468 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[Dec. 3, 1898. 



A STORY OF INDIAN DAYS. 



No doubt there are some few moments in the hfe 

 of every man, and of a mountaineer in particular, when 

 he really thinks that his life is about done. And when he 

 honestly thinJjs so, he acts just as though it was true, 

 although he may really have been in no danger. At other 

 times he may be placed in the utmost peril and danger; 

 bullets may be flying thick around him, yet he seems to 

 heed them not and does not get scared until the danger 

 is over. 



In the summer of 1861, I mined in Georgia Gulch in 

 Colorado. I worked hard six days, and kept Sunday by 

 hunting, as much for the love of it as for the meat I 

 usually secured. Along in October we shut down our 

 claim and began to scatter for the winter. Father con- 

 cluded that he would stay on the claim; but I was too 

 fond of hunting to want to spt-nd another winter in the 

 mountains so near the snow range. Some friends were 

 going down to winter where the Arkansas Elver puts out 

 of the mountain; and I concluded to go with them. 

 Game was reported to be plenty and so it was. Snow 

 had begun to fall in South Park and the traveling was 

 heavy the first two days; then we got out of the snow 

 belt. The first day out I killed an antelope, the next a 

 big blacktail buck; and these kept the company in meat 

 until we reached Canon City. Here the teams stopped a 

 few days while the men hunted around for a suitable 

 place to winter. George and I went down on to a small 

 stream called Hard Scrabble. Here we found game in 

 abundance, such as elk, deer, black and white tail, ante- 

 lope and turkeys, with good feed and plenty of water. 

 We killed two deer and hung them up; went back, got 

 the outfit, moved down, got our d^er and then went to 

 building a cabin on the Maxwell Grant for winter quar- 

 ter-. 



I had begun to see that my friends were very stingy and 

 thou>j;ht they would get what money I had brought along, 

 irrespective of what I was to pay for my part of the cook- 

 ing, which was done by Al's wife. I made up my mind 

 that I should leave them as soon as an opportunity pre- 

 sented itself. A man named Vicroy owned a ranch three 

 miles below whei-e we were camped; and he had started to 

 build a mill. He wanted a man to uig out a place to set 

 the wheel, so I took the job. I got my traps together, 

 settled up with my friends, and went down to work. As 

 there was no particular hurry for the excavation, I hunted 

 more than half the time. We had all the game we 

 wanted. 



I had been in my new quarters about ten days, when 

 one evening Vic wanted to know if I could drive oxen. I 

 told him I could and that I had graduated in buUwhack- 

 iog, and had stood up near the head of my class. Said 

 he, "That's good. Will you take two yoke of oxen and 

 go down to Major & Eussell's winter quarters, and leave 

 a light wagon and bring back a heavy one? It is fifty 

 miles down on the Arkansas Eiver. You can go down in 

 two days and come back in two. Pueblo U half way." 

 'All right," said I, "when shall I start?" "To-morrow." 



The next morning early I yoked up two yoke of good 

 oxen, hitched on to a light wagon, put in my blankets, 

 some bread, a little salt, sugar and coffee, and a fore- 

 quarter of an antelope, for I always like to have a piece 

 of meat to roast when I am sitting around a camp-fire 

 alone; it helps kill time. 



"You can stop at Pueblo," Vic told me, "I will over- 

 take you there." 



I supposed it must be a town, but when I got there I 

 found it to contain about a half dozen houses, all of 

 which seemed to be filled with red pepper, or chili, as 

 they called it, except one cluster, which was inhabited by 

 a Mexican named Juan Chickette. A more bloodthirsty 

 looking greaser 1 never met. I told him who I was and 

 tiiat Vicroy owned the team and would be there that 

 night. Juan told me I could stay and put the oxen in 

 bis corral and feed them if I would pay him then. I 

 told him. I had no money, so I would go up on the creek 

 and make camp, for I had some doubts about Vic's com- 

 ing that night. I went up a short distance, camped, 

 turned the oxen out, watched them until nearly dark, 

 then hobbled tvvo, and prepared camp for the night. 



Next morning early 1 was up after my oxen, which had 

 not gone far. I let them feed until I got through my 

 breakfast, then hitched up and started on my road. I 

 saw a great many antelope and a few whitetaii deer, but 

 none were near enough for me to get a shot at. 



I kept hurrymg up the oxen, and by three o'clock I had 

 reached the big ranch. Here were those big prairie 

 bchooners, just such as I had used a few years before, 

 chains by the ton, yokes by the cord, work-oxen by the 

 thousand. It was their winter quarter for trains tliat had 

 come ovit and could not get back before winter set in on 

 the plains. Here I received kind treatment and was well 

 cared for. I told the foreman who I was and what I 

 came for ; and that Vicroy had said that he would over- 

 take me at Pueblo, "Oh," said the foreman, " he may 

 not come, you can wait or you can take the wagon ; fur 

 Vic may not come, he is one of those fellows who are al- 

 ways beiiiud. 1 have known him for years." 



When bed time came they wanted me to sleep in the 

 house, but I would not ; I was used to sleeping outdoors, 

 and the weather was fine. 



The next morning I told the foreman I would start 

 back, as there Avould be no use of my waiting; so I 

 hitched on and started. Sometimes I would get up in 

 the wagon and ride, sometimes I would walk and hurry 

 the oxen up, for I wanted to reach Pueblo before dark. 



Along about noon I saw a small cloud of dust rising 

 ahead. I thought it was Vic, and sure enough it was. 

 He came up and began to apologize for not coming 

 sooner; some teams had come down from the mines for 

 vegetables and he could not get away. I told him that 

 his friend Juan would not keep me unless I paid him in 

 advance, which I would not do, for I was afraid to let 

 them know I had a dollar. 



"Well," said Vic, "you stop there to-night. I told him 

 I would pay him when f come back." 



"No," said I, "I would rather camp where I did coming 

 down." Then we separated. 



Probably an hour had elapsed. I was poking along 

 behind the wagon, when I thought I could hear Indians 

 yelling. On looking back I could see quite a cloud of 

 dust rising. I got up into the wagon and stopped the 

 team so I could listen. After listening a little while I 



could hear Indians yelling. I started up the team, but 

 kept watching back, I could see the dust plainer; it 

 seemed to be coming, and I could hear the yelling more 

 distinctly. My first thought was to leave the team and 

 run for the river. If I could get to the brush I would be 

 all right. But it was more than a mile. If I left the 

 wagon there would be nothing to get behind to make a 

 fight. 



One thing was certain -they would soon be there. I 

 had passed over a piece of rolling ground, which hid 

 them, but the dust was rising nearer, and the yelling was 

 getting to be very distinct. I was certain that the Indians 

 were on the war path, that they had got Vicroy and had 

 seen me and would soon have my scalp dangling from a 

 girdle. 



I stopped the team, got up on top of the wagon box and 

 could see them coming. Yet they must have been a mile 

 and a half away. I thought I could see some near the 

 timber. 



I jumped down, unhitched the oxen, turnpd them 

 round, chained them to the wheel, climbed back up into 

 the wagon, took some bullets out of my shot-pouch, laid 

 them on my roll of blankets, laid my pistol by them, and 

 then rested my rifle across the hind end gate and waited 

 for them to come. And come they did. One seemed to 

 be at least a quarter of a mile ahead of the main body. I 

 waited until this leader got within about 200yds., when I 

 fired. At the crack of my rifle down went the horse and 

 rider. But in an instant the Indian was up and started to 

 run for the river. The yelling was terrific; the Indians 

 began leaving the road to head the leader off. I reloaded 

 my rifle as quick as I could, but before I could get a cap 

 on the nipple they began shooting at the dismounted In- 

 dian, and soon I saw him stumble and fall. Then they 

 closed in around him. In a few minutes two of them 

 started toward my wagon. They had a white handkerchief 

 on a spear. I got down out of the wagon after sticking 

 my pistol in my waist. They rode up within about 10yds. 

 and spoke to me in Spanish. I could understand them 

 tolerably well; they told me they were friends to the 

 white man. The Indian they had killed was a Comanche 

 and had been stealing their horses and was on the best 

 horse they had, and if I had not killed it he would have 

 got away. 



Soon they raised the bloody scalp on to a spear and be- 

 gan their war dance around it. I hitched up and left. 

 But I was so weak that I could hardly stand up. It was 

 nearly dark when I got back to Pueblo. I put the oxen 

 in the corral and ate and slept in the house that night, for 

 I had not got over my scare, and old Juan's cut-throat 

 countenance looked like the harbinger of peace compared 

 to those Arapahoes. The next day I reached home. 



When Vic came he told me that his horse had bolted to 

 the brush as he was nearer the river, and he hid until 

 they passed. Then he did not know what to do, for he 

 thought it was a war party. But he ventured near enough 

 to Big Ranch to see people moving around; and when the 

 Indians returned they stopped and exhibited the scalp. 

 Then he felt much better, for he was afraid they had got 

 my sc^p as well as his team. Lew, Wilmot. 



TWO DAYS AT H AMMONASSETT. 



We reached the club house nestled in this remote Con- 

 necticut valley at dai'k. On the way thither the presi- 

 dent and I had picked up two flight woodcock and two 

 quail and had given the dogs a preparatory run through 

 stubble and alders in prospect of the work of the mor- 

 row. The Doctor arrived shortly after, having shot over 

 the club land on the way up from Madison. He emptied 

 his game pocket of two woodcock, a quail and a partridge. 

 We sat before the blazing hickory logs taking our otmm 

 cum dig. and laid our plans for the morning. Eex, Wad 

 and May lay stretched in lazy idleness before us and the 

 birds of other hunts looked down on us from their hooks 

 and perches on mantel and wall, and gave us prompting 

 for many a story of doubtful accuracy. 



The thermometer stood at 28° F. as we packed the dogs 

 and ourselves into the club wagon at 8 o'clock next morn- 

 ing bound for the "Episcopal chm-ch region." The sun 

 was just topping Pea Hill; not a cloud in the sky, every 

 leaf and twig and blade of grass glistened like silver under 

 the heavy coating of hoar frost. 



What words can paint che fall glories of the woods seen 

 through an atmosphere so clear that hills ten miles away 

 seem to be close at our feet. 



What pen can tell of the thrill of hope and courage and 

 strength and thankfulness for very life, that infused us as 

 we climbed those glorious wooded hills, up, up into the 

 blue ether, away from the dust, the worry, the turmoil, 

 the sorrow of everyday life, up toward tlie blue of God's 

 Heaven, into the arms of om- dear mother Nature, with 

 her kindly touch, which softens all our sorrows and heals 

 all our wounds. 



In the shadowy depths of the woods the frozen ferns 

 gleamed white and ghostlike on each side of the road, or 

 looked like coarse lace set out against the darker back- 

 ground of forest and glen. We have cast aside all 

 our troubles for the time. Here in a "Happy Valley" of 

 our owUj a Connecticut Arcadia, where the silver bill and 

 the financial situation are not, our greatest anxiety is the 

 fear tiiai perhaps two steaks, some chops and ham and 

 eggs will not be enough for dinner. 



'S^^e first cover visited was a buckwheat patch planted 

 by the club and allowed to stand and "die down," afford- 

 ing unlimited food and good cover. Old Wad had scarcely 

 reached its edge when he began to make game, and the 

 l>up Rex, as he came around, backed up his grandsire in 

 Jiandsome form. Before we were organized for our shots 

 ithe birds flushed wide off, but the Doctor's gun dropped a 

 single. Wad retrieved neatly, and before we had gone 

 twenty paces another and smaller bevy flushed at the ex- 

 treme upper end of the field and dropped into some alders 

 near the chm-ch brook. We found them without much 

 trouble, and from a staunch point by Rex in thick cover 

 I winged one bii'd which dodged off to the left, and an 

 instant later fired at what proved to be a large hen bird 

 to the right. I saw a cloud of feathers drift down wind 

 and supposed I had killed; but after following my winged 

 bird for some distance and being unable to find it. I re- 

 turned for the other. The bird was not where it should 

 have been, but some light feathers and a half point from 

 Rex showed me that this bird, too, had been wounded 

 only. The pup, however, took the trail, and working i 

 down slowly and snakelike, came finally, 60yds. below, to ] 

 an open spot with grass tussocks at the end and edge of the 

 alders, wliere he made his final and unmistakable stand. ' 



We watched the pup and called Wad around, who backed 

 in great shape. The scene was typical of a point on quail 

 in cover. A hundred yards below stood an old and de- 

 serted farmhouse, weatherworn and gray. The brook, 

 ten steps from us, babbled and gurgled on its way to the 

 sea. and the old chm-ch of ninety years, looking strangely 

 out of place in this out-of-the-way region, loomed up 

 against the cloudless autumn sky to the right. The dogs 

 stood almost at right angles to each other. Eex, with his 

 head inchned sharply to one side, slightly crouching, and 

 his left hindleg cataleptically poised, stood as though 

 carved in stone. Wad at his right on a most stylish back- 

 ing point, head, back and flag all on a line. 



We watched them and commented on them, and on our 

 beautiful surroundings, on hills and woods, and on the 

 delightful excitement of the moment. What was the 

 hurry? A few seconds, or moments, made no difference, 

 and one don't get these sensations so often that they can 

 be thrown away. At last I walk up and whirr goes the 

 bird straightaway. I score a kill on an easy shot and 

 Rex and Wad move on and point. Wad reti-ieves — Rex 

 has not yet learned this, senior year study. 



1 start to move down to where some of the birds were 

 supposed to have flown, but missing my dog I turn and 

 call "Rex," and see him pointing at the same tussock 

 from which my bagged bird had flown. I walk back and 

 say, "Why, Rtx, you were a good dog to find that bird, 

 but don't shake my trust in your intelligence by pointing 

 again where she got up. Come away, come on, good 

 dog, Rex; come on, don't be a fool." No reply from the 

 graven image. I walk up and kick about the grass, but 

 find nothing. "Rex, come away from there," Finally I 

 take him by the collar, but as I do so he breaks his [loint 

 and puts out his paw and rests it on a thick bimch of 

 grass, and as I part the matted grass I see and lift out a 

 fine hen quail in her last gasps, It vcae the bird 1 had 

 wounded which had run with the other, and the sagacious 

 brute of a dog had made his mind, or scent, up that there 

 were two birds in that bunch of grass, and by his intelli- 

 gence had added one to our bag. 



We left this cover after the proper amount of caressing 

 and good-boy-ing had been done, and went up the hill to 

 the upper buckwheat and into woodcock and partridge 

 cover. The Doctor had three pretty chances on the way 

 up, two at quail and one at a woodcock. The woodcock 

 and one quail came to bag. 



I was walking through a tangled thicket of sprouts, 

 cat-briers a,nd alders when Ri^x gave xmmistakable evi- 

 dence of being on a partridge trail. I "got ahead," 

 "crashing through the brash," unable to make progress 

 without noise. The pyrotechnics went off and so did my 

 feather-weight gun, and I saw through the scrub oak 

 which had not yet shed its leaves, a bundle of brown 

 feathers fall to the ground, but only winged, and in my 

 hurry to get to the spot on account of iiex'a unfinished 

 education, I h>st an easy shot at another bird, which got 

 up when I was hors de combat with the gun open and 

 tangled up in a grapevine. 



Tne dog took the trail and I lost him, but after a time 

 came upon him lying down beside a rock and evidently 

 satisfied with himself. I could see no bird and the dog 

 would not go on when ordered to. As soon as I could get 

 the Doctor with old Wad, I explained matters and a 

 "dead bird" "seek" to the old boy disclosed my dead 

 partridge within 10 paces of my dog and a hundred yards 

 from where I had fired. As soon as the bird was bagged 

 Rex got up and began hunting again as before. 



We went down the hill to keep our appointment with 

 the president at Bunnell's Bridge. Before noon we liad 

 started four bevies of quail, but we shot indiffer- 

 ently and the birds acted as though they did not want to 

 come to bag, and at noon we had but five — three quail, a 

 woodcock and a partridge. We lunched at Bunnell's 

 Bridge, on the banks of the Hammonassett. 



At this point our president left us for the club house 

 and New Haven, and the Doctor and I finished our 

 day by a tramj) to the club, picking up three more birds 

 and watching the fine working of the two dogs, Wad and 

 Rex. We had a dozen points, but in many places it was 

 impossible to shoot. We put our eight birds— five quail, 

 two partridges and one woodcock — in the ice box, got 

 into our sweaters and slippers, and dropped off after sup- 

 per into that gentle insouciance which always follows a 

 day's hunt and a good meal. 



• We hunted hah the next day and added thi-ee quail, 

 two partridges and two woodcock to our score. After 

 luncheon we bowled down to Madison, eleven miles, be- 

 hind the club pair, and at 9 o'clock were recounting 

 another happy outing to our wives and indorsing om- 

 statements by the present of twenty-three birds— eleven 

 quail, seven woodcock and five partridges. Incog. 



A Moose on the I^ast Day. 



Washington, D. C, Nov. 25 —Three weeks ago, just 

 as I was about leaving here for a short trip to the woods, 

 I read with interest a well-illustrated account by one of 

 your correspondents of how he killed his first moose. 



1 killed my first moose on Oct. 36, 188;^, still-hunting 

 on a perfectly still day, with neither snow, rain or wind 

 to help me. I am just back from my tenth moose hunt 

 and report that on Saturday I killed my last moose, on a 

 bitter cold windy day, with the frozen leaves covei<ed 

 with several inches of crusted snow, just the day when 

 the sensible still-hunter stays in camp to clean his gun, 

 boil bean soup, mend moccasins and the like. 



This was my last day, however, so out I went and in 

 the face of adverse circumstances got a young bull about 

 five years old which measured 6ft. 3in. My measure- 

 ments are those of one who has measured a good many 

 and lived out, I have never yet seen a 7-foot moose. The 

 head and horns weighed 77ilbs. My Indian shouldered 

 these while I took the hide, .5Ubs,, and we had a two and 

 a half hour tramp with them the next morning in a 

 blinding snowstorm. That is what 1 caU good work 

 and the sort of hunting that gives the m®st pleasure— 

 the hunter's wits against the game's. 



Your correspondent I mentioned wondered where one 

 of his guides, an Indian, got the name of Seymour. His 

 name is not Seymour, it is Ignace Simon. He and his 

 brother Hyacinthe are both good hunters, and I have 

 employed both of them at times as far back as 1884 and 

 1886. 



Tney are sons of old Antoine Simon, who was drowned 

 I five or six yeais ago in the Ottawa River, 

 ( The Canadians drop the nasal twang in pronouncing 

 French, and Simon becomes Seerao, mistaken by your 

 I correspondent for Seymour. Cecil Ciat, 



