Mabck 7, l»b6.J 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
191 
I agreed with Morris that Murray roust be "off," and 
begged him to by all means try his shotgun panacea on 
the occupants of the nasal catarrh tent. 
Kingfisher has basely denied that any sound ever crept 
from under his tent flaps or crawled up the ridge-pole 
during the silent hours of the night, but again and again 
the various members of the "gang" have been wakened 
by apprehensions of a storm brewing, evoked by the 
deep diapason of thunder that came rolling from the tent 
that held the vantage ground in the camps of the King- 
fishers. At times the uproar was fairly terrific. 
But to the search for the lost man. We had gone over 
the woodland path to the forks of the road and were de- 
scending into the marshy ground near the beach when 
full to the front, as large as life, sound in limb and body, 
stood the object of our search, bucket in hand. We 
waived our hats and shouted our joy with exuberant 
manifestations, while Murray simply gazed at us with 
that stolid look of innocence that seemed "childlike and 
bland." 
"You once was lost, and now you're found," exclaimed 
Morris, paraphrasing the familiar hymn as he rested 
his gun against a hemlock tree and embraced the object 
of our search in a hug that a bear might have envied. 
"Lost?" said Murray as soon as he could get his breath, 
"/wasn't lostl" 
"Then where have you been?" 
"Oh!" said he, "the blamed spring got, lost, and I've 
been hunting for it." 
Then he explained how he was unfamiliar with the 
country and had taken the left-hand branch when he 
came to the forks of the road, and had walked two miles 
BRINGING IN THE LOST^MAN. 
over roots, stumps and bogs until his mind became sort of 
bewildered in trying to reconcile the "half mile away 
spring" with the two mile away man. Then he concluded 
to his own satisfaction that the spring was not only lost, 
but, in the wayside vernacular of his younger days, 
'•badly lost." 
Ketracing his steps, he had taken the other road, landed 
on the lake shore, and after pulling his hair and wearying 
his soul in long search, had discovered the lost spring hid- 
den in the cool recess of the overhanging cedars and bub- 
bling up through the sand as unconcernedly as if the tale 
of its being lost was merely another "fish lie." 
While Murray was reciting his adventures and laying 
all the blame on the spring, several other members of the 
gang arrived, armed with clubs, bludgeons and other 
weapons of war, to protect the lost man from the var- 
mints of the woods. Among them was Kingfisher, who 
straightway opened his mind. 
"The hellsrackin, Murray, whar hev yer bin? Did yer 
scoot to Alasky for ice water, or hev yer been to Kain- 
tuck for a bucket o' wrath? Better shuck yer coat and 
pray for saints and sinners, for the Colonel says he didn't 
have no faith in the story about varmints gettin' yer, and 
he's going to give yer a drum-head court martial." 
Murray wilted considerably at the mention of a trial, 
and his knees quivered visibly. He muttered something 
about "he could explain." 
"Explain nothin'," said Kingfisher. "Put him in front, 
boys, and march him straight to camp." 
Bucket in hand, Murray took the head of the proces- 
sion, and at quickstep the march was made through the 
woods. Emerging from the bushes in sight of the tents, 
the Colonel was met, a stout cudgel in hand, and with 
that fierce glare of the eye that always betokened a state 
of war. 
"Ah-ha! Got him, have you?" said he. "No claw 
marks on his body— no mangled limbs— no wolf bite nor 
bear scratches on his face — no blood on his shirt — sound 
in wind, limb and liver. Consider yourself under arrest, 
sir! Forward, march!" And the line, with arms at right 
shoulder shift, moved onward to camp. 
It was just at this moment that the camp artist caught 
the procession with a snapshot of his camera — reproduced 
in the picture. Note the determined stride of the Colonel 
commanding the squad. The culprit is unfortunately 
hidden by the Colonel's bulky form, only his leg and foot 
being visible between the Colonel's legs. Close behind 
him is Morris, with shotgun heavily loaded ; then Payne, 
with birch wood club; next Kingfisher in shirt sleeves 
carrying a cedar root torn from its parent stem; follow- 
ing is Old Sam, armed with fork from the camp-fire; next 
is Furr, the sweet singer, bearing a rail torn from Old 
Bill's fence (Old Bill was our nearest neighbor and guide), 
and the rear is brought up by Dr. Elliott, unarmed, but 
ready to bleed or blister or purge, as the court .martial 
may order. 
The latter was organized with expedition — the Colonel 
presiding in his famous camp chair covered with the 
glorious names of Nepigon, Carp Lake, Big Basswood, 
Platte Lake, Pe Lee Island, Florida, etc., while the 
prisoner sat on the ground in the center of the circle of 
judges with his bucket of water by his side. Hot, thirsty 
and excited, he was permitted to look at the cool, refresh- 
ing fluid, but not drink a drop. 
The charge was brief: "Lost in the middle of the 
road." 
After able speeches by Kingfisher for the prosecution 
and Old Sam for the prisoner, the case was submitted. 
The gang said afterward that Kingfisher never touched 
the subject — went off on next year's camping place about 
some lake that had a spring with a trout stream near by, 
and milk and butter to be had for the goin' after — and 
that Old Sam's speech "would a hung anybody"; that he 
described the prisoner as a "poor orphan without father 
or mother, children or brother, no money, no friends, 
ragged, hungry, thirsty, dirty, cross-eyed and hip- jointed 
— a poor, miserable, mean wretch, and a lunatic loose in 
the woods." 
A short conference was held by the judges and they 
were polled for the verdict. 
"What say you, gentlemen, is the prisoner guilty or not 
guilty?" sharply demanded the Colonel. 
"Guilty!" they responded, as each name was called. 
"Has the prisoner anything to say why sentence should 
not be pronounced upon him?" inquired the Colonel. 
"Not a word," sullenly replied the prisoner. 
"Silence!" thundered the Colonel, "no levity in court." 
"Stand up," Baid he, and Murray arose, bucket in hand. 
"Prisoner, you have committed a fearful crime against 
the peace and dignity of the camp — you had a fair trial — 
you were found guilty; at sundown you will be taken 
under the tree in front of Old Bill's house and there shot 
— and may the Lord have mercy on your soul!" 
"Colonel," said Murray, "can't I select the place on my 
body where I'm to be shot? I think I'm entitled to choice 
of weapons too. I'd rather be shot in the neck with a 
bottle of old Kentucky bourbon." 
The plaintive tone in which this appeal was made, with 
the thirsty expression in the eye, softened the feelings of 
the judges and they appealed for a lighter sentence. 
Kingfisher said he ought to live "for the good he might 
do hereafter — gathering camp wood, lighting the fires, 
catching minnows, washing dishes and the like." 
Willing to be merciful, the Colonel commuted the sen- 
tence to hard labor in doing camp chores for three days 
and total abstinence. Even this was mostly escaped. 
Old Sam. 
THE TIGER WE DIDN'T GET. 
Six thousand feet downward (that's over a mile), and 
250 miles eastward from my home, is where he lives. 
On a slight elevation between the rivers Tamesi and Pan- 
uco, along which divide the Tampico branch of the Mexi- 
can Central zigzags, is Jackson's Wood Camp. Here eb- 
ony is just plain cord wood for the engines, notable only 
fnr breaking axes and being uncommonly tough to split. 
Northward the land slopes away very gently to the la- 
goons bordering the Tamesi, and southward to those of 
the Panuco. In the dense jungle of these slopes, near the 
water-holes to which the deer and cattle resort from the 
upland prairies, the enemy was waiting for us— quite a 
number of him. 
We had been getting ready for this trip for a year. In 
fact I think it is about six years that I have been trying 
to meet my engagement with this maculate son of the 
tropicB. For his benefit I sacrificed my liking for a neat 
little '94 model Winchester, and bought a big, brutal .45- 
70. One of the other boys had seen him from bis train 
a short time before, standing among the palm trees, with 
a chip on his shoulder and his tail in a convenient position 
to be stepped on. So, early in December the four of us 
got us two guns apiece, chipped in and bought a big box 
of groceries, loaded a few hundred cartridges, and one 
fine day set forth. Arriving after dark, Jackson allowed 
us to pile into his little box-house camp and sleep on the 
floor among boxes, of tallow candles, bales of piloncillo 
sugar, sacks of beans and other such delicacies, kept for 
his axemen and their families. 
About two miles further down the track — kilometers, 
to be exact — the prairies begin. They are almost level 
and are perfectly open, forming beautiful little coves in 
the jungle, the playground of the deer, and covered with 
magnificent grass nearly waist high. The first morning 
in camp we went down the track early and murdered a 
spike buck just about the time the train came along on 
its return trip. _ This we sent home, a bloody symbol of 
how we were going to fix that tiger. 
After one or two days of this, we decided to quit "hit- 
ting the ties" twice a day to get to and from our hunting, 
so we borrowed a push car, loaded her up and moved 
down to camp on the field of battle. A dry run — raya — 
skirted by a thin line of low trees — the timber is all low 
in that section — runs across the track in the midst of the 
prairie. Here we unloaded, hung up our coats and stuck 
our hunting knives in a fine ebony tree (which looks for 
the world like a meequite), held up the first engine that 
came along for a barrel of water, and were at home to 
our friends. 
For about a week we waded the dewy grass every morn- 
ing, saw deer galore and killed a few; killed, ate up and 
sent home no end of turkeys; tried chachalacas, and de- 
cided that the partriarch Aaron who was our alleged 
cook had not got the combination on preparing this par- 
ticular titbit; ate, slept, read, talked and had a most royal 
up and down all-around good time. The weather was of 
the charming, mild, autumn variety. The sun grew 
warm toward midday, but the nights were fresh. We 
could not keep game long, but we needed a lot for camp, 
and the rest we could send home any day. Freight trains 
got to happening along about meal time with great regu- 
larity. 
But there is something wrong with the education of 
Sir Felis Onca. His people must have been negligent in 
the matter of etiquette. For though we could find the 
"lordly" stag and the "soft-eved" doe in every rineon, his 
Spots remained invisible. This disregard of all our elab- 
orate preparations to meet him was painful. 
"Down at the water of Caboose is where the tiger lives." 
So said the cowboys, the guide, and gossip generally. 
Whereat various and sundry members of the invading 
force decided to reconnoiter that particular part of the 
field. They mostly got lost in the jungle, however, and 
saw so many turkeys and such a big buck (he got away) 
that the tiger was not interviewed. "It's no good for a 
camp anyhow," they reported. 
"But down at the laguna on this side (south) there are 
many tigers too," quoth Don Justo, our guide and facto- 
tum, "Vamos a la laguna, pues," was the dauntless reply. 
I was in that. We packed some blankets and provisions 
on Don Justo's pony and walked till we were black in the 
face. At last we found the lagoon, a beautiful sheet of 
water shut in by palm groves and malaria, inhabited by 
alligators and herons, a wide glade bordering it all round, 
left by former high waters, and behind that the dense im- 
penetrable jungle. Cattle and horses grazed all about. 
The Bolitary human inhabitant of the neighborhood am- 
bled along on horseback, sallow, shy, soft of eye and of 
voice. "No, seflor," be informed us; "the tiger has made 
no damage of late." There were deer, yes, and many tur- 
keys, very many. Also javalies, which did his cornfields 
much damage. 
All these we could find nearer camp, and the mosqui- 
toes were awful. So next day, my companion half sick, 
we walked wearily back. The return trip was enlivened 
by killing four or five turkeys and missing a whole herd 
of deer. The latter was a daily feat with us. 
Wilson being sick that night on the lagoon went to bed 
early. I sat up a good while listening to the bellowing of 
the alligators, fighting mosquitoes and pumping old Justo 
abnut the tigre. It had become a clear case: no dogs, no 
tiger. Living in that section, one might once or twice a 
year find a tiger by day. On rare occasions he might find 
the fresh kill of a calf or deer. Then with plenty of 
nerve the thing is easy; for the tiger will allow neither 
buzzard nor coyote about his prey. So he stays very close 
to it But with dogs the matter is simpler still, 
"Yes," said Don Justo, "I have been with this Lazaro 
of Panuco after tigers. You comprehend, senor, that the 
tiger is a clumsy brute. He only climbs sloping trees like 
this," pointing to a gnarled and stooping old ebony cov- 
ered with orchids, under which we had camped. ' 'Besides 
he will not jump out of a tree as the lion does. He is too 
heavy. When he wishes to come down he climbs down 
like a cat. Why, this Lazaro does not use a gun. Once I 
was riding with him and we found a fresh kill. He 
brought the dogs and they seized the trail and soon had 
the tiger up a tree in a clump of bushes (matilla). We 
rode in, Lazaro ahead, cutting the vines with his machete. 
I was afraid, the animal growled so loud. But he did not 
notice us. He only looked at the dogs and growled very 
strong. Lazaro got down and tied his horse to a tree. 
With his machete he cut a stout pole, and took a puntilla 
like this," showing me the long knife which in one or 
another form all Mexicans carry, "only it was very slender 
and sharp at the point. This he tied in a slit attne end of 
the pole with bark, binding on his girdle to make it sure 
and strong. Then he crept up almost under the tiger, 
and while he was lookine: at the dogs gave him a big 
thrust under the ribs. With the thrust he dropped the 
pole and skipped behind a tree. But the tiger did not 
notice him. He only gave a sharp cry and looked at the 
knife. Then he sat still and licked the wound. Pretty 
soon he began to be drunk with loss of blood. Then he 
wabbled and fell out, already too weak to hurt the dogs. 
That's the way Lazaro kills them. He has killed about 
twenty." Thereupon I decided that Lazaro and his tiger 
dogs, which are nothing but little mongrels educated to 
the business, should form part of my outfit next time. 
All of us saw tracks. The object of all this anxious 
thought roams around through those woods pretty freely, 
mostly at night. His big, round footprints could be 
plainly seen in the soft vegetable mold. A drizzly night 
is his preference. His voice is often heard on such nights, 
though we had not that privilege. Doubtless he often lies 
about the edges of the prairies by day, ready to slip into 
the brush at the slightest notice. But the woods are al- 
most impenetrable — entirely so for still-hunting. The 
deer, though not very wild, had to be always given up 
when they reached the bush. Trying to follow, one made 
such a noise in dry twigs and thorns that any sane deer 
would take himself off, Since we were there Mr. Jack- 
son came upon a tiger one day with a deer in his mouth, 
in an open glade of the prairie. Unfortunately he had 
only a shotgun, and lost the rare chance. 
So our tiger is still there, large as life and tolerably 
numerous. Probably he will wait till next fall. And 
probably we will go after him some more. It took 
Hough a long time to get that bear. In fact, up to this 
writing it is not apparent that he ever got him. 
Some Things we Found Out. 
That when a deer is running with long bounds through 
grass as high as his back it takes an expert rifleman to 
hit him. Also that we were not experts. 
That a scatter gun is not a deer gun. A moderate sized 
buck ran a mUe after being peppered with buckshot, one 
of them through the neck, and then only stopped at the 
invitation of my .45-70. 
That "el monte" is the woods, not the mountain; that 
"un Eemington" is any kind of a breechloading rifle; 
that "una carabina de a doce" is not a 12-gauge shotgun, 
as you might suppose, but a '73 model Winchester carbine 
which holds 12 shots. 
That the deer seem to average smaller and are much 
redder than those in the mountains near San Luis Potosi. 
That the big game of those jungles — and there are 
thousands of thousands of acres of jungle — such as tigers, 
wild cattle, peccaries, tiger cats, etc., can only be ap- 
proached when bayed by dogs. None of them are wilder 
than the cattle, ganado ladino the people thereabout call 
them. They are domestic cattle run wild. 
That hunting stories expand in Spanish as well as in 
English. Don Justo was heard relating to an admiring 
crowd how I had killed a buck running with my rifle, on 
horseback, the horse at full speed! One morning I found 
the same Don in a state of vast excitement. He had lost 
his hat and his machete and most of his wits. He told 
me he had seen five does and eight bucks all together, and 
had wounded a spike buck muy grande. He was going 
after his dog (and thereby hangs a tale). The tracks 
indicated about four deer. A little later in the day I 
killed one of them, but saw only one that got away. 
We learned some other things too: that the railroad 
boys are a capital set of fellows, that Mr. Jackson is a 
first-class host as well as a live wood rustler, that the 
way to cook a turkey is to make steaks of the breast and 
feed the rest to the dogs, that pinolillos can't live in the 
open prairie, that December is rather early for the duck 
shooting near Tampico, that— but this will d<\ Still if 
Brother Hough wants any more points on Spanish we 
will try to help him out. Aztec. 
February. 
I REPORT YOUR LUCK i 
I I 
\ With Rod or Gun J 
5 TO FOREST AND STREAK, | 
i New York City. | 
t . t in ni i m i i >mi 
