24 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
tJULY 9, 1898. 
heavily loaded boat the exposed and wave-swept point 
separating them from the main lake. 
Acting on my advice they took out about half their 
load and floated their boat over the shallow place in the 
channel and soon after reached the foot of the lake in 
safety. 
These men were unfamiliar with the lake, and had little 
experience with boats. They were hired by the "cow 
butter" man from Juneau, who was conducting a freight- 
ing business and had contracted to make a certain num- 
ber of trips a day, often working half the night to ac- 
complish their task. Their boat was a clumsy slab sided 
old tub that pulled as if it was chained to the bottom, 
and half the round trip was always against the wind. 
Often the poor fellows working these boats — man killers 
they called them — would pull with straining muscles and 
gritted teeth for minutes at a time to get past some ex- 
posed point and make no headway whatever. It took 
every ounce of their strength to hold what they had 
gained till a lull came in the wind and gave the opportu- 
nity to pass. I made my way up the lake guided by the 
roar of the glacial stream that comes in on the west at 
what one of the boatmen called his park, a little patch of 
green in the gray expanse of rock. While keeping close 
in under an overhanging ledge, I saw a small pink- 
eyed sharp bill duck swimming beside only a few feet 
away, and as a wave threw my boat toward it I reached 
over and actually caught it in my hand. I could find no 
mark of injury on it, but no doubt it had been wounded 
by a stray pellet of shot. I threw it on the bottom of 
the boat and from time to time it gave a cry exactly like 
the "mew'' of a kitten. 
At the head of the lake the "cow butter' man hailed 
me and asked if I had seen anything of his men. 1 
told him I had found them lost in a blind channel and 
given them their bearings, and the news did not tend 
to pacify two or three parties of men who had each 
been given the solemn assurance that their goods would 
be taken across the lake that day without fail by the boat 
in question. 
The freighters on the chain of lakes had an unenviable 
reputation for dishonest dealings with their patrons and 
unmerciful treatment of their men. 
Inexperienced men were hired and sent out to navigate 
unknown waters, subject to fierce winds, with boats load- 
ed to the gunwales with heavy freight;. Shipwrecks as a 
consequence were of daily occurrence, i left the head of 
Summit Lake one windy day in company with six other 
boats, and that night I learned that only one other 
boat besides my own had gotten through to the out- 
let. The other five had been swamped or landed and 
cached their cargoes. Tons of provisions were thus 
damaged or lost, but in most cases the men escaped with 
their lives, though this must not be taken to mean that 
drownings were not of common occurrence. In no case 
that I know of was any reparation had for lost goods. 
The w r orst offender always secured his pay in advance 
and then disappeared, leaving his irresponsible boatmen 
to suffer the consequences of catastrophes resulting 
from his method of doing business. 
Boating and Packing. 
From the lakes white goats could frequently be seen on 
neighboring mountains. Conies and marmots were 
plentiful, and single individuals or small bands of wood- 
land caribou were frequently reported in the wooded 
country over toward Tootshai Lake, or around Middle 
Lake. Bears were also seen from time to time. One 
misty evening I saw some strange animals in the brush 
back from the long sand beach on Middle Lake that 1 
took to be bears. A closer investigation, however, 
showed them to be stray horses that had made their way 
to this out-of-the-way spot over some very rough coun- 
try. Some week-nerved man on the trail, rather than kill 
their horses when they were worn out, turned them loose 
to die of starvation. Such horses were a public 
wuisance, stealing the feed of other horses, breaking- 
down caches, and creating confusion by running through 
camps at all hours of the night. One night when I 
was sleeping at Shallow Lake under a boat I had drawn 
up on the beach, a stray horse of this character came 
along and tried to overturn the boat to see if there was 
anything edible under it by mounting on it with his fore 
feet and pawing. The fact that the boat resisted the at- 
tack speaks well for the strength of these frail looking 
creations of wood and wire and canvas. The sensations 
of the sleeper tints suddenly aroused can better be 
imagined than described. 
I carried in all a number of tons of provisions across 
the lakes during the month of September, and did not 
lose or seriously damage a pound. My closest shave 
was one evening on Shallow Lake, when, after I had 
my two boats loaded, the man for whom I was freighting 
brought down a big roll of robes and blankets, weighing 
150 or aoolbs., of which he had not spoken before, and 
insisted on having them added. I protested that I had 
on all I could carry safely, but his party needed the bed- 
ding for camp that night, and as he agreed to assume 
the responsibility for any accident, and as the lake was 
calm, I finally gave in and against my better judgment 
accepted the additional load. 
Half way down the lake a furious squall arose on our 
beam and at its height the bundle of bedding shifted, 
careening the rear boat of the. tandem upon which I had 
placed it till the waves came in over the gunwale, a 
bucket full at a time. Loaded as she was, it would only 
have taken about ten seconds to swamp the boat. The 
short tow line which connected the boats made quick- 
action difficult. There was only one course of action 
possible, and that was to turn the leading boat directly 
around, and so throw the two side by side. The boats 
came together in the trough of the sea, pounding each 
other and each shipping water, but a second later I had 
tipped up a ioolb. sack of bacon on the highest gunwale 
of the jeopardized boat and placed her on_ an even keel, 
and the worst was over. There was considerable water 
in the boat when I came to. unload, but the bottom tier 
of her cargo was composed of flour, hardware, canned 
goods, etc., and was not seriously damaged. 
The longest half of the trait from the Summit to Lake 
Bennett was covered much more quickly and easily, re- 
latively to the amount of goods packed, than the first half. 
As soon as the last of the supplies to go through reached 
the head of Summit Lake I sent the horses to the shelter 
of the jack pine woods three miles beyond Shallow 
Lake, and within an easy day's journey (nine miles) of 
Lake Bennett. One night was spent on the way at 
a prearranged camping spot at Middle Lake, in a little 
wooded valley some distance off the main trail, where the 
horses had shelter from the icy winds that already be- 
tokened the near approach of winter. Arrangements 
had been made for packing our goods across the two 
portages in the chain of lakes, and in this way our horses 
were saved fourteen miles of the trail and the exposure 
at night above the timber line, which proved so fatal to 
many expeditions. 
•Horses left on the exposed summit of White Pass 
were seized by a deadly influenza, and, even parties who 
double blanketed their horses and kept them in tents at 
night suffered loss from this source. 
The man who carried our outfit across the long port- 
age between Summit and Middle lakes lost two horses 
while performing the service. 
Goods had been sent through so that there was no de- 
lay in the packing from the new camp, Earlier in the 
season the twelve-mile trip to Bennett and return had 
been made in a day, but the trail had deteriorated to such 
an extent that this was now impossible. Instead our 
horses made two round trips one day from Shallow Lake 
to camp, and the next one round trip from camp to 
Bennett, aggregating respectively twelve and eighteen 
miles per day. The horses averaged i4olbs. or so to a 
pack, and had all they could carry. On this part of the 
trail we did our own shoeing almost entirely. Black- 
smiths charged as high as $2 per shoe, and I have even 
heard of $5 being paid, though personally we had no 
experience with this latter exorbitant price. Shoes 
came off daily on that rough trail, often miles from any 
farrier, but we had only to unfasten the sack of shoes and 
tools, and the job was done on the spot. Horseshoe 
nails were at all times scarce and hard to get. At one 
time $1 apiece was paid for these nails. Shoes, however, 
were plenty. If you didn't have the right shoe in your 
kit, there was always a dead horse handy to pull one off 
from. These horses, as a rule, died late in the season 
when cold weather was already at hand, and were not in 
most cases offensive. The ravens had such a bountiful 
supply provided that they could afford to pick and 
choose, and onlj' attacked the carcasses here and there. 
It was a sickening spectacle to come upon these scaven- 
gers at their work. First they ate the eyes of the horses 
and afterward they feasted on the gall sores. 
J. B. Burnitam. 
The Old Village Home* 
The writer of the following letter is a middle-aged 
Pawnee Indian, born and reared in the Pawnee camp, 
but later educated and taught to speak and write Eng- 
lish. He recently started with his wife and one other 
Pawnee family from the Pawnee reservation, in Okla- 
homa Territory, on a visit to some relations who live 
with the Omahas in Nebraska: As is natural, the article 
on the old West which appeared in the Jubilee Number 
of Forest and Stream appealed strongly to this man, 
and called out from him the following letter in reference 
to his trip by wagon from Okalahoma to northern 
Nebraska: 
Omaha, Nebraska, June 29.— Editor Forest and Stream: 
We are here once more in Nebraska. We were on the 
way about nineteen or twenty days, one other family and 
my own. I have seen your Jubilee Number and the 
article in it about the West as it used to be, together 
with the journey that I have just made, makes me think 
of the old times. 
We passed through a great deal of the country which 
our people, the Pawnees, once owned, and where they 
roamed free. We Crossed the Smoky Hill, the Re- 
publican and the Blue rivers. All along the road are 
many railroads, cities, towns and farms. You can hard- 
ly get any grass for your horses, except what one can 
find in the lanes. At last we came on the dear old Platte 
River, at Fremont, Nebraska, once the home of the 
Pawnees. Here we encamped two days on the island 
under the mysterious bluff Pah-huh, where the spiritual 
animals are supposed to live, and where our people, the 
Pawnees, used to worship the- Great Spirit. 
During our stay there the woman of the other family 
,with us had a dream. She said she dreamed that she was 
taken under the hill Pah-huk by the animals. It was a 
lodge. As she went in, the animals made all sorts of 
noises to welcome her. She was at first afraid of them, 
but when they did not hurt her she. felt easier. After 
a time these animals were transformed into human be- 
ings. One of them, an old man, spoke to her and 
said, "Grand-daughter," and when she looked at him 
she recognized her old grandfather, who had died while 
the Pawnees lived on the Platte River years ago. He 
was a great doctor. The old man said: "Grand- 
daughter, you see me. I am living here. All these peo- 
ple that you see are our people. They are all doctors." 
Then they commenced to do these mysterious things— 
and when she woke up, behold, it w r as a dream. 
You can imagine my feelings when I went to visit the 
old village site on the bluff about two miles below Pah- 
huk, on the same side (south) of the river. The site 
overlooks the Broad River, and a beautiful scene. One 
can" see from the bluff where the village once stood. It 
was here, at this very spot, that I was born forty-three 
years ago. Everywhere the white men have ploughed 
up the village site, except one or two mounds, where the 
dirt lodges once stood. Even where the graves once 
were they now have cornfields. As we stood there on 
the village site, it seemed that my thoughts went back- 
to the time when my people lived here—although I do 
not remember when I left, being then but about five 
years old. My father used to tell me that at the time 
T was born he had just come in with a war party from 
the southwest. They had gone as far as the Canadian 
River, in the Panhandle of Texas, and had run off a 
great herd of ponies from the Kiowas, or Comanches. 
It was from this very spot that the war parties used to 
start out in every direction against their enemies. Now 
all these old-time heroes are dead and gone— gone where 
no one comes back from. 
We found on the village site an old tomahawk with no 
pipe on top — perhaps the tomahawks were once marie in 
that way — and the barrel of a horse pistol. We shall keep 
these as mementoes. We crossed Elkhorn River at the 
place where my poor mother swam across with me on 
her back when the white soldiers attacked the Pawnees. 
I think this was in 1858 or '59. My old mother died in 
Oklahoma, at our present home. 
As I pen this, tears come from my eyes against my 
will. It is sad. 
Reflections. 
Spring has gone and summer is now with us. The 
"longest day in the year" is a memory of a few days 
back, and henceforth we know that every day as it passes 
is a wee bit shorter than was its predecessor. 
The small boy disports himself in the cooling water 
of the neighboring creek. The woods are green, the 
marsh is green, and all nature seems a song. The law 
says: "Thou shalt not roam the field with gun in 
hand, lest thou destroy the birds that dwell therein," 
but why should this make the heart of reasonable man 
sad? 
The enthusiastic angler has hied himself away to the 
brooks and streams he loves so well; but I have not 
gone; instead I sit here in the cool evening air and re- 
flect. 
My Remington stands in its rack, glistening with its 
coat of grease, while scattered about in various places are 
its companions, friends of mine, all of them. As I gaze 
at its shining form there arise before me visions of the 
days gone in which we have been together in field and 
forest, marsh and cover. 
We have seen some red-letter days and some disagree- 
able ones too; but who is it that in memory's retrospect 
treasures the gloomy and has naught but coldness for the 
bright and agreeable — the sunny portion of existence? 
How well do I remember the opening of the snipe 
season last year, and with what eagerness I hailed the 
time when I could once more tramp away spare mo- 
ments in seach of the long-limbed denizens of the marsh. 
The day was a blank, but I cared not for that. It was 
sufficient for me to be once more among old haunts, to 
sit in the old blind reconstructed for the season, and 
to think of former days when things were different; when 
Ned sat in the corner over there and between shots 
discussed with me fall campaigns. Those were glorious 
days, but they have gone, and so has Ned. He is now 
in Chicago. I wonder if he can sometimes steal away 
to the happy hunting grounds this side of paradise, where 
winged things are, but there are no angels. 
And thus it is. One day after another comes up, and 
after having been lived over is relegated to obscurity, 
there to remain until future occasion shall again call it 
forth. 
Gentle reader, have you ever been there? Does 
your day's hunt end with the setting of the sun? If so 
I think there is something sadly missing, for much that 
might be treasured is wasted, and there is lost to you 
one-half the real pleasure of a day afield. 
J. F. Leonard. 
' Atlantic, June, 1S9S. 
_ <ff&ini[at distort). 
The Story of a Coon, 
He was a homely little fellow when I first saw him. 
My foxhound found him in a large hollow chestnut tree 
in an open pasture about 300yds. from my house. His 
mother and two brothers or sisters were with him. The 
little coons were about the size of large rats and as 
blind as bats. I left them, thinking the old coon would 
take them away. On going to see the next morning, I 
found the old one and one young one gone, one little 
one lying dead on the ground, and another, the subject 
of my story, lying on his back at the bottom of the hole 
in the tree and just about dead. I took him home, put 
him in a warm place, and he revived. 
It was nearly a week before his eyes opened. I 
brought him up on a nursing bottle. As the days passed 
he grew very fast and lost the homeliness of his ex- 
treme youth. The way in which he would dispose of 
about half a pint of milk three times a day was a marvel. 
After about a month I weaned him from the nursing 
bottle and taught him to drink from a pan. He would 
always put both forepaws in the pan and bury his nose 
up to his eyes, and drink greedily as long as he could 
hold his breath; then throwing his nose in the air he 
would recover his breath and go at the milk again. Milk 
was his only food for some two months, but when he de- 
cided to change his diet he did it very suddenly. He 
drank his milk as usual one night; but the next morn- 
ing refused to touch it, and never afterward could be 
induced to put his nose in a pan of it. He then took 
to eating almost anything which had been cooked, but 
did not care 'much for either raw fish or meat, unless 
it was a very young chicken. 
As he grew larger he became very pretty, interesting 
and cunning. He was allowed to go where he chose, 
and would sleep under the piazza. He would follow me 
anywhere like a dog, and often long distances in the 
fields and on the roads. When getting behind out of 
sight, he would take my track, and when he could not 
find it he would call for me to come. Usually he 
made a soft sound, somewhat similar to the cry of a 
woodcock in the spring; but when he was real mad 
or hurt it sounded something like a tree-toad, only 
sharper and louder. 
He had a way of always putting anything given 
him to eat into his pan of water and poking it about 
in the water with his paws before eating it. My two 
dogs and he were great friends, the hound not taking 
much notice of him, but always friendly. With my 
pointer he was very sociable, getting on his head, pulling 
his ears and climbing all over him, all of which the 
pointer submitted to, and seemingty enjoyed. He was 
not at all gunshy, and when I was targeting a shotgun 
he would stay near me and follow me back and forth 
every time I went to look at the target. When I was 
sitting down anywhere near him he would come and go 
through my coat pockets very quickly, pulling every- 
