Jam. 21, 1899.I 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
43 
— ^these fellows know the country and you- and I don't, 
see?" 
■'Yep, 'less g'won 'n' git to where we'i-e goin' then, cos 
th' sun ain't any too high to drive seven miles 'n' git into 
camp decent." 
We careened and jolted down the strip of yellow sand, 
sometimes with a deep gully perilously near one side of 
the road, sometimes with good traveling under us, but 
always with the brake grinding against the wheels and 
the bronchos bracing back against the stout harness until 
we rolled out on the level flat and on down to the sandy 
stream, across it and up the valley of the other until we 
were opposite Farmer's ranch. 
Here it was necessary to ford the Middle Loup, one of 
the worst quicksand riA^ers in the West. 
"I expect we'll get down in the sand here with the out- 
fit, sure," I remarked; "never crossed this river when I 
didn't, so we would better get into shape to work quickly 
if we do." 
The boy looked at me with a quick side glance that he 
had a habit of using, and said: "Humph. That's a nice 
layout, I reckon. What yeh goin' to do to buck quicksand 
anyhow ?" 
"Well, about the first thing is to be ready to jump 
overboard right suddenly if the horses go down, and get 
them loose from the wagon and loose from each other so 
they can flounder across. The water isn't very deep, and 
if a broncho is free to flounder around all he wants to, you 
won't see him mire down so he can't get out. We'd better 
get off our shoes and surplus clothing and get the picket 
ropes and tow line ready for business. Better fasten a 
picket rope to each horse's neck and bring the coil back 
into the wagon, because these horses of ours would be 
pretty hard to get hold of if they got loose in this 
country." 
Everything was soon in readiness for the crossing, and 
we drove out into the current of the stream. All went 
well until we were in mid-stream, then the horses struck 
the quicksand, and after a couple of ineffectual floundering 
leaps they were both fast down in the sand, until the 
water lapped over their backs as they lay mired there in 
the current. 
"Now, out you go, partner," I said. "Get your horse 
loose from the traces and loose from the other horse. I'll 
attend to this side. They won't move for a minute or two, 
but when they begin to throw their heads up, look out, for 
they'll jump in a moment more. Get hold of your horse's 
rope and let him go to the bank after his own fashion, but 
stay with him. You must keep moving as you work or 
you'll go down too." 
We were both in the water and working swiftly while I 
talked, loosening the traces and the snaps that held the 
neck yoke and lines to the harness. 
"Look out now ! Your horse is going to get up — get 
away from him!" I shouted, as I saw signs of movement 
on the boy's side. 
The horse floundered to his feet, went down, plunged up 
and ahead again, and kept going until he reached the 
bank, where he stood dripping and quiet, with the boy safe 
by his side. 
My horse rested a little longer, and then he too got 
up, only to get down worse than ever, but he was a range 
horse, and had been through this same experience before, 
so he kept quiet a few minutes and then began to roll, 
going entirely under water and over on his other side, 
where he jumped to his feet, plunged forward, and was 
down again. 
Trying to drive a horse under such circumstances will 
only result in disaster, but if left to take their own time 
they will come out all right, so I kept moving about and 
let the horse work out his own salvation, and in a few 
minutes he, too, stood panting and wet beside the other 
on the bank, none the worse for wear. 
"Now you take care of the team and I'll get the neck 
yoke and double trees, so we can tow the wagon out," I 
said to the boy, as I waded back after these two much 
needed articles that were still in mid-stream on the 
slowly sinking wagon. 
"Now hitch them up and fasten the two picket lines to 
the double tree," I said, as I went back again after a heavy 
line, which we had brought along for just such scrapes, 
and I soon had it fast to the doubled picket lines and to 
the end of the wagon tongue. 
"Now when you are ready drive straight back away 
from the river so you will pull the wagon across, and I'll 
stay here to keep' the tongue up and steer the ship," I 
called to the boy as I got back to the wagon again. 
"AH right; ready?" he asked. 
"Yes, go ahead." 
The wiry little team put a strain on the rope, then got 
down close to the ground and pulled like majors. The 
wagon heaved upward out of the sand and then rolled 
and swayed across the current like a ship at sea, as the 
wheels sunk into the soft spots in the bottom, and were 
pulled on out again, and at last the outfit rolled up the 
bank and came to a stop on the solid ground. 
"Say, gee," said the boy, ''I'd never 'a' thought o' that 
way o' gettin' out o' th' sand !" 
"That is a trick I saw worked a long time ago,_my 
boy, by an outfit right down on the South Loup. It isn't 
very elegant, but you notice it works, as all the other 
little things work out here, where men have to take care 
of themselves." 
"They's always' a way to do everything most if yeh juss 
know how, but th' trick of it is learnin', ain't it?" said the 
bov El Comancho. 
''Blank Days/^ 
Who does not know them? They are as common as 
mosquitoes in summer, or as snow in winter in the 
Klondike region. 
In proof of this, let imagination take us to old 
Ireland. You have bought a gun — the latest thing in 
hammerless choke bores, with ammunition requiring but 
the one practical test to which you wish to put it. You 
must needs go to try it in the best bit of Irish sporting- 
country. Your pet setters are brought out with pride 
by the keepers; you start; and carefully beat every inch 
of ground from morn till eve. Snipe bogs, where in 
your boyhood's happy days snipe were "jostling each 
other," are now without a feather. On highlands too 
partridges are found to be "improved" off the face of 
the earth by the "Land Improvement Act" of the Gov- 
ernment, or by the lawless act of the individual. There 
is, happily, always an excuse for a "blank day" — wind, 
weather or other circumstance. The fact of the "blank 
day" remains. You return home with sad reflection— 
your gun untested, your temper sorely tried. 
Again, you have replenished your somewhat slender 
purse and bought a well-trained hunter at the Dublin 
horse show. You have honored (?) your London tailor 
— whose account, by the way, has not been quite set- 
tled — by ordering a new hunting coat. Your boots 
and breeches are perfection; your mount seems fit and 
eager to go; you are spoiling for a run. With a just 
feeling of pride in your whole "get-up,'[ you ride in 
and out among friends at the meet, chatting pleasantly 
r 
THE tRtSH .SPORTSMAN IN MANITOBA. 
the while. But not so pleasantly do you trot from 
cover to cover, each in succession being drawn blank; 
nor do you, with the morning's satisfaction, jog slowly 
home at evening with thoughts of another "blank day" 
to add to the list of such days, now growing large, and 
with the idea, however ill-founded, that your new hunter 
is "throwing out" a splint on the near foreleg — a re- 
sult of excessive road riding from cover to cover. The 
only apparent satisfaction, in the absence of sport — the 
ever present excuse, "fox earths have not been properly- 
stopped." "there has been a nasty east wind," "no 
southerly wind and cloudy sky," and "better luck next 
time," is ever ready to our lips, if it comes not from the 
heart. 
To convey the gentle reader from old Ireland to North 
America, even here, in this land of game and game 
THE IRISH SPORTSMAN JN CANADA, 
laws, particularly the latter, have we not "blank days"? 
It was my pleasure and privilege a few weeks ago, 
when on an Atlantic voyage to New York in one of 
the Cunard steamships, to make the acquaintance of a 
representative Irishman, a keen sportsman and a good 
soldier of a crack regiment of the Imperial Army. He 
has an enviable record both in the sporting field and 
in his regiment. He has shot niore game probably than 
any man alive. He is as much at hoine in pig sticking 
and tiger hunting in India as he is in leading his county 
hounds in Ireland. He is never without a mount at the 
principal garris.on and other British steeplechases, and 
his colors may often be seen passing the winning post 
well to the front. With this record, like many others of 
his race, with an insatiable thirst for gore, for "more 
worlds to conquer," there are, it appears, two niches in 
his ancestral hall yet to be filled>; and these, he resolves, 
must be filled — one with tlle. Jhead and horns of a 
wapiti, the other with that of a caribou. 
How often had he looked at these empty niches? 
How often had he resolved to go west and bay the 
eagerly looked for quarry. . InA'^ariably something inter- 
fered — a book to be made for the Derby, or military 
duty required him to go east to one of England's 
^'little wars." At last (even that at last was slow in 
coniing), at last he started, though in a slate n\ uncer- 
tainty wlietlier to pull up in Manitoba in search of 
wapiti or at Newmarket, there to complete lli.s book 
on the races. Suddenly, however, in his reverie, he 
was "pulled up" by a fall of the horse of the Irish 
car in which he was driving through "dear, dirty 
Dublin," with the resvilt a pair of broken shafts and 
escape of a broken head — all which served to re- 
mind him of the "shortness and uncertainty of life," and 
that if a wapiti or caribou were to be bagged, no time 
must be lost. With this final resolve, and a telegram 
to his next of kin respecting the disposal of his will, 
he bent his steps to Liverpool, instead of Newmarket, 
and the good ship Etruria speedily conveyed him to 
New York, not without some misgivings, for he was 
knocked about like a football in a forward cabin in a 
stormy winter voyage. Of one thing, however, he felt 
perfectly confident, viz.. of the exact spot, ui caribou or 
wapiti, in which he meant to place the expanding bldlet 
of his double express rifle. 
Time and swift trains brought him within measurable 
distance of the happy hunting grounds in Manitoba; 
kind friends fitted him out for the chase, with food 
and raiment. A young farmer brought him on a rough 
cotmtry sled to the hunting grounds. Here the plan 
of campaign was strictly carried out. Here day by day 
and hour by hour every available likely spot was tried 
in vain. In vain the brand new field glasses scanned 
every covert. These were "blank days" — undeniably 
"blank days." However, ther,e is an excuse: "It's too 
early in the season for wapiti." He must go East and 
accept my invitation for caribou hunting. Here at least 
in eastern Canada he will surely be able to get the exact 
head and horns to fill one niche in the ancestral hall. He 
bids a fond farewell to Manitoba, and eastern Canada 
is reached in safety. There is the usual preparation for 
the start for green woods and barrens; the usual antici- 
pation of "lots of sport"; one of New Brunswick's best 
guides is secured — New Brunswick's best hunting 
ground selected. 
There is just sufficient sno-iw oti the ground for still- 
hunting. Caribou are reported plentiful. While en 
route a fine specimen of male caribou with horns was 
shown, shot by a neighboring farmer. It would suit 
well the niche referred to. But we must beat the 
record. On moves the hunting party. There is a per- 
ceptible fall in the barometer, but no perceptible diminu- 
tion of zeal on the part of our keeji Irish sportsman. 
Rain sets in, but even this does not dampen his ardor. 
He has ere this experienced rain in western Ireland. 
The snow disappears, and is succeeded by slu.sh and mud. 
It matters little whether 3'ou wear cowhide lanergans 
or moosehide moccasins, deeper and deeper sink your 
feet in muck and mire. 
It matters little whether you try woodlands or bar- 
rens, the Darrens are barren, the woodlands are badly 
"mixed." Each day ends in one winding "blank." 
Ardor and zeal, being sorely tested, fly to the winds; 
the soldier, the sportsman, "the believer in "making a 
record," returns to the roof-tree of his family. The 
niches still remain with open arms for head and horns 
of wapiti or caribou. Another lesson has been taught 
in this "history of a failure," "some days must be blank." 
Mic Mac. 
Fredericton, New Brunswick. 
In Canadian Woods. 
(Concluded from page 25.) 
At 4:30 A. M. we were up and preparing to start. We 
abandoned most of the provisions we had worked so hard 
to get up, taking with us barely a sulficient supply for 
two days, for now we had another canoe to carry. We 
had to go back two miles of our upward route and then 
turn directly into the woods where there was no path at 
all. On the way the men saw a caribou, a fine one, the 
first seen on our trip, although tracks had been plentiful, 
but just then the rifle was not come-at-able. It was just 
as well, for we should not have shot him anyway, since 
we could neither eat nor carry him. While we were 
struggling through bushes and twisting around trees, Eu- 
gene became discouraged again and snappi.shly asked 
Simeon where the deuce we were going. The reply was : 
"N'importe. On suit Pierre Kiolet." (No matter. We 
are following Pierre Kiolet, ) The words used, "n'im- 
porte," meant "no matter," but Simeon's tone meant "that 
is none of your business." He knew that by following 
Pierre we should find the place we were looking for. And 
so we did. An hour or so in the woods and we struck 
what Pien-e said was Rivard's portage road. It seemed 
a very small road to strike, but there was a visible path, 
and by following it we reached our first objective point, 
the Bostonnais River, about three miles above its mouth. 
Here, just as it began to rain, we embarked and worked 
our way up the stream, making several short portages 
past shallow rapids and crossing three widenings of the 
river sufficiently large to be known as lakes. We took our 
dinner at a small logging camp, so dirty and ill-smelling 
that we preferred to eat outside in spite of the rain. We 
waited till the worst of one heavy shower was over and 
then started again, Pierre assuring tis that there would be 
no more portages until we reached the long one that would 
bring us to Lake Travers, which lake he promised we 
should reach before dark. I had my doubts, having been 
over the route once, but we went on, and a little past the 
middle of the afternoon reached the head of the fifth and 
last lake, landing on a muddy shore, with plenty of fresh 
moose tracks all about. I forgot to say that near where we 
struck Rivard's road we had seen the track of a red deer,, 
not very far from where I had seen one in the snow win- 
ter before last. Pierre told me that the red deer is gradu- 
ally pushing eastward. At present they are not plentiful 
far east of the Ottawa River, are rare east of the St. 
Maurice and almost unknown in the region of the Batis- 
can. 
There was no delay at this landing. It vi^as still raining 
hard, and we wanted to push on, so each man promptly 
picked up his load and started, Pierre and I leading, as 
usual. He had repeartedly told us, "Il-y-aun cliemin" 
(there is a road), but when we come to it we found that 
his "chemin" was only a track that he himself had blazed 
when trapping, two j^ears before. There was no -road or 
path or sign of any, but only blazed trees enough for a 
