270 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[Sept. 30, 1893. 



THE WHITE GOAT AND HIS COUNTRY. 



From advance sheets of "American Big Game Hunting," the Book- of 

 the Boone and Crockett Club, 



In a corner of what is occasionally termed "Our Empire 

 of the Northwest" thpre lies a country of mountains and 

 valleys where, until recently, citizens have been few. At 

 the present time certain mines, and uncertain hopes, have 

 gathered an eccentric population and evoked some sudden 

 towns. The names which several of these bear are toler- 

 ably sumptuous; Golden, Oro and Ruby, for instance; 

 and in them dwell many colonels and judges, and people 

 who own one suit of clothes and half a name (colored by 

 adjuncts, such as Hurry Up Ed), and who sleep almos't 

 anywhere. These communities are brisk, sanguine and 

 nomadic, full of good will and crime; and in each of them 

 you will be likely to find a weekly newspaper and an 

 editor who is busy writing things about the neighboring 

 editors. The flume slants down the hill bearing water to 

 the concentrator; buckets imexpectedly swing out from 

 the steep pines into mid-air, sailing along their wire to 

 the mill; little new staring shanties appear daily; some- 

 body having trouble in a saloon upsets a lamp and half 

 the town goes to ashes, while the colonels and Hurry Up 

 Eds carouse over the fireworks till morning. In a short 

 while there are more little shanties than ever, and the 

 burnt district is forgotten. All this is going on not far 

 from the mountain goat, but it is a forlorn distance from 

 the railroad; and except for the stage line which the recent 

 mining towns have necessitated, my route to the goat 

 country might have been too prolonged and uncertain to 

 attempt. 



I stepped down one evening from the stage, the last 

 public conveyance I was to see, after a journey that cer- 

 tainly has one good side. Jt is completely odious; and 

 the breed of sportsmen that takes into camp every luxury 

 excepting, perhaps, cracked ice, will not be tempted to 

 infest the region until civilization has smoothed its path. 

 The path, to be sure, does not roughen until one has gone 

 along it for twenty-eight hundred miles. You may leave 

 New York in the afternoon, and arrive very early indeed 

 on the fifth day at Spokane. Here the luxuries begin to 

 lessen, and a mean once-a-day train trundles you away on 

 a branch west of Spokane at six in the morning into a 

 landscape that wastes into a galloping consumption. 

 Before noon the last sick tree, the ultimate starved blade 

 of wheat, has perished from sight, and you come to the 

 end of all things, it would seem; a domain of wretched- 

 ness unspeakable. Not even a warm, brilliant sun can 

 galvanize the corpse of the bare ungainly earth. The 

 railroad goes no further— it is not surprising— and the 

 stage arranges to leave before the train arrives. Thus 

 you spend sunset and sunrise in the moribund terminal 

 town, the inhabitants of which frankly confess that they 

 are not staying from choice. They were floated here by 

 a boom-wave, which left them stranded. Kindly they 

 were, and anxious to provide the stranger with what 

 comforts existed. 



Geographically I was in the "Big Bend" country, a bulk 

 of land looped in by the Columbia River, and highly ad- 

 vertised by railroads for the benefit of "those seeking 

 homes." Fruit and grain no doubt grow somewhere in it. 

 "What I saw was a desert cracked in two by a chasm 65 

 miles long. It rained in the night, and at 7 next morn- 

 ing, boimd for Port Columbia, we wallowed northward 

 out of town in the sweating, canvas-covered stage through 

 primeval mud. After some 18 miles we drew out of the 

 rain area, and from around the wheels there immediately 

 arose and came among us a primeval dust, monstrous, 

 shapeless and blind. Firet your power of epeech deserted 

 you, then your eyesight went, and at length you became 

 uncertain whether you were alive. Then hilarity at the 

 sheer discomfort overtook me. and I was joined in it by a 

 brother American; but two Jew drummers on the back 

 seat could not understand, and seemed on the verge of 

 tears. The landscape was entirely blotted out by the dust. 

 Often you could not see the roadside— if the road had any 

 side. We may have been passing homes and fruit trees, 

 but I think not. I remember wondering if getting goat 

 aft^r all—. But they proved well worth it. Toward 

 evening we descended into the sullen valley of the Colum- 

 bia, which rushes along, sunk below the level of the desert 

 we had crossed. High sterile hills flank its course, and 

 with the sweeping unfriendly speed of the stream, its 

 bleak shores seemed a chilly place for home-seekers. Yet 

 I blessed the change. A sight of running water once 

 more, even of this overbearing flood, and of hills however 

 dreary, was exhilaration after the degraded, stingy 

 monotony of the Big Bend. The alkali trads of Wyoming 

 do not seem paradises till you bring your memory of them 

 here. Nor am I alone in my estimate of this impossible 

 hole. There is a sign-post stickmg up in the middle of it 

 that originally told the traveler it was 35 mdes to Central 

 Ferry. But now the traveler has retorted, and three dif- 

 ferent handwritings on this sign-post reveal to you that 

 you have had predecessors in your thought, comrades who 

 shared yom- sorrows: 



"Forty-five miles to water," 



"Seventy-flve miles to wood." 



And then the last word.* 



"Two and one-half miles to hell." 



Perhaps they were home-seekers. 



We halted a moment at the town of Bridgeport, iden- 

 tified by one wooden store and an inchoate hotel. The 

 rest may be seen upon blue print maps, where you would 

 suppose Bridgeport was a teeming metropolis. At Port 

 Columbia, which we reached by a landslide sort of road 

 that slanted the stage over and put the twin Jew drum- 

 mers in mortal fear, we slept in one of the two build- 

 ings which indicate that town. It is another important 

 center — in blueprint — but invisible to the naked eye. In 

 the morning a rope ferry floated the new stage and us 

 travelers across the river. The Okanagan flows south 

 from lakes and waters above the British line, and joins 

 the Columbia here. We entered its valley at once, and 

 crossed it soon by another rope ferry, and keeping north- 

 ward, with the river to the east between us and the Col- 

 ville, Reservation, had one good meal at noon, and enter- 

 ing a smaller valley reached Ruby that evening. Here 

 the stage left me to continue its way to Conconally, six 

 miles further on. With the friends who had come to 

 meet me I ascended out of Ruby the next day over the 



abrupt hill westward, and passing one night out in my 

 blankets near a hospitable but limited cabin (its flowing- 

 haired host fed us, played us the fiddle and would have 

 had us sleep inside), arrived bag and baggage the fourth 

 day from the railroad at the forks of the Methow River 

 —the next tributary of the Columbia below the Okana- 

 gan. 



Here was a smiling country, winning the heart at sight. 

 An ample beauty was over everything nature had accom- 

 phshed in this place; the pleasant trees and clear course 

 of the stream, a fertile soil on the levels, the shapes of tlie 

 foothills varied and gentle, unencumbered by woods, the 

 purple cloak of forest above these on the mountains, and 

 rising from the valley's head a crown of white, clean 

 frozen peaks. These are known to some as the Isabella 

 Range and Mount Gardner, though the maps do not name 

 them. Moreover, I heard that now I was within twenty- 

 five miles of goat; and definite ridges were pointed out as 

 the promised land. 



JIany things were said to me, first and last, I remem- 

 ber a ragged old trapper, lately come over the mountains 

 from the Skagit River. Goat, did I say? On top there 

 the goat had tangled your feet walking in the trail. He 

 had shot two in camp for staring at him. Another accu- 

 rate observer had seen three hundred on a h ill just above 

 Early Winter as he was passing by. The cabined dwell- 

 ers on the Methow tied their horses to the fence, and 

 talked to me. So I had come from the East after goat, 

 had I? And in the store of the Man at the Forks I became 

 something of a cm-iosity. Day by day I sat on the kegs of 

 nails, or lay along the counter devoted to his dry goods, 

 and heard what passed. Citizens and denizens— for the 

 Siwash with his squaws and horses was having his autumn 

 hunt in the valley — knocked at the door to get then- mail, 

 or buy tobacco, or seU horns and fur, or stare for an hour 

 and depart with a grunt; and the grave Man at the Forks 

 stood behind one counter while I lay on the other, acquir- 

 ing a miscellaneous knowledge. One old medical gentle- 

 man had slain all wild animals without weapons, and had 

 been the pei-sonal friend of so many distinguished histori- 

 cal characters that we computed he was nineteen about 

 the time of Bunker Hill. . They were hospitable with their 

 information, and I followed my rule of believing every- 

 thing that I hear. And they were also hospitable with 

 whatever they possessed. The memory of those distant 

 dwellers among the mountains, young and old, is a 

 friendly one, like the others I carry, whether of Wind or 

 Powder rivers, or the Yellowstone, or wherever Western 

 trails have led me. 



Yet disappointment and failure were the first thing. 

 There was all the zeal you could wish. We had wedged 

 painfully into a severe country— twelve miles in two days 

 and trail-cutting between— when sickness turned us back, 

 goatless. By this time October was almost gone, and the 

 last three days of it went in patching up our disintegrated 

 outfit. We needed other men and other horses; and 

 while these were being sought, nothing was more usual 

 than to hear "if we'd only been along with So-and-So, he 

 saw goats" here and there, and apparently everywhere. 

 We had, it would seem, ingeniously selected the only 

 place where there were none. But somehow the ser- 

 vices of So-and-So could not be procured. He had gone to 

 town; or was busy getting his winter meat; or his mar- 

 ried daughter had just come to visit him, or he had 

 married somebody else's daughter. I cannot remember 

 the number of obstacles lying between ourselves and 

 So-and-So. 



At length we were once more in camp on a stream 

 named the Twispt. In' the morning— new stroke of 

 misfortune— one of us was threatened with fllness, and 

 returned to the Forks. We three, the guide, the cook 

 and myself, went on, finally leaving the narrow valley, 

 and climbing four hours up a mountain at the rate of 

 about a mile an hour. The question was, had winter 

 come in the park above, for which we were heading? On 

 top, we skirted a bare ridge from which everything fell 

 precipitously away, and curving round along a steep 

 hollow of the hill, came to an edge and saw the snow 

 lying plentiftdly among the pines through which we must 

 go down into the bottom of the park. But on the other 

 side, where the sun came, there was little or none, and it 

 was a most beautiful place. At the head of it was a little 

 frozen lake fringed with tamarack, and a stream flowed 

 down from this through scattered birches and pine, with 

 good pasture for the horses between. The park sank at 

 its outlet into a tall impassable canon through which the 

 stream joined the Twispt, miles below. It was a little lap 

 of land clear at the top of the mountains, the final peaks 

 and ridges of which rose all around, walling it in com- 

 pletely. You must climb these to be able to see into it, 

 and the only possible approach for pack-horses was the 

 pine-tree slant, down which we came. Of com-se there 

 was no trail. 



We prospected before venturing, and T., the guide, 

 shook his head. It was only a question of days— possibly 

 of hours— when snow must shut the place off from the 

 world until spring. But T. appreciated the 3,000 miles 

 I had come for goat; and if the worst came to the worst, 

 said he, we coxdd "make it in" to the Forks on foot, lead- 

 ing the horses and leaving behind all baggage that 

 weighed anything. So we went down. Our animals 

 slipped a little, the snow balling their feet; but nothing 

 happened, and we reached the bottom and chose a camp 

 in a clump of tamarack and pine. The little stream, 

 passing through shadows here, ran under a hd of frozen 

 snow easily broken, and there was plenty of wood and on 

 the ground only such siftings of snow as could be sweijt 

 clean for the tent. The saddles were piled handily under 

 a tree, a good fireplace was dug and we had a comfort- 

 able supper; and nothing remained but that the goats 

 should be where they ought to be, on the ridges above the 

 park. 



I have slept more soimdly; doubt and hope kept my 

 thoughts active. Yet even so, it was pleasant to wake 

 in this quiet and hear the bell on our horse, Duster, occa- 

 sionally tankle somewhere on the hill. My watch'l had 

 forgotten to place at T.'s disposal, so he was reduced to 

 getting the time of the day from the stars. He consulted 

 the Great Bear, and seeing this constellation at an angle 

 he judged to indicate 5 o'clock, he came back into the 

 tent and I heard him wake the cook, who crawled out of 

 his blankets, 



'Why it's plimib night," the cook whined. 

 'Make the breakfast," said T. 



I opened my eyes and shut them immediately in des- 

 pair at the darkness that I saw. Presently I heard the 

 fire and the pans, and knew that the inevitable had come. 



So I got my clothes on and we looked at my watch. It 

 was only 4:30 A. M. T. and the Great Bear had made an 

 hour's miscalculation, and the face of the cook was so 

 grievous that I secretly laughed myself entirely awake. 

 "Plumb night" lasted some time longer. . I had leisure to 

 eat two plates of oatmeal and maple syi-up, some potato- 

 and-onion soup, bacon and colfee, and digest these before 

 dawn showed. 



T. and I left camp at 6:40 A. M. The day was a dark 

 one. On the high peaks behind camp great mounds of 

 cloud moved and swung, and the sky was entirely over- 

 cast. We climbed one of the lower ridges, not a hard 

 climb nor long, but very sliding, and often requiring 

 hands and feet to work round a ledge. From the top we 

 could see the open country lying comfortably below and 

 out of reach of the howling wind that cut across the top 

 of the mountain, straight from Puget Sound, bringing- 

 aU that it could carry of the damp of the Pacific. The 

 ridges and summits that surrounded our park continuaUy 

 came into sight and disappeared again among the dense 

 vapors which bore down upon them. We went cau- 

 tiously along the narrow top of crumbling slate, where 

 the pines were scarce and stunted, and had twisted them- 

 selves mto corkscrews so they might grip the ground 

 against the tearing force of storms. We came on a num- 

 ber of fresh goat tracks in the snow or the soft shale. 

 These are the reverse of the mountain sheep, the V which 

 the hoofs make having its open end in the direction the 

 animal is going. There seemed to be several, large and 

 small; and the perverted animals invariably chose the 

 sharpest slant they could find to walk on, often with 

 a decent level just beside it that we were glad enough 

 to have. If there were a precipice and a sound flat top, 

 they took the precipice, and crossed its face on juts that 

 did not look as if your hat would hang on them. In this 

 I think they are worse than the mountain sheep, if that is 

 possible. Certainly they do not seem to come down mto 

 the high pastures and feed on the grass levels as the sheep 

 will. 



T. and I hoped we should find a bunch, but that was 

 not to be, in spite of the indications. As we continued, 

 I saw a singular looking stone lying on a little ledge some 

 way down the mountain ahead, I decided it must be a 

 stone and was going to speak of it, when the stone moved, 

 and we crouched in the slanting gravel. T. had been 

 making up his mind it was a stone. The goat turned his 

 head our way, but did not rise. He was ^OOyds. across a 

 split in the mountain, and the wind blowing hard. T, 

 wanted me to shoot, but I did not dare to run such a 

 chance. I have done a deal of missing at 200yds. and 

 much nearer too. So I climbed, or crawled, out of sight, 

 keeping any stone or little bush between me and the goat, 

 till I got myself where a buttress of rock hid me, and then 

 I ran along the ridge and down and up the scoop in it 

 made by the split of the mountain, and so came cautiously 

 to where I could peer over and see the goat lying turned 

 away from me, with his head commanding the valley. 

 He was on a tiny shelf of snow, beside him was one small 

 pine, and below that the rock fell away steeply into the 

 gorge. Ought I to have bellowed at him, and at least 

 have got him on his legs? I know it would have been 

 more honorable. He looked white, and huge, and strange; 

 and somehow I had a sense of personality about him 

 naore vivid than any since I watehed my first silver-tip 

 lift a rotten log, and. sitting on his hind legs, make a 

 breakfast on beetles, picking them off the log with one 

 paw. 



I fired, aiming behind the goat's head. He did not rise, 

 but turned his head round. The white bead of my Lyman 

 sight had not showed well against the white animal, and 

 I thought I had missed him. Then I fired again, and he 

 rolled very httle— six inches— and lay quiet. He could not 

 have been more than 50yds. away, and my first shot had 

 cut through the back of his neck and buried itself in mor- 

 tal places, and the second in his head merely made death 

 instantaneous. Shooting him after he became alarmed 

 might have lost him over the edge; even if a first shot 

 had been fatal, it could not have been fatal soon enough. 

 Two struggles on that snow would have sent him eliding 

 through space. As it was, we had a steep, unsafe scram- 

 ble down through the snow to where he lay on the little 

 shelf by the tree. 



He was a fair-sized billy, and very heavy. The little 

 lifting and slioving we had to do in skinning him was 

 hard work. The horns were black, slender, slightly 

 spreading, curved backward, pomted and smooth. They 

 measured 6in. round the base, and the distance from one 

 point to the other, measured down the horn, along the 

 skuU and up the other, was 21iin. The hoofs were also 

 black and broad and large, wholly unlike a tame goat's. 

 The hair was extraordinarily thick, long and of weather- 

 beaten white; the eye large and deep brown. I had my 

 invariable attack of reniorse on looking closely at the 

 poor harmless old gentleman, and wondered what achieve- 

 ment, after all, could be discerned in this sort of surprise 

 and murder. We did not think of securing any of his 

 plentiful fat, but with head and lude alone climbed back 

 up the ticklish slant, hung the trophies on a tree in a gap 

 on the camp side of the ridge and continued our hunt. It 

 was not 10 o'clock yet, and we had taken one hour to skin 

 the goat. We now hunted the higher ridges behind camp 

 until 1 P. M., finding tracks that made it seem as if a 

 number of goats must be near by somewhere. But the 

 fog came down and shut everything out of sight; more- 

 over, the wind on top blew so that we could not have 

 seen had it been clear. 



We returned to camp, and found it greatly improved. 

 The cook had carpentered an important annex to the tent. 

 By slanting pine logs against a ridge-pole and nailing 

 them, he had buUt a room, proof against wind and rain, 

 and in it a table. One end was agamst the opening of the 

 tent, the other at the fire. The arrangement was excel- 

 lent, and also timely. The storm revived during the 

 night, and it rained fitfully. The roar of the wind com- 

 ing down from the mountain into our park sounded like a 

 Niagara, and its approach was tremendous. We had built 

 up a barrier of pine brush, and this, with a clump of trees, 

 sheltered us well enough; but there were wild moments 

 when the gust struck us, and the tent shuddered and 

 strained, until that particular breeze passed on with a 

 diminishing roar down the cafion. Owen Wister. 

 [to be concluded.] 



It is reported that a buffalo bull was seen recently by a 

 stage-driver on the desert near Rawlins, Wyo. It is supposed 

 to be one of a small herd that is stUi riuming wild. 



