182 
This was what was happening in my immediate vicin- 
ity. Meantime Fincher Bobo had left us and was follow- 
ing another hack to our right, The man King was now 
about abreast us on the right. Money and Bill were 
charging up and down their narrow slough about half a 
mile from us, expecting every minute to get a shot. 
Money had met misfortune also and had broken a saddle 
girth, changing saddles then with Bill, who got a very 
poor one in the bargain. As they rode on down in the 
slough a big buck jumped up in front of Bill's mule, 
frightening that placid creature nearly into a dead faint 
at first, and later into mulesquian pyrotechnics which 
must have been fun for Money to witness. The immedi 1 
ate result of all of which was that Bill came off the mule 
and landed on the ground in a sitting posture. At this he 
fetched a most grievous hollow groan. ' 'W— whoa, mule!" 
he said, as soon as he could speak; and then, "Mr. Money, 
I'se hu'ht in my innards! I'se hu'ht in my innards, sho'h's 
you bohn. Whah's that bottle you has, Mr. Money?" 
Mr. Money gave him the bottle, which he offered to 
carry after half emptying it. Par parenthese, Mr. Money 
later asked Bill for the bottle, and Bill told him it had 
"done leaked 'most all out"— a statement in the main 
part quite accurate. 
What the Bear was Doing. 
While Money and Bill were engaged as above, the bear 
was fighting the pack within 100yds. of them in thick 
cane. Had they only known it, this cane was thinner a 
little away from the edge of their slough and there was 
an old hack cut right across that body of cane. They rode 
past the hidden mouth of this path a dozen times, but 
did not see it. The fight was going on in an old burning, 
and here the dead cane and the briers made such a mat 
of cover that a man could not get into it. Money told me 
that the bear was once within 20yds. of him and he fully 
expected to get the shot, but he could not see either bear 
or dogs so thick was the cover. 
The bear never crossed this slough at all, but paralleled 
it, Money losing his chance by not knowing that 20yds. 
more of scramble would have brought him into easy going 
and in sight of the bear. The bear kept right in the middle 
of this easy going, being now between Money and the 
man King, who was in the thin cane off to the right. 
Meantime I had overtaken Capt. Bobo and we both rode 
on up the bayou. For a long time we could hear nothing 
and could not tell whether or not we had headed the bear; 
but at length as we got in to a cross-hack leading over to the 
right from the bayou we could hear the chase very plainly. 
Capt. Bobo now sent Fincher in to find a hack leading 
into the heart of the brake (which he did not strike in 
time), and then Capt. Bobo and I chased back and forth 
along that narrow trail, according to the varying direction 
of the flood of savage music which came swelling down 
to us from the heart of the wilderness of cane. 
"It's a running fight," said Capt. Bobo, "and they'll 
cross in here somewhere. He's our bear, sure, and you'll 
never have a better chance to kill one. Just tie your 
horse when they get a little closer, and run in on foot." 
It seemed absolutely certain that I would kill this bear, 
and no thought to the contrary entered our minds. The 
dogs were less than 300yds. away. The noise they made 
may be judged when I say that I could hear not the least 
reason for Bobo's surprised statement that "he thought 
he heard a shot." I heard nothing but the dogs. 
But tbe sound of the fighting grew less, became station- 
ary. Puzzled, we set spur to the horses and rode the 
hack clear across to the big bayou beyond. We were 
now on what had been at the outset the right-hand side 
of the chase, and we were now riding back toward the 
start. There were therefore now cn our right hand 
Fincher Bobo, Money and Bill and the man King. 
How the Bear was Killed. 
Where was this man King? None of us had given 
much thought to him, he being welcomed to the privi- 
lege of running after the dogs on foot if he liked. He did 
like it, and he ran so well that he got through the thin 
cane and kept abreast of the bear and the pack as they 
fought back and forth in the "burning." He heard the 
pack turn toward the bayou, and ran into the only clear 
space there was there and climbed up on a fallen tree. 
He could hear the panting of the bear long before he 
could see him. At last the bear came out of the cane 
into the open. He was half standing up and look- 
ing back at the dogs, his tongue hanging out and 
himself blowing like a bellows. The little one- 
eyed cur dog called Bad-eye was the first dog 
to come in sight. The bear had never seen King at 
all. Bad-eye made a spring at the bear's head or neck. 
At that instant King fired the shot which Bobo had heard, 
and which lost me my bear on that day. King said he 
aimed at the bear's ear. The distance was 20yds., and he 
missed it by just 5in. He shot three times with a .38-56 
Winchester, all bullets striking the neck or passing 
through. 
So Bobo and I rode up from the bayou just two 
minutes, or 250yds., too late. Thereon the ground, sum- 
moned as if by magic out of the depths of the wilderness, 
lay a vast black object, inert save in such motion as 
twenty fighting dogs gave it in their still unappeased rage. 
"He's tbe bull of the woods," said Bobo. "I knew by his 
track he was a big one." And very big indeed he was for 
a black bear, just over 7ft. long along the top of his back 
from nose to tail, and 8ft. 6in. across his fore paws when 
his arms were expended. We thought he must have 
weighed between 500 and 6001bs. , though he looked as if 
he would weigh 800ibs., to a novice. 
Then we blew high and long to tell all men the bear 
was dead, and to us there came Fincher Bobo and Mr. 
Money and Bill, and also a gentlemen who was a stranger 
to some, Mr. Beard, an old friend of Capt, Bobo's, who 
had arrived in that country that morning and was headed 
for our camp when he heard the dogs running and so 
joined the chase. 
Our bear being much too large for any horse or mule 
to carry, we cut him up into sections of a few hundred- 
weight each and took him into camp. His hide, larger 
than that of my pony would have been, was given to me 
to wrap about my pony so the saddle would fit him. And 
if any man doubt the bigness of said hide, let him come 
up into the Forest and Stream office and take a look at 
it. 
But this was not the last bear we killed. 
E. Hough. 
WS^SsoraiTViBonjiiNe, Chicago, HI. 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
AN ADIRONDACK NIGHT. 
BY FRED MATHER. 
There is one particular night in camp which always 
comes to the fore when the pigeon-holes of memory are 
overhauled and dusted. The night itself did not differ 
materially from hundreds of others of equal beauty spent 
among the lakes and mountains of the Adirondack 
region, but from a very singular occurrence it stands 
alone among camping experiences, often among wilder 
scenes and wilder men; and this is the way it happened: 
Near the head of Fourth Lake, of the Fulton chain, is a 
small island which at that time, fifteen years ago, was 
occupied by the cabin of Fred Hess, guide, hunter and 
woodsman, and his family. On the eastern end of the 
island, and only separated by a few feet, lies a smaller 
one of less than a hundred feet in length, and on this my 
tent had been pitched for some days while I was investi- 
gating the aquatic life of the lake. Jack Shepard, my 
guide, had gone down to the Old Forge, at the foot of 
First Lake, for mail and supplies, and I had been alone 
for two days and one night. I had taken trout enough 
for supper and breakfast, and was boiling the tea-kettle 
and preparing to fry the trout for an early supper, when 
a volley of rifles and terrific yells came from the head of 
the lake, This was surprising, because few take rifles 
into the woods in early June, and most men who love the 
woods are silent in order to observe such life as may be 
stirring. Soon three boats put out, and with much argu- 
ment the party came in my direction, two men in each 
boat, and it soon appeared that the dispute was concern- 
ing a place to camp, their guide, who had brought them 
from Blue Mountain, urging them to go down the lake 
where there was wood at hand, but they overruled him 
and landed, because, as one said, "there's a camp there 
now, and if it's good enough for them it will do for 
us." 
To say that I regretted their decision is mild. They 
were a noisy lot of rude fellows, rarely found in the 
woods, and not at all to my taste. My tent was well back 
from the water and they paid th°ir respects in this 
fashion: "Say, mister, how are you?" said the tallest of 
the five; "we just come up here f'um N' York to do a 
little shootin' an' fishin' an' have some fun. I'm Slim 
Jim, an' these 's me fr'en's. This is Patsy Bolivar, Corky 
Jack, Ikey the Mug, and Baldy Sours." I acknowledged 
the introduction and. remarked that the place was a poor 
one for a camp because wood had to be brought from the 
main land. This had no effect in inducing them to move 
on, and they returned to the boats to unload. Their 
guide, George Chamberlain, soon had their big wall tent 
up and started some of them for wood and then he came 
to see me. I hailed him with, "Well, George, where did 
you catch that crowd?" 
"Over at Blue Mountain. They wanted to go across to 
Old Forge and do their own rowing and camping, but no 
one would let them have boats to go alone, and they never 
could have found the carry at the Brown Tract Inlet, so I 
agreed to come along and take the boats back." 
"Will they pay for the round trip, do you think?" 
"Oh, yes, they're all right in that, and they pay well. 
They ain't as bad as they make out to be — but green? 
Well, I've had green men in the woods before, but noth- 
ing like this party. They are hotel bartenders on a vaca- 
tion, noisy and trying to enjoy the woods, but you'd enjoy 
seeing them fish. y 
"Did they get any?" 
"Not a trout. They had good rods and everything in 
good shape, but the man they call Baldy stepped on two 
split-bamboos and broke them, and one rod was splintered 
on a log by Ikey, who used it as a club on a bullfrog, but 
the frog got away, and there's only one good rod left, and 
that I took care of, for they broke the second joint of 
one before they got *-o the lake. The stage ran over it, I 
believe." 
"Perhaps their coming here is not so bad, after all; they 
may relieve the monotony of camp by their freshness. I 
was afraid they were a different class of men." 
"They're all right, only a little strange in the woods. 
Here they come with the wood, and I'll go get supper 
ready." 
By this time the sun had gone down and the stars were 
out in all their glory; Aldebaran was glaring red in the 
eye of Taurus, above the chair of Cassiopea, and the 
voices of the night were beginning to be heard. Our 
camp was still, for the men were resting. There was no 
wind and frogs began their sonatas; a baritone opening 
with a slow movement, which was taken up in a higher 
key and run through the allegro, andante and adagio, 
when the smaller ones ran it into a minuet, all the while 
emphasized by a powerful basso profundo on the northern 
shore. It was one of the grandest of nature's musical 
efforts performed by her most versatile soloists and choris- 
ters! It was a night for a lover of nature to commune 
with her and leave all thoughts of man and his ways as 
though they did not exist, when the boiling over of the 
kettle roused me to the fact that things far below Alde- 
baran and the Pleiades needed attention. 
I am, or was, an old duffer! How long that state had 
existed I have no idea, nor how long it lasts does not 
seem to be laid down in the cyclopedias. Neither am I 
aware of the precise characteristics of an old duffer, or 
what mental or moral traits entitle one to that exalted 
rank, which, of course, must be far above that of a young 
duffer. By reason of my gray hair and beard no one 
would suspect that I was a young duffer, and this is the 
way I attained the honor. Supper had been cooked and 
eaten, pipes smoked while listening to a fine male and 
female quartet at the permanent camp of a gentleman on 
the south shore, to the accompaniment of a well-fingered 
banjo, when the following conversation took place at the 
camp below: 
"What you doin', Baldy?" 
"Mixin' a sheep-herder's delight." 
"Must be good! What do you put in it?" 
"A thimble full of cayenne, five dashes <">f tobasco sauce, 
same of Jamaica ginger, three dashes of gin, new apple 
jack to taste and serve hot." 
"Ever drink one yourself?" 
"Oh, no! I never care for mixed drinks; got the pre- 
scription from old Col. Todd, of Texas, who always took 
plain whisky for his, but he said that down his way 
where they raised great lots of sheep it was a favorite 
with the men who were exposed to the night air, and it 
is what you need to-night. Never made any before, only 
once when I had a day off and went to Coney Island. I 
tried it on a^man who wanted a warmer to break a chill 
|Feb. 15, 1896. 
and I volunteered to make him one, as I knew the pr 
prietor." 
"Did you attend his funeral or only send flowers?" 
"Come off! He's still doin' business at the old stand, a 
boss plumber, and he straightened right up after the 
drink, and you'd never see anything wrong about him,_ 
except that the setting had melted out of his diamond 
scarf pin and the filling in his teeth had disappeared. 
Here, take this one up to the old duffer while it's hot." 
Then I knew that I was an old duffer! It was a revela- 
tion such as Burns wished for, and Baldy Sours held the 
mirror up that I might see myself as "ithers" did. The 
"sheep-herder's delight" turned out to be a very palate 
able hot toddy, "sweet, strong and plenty of it," and after ■ 
smelling its fragrance I joined the party below and pro- 
posed long life to the concocter of the harmless beverage 
with the formidable name. From across the lake came 
Foster's good old song, "Come where My Love Lies 
Dreaming," and while the island party were rapt in the 
melody there was one whose memory drifted back to the 
time when the author of the song was a living friend and i 
charmed the public with his "S'wanee River" and other ' 
melodies that still remain with us after the gifted writer 
of them is forgotten by the public; and while I was think- 
ing of the evanescent character of popularity the song 
ended. A loon uttered its weird cry near the head of the 
lake and the frogs hushed their clamor at the uncanny 
sound. There was silence for a moment when Billy asked 
in a low tone: "Did you hear that?" 
"Yes," answered Jim cautiously, "I wonder what it 
was." 
"Maybe it was a deer," ventured Corky. 
"Deer your granny! a deer don't make a noise hkej 
that. I've seen and heard lots of 'em in Central Park. | 
and they call like a goat, I tell you that was a bear," 
was the assertion of Patsy. 
"They say there's lots o' bears in these woods," said 
Baldy, "but I don't want to see any. We've got guns, 
enough to kill a dozen bears if we didn't get too scared tc'^ 
use 'em, but I'll let the rest of you have all my bears.;' 1 
Then turning to me he asked: "Could a bear swim aerosol 
the lake to this island?" 
I assured him that bruin was a good swimmer and thai] 
several bears had been killed right where we were, anCJ 
seeing the effect of this not only on Baldy, but on thU 
whole party, the temptation to go further could not bq 
resisted, and I added 1 "There was a bear on the island! 
last night and it took my pail of butter, a loaf of u brea«] 
and the trout that were laid out for breakfast." 
"Did you wake up?" 
"O, yes, he made a great racket with the butter pail 
pounding it on the rocks, for the cover was on tight. J 
got up and threw a chunk of fire at him and he splashej 
in the water and swam off with the pail." 
"Gee whiz!" exclaimed Baldy, "I wish I was in N' York! 
that's good enough for me. I tell you this camping ouj 
is all well enough to read about; but luggin' a boat ovej 
the carries an' sleepin' on the groun' when you doai 
know what kind o' snakes an' pinchin' bugs is under yoi# 
an' bears a-comin' in the night, I don't see where the fi| 
comes in. Was that a bear made that noise a minuti 
ago?" 
"Yes, that was a bear," I told him, and at that momefi 
the loon lifted its voice again like the wail of a lost spiri 
and there was a hush, The banjo on the main shore w» 
resting and the frogs were quiet once more. "That bea 
is up at the head of the lake, where you launched you 
boats and fired off your guns. What were you shootin 
at?" 
"Nothing," said Jim. "Baldy thought if we fired o 
our guns it would scare the bears away, and so 
fired." 
"That's where you were wrong. Never take guns inl 
the woods -in June, or at any time in summer; there! 
nothing to shoot, and they are a nuisance. When a be$4 
hears a gun he knows that a man is about and there is it 
chance to rob his camp when he is absent or asleep, and ! 
would advise you not to shoot any more." . 
"Tell him about the trout you caught, Baldy; show tl 
professor the fish if you've got it yet." 
From "an old duffer" I had suddenly become a "pr , 
fessor," and there were two reasons for it: one was that i, 
few fruit jars were in front of my tent containing spec I 
mens of newts, dobsons and small fishes that had died j I, 
alcoholism, and the other was a probable doubt of tl , 
propriety of using the older name when in the preeen« \ 
of the "duffer." Baldy went to one of the boats ar \ 
brought forth a fish about a foot long, saying: "There 1 
is, and the gang says it's a sucker; but our guide, Ml 
Chamberlain, says it's a small salmon. He ought to knov 
but I'll leave it to you." That the fish was one of tJi 
species of the sucker tribe needed but a glance to dete 
mine, but a look from the guide was sufficient and 
answered: "No doubt Mr. Chamberlain is right, but tl 
only name that science knows this species by is Catostom 
longirostris. You will observe, Mr. Sours, that it diffe 
from the trout in having the mouth underneath inBtei 
of being terminal, the lower lip being bi-lobed and tube 
culated, the pectoral fins are long and reach to the insc 
tion of the dorsal, while in the trout—" 
"There! I told you it wasn't a sucker! Much oblige 
Professor; these fellows think they know a lot about fia 
Say ! what do you fish for trout with? We bought a lot 
tackle on Broadway; know Tom Conroy? Bet you < 
Well, he's a nice fellow, but he put us up the queerest t « 
Of stuff to catch trout with that you ever did see— a lot \ 
poles like coach whips, some fiddle strings and then tl, £ 
hooks! look at these! and not a sinker! I've catched fi jjj 
off the dock and I know what fishin' is, but Conr« 
thought he'd be smart and play a trick on us, but I'll g 
square with him yet, you bet!" 
I looked the tackle over. One rod that the guide hi 
cared for was a good ash and lancewood fly rod, the lit 
were waterproof silk,the "fiddle strings" proved to be go^ 
silkworm gut, and the "hooks" were artificial flies 
proper sizes and assorted patterns. "Well, these a 
about what I use," I replied; "what's the matter w: 
them?" 
He stood in the light of the camp-fire, his short, stc 
figure casting an exaggerated shadow on the tent, and 1 
bald head shining in the starlight above his good-natm J 
face, looking at the artificial flies he had in his har 
After a moment he said: "Trout won't bite on th< 
things, for I've tried 'em. I cut a pole in the woods a 
put a lot o' these flies on it and tied a bullet on foi j 
sinker, an' fished more 'nan hour where a man took thJ flj 
frout with a worm a while before, and I never got a nibb 
