April 19, 1902.] 
FOREST AND STREAM ^ 
SOS 
was looking for. There was a grove of tall young wil- 
lows at the foot of a steep bank. Here I would build 
the camp. 
Having settled that much, I got the pony and rode 
back to meet the wagon. The others were submissive 
again and willing to fall in with any scheme I might 
offer. It took all three of us from an hour before sun- 
down until pitch dark to skin the buffalo and dress the 
meat, something which had to be done in order to let it 
cool off during the night. 
In the morning my companions were to start back for 
the settlements. While we had been dressing the meat 
they chaffed me considerably over the great "scratch" 1 
had made in killing the bull, and ended by suggesting that 
they had themselves killed it, and that I had only fol- 
lowed on and found it dead. As T said nothing in 
rebuttal, they had lost most of their gloom and were 
quite companionable again by the time we were ready to 
roll into our blankets. In the morning they started early 
with their load, leaving me an ax, a spade and a scythe 
With which to construct the camp. I also kept Colonel 
and the pony for my companions. Although it had taken 
six days to come out, we expected that by steady going 
and a straight course the round trip could be made in 
five. E, P. Jaques. 
Mrs Bob White's Story. 
The first balm of spring was in the air, the trees were 
putting forth their tender leaves, and the dreary brownish 
gray of the earth was rapidly changing to a vernal tint. 
In a corner of a field where the April sun shone bright 
and warm. Bob White and Mrs. White sat basking and 
happy. They had just been married, and were on their 
honeymoon. 
''Sit a little closer, dear," said Bob. 
"Gr-r-roo!" gurgled Mrs. White, edging up as close as 
she could. 
Then they caressed for awhile and relapsed into a state 
of blissful quiescence. 
Presently Mrs. White, who appeared to have been in- 
dulging in a reverie or retrospect, observed, as if half 
to herself: 
"It hardly seemed possible that I should live to enjoy 
this day. What perils I have passed through! I shudder 
to think of them." 
•'Me, too," said Bob, with half-closed eyes. "But let 
ns forget 'em." 
"Oh, I never, never can," cried Mrs. White. 
"Well, perhaps it will relieve your mind to. tell 'em," 
said Bob, complacently. "If so, go ahead." • 
"Thanks, dear," said Mrs. White, who hated to be 
silent. "But you are sure I won't be boring you?" 
"Oh, no," said Bob, Without opening his eyes, "not at 
all." 
"Thanks, dear," Mrs. White repeated; "I am sure you 
are just the sweetest " 
"Go on," said Bob. 
Mrs. White then began as follows: 
"Well, then, you see there were eight of us, papa and 
mamma included. We were a happy family, as families 
■go. To be sure, papa and mamma sometimes had their 
"spats,' and Ave children used to wrangle and peck at one 
another occasionally, but these things happen in every 
family, and do not interrupt the current of true affection 
— do they, dear?" . 
Bob said he supposed not, with a superior philosophical 
air. 
"While we were little— we children, I mean,' Mrs. 
White continued, "the weather was lovely, and we had 
plenty to- eat. Our home was on the edge of a wood 
where the grass grew high, and there were lots of seeds. 
One day a horrid animal with a big bushy tail (mamma 
called it a fox) pounced on baby, who had wandered too 
far from the nest, and carried her off. Mamma's grief 
was something terrible to see, and she resolved to leave 
ihat unlucky place. Papa opposed the idea, saying that 
there was no luck about baby's being carried off, and that 
carelessness was as likely to lead to trouble in one place as 
another. But mamma would not listen to him, insisted 
that the place was unlucky, and so for peace sake papa 
let her have her way. Well, we moved into the "next 
field, and here we were very well off for awhile, and we 
children grew bigger and bigger. It wasn't long until 
we were as big as papa and mamma, and then we took it 
into our heads that we knew more than they did, and 
used to argue with and laugh at them. One day after 
we had conducted ourselves worse than usual, we heard 
a dreadful noise, which scared us half to death, and we 
felt that a judgment was going to fall on us for our 
wickedness. Papa and mamma were scared too, but not 
so much as we were, and retained their presence of mind, 
for they ran quickly to cover. W T e followed them, of 
course, and there we all lay for awhile in a terrible state 
of apprehension. All of a sudden a great red animal 
came and stood over us, looking as if he were going to 
spring. Imagine our feelings, Bob! We looked at papa 
and mamma with despairing eyes, and they looked at us. 
Then papa gave a sign and w» all sprang up. but were 
in such a panic that we flew in different directions. Im- 
mediately that terrible noise filled our ears again, but 
this time it was much nearer than before, and I saw poor 
papa and one of my brothers fall. I didn't fly far, and 
when I lit on the ground I ran under a log and lay there 
panting, and expecting every moment would be my last. 
Again and again that terrible noise filled my ears, but 
it seemed to be further away every time, and I began 
to hope that I should escape. I lay in my place of con- 
cealment until evening, when I heard mamma call. Oh. 
how sweet was the sound of her voice and how grateful 
I felt that she had escaped! It didn't take long for 
me to join her, you may be sure. There she was over- 
whelmed with g'rief and anxiety. Oh, dear me, such a 
sight! I did what I could to console her, and was as- 
sisted by three of my brothers' and sisters, who had also 
escaped,' but she seemed disconsolate on account of poor 
papa's loss. However, she became more resigned during 
the night, slept some, and next day was quite hopeful. 
'Poor papa!' I heard her mutter, 'he wasn't a bad sort, but 
after all there are others!' To be sure, Bob, dear. I'd 
never say anything like that if I were to lose you " 
"Oh. of coarse not," said Bob. "Go on!" 
"Well, mamma feeling now that she had all the care of 
us children hanging on herself alone, took us to a wood 
for greater safety. . Here as we lay thinking of the ter- 
rible events of the day before, we heard a movement 
among the branches of the wood, and looking up saw 
three men enter. We children were for immediately 
taking flight, being very nervous, but mamma said : "For 
pity's sake keep still !' Then she took to observing the 
men. One of them was quite big and the other two 
short and stout. 'The two stout ones look harmless,' said 
mamma, who, of course, had great experience, being three 
years old, 'but I don't like the looks of the big one. How- 
ever, keep still !' Just then another man appeared, a lean, 
sallow one, and an awful row broke out between him and 
one of the stout men. The latter's expressions were 
something dreadful — so much so that the lean man said 
he wouldn't stand them, and went off in a huff. 'Chil- 
dren !' exclaimed mamma in an excited whisper, 'we're 
saved! Do you see that man going off there? That's a 
guide, and those three fellows he's left can't find their 
noses without him.' 'Twas true. After the guide had 
gOne the three tenderfeet looked blankly about them ; then 
indulged in some more bad language at the expense of 
the guide and took their departure sadly from the wood. 
"Well, to make a long story short, almost every day 
had its exciting episodes. Two more of us were killed, 
and then we took up with another family of Whites — 
cousins. It wasn't long before our new party got thinned 
out, alas, but mamma and I always escaped as if by a 
miracle. Oh, those horrid gunners! Have they no 
hearts? Do they never think that what is sport to them 
is death to us? For whole months they continued to 
blaze away at us, day after day. Life for us was made 
all the harder as the weather grew terribly cold and food 
was hard to get. At night, no matter how closely we 
huddled together, we would be almost frozen stiff. And 
one night — oh, when I think of it! — we got covered over 
with snow, which froze on top. When morning came 
there we were prisoners, without a morsel to eat. Had 
it not been for mamma I'm sure I should have perished; 
hut she with her experience began pecking at the frozen 
surface above, and after untold labor succeeded in making 
a hole big enough for us to get out. I could continue 
for hours, Bob, dear, but I fear you are getting a little 
bored, and besides, we are now married and happy, and 
what is the use of recalling the miserable past?" 
"That's right, my dear," assented Bob, who was of a 
very practical turn of mind. "Forget it and remember- 
well, I won't sa3 r the 'Maine,' but the main chance." 
Francis Moonan. 
A Walk Down South.— XXV. 
At daybreak a bell that would hold half a bushel at 
the kitchen door clanged. I awakened to find my room- 
mates stirring, partly dressed by lamp light. I joined 
the tramping men on the way down stairs to the dining 
room. The would-be judge was nearly through eating, 
and had a "good morning" for all. His eyes roved rest- 
lessly from face to face, a tinge of anxiety in them. The 
court days upon which he must do so much were at 
hand. He was smiling, however. A few minutes later 
I saw him on the porch looking at the ground. The 
perpetual smile still lingered, but the wrinkles died away 
and the eyelashes flickered uneasily. Of ambition and 
hope he had all a man could safely contain, and here he 
was at the moment of weakness just before the time 
when he must grasp aright or fail. His shoulders stif- 
fened, his two hundred odd pounds settled into his shoes 
and on his heels; with a swagger he came swinging into 
the sitting room to tell a story, to shake a hand, to be 
introduced and to draw a local leader to one side for a 
moment's talk. 
Few were on the streets that early, but a large brown 
saddled mule was hitched to a stub a hundred yards 
down the street on the far side. It was a large stub with 
a round broom of branches growing straight up from 
the various sides, but not very high in proportion to the 
diameter. Jesse Nichols, in reply to a question, said: 
"That's a yellow locust. It makes the best fence, posts 
there are. They'll last forever, I know. I've tried it 
twice." • 
He laughed, and a ripple of laughter went round the 
fireplace. A newcomer didn't understand, so somebody 
repeated the remark to him. So all laughed again, but 
the newcomer only smiled. He had news to tell. A 
deputy sheriff was coming down the road the night be- 
fore when he was hailed: 
"Hello-o-o-! You Dan Duskin?" 
"No-o!" 
"All right, go on." The deputy rode on. 
Dan Duskin had seen the two Lawson boys in the 
Jim Wright neighborhood the day before Clint Legere 
was killed last July. Wright, John Templeton, George 
Templeton and the Lawson boys were supposed to have 
done the schooting of Legere. On Sunday morning 
Wright and Templeton had gone, to Dan's house up near 
Kyles Ford, and told Dan to leave the country. Dan 
went as fast as he could. The deputy sheriff's story in- 
dicated that it was well for Duskin that he was gone. 
Nobody made any comment on the story, which was told 
with as little emphasis as possible. 
Meantime men came riding into town on horseback. 
There wasn't a Winchester in sight, but there was an 
impressive number of overcoats with flowing tails. In 
the court room some few men were gathered round one 
of the two stoves. They ceased talking to eye the 
stranger in knickerbockers with the expression of cor- 
nered mud turtles. 
At the rear of the room was the judge's bench and two 
little square tables for associates. In front of these were 
tables of large size for the lawyers. On these looked 
down the halo motto: 
"Not How Much but How Well." 
The seats for the spectators rose on an inclined plane 
from eight or ten feet from the "fence" to the rear of the 
room, with a ditch between along which the crowd ebbed 
and 'flowed when, at 9:30 o'clock, business began. 
Judge Campbell — big, burly, red mustached and florid- 
sat sideways in the chair, wrenched a chew of tobacco 
from his plug and. rapped for attention. 
Outside horses were hitched to fences and trees, 
groups of men from two to fifteen strong talked and dis- 
cussed. On a hill behind and to the left of the court, 
horse and mule owners were swapping and selling. 
"I can stand right here, and see five murderers," a man 
said to me in a low voice. 
"There's George Sutton, who killed his own uncle, 
and that fellow with a red mustache, long overcoat, with 
Ins hands in his pants pockets— there, he's just spit!— 
he killed three men last 'lection and Jesse Nichols- — " 
"What?" I said. 
"Yes, Nichols. He had a hot 'lection when he was 
Sheriff, and he had to kill a man. That was a good many 
years ago. Nobody bothers Nichols now," One could 
see why Nichols was left alone from his bearing; it was 
that of a man who "minds his own business." He kept 
his eyes on the ground, he walked straight, with a sug- 
gestion of momentum in his stocky figure; he kept his 
hands in his trousers' pockets; a quiet, slow-moving 
•individual, hidden behind three-inch black whiskers; he 
spoke in low, unobtrusive tones which were convincing, 
like his sedate walk. He looked to be the last man who 
would "get into trouble." But the other men were dis- 
gusting. They were stoop-shouldered, lean-cheeked, 
lean, lopsy bodied, thick, watery, red mustaches, with lit- 
tle rolls over their sideling gray eyes, and with finger- 
like chins under thick lips. They had killed in drunken 
rows, and would probably be killed either from the 
bushes by friends of the dead, or in rows of similar char- 
acter. They were not the sort of men to inspire fear. 
Every one in sight seemed uneasy and nervous. Each 
newcomer on muleback saw a hundred faces turned to- 
ward him as he came in view. An important witness, 
the short, fat, shame-faced father of the Lawson boys — 
any notable caused a perceptible quiver to pass through 
the gathering. It was the same in the court. A heavy 
tread, a sharp noise, an exclamation, a raised voice, 
reared every neck and turned every eye— saving those 
of the principals, who were beyond the fence. The warm 
smell of chewed tobacco flowed and drifted in layers — 
home-grown twist, black, yellow and molasses plug. It 
was funny to see a long mountaineer lean his open mouth 
close to the dapper, smooth-shaven prosecuting attorney, 
whose face showed all the misery that one can show while 
striving to stop breathing for the while that the moun- 
tain man was speaking. But it wasn't funny when 
oneself was the victim — a victim fearful lest he would 
offend some "high strung mountain soul." 
To me it was a strange crowd, novel in every respect. 
Poverty-stricken whiskers, weed-like mustaches, broad, 
stooped shoulders that gave no suggestion of strength, 
knotty fingers and bunched feet, and a large portion of 
the eyes animal-like — it was chilling to look upon such 
coiled humanity. 
It is said that these men are the best shots in the 
world. The stories of their wonderful shooting fill the 
romances of the United States. But I think that a very 
few men have by their skill leavened a monstrous lump 
of mediocrity. Some few of those I saw there looked to 
be brave, strong, able. They looked as men ought to 
look, without bravado and without fear. But when the 
sharp stamp of a foot makes practically every man in 
hearing duck his head from a hair's breadth to six inches, 
I don't believe they are the best shots. The man who 
can make the best shots at gray squirrels, quail, men, 
and other game, are not of this type. It takes a brave 
man to be the best shot at game. 
I didn't see any shooting at Sneedville of any sort — 
at game, marks or men. But the nearest I came to it 
confirms the idea. Marion Legere is a man six feet tall, 
broad-shouldered, clear blue-eyed, who never was in 
trouble till he started to prosecute the men who bush- 
whacked his brother Clint. On Monday afternoon 
Marion was down by the little red brick jail. Several 
men were standing round, both friends and foes. A 
drunken fellow named Baldwin, in an army coat, called 
Legere names to pick a fight — -presumably for a chance 
to "get rid of him." But Legere took offence quicker 
than was expected. He drew his brother Clint's .45 
Colt's and leveled it, clasped in both hands, at Baldwin, 
who reached for his own gun, Instantly the partisan on- 
lookers drew their guns, and half a dozen revolvers were 
out in a flash. A boy grabbed Baldwin's pistol hand. 
Legere was one man in a hundred. He did not shoot. 
"He would not take advantage of a man." So I just 
missed hearing and probably seeing a mountain battle, 
for I was only fifty yards away and six steps from a good 
view of the scene. No arrests were made, though the 
sheriff was a spectator. Legere is one of the men who 
could shoot and do it man fashion, sober and in the open. 
Three bushwhackers I spoke of awhile ago missed him 
late in the afternoon at 70 yards eight times, and another 
man thirty odd times, supposing it to be Legere. These 
bushwhackers are supposed to have been Jim Wright 
and John Templeton, who are said to be wonderfully 
accurate shots. At ten yards with a double-barrel shot- 
gun Templeton missed the Gillain brothers one out cf 
two shots, and then he and Wright failed to add to 
Enoch's wounds or to hit the brother with any . one of 
the shots in three magazines full. It is said that "they 
were just trying to scare them." 
When the Jones and Greens met on the river ridges 
six of them shot at on another for twenty minutes and 
broke one arm. A man named Jackson seized another 
man's horse by the bridle and shot at the rider six times, 
missing every shot. The rider then broke the shooter's 
arm. These are typical incidents. 
The shooting from ambush is usually deadly. The 
method is characteristic. Take the case when the 
Baward and Sutton, feud began. Some boys got cruelly 
cut. Big John Baward was 1 accused of slashing them 
by a Sutton. "Big John" was "af eared" for his life. 
With four others he went to a log beside the road before 
daybreak, carrying fi;ied chickens, fruit and biscuit to 
eat during the day while waiting for the victim. Toward 
night the victim and another man came along. "Big 
John" aimed at his body, shot him, then approached, fir- 
ing as hg advanced. He hit and missed several times. 
When Clint Legere was killed thirty or forty shots were 
fired. The victim was pierced by eleven bullets. 
So far as I could tell, the mountain hunters miss game 
as often as they do in the Adirondacks. The propensity 
to tell only of the successful shots is quite as strong, 
however, as it is elsewhere. But they do make good 
shots oftener than men who do less hunting, of course. 
One thing that makes the marvellous stories of all the 
