FOREST AND STREAM. 
{ July 23, 1898. 
7ff ^pvrteitfm fflonrist 
The Poacher's Victim. 
Through thickest glade on early morn 
Of* June a trapper sought his trail. 
But, oh! what scene of mis'ry born, 
What piteous, bleating, moaning wail! 
Dark pines and hemlocks spread a gloom 
Of shadows brooding o'er the scene; 
A fit abode for bloody doom 
As e'er that woodman's eyes had seen. 
On mossy bed, beside a brook, 
Lay dead a doe with trickling wound, 
While from her breast her suckling took 
The last of mother-milk it found. 
What wretch was he who fouled his soul 
With dastard deed as vile as this? 
Cursed poacher! May, like burning coal, 
Ten thousand doe-eyes glare at his! 
Ernst Held. 
In Fur Trade Days* 
Not far from my ranch, in a neat little cabin, built by 
the shore of a mountain lake, Jives an old-timer, Joe 
Brown by name. He entered the service of the Hudson 
Bay Co. in 1851, when only a lad, and continued in its 
service for twenty years and more. Then, concluding 
that he had eaten enough of their pemmican and whitefish 
to last him the rest of his life, he struck out on his own 
hook trapping and prospecting, and visited in turn the 
gold fields of British Columbia, Oregon, California and 
Idaho, coming finally to Montana and the little cabin by 
the lake. 
Joe is now a little more than sixty years of age, but I 
wish I was as young as he, although I lack more than 
twenty years of that. He climbs the steepest mountains 
with perfect ease; will ride fifty miles in a short winter's 
day and dance that night as long as any one. Or, if 
necessary, he will play the fiddle while the others dance. 
He seems to have mastered everything pertaining to 
the life of a mountaineer and plainsman. He is an un- 
erring shot, a splendid roper, rider and packer; can build 
a house or a canoe; work a placer bar or a quartz vein; 
make and use traps and nets, toboggans and snowshoes; 
train and drive a team of dogs, and cook. You should 
sample one of his famous elk stews or fish chowders! 
Joe is not a taciturn man by any means; still he isn't 
given to talking about the many adventures he has had. 
Occasionally, under the mellowing influence of a glass 
or two of hot rum— the real old Hudson Bay Co. drink — 
he will give a friend a glimpse of life in the old times, 
and it was under such circumstances that I got the fol- 
lowing from him: 
In 1858, he said, I was stationed at Fort Edmondton. 
Our factor was a man named Hardestie, a hard old 
Scotchman; gruff, rough and abusive, and withal a bit 
of a coward. Our main trade at that point was with the 
Crees and other northern Indians, although we were oc- 
casionally visited by the different tribes of the Black- 
feet and by their allies, the Gros Ventres and Sarcees, 
who often came long distances, from the Missouri River 
and beyond, to barter their furs with us. The Crees and 
Blackfeet were deadly enemies; always at war with each 
other, with the odds in favor of the latter. Early in 
July of that year a war party of Crees started south on 
the war path and ran across a large camp of Bloods* 
on the Belly River. Immense herds of their horses were 
grazing on the hills a mile or more from their camp, 
arid the Crees boldly rounded tip a bunch and started 
off with them. But the Bloods were never to be caught 
napping; they always kept a number of horses picketed 
near their ledges, their best ones too, and the Crees 
hadn't got out of sight over the brow of the hills before 
the Bloods were right after them. The result was that 
most of the Crees were killed and not a few of the Bloods. 
Among the slain Crees one man was found who, while 
dressed like his companions in typical Indian custom, 
was evidently a French half-breed; some indeed remem- 
bered having seen him at Mountain Fort, the next post 
west of Edmondton. War was immediately declared on 
the Hudson Bay Co. If they sent their employees to 
steal the Blood horses they would be taught a lesson. 
So it wasn't very long after this fight that the inmates 
of the Mountain Fort awoke one night to find their place 
on fire and surrounded by Indians calling on them to 
come out and fight. But like most all of the Hudson 
Bay stations this fort was bounded on one side by a 
river, the Saskatchewan, a couple of batteaux were 
moored under the bank, and hastily embarking in these 
the factor and his employees, their wives and children, 
quietly floated down the river under the shelter of the 
high-cut bank, and reached the Cree camp safely next 
day. The fort was burned to the ground with, all its 
contents, but the loss was not so great as it would have 
been a month or two earlier or later, for the winter's col- 
lection of furs had been shipped down the river, and the 
goods for the next season's trade had not arrived. 
When Hardestie heard of the burning of the fort, he 
was scared. He said that it was but the beginning of 
their devilment; that the Bloods would send for then- 
kindred tribes and destroy ever^ post from the Rockies 
to Lake Winnipeg. We must make peace with them, he 
declared, if it took every dollar's worth of goods in the 
fort. An old fellow named Bird, who was married to 
a Blackfoot woman, offered to bring the Bloods in for 
a council, and started off with two pack-horse loads of 
tobacco, rum, powder and ball as an opening gift to 
the chiefs. He had no difficulty in finding their camp, 
which was only a few days' ride to the south, and in 
due time returned with the chiefs and about fifty of their 
leading warriors. We lost no time in ferrying them 
across the river to the fort, the small gate was opened, 
and as each one stepped into the stockade he handed his 
■arms through the window of the trade room, where an 
employee stood to receive them. . ' . ... 
The council lasted two days, during which the chieis 
were kept liberally supplied with rum,- and all of them 
* A tribe of the Blackfeet. 
were well fed. Hardestie gave them a large number of 
presents, and the morning of the third day, having 
buried the hatchet, as the saying is, they prepared to re- 
turn to their camp. I was detailed to ferry them across 
to the south shore, and had taken over two boat loads, 
and was midway across with the third and last, when the 
Crees, who it sterns had been hiding in the brush 
waiting for them, opened fire, and an awful fight took 
place. As soon as I saw what was up I turned the boat 
and put back for the fort, but for a few minutes I never 
expected to reach it. Some of the Bloods in the boat 
with me declared that this was simply a Hudson Bay 
Co. plot to get them into a trap so the Crees could kill 
them. One big fellow began priming his gun, saying, 
"If we've got to die we will have one white man any- 
how," and when he said that a couple of young bucks 
drew their knives and started for me. Luckily for me 
though, the head chief. Ancient Sun, was in the boat, and 
he ordered them to leave me alone, saying he would 
brain the first one who disobeyed him. Well, we finally 
got back to shore, and I rushed up to the gate and 
shouted to have it opened. "No, no!" I heard Hardestie 
yell, "don't unbar that gate. This is only a ruse, I 
know. If we open the gate they will murder us all." 
Maybe I wasn't mad when I heard him say that. But 
the bullets were beginning to fly around us, and we lost 
no time in taking to the brush. I don't know where the 
Bloods went. I cached myself under a fallen tree top 
not far from the fort. The shooting didn't last long, and 
after everything became quiet I went back to the stock- 
ade and they let me in. Along in the afternoon three 
or four of us ventured across the river and found eigh- 
teen dead Bloods lying around in the brush, everyone of 
them scalped and hacked to pieces. We dug a long, deep 
trench and buried them all together. 
After this unfortunate end to our council of peace we 
scarcely ventured from the fort, and kept a guard on all 
night. But somehow there was no attack. Our fort 
was well built, with bastions at the corners mounted 
with small cannon, and probably it was these "heavy- 
voiced guns," as the Bloods called them, that deterred 
them from assaulting us. But the poor Crees suffered. 
The whole Blackfeet tribe immediately made war upon 
them; they hadn't a single horse left in two weeks, and 
lacking transportation could not move out to the buffalo, 
which had drifted away to the southeast some fifty miles 
or more, and had we not loaned them our little herd they 
must have starved. 
Communication between the different posts was kept 
up in those days by a monthly mail service, on horse- 
back in summer, by dog sledge in winter, but for some 
time after the massacre of the Bloods at our post no 
messenger arrived. As the days slipped by after the 
carrier was due Hardestie began to get uneasy, and 
finally he called the men up one morning and said that 
some of us must start right away for Fort Pitt, about 
200 miles to the east. None of the men volunteering, I 
finally said I would go, provided I could choose my 
horse. 
"Why of course," said Hardestie. "Take your pick, 
Joe, and I'll send young Baptiste with you to keep you 
company." 
"No you won't," I replied. "If I'm going on this 
trip I'm going alone. It's easier for one to sneak along 
and keep hidden than it is for two. And as to the horses, 
I'll ride your black horse and pack my bay." 
Next morning I started, riding Hardestie's black, a 
powerful, swift animal, and packing the mail, my bedding 
and a little food on my bay, which was almost as good. 
I made up my mind to keep off the trail altogether. The 
country for the first part of the way was fairly well 
wooded, and I rode about a mile to the left of it. The 
afternoon of the second day I approached a large prairie 
ten Or twelve miles wide. I hated to go around it, and 
studied some time whether to attempt it or not. I 
finally concluded to take the safest route, and made a 
vvSde detour to the left. As evening approached I 
hurried along, in order to reach a little lake I knew of on 
the edge of the prairie. It was almost dark when I got 
to it, and hurriedly unpacking I hobbled the bay and 
picketed the black horse just outside of the brush which 
grew along the shore. I thought it would be safe to light 
a little fire here, as the brush would screen the light, and 
anyhow there was a high bank about SO or 60yds. back, 
where the prairie abruptly terminated. 
After drinking my pot of tea and eating some pemmican 
I made my bed and went to sleep. Just about daylight 
I was awakened by hearing my bay horse snorting and 
jumping. *I grabbed my gun and jumped out of bed, 
and there, standing on the bank looking down at me, 
were fifty or sixty Indians, a war party afoot. They gave 
a yell of delight, and in a minute were all around me. 
It didn't take them long to go through my outfit, each one 
taking what he could lay his hands on. They not only 
took my gun, but one fellow grabbed up my coat, another 
my trousers and moccasins, my hat, and a great big, 
strapping fellow tore the shirt off my back; so the only 
clothing I had left was my drawers. I could under- 
stand enough of the Blackfoot language to know that 
most of them were in favor of killing me, and they had 
quite a wrangle about it. I made up my mind that my 
time had surely come. While the talk was going on 
an Indian I knew a little, Berry Child by name, said to 
me: "Don't you be afraid, they are bound to take 
everything you have, but they will not kill you. We will 
not let them." I felt a little encouraged when he said 
that; still whenever some fellow danced around in front 
of me, singing, yelling, pointing his gun at me or 
brandishing his knife in my face, I would think again 
that this was to be the end. Well, after they had ap- 
parently had enough fun, a big surly Blood named Little 
Otter stepped up, took hold of my shoulders, and say- 
ing "Go, go back to your home," game me a rousing 
kick that sent me sprawling. You can imagine how I 
felt To be kicked, and by a dirty Indian, made me 
almost choke, I was so mad. I wished I had a knife 
or even a club, I would have turned on him. But I 
got up and walked off, never looking back, although 
I wanted to, and I expected every minute to be struck 
by a bullet or an arrow. . . 
The prairie had been burned that year, which made 
the old grass sprouts short, stiff and sharp, and it wasn't 
long before my feet began to bleed and swell. I tore up 
my drawers— they were pretty thin— and wound them 
around my feet as well as I could, but they would keep 
slipping and wearing, and the seconci day were all used 
up. I got mighty hungry too. I jdid come across a 
few bushes of service berries, and that was all I had to 
eat. There was plenty of water though, and every little 
ways I would stop and bathe my feet. Well, you can 
bet I suffered. Naked and cold, hungry and sore, along 
toward the last I just stumbled along, and about 2 o'clock 
on the fourth day I reached the shorei of the river in front 
of the fort, and shouted. I couldn't fehout very loud, but 
they heard me, and pretty soon some of the boys came 
over and took me in. The first thing Hardestie said 
when he saw me was, "What's happened? Where's that 
mail?" 
"Curse your mail," said I, "give me a pint of rum 
and something to eat," and I wouldn't tell him a thing 
just then. In fact I was too weak to talk. 
The next spring the Bloods sent word to Hardestie 
that they wanted to make peace, and in a few days 
the whole tribe arrived and pitched their lodges close 
to the fort. A day or two after the council I was sitting 
in my room when the door opened land in walked Little 
Otter dragging a rawhide rope. The other end of it 
was tied to a fine big horse, which he brought to me 
as a peace offering. I felt like reaching down my gun 
and killing him, but of course I didn't. I accepted the 
present, shook hands with him, and we smoked the pipe 
together and had a little something to eat and drink. 
1 may as well finish by telling you that in less than two 
weeks the horse was stolen and by this same Little Otter. 
J. W. Schultz. 
Fishing on the Fourth, 
Four of us agreed that the war could proceed without 
our able criticism, so concluded to spend the glorious 
Fourth in the mountains. You are "in the mountains" 
anywhere in East Tennessee, but to the native, or deni- 
zen, there are degrees. We took the highest degree, go- 
ing right into the heart of a spur range of the Great 
Smokies, to try for bass in the upper waters of Little 
River. 
The distance — twenty-five miles — was driven between 
2 and 5 o'clock on the hottest day recorded this sum- 
mer, July 2. Our party was odd one man, made ill by 
the intense heat, so we were only three. The General, 
title genuine and achieved; Old Rex, the kindest gen- 
tleman alive, and called "Old" as a matter of affection 
by his many friends, and the writer. 
We reached our destination in time to make a few 
casts Saturday evening, but only the General scored. A 
kind native agreed to put us up during our stay. We 
were in one of the mountain coves — small enclosed 
valleys — with the dark green timbered mountains shutting 
us in apparently on all sides. The crooked river winding 
around the rugged hills and steep bluffs seemed to end 
abruptly 50yds. up or down as you stood on the bank. 
The Sabbath day found us totally relaxed, and inclined 
to no greater exertion than lying in the shade of a grand 
old sycamore listening to the music of the waters playing 
on the shoal. We were surrounded by nature's grandest 
effects, but overtaxed bodies and minds demanded re- 
laxation and perfect rest. 
We were but a few moments' walk from an historical 
edifice— the first Baptist Church built in the State, now 
more than 100 years old; and with the added sanctity of 
having rung with 'the eloquence of the famous "Par- 
son" Brownlow in the dark days of the "sixties," when 
he was often fleeing, but ever voicing defiance. But 
believing and realizing the words of Bryant: 
"To him who in the love of nature holds 
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks 
A various language," 
in sweet contentment we dreamed away the day. Bright 
and very early Monday morning, the Fourth, we went 
fishing. Rested, enthused and sanguine, we were all 
jolly as "sand boys" as we drove over the mountain to 
strike the river three miles up, where we had engaged to 
meet our man with minnows and begin to fish down. 
Wading was the only way to fish successfully. The 
General and Rex were rigged out in old suits each, to 
take the water just as the exigencies of the occasion 
required; while I was in wading boots and intended to 
keep a discreet distance from the deep holes. 
The General again scored first, taking a J41b. bass on 
150ft. of line that he had run out with the current, and 
firmly believing that he had a record breaker. 
The mountains rose almost perpendicular on each side 
of the river, and the cool morning air was laden with 
the smell of the fresh spruce and pine. The swift cur- 
rent flowing over the slick rocks and boulders of the 
river bed made it a very difficult task for me to navi- 
gate the stream at all. Every few steps I would slip, 
roll, pitch, and grab handfuls of air, while my com- 
panions snouted with laughter. One-half mile of this 
work satisfied me and I waded out, intending to seek a 
deep pool that could be fished from "terra firma." 
I had riot caught a fish, and felt as though I had run 
a hurdle race handicapped. I had the satisfaction of 
seeing the General properly punished for laughing at 
my misfortunes before leaving them. Just as I had ar~ 
rived at the water's edge in safety, the swift current 
caught his feet on a shoal, sliding them from under him, 
and shot him into the deep hole below with a force that 
sent him to the bottom, and kept him there several 
seconds. 
He had to dive twice before he recovered his rod, and 
run a quarter of a mile down the bank before he over- 
took his new cork helmet; and his language was neitheT 
polite nor patriotic. 
I che'ered him vigorously from start to finish of his per- 
formance; but when he came back up the river's edge 
on my side, with his arm drawn back at half-cock and 
holding a big chunk of water-logged rotten wood in his 
hand, it occurred to me that there was a much better 
place for bank fishing about a mile further down, so 
gathered up my tackle and quietly slipped back to the 
road, while he trudged on up the bank peering care- 
fully into each opening. My destination was the mouth 
of a creek where the -water was deep and very accessible 
from the point of land between creek and river. Here, 
with a good smooth log to sit on, and a current to carry 
my bait where it looked likely it would do the most 
