822 
FOREST AND STREAM 
[April 26, 1902. 
Whs Sfi ar ^ sn l m W^ttmt 
Left-Leggedness and Toeing In. 
Morgantown, W. Va. — Editor Forest and Stream: 
An editorial in Forest and Stream appeared at one 
time, entitled "Left-Leggedness," in which explanation 
was made why a lost person always travels in a circle, 
stating that such persons nearly always circled to the 
right, especially a right-handed person, who would pre- 
sumably be "left-legged"; that is, the left leg stronger 
and more active than the right, just in proportion to the 
greater strength and utility of the right arm over that 
of the left. This was interesting, because it explained 
what has perplexed many others, as well as myself, and 
it would all seem reasonable enough to be accepted. 
Other observations might be made in regard to cause, 
and effect of the peculiar workings of certain other 
muscles. It is generally known, or at least generally 
believed, that Indians nearly all walk with their toes 
turned in, or "pigeon-toed," as it is expressed, while 
nearly all other people walk with their toes pointed 
slightly outward. Most people may think that their toes 
point straight ahead, but just notice your tracks some 
time in the snow, and see if the toes do not turn slightly 
outward. 
Now, there must, or should be, a cause for every- 
thing. During the first twenty-four years of my life my 
toes pointed outward, so that the inner corner of the 
boot or shoe sole, or the corner coming directly under 
the big toe, would be worn off to the uppers, while the 
outer corners would scarcely have begun to wear. At 
about the end of this period, my surroundings became 
such that much of my time was spent in the woods and 
mountains among big game. I became so accustomed 
to treading softly and stealthily while going through 
the woods that I did so involuntarily, even when not 
hunting, and in so doing acquired the habit of walking 
almost entirely on the ball of the foot, or "tiptoeing," 
scarcely allowing the heel to touch the ground. About 
ten years later I would occasionally get a thrust from 
some friend about being "pigeon-toed," but thought 
nothing of it, believing it was just the way I happened 
to be standing; then I began to realize that my shoe 
soles were never worn off at the corners any more, but 
always wore through in the center first, while the edges 
all around were thick. Then I began to notice the posi- 
tion of my feet more carefully, and observing my tracks, 
and behold! I find I am as pigeon-toed as any Indian 
who ever trod the woods. How or when this change 
came about, I cannot tell, but probably it was some 
years in coming about; at any rate, it was without any 
consciousness of it on my part. 
It is also known that an Indian, beside "toeing in/' 
when walking, treads principally on the ball of his foot, 
which gives the soft, springy, cat-like tread so character- 
istic of the Indian, rather than throwing the full weight 
on the heel, which gives the whole body such a jar that 
if you should be looking intently for or at something, it 
blurs the vision very perceptibly at each step thus taken. 
Thus we might infer from these observations that the 
Indian, being by nature a hunter, treads on the fore part 
or ball of his foot in walking, because his occupation 
requires a quiet, stealthy tread, which neither makes 
noise nor blurs his vision, which movement he acquires 
by habit until it becomes his natural movement. And 
also, judging from personal experience that this mode of 
walking must naturally bring the foot around so that the 
toes turn inward, which would account for this peculi- 
arity attributed to the Indians. 
Many a time when going into the woods with an ax 
to chop, where I could reasonably expect at any minute 
to see a deer, I have found myself unconsciously walk- 
ing with the same caution and watchfulness that would 
be exercised in hunting, and on coming to the place to 
begin chopping, would look carefully in every direction 
to see that no deer was going to be disturbed by the 
noise, and would even hesitate with a peculiar sense of 
reluctance at striking the first blow, which would break 
the stillness and alarm any wild creature which might be 
within hearing. Indeed, there appears at times to be a 
sort of sacredness in the awful silence of a virgin forest 
which it seems almost wicked to disturb by the noise of 
the ax, every stroke of which makes the surroundings 
less attractive. 
I have lost many an hour's work by either waiting for 
big game animals to get out of my sight or by going out 
of my way to keep from being seen by them, for what 
reason I never could explain, only that I had such a 
desire to have the wild creatures living near me, and 
knowing that the less they see of man or know of his 
presence in their domain the more certainly they will 
remain in their natural haunts. Once, while chopping 
in the woods, I happened to look up on the hillside, and 
there stood a magnificent buck deer less than 100 yards 
away, with antlers which might well have made the 
trophy hunter green with envy, looking down at me as 
I worked. 
I didn't strike another stroke until he went leisurely 
away several minutes later, giving me a good rest, while 
enjoying every minute of the time that he was in sight. 
Many times, when going to the creek from my cabin 
for a pail of water, when deer or sometimes mountain 
sheep or elk would be on the meadow, instead of going 
down by the regular path, I would go away around, 
climb down over a steep, rough bank and crawl through 
thick bushes, rather than let them see me, even though 
I had no thought or intention of killing any of them. 
I once read an article in Forest and Stream about an 
old hunter and trapper with whom the writer had taken 
tramps through the then thickly settled neighborhood 
where the old man lived, and one of his peculiarities was 
his extreme, averseness at traveling out in the open, 
where he would be exposed to view, not that there was 
the least possibility of there being any wild creatures to 
be startled by his exposing himself in the open, neither 
was it because, of a fear of any unpleasantness as a result 
of his being seen by his fellow men, but a lifetime of 
stealth and catition, had simply made it a part of his 
nature to avoid being seen, and the writer stated that 
under no conditions could the ol(f man be prevailed. 
upon to cut across an open field to save distance, but 
would go several times as far in order that he might 
keep under cover. 
While reading this, I felt sure that some who had not 
lived the woods life to any great extent would not under- 
stand or appreciate the old man's eccentricities, and 
would think him queer; even the writer hardly seemed 
to fathom the real cause of his actions. It cannot be 
explained to any degree of satisfaction; it must be a 
part of the nature and be felt to be understood. I have 
been going through the woods with my ax, hunting tim- 
ber, when I would find an open little meadow or park 
directly on my course, and instead of going directly 
across it, which would have been the easiest and quick- 
est, would go around it, keeping in the timber, and not 
realize what I was doing, and have often found myself 
wondering why I hadn't gone the most direct route, in- 
asmuch as I was not looking for game, and didn't even 
have a gun. The more exclusively a man lives in the 
woods, the more strongly will develop the animal in- 
stincts. Unconsciously, but surely, will those faculties 
and senses develop most strongly within us. which best 
fit us for our existence, amid the surroundings in which 
we live, everything showing the perfect workings of the 
hand of an all wise Providence. 
Emerson Carney. 
Floating on the Missouri. — IX. 
We left Ryan's Island at sunup. There was a heavy 
fog hanging over the water and filling the valley, and 
for an hour or more we simply drifted with the current, 
not caring to risk striking a sawyer or sunken rock while 
running at full speed. As it was, we hit a sunken log and 
lost the hindquarters of our buck, which, to better balance 
the boat, I had placed on the little deck on the bow in 
front of the mast. It went overboard with a splash, and 
that was the last we saw of it, for the water was deep. 
Sah-ne-to felt worse about it than I did, and gave me a 
scolding for not tying the saddle to the mast. "Well," 
I said, "it is gone, but not uselessly; it will furnish a 
feast for your water spirits, and they will be kind to us." 
She said no more. 
There were a great many geese on the bars this morn- 
ing, as there had been every other morning when there 
was a heavy fog. I believe they only stop on the river 
to rest on their way south, and leave very early in the 
morning, unless there is an unfavorable wind or fog. 
Of the many thousands we saw on the trip, but one lone 
goose was feeding, and that was a cripple. I shot it, and 
was sorry, for there was an old shot wound at the base 
of the upper mandible, partly healed. Evidently it had 
half-starved for some time, as it was mere skin and bones, 
entirely unfit for the table^ 
When the fog lifted we found ourselves in sight of 
Hawley Point, a long, narrow bottom on the south side 
of the river, half a mile across and four miles around 
by the channel. But to our surprise we found that we 
were to be saved the four miles, for the river had cut 
straight across the base of the point in two places, leav- 
ing a small island, which was also fast wearing away. 
All we could see of the old channel was a vast bed of 
sand, fast growing up with willows and cottonwoods. 
At the lower end of the island we caught a glimpse of 
a whitetail deer as it bounded back into the willows. 
Beauchamp Creek comes into the river at the apex of 
Hawley Point — that is, when it runs ; for the greater part 
of the year its channel contains water only in places. It 
heads near the easternmost butte of the Little Rockies, a 
very steep, high hill the Blackfeet long ago named Hairy 
Cap, on account of the dense growth of pines which 
covers its summit It used to be an objective point for 
all the war parties traveling through that part of the 
country, for they could obtain a view of an immense 
scope of country from its top. Many battles have been 
fought on and around it between war parties of different 
tribes. 
Except for the heavily timbered bottoms, the scenery 
along here is uninteresting. The north slope of the val- 
ley is barren, and there are few pines on the south slope. 
Ten miles from Hawley Point the river turns from its 
generally easterly course sharply to the south, at the 
base of the long point which terminates at the mouth of 
the Musselshell River, ten miles further down. From 
there it runs due north for ten miles, forming a bend 
only four miles across at the, widest place, but 'twenty 
miles around. An hour's run brought us to the ranch of 
our friend, Mark Frost, who has been located on the 
river for a number of years. We tied up and paid him 
a short visit. Frost leads an ideal life. He has a fine 
ranch, a nice band of cattle, which support themselves 
the year around, and so has absolutely nothing to do 
but enjoy himself. Once a year he gathers his beef 
stock and drives them to the railroad, ninety miles dis- 
tant, ships them to Chicago and purchases a year's sup- 
plies, and then back he goes to his ranch. Many per- 
sons undoubtedly would call that a lonesome life. He 
doesn't think so, nor does his" good wife and children. 
Panics may come, banks may break, droughts may ruin 
the crops of the country, but it makes no difference to 
him. People will eat beef and he always has it to sell. 
Frost is a great hunter, and has a fad for saving the 
antlers of the game he kills. Strunk on the fence near 
his meat house, and piled on the ground, are antlers of 
elk, whitetail and mule deer, horns of mountain sheep 
and antelope. In the house are rugs of the grizzly, moun- 
tain lion and wolf, all of his own killing. The lower part 
of the ranch is heavily timbered and shelters numbers of 
whitetail deer. Frost said that he only disturbed them 
once in a great while, when meat was wanted on short 
notice, and that consequently they were very tame, feed- 
ing in sight of the house almost daily. He shoots most 
of the game he kills up and down the river, or back in the 
pine breaks, where the mule deer are numerous. 
We would have been only too well pleased to accept 
Frost's invitation to stop and hunt with him a year or 
two. But our ever-present bugbear of winter and a frozen 
river prevented. So, after an hour's rest, we went on and 
arrived at the mouth of the Musselshell in ample time to 
make camp on the island there. This river heads in the 
Big Belt and Crazy Mountains, and parallels the Yellow- 
stone for a long way before it turns northward toward 
the Missouri, A number of tributaries flow into it from 
the Snowy Mountains. The principal one, Flat Willow 
Creek, is a beautiful stream; we once had a branch 
trading post near its mouth. 
There have been stirring times here on this Mussel- 
shell flat. The shallow ford just below the confluence of 
the two streams was used by war parties of many tribes 
on their raids, and even when the river was high they 
came here to cross, for a war trail between the Missouri 
and the Yellowstone followed the Musselshell for many 
miles. Numbers of woodhawks here met their fate in the 
shape of an Indian arrow or bullet. But there came a 
day when the redskins paid dearly for the scalps they 
had taken. A few Yanktonais Sioux had attacked a 
. wood yard, and instead of wiping out the white men as 
they expected to do, themselves lost several of their party. 
Back they went to camp somewhere down the river and 
got up a large party, one hundred and fifty warriors, to 
revenge their losses. The woodhawks expected they 
would do this, and in the interval, before their return, 
managed to collect twenty men at their place to help 
them. I cannot say just how they managed, but in some 
way they ambushed the Sioux, killing thirty of them 
on the ground and driving the remainder into the Mis- 
souri, where many more were shot and drowned. Seventy- 
two of the party never returned to their lodges. It was in 
this fight that Liver-eating Johnson got his name. He 
d'dn't really eat an Indian's liver, as most persons be- 
lieve, but ripping a Sioux open he cut off a piece of his 
liver, held it near his mouth and pretending to take a 
bite of it said, "Come and help yourselves, fellows, it's 
good." 
Johnson died in California last winter. Another partici- 
pant in the -fight was Daniel Fitzpatrick, who has lived for 
many years with Mr. Joseph Kipp. He has a bullet wound 
in the leg which has never completely healed, as a 
memento of the day. After that experience, Dan says, the 
Sioux did not molsst the woodhawks for a long time. 
In the summer of 1884 a few cattlemen fancied that 
the Missouri bad lands sheltered a number of cattle and 
horse thieves who were preying on their herds, so they 
got up a gang of cowboys and others under the leader- 
ship of one Flopping Bill, and sent them to the river to 
clean out the bad men. Flopping Bill himself had been 
a woodhawk, and hadn't the best of reputations. The two 
notorious gangs of outlaws, Big Nose George's and Dutch 
John's, had left the river a year or more before this, but 
the gang had started out to do some hanging, and hang 
they did many an innocent man along the river. It is 
said that Flopping Bill had some ancient grudges against 
a number of them, and took this means to pay them off 
without danger to his own precious carcass. It is claimed 
by many that some men were hung for their money and 
property. At the time a young man named William 
Downs was located here at the mouth of the Musselshell 
with his wife. Toward the close of the buffalo trade 
he had kept a small trading post and wood yard, and 
was by no means poor. One day the hanging gang 
rode up to his place and asked him to show them a trail 
by which they could get out on m the prairie to the south. 
He willingly and innocently mounted his horse and rode 
away with them, and that was the last that his wife ever 
saw of him. Somewhere up in the pine breaks they hung 
or shot him, and buried his body. At the time he had a 
large sum of money with him. Downs came of a good 
family somewhere in eastern Canada, and before he came 
over to the Missouri served a term of years with the 
Northwest Mounted Police. He was well liked by all 
who knew him, and was an honest and industrious young 
man. 
Just before dark, while walking around the island read- 
ing the record of the game about, as printed in the sand 
and mud by their hoofs and paws, I came across a fossil 
bone of large size, which I thought had been one of 
the vertebrae of a mastodon. I lugged it to camp, thinking 
to tell Sah-ne-to something of the great animal which 
roamed here before the glacial period. "Ah, I" she said, 
as I laid it down. "You have the bone of a water bull. 
Where did you find it?" 
I told her, and at the same time concluded not to say 
anything about a mastodon for a while, as from her re- 
mark I believed there might be a bit of folk lore forth- 
coming. So, after the dinner things had been washed and 
put away, I remarked: "A water bull's bone, is it? Tell 
me something about the animal ; I never saw one." 
"Of course you never saw one," she replied. "They 
died off long, long ago ; perhaps hundreds of years. One 
of them once befriended a man when he was in great 
trouble He was a young man named Red Crow, the 
only son of a poor widow, and he was very much in love 
with a girl named Two Stars "- 
"And," I interrupted, "there was another man also in 
love with her, hence the trouble." 
"How did you know," she asked, "since you never 
heard the story?" 
"Oh!" I replied, "I guessed; that is about the only 
thing that makes trouble in this world." 
"Well, you were right this time, at' least. Another 
young man named Bull's Head also loved her. His 
father was a great chief, very rich, and he was pleased 
when his son told him that he wanted to marry Two 
Stars, for she was a good girl, very industrious, quite 
handsome, and her father was a medicine man and quite 
wealthy. 
"The chief went to the medicine man's lodge and they 
smoked together, talking of various things. Finally the 
chief came around to the object of his visit. 'What say 
you,' he asked, 'to giving my son your daughter? He 
is a good hunter, brave on the war trail for one of his 
youth, and as he is my only child, all I have will one day 
fall to him.' 
"'Your words are good; pleasant to hear,' said the 
medicine man, 'and nothing would please me better than 
what you propose. Alas ! the gods have already spoken 
to me regarding her; recently in my sleep, my secret 
helper came and said: "You are not to give Two Stars 
to any one for a wife until you receive a certain sign, 
which will be carried by the one we have chosen for her." 
Also, he told me what the sign would be, but I may not 
tell" you that. I now await it, expecting to see it daily. 
How nice it would be were your son the chosen one to 
carry it.' 
"The chief went to his lodge, disappointed, of course, 
vet not angry, for no one questions the ways of the gods. 
But when Bull's Head was to!4 what the old man had 
