182 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[March 8, 1902, 
The Toter's Gun. 
"She's pooty good o' gon yet, anyway. Maybe I keel 
heem one bock some day bimeby." 
"Got any ammunition, Pete?" asked a young and ten- 
der sportsman who stood beside the jumper, his new 
woven cartridge belt bristling with the deadly .30-30. 
"Oui, I got heem in my pawket," and old Pete, the 
toter, shoved a grimy hand in the pocket of his sawed-off 
trousers and dug up a highly polished .38-40 cartridge. 
"Maybe I see one to-day, maybe so; maybe pas d'un 
bock to-night.'' And Pete gravely returned his ammuni- 
tion to his pocket where he deftly exchanged it for a 
piece of spear-head. He weighed the tobacco mentally 
with one eye closed and bit off just enough to leave two 
chews for the trail and one for the river crossing. Then 
Pete took his archaic weapon, tied it carefully on the 
stakes of his jumper, and prepared to hit the trail. The 
rifle was an 1873 model, full magazine and full stock, 
rusted outside, and the top slide and butt-plate were 
missing. 
"Aren't you afraid it will blow back and hurt you 
some day?" asked the "sport." 
"Sapre non, not dis gon. He shoots out by dis end," 
said Pete, placing his finger argumentatively on the muz- 
zle of his rusty rifle. 
"By gar, I guess maybe I sleep hout on trail to-night," 
he added. "Gee dap, you new hoss. What you know 
'bout jumpers?" Then the toter, balancing himself on a 
thin rope stretched across the standards of his rude 
jumper, wended his squeaky way down the trail. 
At the camp the cook stood in the doorway waiting for 
Pete and his jumper load of provisions. He waited till 
Pete rose stiffly from his scat of torture and stepped in 
toward the cook room door. Johnny was eyeing the 
toter sharply. 
"Pierre, avez vous tuez un gros bock?" 
Peter made, no reply, but sniffed theair of the cook 
room hungrily. It was his habit to force the cook to 
speak English and then he would make his reply in the 
French of the North woods. 
Johnny grew impatient. "Did you keel one big bock, 
Pete? You only gat one days lef for keel him, you 
'member dat." 
"Go on wid your soupai, boy. I don' need but one 
leetle part one days for keel one bock when I get ready 
for heem." 
"Pas d'un bock," shouted the cook, and he executed a 
nimble step on the cook room floor. 
"Bien, mon oncle, you lose two pouns la belle spear- 
head and buy your own ammunition. Honly, by gar, you 
don' need heem. You got mos' nuff do you hall winter 
less you keel one hedge peeg," and the young chef de 
cuisine of the Burnt Lands camp went about his cooking 
singing a merry chanson of the river. 
After supper, while a group of sportsmen were gathered 
around a table in the big camp, Johnny and Pete sat on 
the bunk in the cook room. Pete smoked in silence and 
Johnny looked long into the glowing embers. The sub- 
ject of the younger man's thoughts was probably several 
days' snowshoe journey to the northward, where an 
apple-cheeked maiden was also counting the days until 
the hunting season should close and Jean should return 
to the settlement to be snubbed and petted, frozen and 
smothered according to her caprice. 
Finally Johnny slid off the bunk and took from over 
the door the log book in which the guides made from 
time to time rudely inscribed entries of events of moment 
to the gens des bois. After carefully sharpening a stubby 
pencil he rode it laboriously across the page four times, 
his tongue between his teeth and a look of agony on his 
handsome, boyish face. Then he laughed softly, and 
looked at old Pete, whose stolid countenance showed no 
sign of interest in the procedure. If Pete had been able 
to read writing the page might have told him that: 
"Jean Bateese Badeau win two poun' speerhead tabac 
de P. Rosignol, 7 octobre, parce que Pierre don' keel him 
no bock between 1 octobre to 7 octobre, 1901." 
But Pete had had no bright-eyed Louise to teach him 
to write the English during the long winter evenings 
at the settlement, and he slept none the less soundly on 
that night of October 6. 
The next morning the .young and tender "sport" was 
going out His wangan was all packed and lashed on the 
buckboard. A white choker had replaced the blue flannel 
shirt and the bristling cartridge belt was far down in his 
box below most of his clothing. 
The young "sport" had won old Pete's gratitude by 
reading to him Johnny's entry in the log book, dated 
one day too soori. 
"I'll clean heem out once," said Pete, as he shoved an 
oily rag down the rusty throat of his old rifle. "She's 
got to keel me one bock dis morny, 'cause I need some 
tabac an' when I shoot dis ones I need him some cat- 
ridge, too." 
The goddess of the hunt arranged things nicely for the 
toter that morning, probably for the same reason she 
sends a big buck down back of the camp for the Mexican 
moso who can shoot and who needs but three cartridges 
for a week's hunt. 
Old Pete was walking ahead of his horses over the 
well worn river trail. His lively gait, the noise of the 
rattling buckboard and the fact that the "sport" was insist- 
ently whistling a jerky if merry tune, did not keep the 
toter from looking ahead on every turn of the trail, or 
from placing his bots sauvage carefully at every step. 
It was a habit of long standing. Your true woodsman 
never makes an unnecessary noise on the trail or in the 
woods. 
Suddenly Pete stopped, wheeled and held his hands up 
before the horses' heads so that they were checked so 
quickly that the young sportsman nearly pitched over the 
front of the buckboard. Against all customs of the 
woods, and against all traditions, a handsome buck stood 
on the open ridge, 75 yards from the trail, looking in- 
tently at the horses. 
Pete trotted quickly and noiselessly back beside the 
buckboard, keeping the horses between himself and the 
deer. He cast loose the spun yarn that lashed the old 
rifle to the side of the buckboard seat, dropped the lever, 
slipped his shiny cartridge into the chamber and closed 
the action quickly and noiselessly. The young man on 
the seat saw the deer and reached nervously for his rifle 
case, and then remembered that all his cartridges were in 
the belt far down in the box, and he sank back on the 
seat and watched the buck which was walking slowly 
along the ridge still gazing at the horses. 
Old Pete's aim was long and steady. Then the .38-40 
spoke sharply, and the buck gave a great bound and dis- 
appeared behind a little patch of undergrowth. Pete 
turned and was replacing the rifle on the buckboard. 
There was to be no wild pumping of shells in this hunt- 
ing. 
"You hit him, Peter, you hit him!" shouted the young 
man, wildly, as he leaped noisily to the ground. 
Pete caught his arm. "Prenez garde," whispered the 
toter, "maybe she's lay down in a minute. She's got a 
shoulders broke down," he added, as he took his short- 
handled ax out of the seat box. He moved silently up 
and over the ridge, not a sound coming from beneath his 
carefully placed moccasins. 
After waiting and listening, ten minutes the sportsman 
again climbed down from the buckboard, and 150 yards 
from the trail he found the driver dressing out a fine 
buck. 
When the toter's team returned to the camp on the 
lake, Johnny again stood in the doorway, arrayed in a 
long and loud pair of lawn tennis trousers, a present from 
the young "sport." 
Pete climbed slowly down from his seat and unhitched 
his horses. Not a word was spoken, and a look of confi- 
dence sat on the boyish features of the young cook as he 
turned to his duties in the cook house. 
Pete returned from the "hovel" after caring for his 
horses, and with a fine display of carelessness tossed a 
bright and shiny empty .38-40 shell to his nephew, and 
taking down a rod from the gunhook on an overhead 
beam began to clean his "longue carabine" with some 
ostentation. 
"Vous avez tuez," Johnny began, with a gasp of sur- 
prise. "You keel one, Oncle Pete? Where is she?" 
"I got heem een ma pawket," replied Pete, slapping his 
leg and bringing forth a muffled jingle. 
Sunday Johnny walked twelve miles over the trail to 
the river camp and returned with two big plugs of spear- 
head tobacco and six .38-40 cartridges. 
Once more by the ruddy glow of the firelight the 
young woodsman rode the stubby pencil across the page 
of the log book, and when he finally arose from his task 
the page showed a new entry beneath the one canceled 
by two black lines. 
He read it to Pete: 
"7 octobre. Pierre Jacques Rosignol win 2 pouns 
speer-head and some catridge de J Badeau. Pierre keel 
his bock alright." Frank E. Wolfe. 
Wild Horses. 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
Several weeks ago there was an article in the Forest 
and Stream about "Wild Horses." I have in my library 
a book entitled "Trip to the West and Texas," comprising 
a journey of eight thousand miles through New York, 
Michigan, Illinois, Missouri, Louisiana and Texas in the 
winter of 1834-5 by A. A. Parker. The book was pub- 
lished by William White, Concord, N. H., in 1836. 
The picture of a wild horse that your correspondent 
says he saw in one of the school readers when he was a 
boy is in this book. 
The author gives his personal experience of the wild 
horse. I quote from page 169: 
"The scenes of Texas have so much fascination about 
them, that one is disinclined to come down to the details 
of a commonplace description of the country. But the 
whole truth must be told. The public have a right, and 
in fairness ought to know the true state of the case. The 
emigrant cannot live on air, or by admiring the beauties 
of the country. It is of importance to him to know what 
facilities the country offers, for obtaining the neces- 
saries and conveniences of life, and what the prospect 
may be of enjoying them wheH obtained. 
"In the first place, I shall strike off from the list of 
the resources of the country, 'the immense herds of 
buffalo and wild horses.' They are often paraded in 
the many published descriptions of Texas, as a most 
prominent feature in the bright picture exhibited, and 
as one of the many inducements to the emigrants to re- 
move thither. They are no sort of benefit to the settler 
at all. They generally keep ahead of population, some 
small herds only are ever seen near the settlements, and 
there is not inducement enough for the husbandman to 
leave his farm and go far into the interior, to catch the 
wild horse and kill the buffalo among the tribes of hostile 
Indians, as the prospect of gain would not equal the hard- 
ship, risk and expense. The wild horse is an animal hard 
to catch, and when caught, it is difficult and troublesome 
to tame him, and render him gentle and kind in harness 
and under the saddle. It would be as well for the 
farmer if the fact of their existence were not known, as 
it is easier to raise the animal in this country of ever- 
green pasture, than to catch and tame the wild one. 
There is one point of view, in which a knowledge _ of 
the existence of these animals may be of _ some im- 
portance to the emigrant; it is proof positive of the 
natural luxuriance of the soil, and of the mildness of the 
climate. ^ . 
"The wild horses are called by the Spaniards, mustangs. 
I saw some small herds of them prancing at random 
over the plains. They, are quite wild; you can seldom 
approach very near them. They are of various colors and 
of rather smaller size than the American horse. The 
Spaniards are fond of good horses, and are good horse- 
men. Some of them make a business of catching and 
breaking the mustangs. This is done by building a fence 
in the shape of a harrow, with a long pen at the small 
end, and driving them into it ; or mounting a fleet horse, 
get as near as they can unperceived, then start after them 
at full speed, throw a rope with a slip noose at one 
end, and the other fastened to the saddle, around the 
neck, haul out at right angles with their course, and 
choke them down. When caught, they put the bridle on, 
take them into a large, soft prairie, mount them at once, 
flog them with the greenhide, and let them plunge 
and rear until they become fatigued and subdued. After 
undergoing a few more operations of this kind, they-, 
are 'fit for use.' They are sold at various prices, from six 
to twelve dollars ; but unless they are caught when young 
they never become gentle as other horses." 
Terry Smith. 
A Walk Down South.— XIX. 
On the morning of Christmas Eve I ate breakfast in 
Marion, and then headed down the road for Seven Mile 
Ford and Saltville. The snow was three inches deep, and 
the mud underneath about the lame. It was neither cold 
nor warm, a damp day on which one could neither shiver 
nor sweat, though it seemed as if I would do both. My 
shoulders ached, and the pack drew down insistently. 
The first two miles were miserable, then the region as- 
serted itself. The valley was broken with nubs and knolls, 
and there were patches of brushy woods. 
My trail was along the railroad track, and I walked 
on the ties. Too close together for me to step on every 
one, they were still too far apart to skip every other one. 
I forgot the disagreeable features of the atmosphere in my 
study of the railroad track. 
Pretty soon a little man overtook me. His shoulders 
were covered with wheat straw and chaff. His brown 
whiskers, likewise, had straw in them. He wore a blue 
blouse and blue overalls, and shoes that let in a good deal 
of the weather from above, and of the slushy snow from 
beneath. 
He was piking it southward, too; what part he didn't 
know or care. He had started late, and that weather 
overtook him ; he didn't like it. He was in a hurry. He 
didn't like to talk — what was the use? His voice was 
clear, his eye bright, his words were well pronounced — 
better than my own, in fact— yet he was a plain tramp, a 
hobo wanderer, used to the ties, for he stepped on every 
one. which I found to be the best way after a bit. 
We met a freight train, and a big brakeman in the 
caboose whom I had met at Radford waved a greeting 
at me and took a second look at my companion. In a 
rock at a curve I saw a railroad watchman's house. Two 
men have been kept there for thirty years to warn trains 
in case a rock rolls down into the cut. The cost of 
removing the rocks would be less than the cost of keeping 
the men there two years. 
I reached Seven Mile Ford and ate dinner. It was 
good. One feature was a seven-story chocolate layer 
cake; there was the usual abundance of fruits. 
When I started on for Saltville, twelve miles away, the 
snow was melting and the walking slippery. I wanted to 
reach Saltville, but I had my doubts about doing it in 
such walking. _ I leaned to my pack, however, and plodded 
on, up the middle of the road, turning aside only when 
the water actually covered the mud and snow, ankle or 
more deep all the while. 
Three miles down the main road I turned to the right 
and started up a brook-side road. On a hill to the right 
was a clump of trees, with scores of buzzards among and 
over them. They seemed to take turns in circling around 
through the air, perhaps in a kind of grace contest. They 
alighted with more ease and less fuss than any bird I ever 
saw. Some came down on the branches and some swept 
up to them, but they all alighted with widespread wings 
and closed them without the awkward balancing which 
characterizes the hawks and crows, for instance. 
I met a couple of young fellows on horseback, who 
'lowed to have some fun with me, I reckon. They wanted 
to swap a shotgun for my rifle, they said. But I wasn't 
trading. The jeering note in the tones of their voices 
gave way after a bit, but I came away, not having time to 
satisfy their curiosity there, for I was pressed for time. 
A couple of miles further on I saw a flock of twelve or 
fourteen quail in an orchard, proud little dandies with a 
pert way of tossing their heads and lacking as if flirting 
with one another. A few rods beyond I found a dead 
rabbit in the middle of the road, but could not determine 
the cause of its death. There were no shot marks that 
I could see. 
There was a gap in the first ridge of the mountain on 
the south sjde of the north fork of the Holston River. As 
I entered it the woods were rich velvety in appearance, 
caused by the rich hues of dark-barked trees and the 
sun spreading a pink glow over the cloudy sky. It was 
then sunset. 
The grade was long and up all the time, as the road 
sought a gap in the next ridge. I saw quail and rabbit 
tracks at intervals in the snow. I reached the crest at 
last in time to see the last red coal of the sunset, and then 
I went down into the still gloom of a valley. I came 
to a log cabin. An old woman was washing a red sock at 
a roadside spring there. She turned on me with a keen, 
repulsing voice to say that she didn't know how far it 
was toi Saltville. A girl of twelve years or less was 
chopping wood in the snow beside the cabin. On one of 
her feet was a shoe, with water oozing in and out of the 
holes. Her other foot was perfectly bare, and half-buried 
in the lead-colored slush. She stopped her work and 
drew in her head as she looked at me, her lips curling 
and her ball-eyes starting. I came_ on down the hill a 
ways and met a ten-year-old boy with the same kind of 
eyes, the same long tawny hair, carrying a sack of meal as 
big as his body. He passed me with the expression that 
an oft-kicked dog has, an expectant side-long look at my 
heels. 
Down in the gully I came to a cluster of cabins, from 
one of which came the strains of banjo picking and a 
song, cheerful in the falling gloom. 
I went down to the door, and one of several colored 
young people came to tell me the road to Saltville. It was 
a short cut through the pasture bars, across yon corn- 
field, through the woods and then down the road. 
With night had come a frosty cold, much pleasanter 
than the shivery warmth of the day. A crackly crust 
formed on the snow, and, by the light of the moon, I 
neared the end of the longest and hardest day's tramp I 
had ever taken. It had begun with a miserable feeling 
of doubt and weariness, but toward the last I whistled a 
inarch tune, stepping buoyantly, forgetful of the pack and 
miles behind me. 
Before I cleared the patch of woods I saw;, far below 
me off across a flat, an electric light. Slipping^ scram- 
bling and jumping, I plunged down the road, leaving long 
