, going south (I 

 never could remember which was the "near" horse, and 

 which the "off." But I think Bugler was mostly "off"). 



When Bugler sighed, you could hear him about four 

 miles on a still day. Same way with his mate. By and 

 by I heard an answering neigh, and saw Ricker riding on 

 the opposite side of the creek, about half a mile away. 

 He soon joined me, and between us we took the photo- 

 graph. 



Separating again, Ricker and I left our horses, and 

 pushed on further south yet, he getting over very nearly 

 to the southwest camp of the 2 1 range, among the black- 

 jacks. Among the rough canons of that region he got 

 some very interesting sketches. I spent several hours in 

 exploring some of the roughest and most picturesque 

 canons, and found some very striking views indeed. 

 Great masses of limestone rock of ten blocked up the 

 canon, sometimes at a point where .the walls were a hun- 

 dred feet or more in perpendicular height; and these 

 cedar-covered, ragged defiles wore unique enough in their 

 peculiar characteristics to catch the eye of any artist. 

 That region is a country of caves. I crawled down into 

 several caves as far as the light permitted, and some of 

 them must have been very extensive. The caves are the 

 natural home of the predatory animals of that country. 

 It is said that panthers occasionally are found about 

 them, and beyond doubt a great many bears winter in 

 them. I did not see any bear sign, but nearly every cave 

 had plenty of wildcat tracks in it. There must be a great 

 many of these animals over in the canon country. Mr. 

 Streeter struck the trail of a mountain lion, a very large 

 one, but as he had no dogs, he did not attempt to follow it. 



In so rough a country I could not put up any game ; 

 so, after looking about for a time, I returned to my horse, 

 and stopped in front of a peculiarly picturesque little side 

 canon, and was trying to get an interior view of it, with 

 old Bugler in the foreground, when Mr. Streeter and 

 Ricker came up. Ricker asked me if I had " got hi3 

 eagle ?" I didn't know what he meant. He said he had 

 killed a big eagle and left it near his horse, but it was 

 gone when he came back. We found the eagle at camp, 

 Mr. Allison having brought it in. He said it was trying 

 to get off when he passed by, and he killed it with his 

 Winchester carbine. Ricker had shot it with a load of 

 buckshot. It was a large golden eagle. 



We now started home, it being late. Mr. Streeter rode 

 on ahead. The sun was warm, and we threw off our coats, 

 though there were heavy clouds in the west and north. 



As we passed the bluffs which guard the mouth of 

 Greever Creek we asked each other how far they were. 

 We guessed the distance at half a mile. They looked 

 about 500yds. In response to a request to try my .45-90 

 on the face of the bluff, I held about half way up the bluff 

 and let go. The ball seemed lost for a moment, and then, 

 to our surprise, a faint puff of dust appeared, apparently 

 not much over three-quarters of the way over to the foot 

 of the bluff. I repeated the shot, with the same result. 

 Ricker fired the rifle of his tliree-barrel, but we failed to 

 see any dirt fly at all. Mr. Allison had a stop-watch with 

 him (he being something of a horseman as well as a grey- 

 hound man), and we concluded to time the ball of the 

 .45-90. I slipped up the leaf several notches, and this 

 time held on the top of the bluff. After an unconscion- 

 able time the puff of dirt showed just at the bottom of 

 the bluff. The stop-watch showed just six seconds. I 

 tried it again, and again the watch said six seconds. It 

 may be seen how great the distance was. 



While we were shooting, Mr. Streeter, who had been 

 off on a little side hunt of his own. came up with us. We 

 told him he couldn't hit the side of the mountain with his 

 sawed-off .45-60 Winchester. Nor could he, apparently, 

 though he fired several times. He thought that he shot 

 over the top of the bluff; but that could not have been. 



And now a very strange thing happened, and one whose 

 like I never saw. It got cold! Not gradually, nor in a 

 little while, but all at once. The wind whipped square 

 around from the south to the north w est, an d its breath 

 was icy cold. So sudden a change in temperature was 

 never seen, perhaps. The boys at the camp saw che ther- 

 mometer drop twenty-two degrees in twenty minutes; 

 and the rate of fall must have been much more than that 

 for the first few moments. 



We bundled into the wagon and started for home, try- 

 ing to outrun the furious rainstorm which we could see 

 coming and which soon shut the bluffs out of sight. 

 Ricker wrapped himself up in the saddle blankets. He 

 had on only his canvas shooting coat and canvas sooll- 

 vest for overwear. In the morning he had laughed at 

 me for taking two coats. If his nose hadn't been so blue 

 I would have had a laugh at him, th n. 



We found the Cimarron rising fast and nearly swim- 

 ming-deep for our horses. We did not get there a moment 

 too soon. The rain, pitiless, drenching, icy cold, struck 

 us as we were in the middle of the river. Our curtains 

 were of little service and we were wet through in a 

 moment. We drove into camp on a gallop, hustled our 

 team under shelter and broke into the house about as wet 

 and cold as any four fellows ever got in half an hour. 

 To this day I can wake Ricker out of a sound sleep by 

 saying that I believe his darling three-barrel got a spot of 

 rust in it on that trip. E. Hough. 



A Chance at the Chickens. — A Michigan man 

 (whose name we will not give, for to give it would be to 

 deluge us with applications) will go prairie chicken shoot- 

 ing with a party and will furnish the dogs up to three 

 brace. The terms are reasonable, and it is a rare oppor- 

 tunity for a number of friends who want to try th© 

 grouse. 



