S22 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[April 27, igof^ 
i== — — ^ 
The Old West. 
Editor Forest and Stream: ' 
Thirty-five years ago the great plains west of the 
Missouri River were spread out as they lie to-day. 
Thirty-five years ago the grand mountains of the main 
range stood firm and unchangeable, watching and wait- 
ing, as we see them now. Yet in those thirty-five j'-ears 
an absolute transformation has taken place in the West- 
ern country. Then, wherever he journeyed, the traveler 
saw nature and nothing elsq. The rolling prairie 
swarmed with brown buffalo or was dotted by groups 
of red and white antelope, while along ravines and river 
valleys fed herds of elk and deer, and not far from the 
broken buttcs that rose here and there above the land 
grazed the mountain sheep ready at an instant's warn- 
ing to take refuge on the heights above. The conical 
lodges of Indian camps were seen by the streams, their 
hunting parties pursued the buffalo, and little companies 
of fierce warriors made war journeys against the camps 
of other tribes or swooped down without warning oil 
little parties of the white invaders. The fine thin line of 
iron was pushing its way east and west across the con- 
tinent, the first of the many lines that now gridiron it 
in all directions, and along this line here and there stood 
a white canvas tent, or a little sod house, pathetic in its 
loneliness. 
Thirty-five years ago there were scattered over this 
"Western countr}'', from the Missouri River to the Pacific 
coast and from Mexico to the ftarthest North, a 
thousand unconscious heroes who had pushed out into 
the wilderness far in advance of civilization, and here 
were living their lives, supporting themselves, loving 
their wives and their children, and passing to and fro 
over the land; each one of them as worthy a subject 
for song and story as otff heroes, Daniel Boone and 
David Crockett. 
Thirti''-five years have gone, and with the passing of 
each year the number of these early pioneers has grown 
smaller. Long since their sun has set, their day ended; 
there is no longer a place for them in the civilization 
of the West. The few that the years have left have 
hidden themselves in little valleys in the mountains, far 
from the towns and the railroads, trying to escape the 
new conditions which are so strange to them, and so 
painful. 
In the newspapers the other day I saw a statement 
that John Baker was dead at the Wyoming General 
Hospital in Cheyenne, and the item called up to my 
mind a hundred memories of the early West, for it was 
more than thirty years ago that, with a friend, as beard- 
less boy I camped for a time with John Baker and his 
friends on Henry's Fork of the Green River. 
It was my first introduction to the West, and certainly 
never was boy set down amid new surroundings which 
more strongly appealed to his imagination. There, near 
the beautiful stream, shaded by cottonwoods, now 
turning paler and slowly dropping their frondage, stood 
the j^ellow skin lodges of the little camp. Near by was 
a light corral made of crooked cottonwood poles; sad- 
dles and parfieches lay about the camp or hung on low 
branches of the trees; a few hides were pegged out 
drying on the ground; in the shade of the bushes hung 
circular beaver skins drying on their frames. The In- 
dian women worked and the little children plaved about 
the camp, while the men, John Baker, Ike Edwards, 
Phil Maas and Dick Sun, provided for their wants. Each 
man had a good bunch of horses. There were a few 
cows feeding in the valley, little regarded except for 
their milk — which, I remember well, always tasted 
strongly of the sage brush. 
In his way each of the four men was a type. John 
Baker was short and sturdy, and although he had only 
one leg, was absolutely at home on a horse. Instead of 
a stirrup on the side of his wooden leg, there was a 
block with a socket to hold its point. He was a wonder- 
ful rifle shot, and a most skillful trapper, so that he had 
earned the name "Beaver" from his success in their 
pursuit. 
Ike Edwards—a descendant of the great divine — was 
very different physically. Several inches over 6 feet in 
height, slim and straight as an Indian, with a keen, 
shrewd New England face, made longer by the goatee 
which he wore, he seemed to me the handsomest — and 
physically the most perfect — man I had ever seen. When 
astride his Indian pony of ordinary size, his long legs 
hung down until they swept the tops of the sage brush. 
Philip Maas was as tall as Edwards, but much broader. 
He was a Mexican, black-haired and beardel, but his 
English was marred by only the slightest of accent. 
Dick Sun was much younger than the other men, more 
jolly and far less dignified. He was entirely willing to 
talk to the open-mouthed guests of the wonders of the 
Rocky Mountain country, and of the things that he had 
seen, Th© othfr V^^^ were of more oW-fashioned type. 
They would answer a direct questlonj but as a rule were 
silent and did not discourse freely on general topics. 
Each morning soon after the sun was tip the men went 
out to visit their traps, and I usually accompanied John 
or Ike, and then first saw beaver and beaver trapping. 
Not a few fine furs were brought in to the camp while I 
stayed there. It was here, too, that I saw my first wild 
beaver in daylight. Sitting on the bank of a little 
stream in the bright antumn sunshine, I was pondering 
this wild life and its delights, when a wave in the water 
drew my attention, and a beaver was seen swimming 
just beneath the surface only a few feet from me. A 
quick shot through the head brought the little animal 
tol the surface, for it was a kitten weighing hardly 20 
pounds. Here, too, for the first time I slept in a lodge, 
wrapped in warm buffalo robes, and dreamily watched 
the fire die down and the lodge grow dark, until the only 
points of light to be seen were the stars that peeped in 
at the smoke hole. Here I learned to skin a beaver, 
and for the first time atC' beaver tail. Here, too, I re- 
ceived from my Indian hostesses the unvarying kindness 
and hospitality that the guest always received in an 
Indian camp. 
The days went by, and the time for my leaving drew 
near. In all the mental struggles of my life I can recall 
none so severe as to decide whether I should give up 
tlie East, 'Where I was born and had been reared, and 
where all my connections were, and settle down as a 
Western trapper, or should do what I felt was my duty 
and return to my home. Reluctantly I tore myself 
away, and from that day to this have seen none of those 
men; yet in a rough way T have kept in touch with them 
for many years, and even to the present time. 
A few years after my visit, Ike Edwards was lost in a 
winter storm. His dog came in. but his horse and he 
were never seen again. No doubt together their bones 
bleached in some little ravine whose Avaters poured into 
the Green River, and ere now have returned to Mother 
Earth. Now John Baker, too, is dead. 
Many years ago Dick Sun married Baker's daughter, 
whom I remember as a little girl twelve or fourteen years 
old, taking care of her younger sister in the camp. It 
was a love match and an elopment, so they said, and 
Dick took advantage of John's absence to load up a 
pack horse or two and start with the girl down Henry's 
Fork to go and get married. John had no objection to 
Dick as a son-in-law. but he thought his daughter too 
young to marry, and had said so with great positiveness. 
When he learned that the couple had fled, he saddled a 
fresh horse and set out to overtake them and bring back 
his daughter. The fleeing pair, encumbered by pack 
horses, could not travel rapidly, and at length, just as 
they were passing out of one of the beautiful parks in 
the valley of Henry's Fork. John emerged from the 
timber at the other end. Dick told the girl to hurry 
on with the pack horses, while he returned to argue the 
point with his prospective father-in-law. The park 
made a beautiful arena, and they circled about each 
other with all the grace and skill of perfect horseman- 
ship. John was positive on one side, and Dick on the 
other, and the older man took the first shot, but before 
the revolvers were emptj', a ball had passed through 
John's arm, luckily not breaking the bone, and he ac- 
knowledged ■ the force of Dick's logic and returned to 
camp, while the young couple went on their way and no 
doubt at last reached a parson. Such was the story of 
the elopement that came to us here in the East, 
Later the differences of opinion between his father-in- 
law and Dick were healed, and for many years -they 
have lived together on Snake River, Colo., where Dick 
is said now to be a prosperous cattleman. 
Philip Maas still lives, I believe, in this little settle- 
ment on Snake River, where two years ago old Jim 
Baker died. 
As I recall it, though I cannot feel sure about it. John 
Baker came to the mountains about 1839 or '40 with a 
party of trappers sent out by one of the early fur com- 
panies. With him were his brother Jim, James Bridger, 
Kit Carson, Jack Robinson and others, the party num- 
bering eight in all. They camped on Henry's Fork of 
the Green River, and it was not until some time after 
their arrival that old Fort Bridger was established. 
Uncle Jack Robinson, who died a great many years 
ago, was, as he has often told me. the man who found 
Friday — named for the day on which he was found — 
the Arapahoe baby, who was reared by the whites, 
sent back East, educated for a minister, and then re- 
turned to his tribe to civilize them. The process of 
civilization did not go very far. 
It was about Friday and the late Professor Marsh, of 
Yale, that a rather amusing story was told, which was 
printed some years ago in Forest and Stream. I cut 
it out and offer it here: ' 
"To his intimates the late Professor Marsh was known ' 
not only as a scientific man of great ability and world- 
wide reputation, but also as a delightful companion, 
quick and witty, with a keen appreciation of humor, and 
a narrator of capital stories. One of these, which he 
used to tell of himself vnth great effect, dealt with a 
small adventure had many years ago in the Rocky 
Mountains. 
^ "The first month or two of the trip had been spent on 
the plains of Nebraska and Wyoming, at that time the 
hunting ground of Sioux and Cheyennes, who were 
bitterly hostile, and signs of whose presence near the 
command were often seen. The whole party- realized 
that they were in a dangerous country, and all hands 
were constantly on the watch for enemies -and were care- 
ful not to wander far from the command; or, if 'two or 
three fossil gatherers did go off from the main body, 
they took with them a number of soldters to stand guard 
while they worked. After leaving this dangerous region 
the expedition moved on to the bad lands near Fort 
Bridger, where there were but few Indians, and those 
friendly ones, and the work of gathering fossils went on. 
"One day Professor Marsh was hard at work on his 
knees in the bottom of the narrow ravine, digging away 
the soil fi-om a bone which stuck out of the bank. He 
was entirely absorbed in his task, and noticed nothing of 
what was going on about him, until the brilliant sim- 
light which poured down on him was cut off by a dark 
shadow, and he looked up to see standing above him 
a great grim Indian warrior, holding his rifle at a ready. 
The Professor's heart leaped into his throat. He forgot 
where he was. He strove to utter a propitiatory 'How,' 
but his dry lips refused to form the word, and he could 
only swallow trying to get rid of the lump in his throat. 
Suddenly the savage bent toward him and spoke: 'Have 
I the honor of addressing Professor Othneil Charles 
Marsh, the eminent paleontologist of Yale College?' he 
inquired. The revulsion of feeling was almost too much 
for the Professor, who was now even less able to speak 
than he had been before. 
"It developed that the Indian, as a small boy, had been 
sent East, Christianized, educated, taught the elements 
of theology, and sent back to the West to civilize his 
tribe; but he had not carried the civilization very far." 
I could ramble on, sir, through a number of your 
columns, telling a story which would have neither be- 
ginning, end nor middle; just a lot of recollections of 
those old times, which I call good; but let this suffice. 
Yo. 
Sailing Amid the Peaks and Clouds 
of British Columbia, 
In Two Parts.— Part II. 
If one does not want to return to Golden, a nice trip 
can be taken from Windemere to Fort Steele, and thea 
to Fort Steele Junction on the Crow's Nest Pass divi- 
sion of the C. P. R. This takes one through a beauti- 
ful country and one where the chances for sport are 
excellent. However, we did not want to leave the 
-Duchess, so elected to return down the river. The morn- 
ing we left Windemere we were up betimes, and a beauti- 
ful sight rewarded us. The sun was just showing his 
hery face over the crests of the Rocky Mountains, driv- 
ing before him the light fleecy clouds that had hung 
low on the mountain tops, and causing the mists to rise 
from the valley. 
On the surface of the crystal lake was reflected the 
mountains, clouds and trees in such a manner that it was 
like gazmg at another original, only softened and beai*- 
tifted. Darting rays of light flew across the lake and 
touched with a golden gleam the distant shore. The 
camera made a vain attempt to catch some of these fleet- 
mg beauties, but, alas, the attempt was but that. 
The return trip was very enjoyable, as it enabled us 
to see what we had missed in the darkness. A camp of 
two or three weeks at Windemere would give one an 
opportunity to see more of this mountain paradise, and 
there are some very fine mineral (hot water) springs 
where nature cures "many ills that flesh is heir to." 
From Golden and our trip through the peaks and 
clouds of this section we pass on into the Sclkirks. 
Again we musf refer the reader to the back files for a 
description of this ever memorable ride. We will only 
say it is just as grand and satisfying as ever, if not more 
so. It really seems to improve on acquaintance. 
At Revelstoke we find that great improvements have 
been made in six years, and the one that appealed to us 
most was the new hotel of the C. P. R., very near the 
depot, and managed in a way that makes one feel con- 
tent to remain a while in Revelstoke. 
We are now ready for another sail, but instead of 
taking the steamer right at Revelstoke, as in the past, 
wc take the train down to Arrowhead, twenty-eight miles, 
and here we board a fine new boat, the Rossland. A 
change had also been made here since our last visit. 
At that time the steamers were run by an outside com- 
pany. Now they are part of the great C. P. R. system. 
The boats now running down the Columbia and through 
the Arrow Lakes are as fine steamers as one would 
wish for; they are large, with every modern convenience, 
electric lights, steam heat and in fact all that makes 
travel a luxury. Another new feature was the fine hotel 
at the Halcyon Hot Springs, one hour's sail from 
Arrowhead. Here on the mountain side, overlooking 
Upper Arrow Lake, is a fine sanitarium, where many go 
to be treated for rheumatic and other pains. The quan- 
tity of lithium in these waters is very large and exceeds 
many much advertised foreign resorts. This is a beauti- 
ful spot to visit, and there are a good many advantages 
for the sportsman. Back of the Halcyon in the moun- 
tains, round Trout Lake and from Lardeau, has been a 
good country for goats and some caribou. It is a very 
rough country, and we would not advise any very deli^ 
cate person to attempt to explore it. But any invalid 
able to travel at all can reach the Halcyon," 
