254 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Sept. 24, 1904. 
Some Shingle Mil Folks.l 
When Jones came down from Wisconsin to inspect 
our southern limber and decide whether it was worth 
while attempting to turn it into wood pulp, I was glad 
to heir him disclaim the slightest inherent fondness for 
hunting or fishing. The Arkansas Legislature had but 
lately traced a dead-line in the pathway of sportsmen 
from other States, and I knew I must lead Jones through 
a region replete with opportunity and temptation, 
guarded by the usual number of constables and deputy 
sheriffs. As a rule, the man who cares nothing for 
firearms and fishing is not especially welcome as a com- 
panion in my trips to the woods, but this was an ex- 
ceptional case. Jones agreed to be good, and I trusted 
him. 
"All I want is a glimpse of the virgin forests," said he. 
"But, while I am hunting for paper stock, I'd like a 
chance to study your natives and their manners and cus- 
toms. Show me old-fashioned folks in homespun— the 
men with muzzleloading squirrel- rifles, the _ old women 
knitting in the chimney-corners, and the girls carding, 
spinning, and working the looms." 
I explained to him that the homes of our primitive folk 
were in the hills, and that the bottom lands, because of 
the influx of enterprise to till their rich lands and con- 
vert their forests into good, hard cash, were no longer as 
in the days of the original Arkansaw traveler. "But 
maybe I can find some characters worthy of study," I 
added, encouragingly. "I've found one already," . he 
responded cheerfully, and the reply set me to pondering, 
for I'm blest it" it didn't sound just as though he 
meant me. 
It was well along in December and the fall rams had 
given place to clear weather and heavy frosts. As is 
usually the case at that season, the river and creeks had 
spread over the low grounds, and overland travel to the 
point wc wished to reach was entirely out of the question. 
I approached the subject of a canoe trip with consider- 
able doubt, for the average Northern man has a holy 
horror of a dugout, and almost invariably capsizes the 
first one you get him into. Jones eyed the craft critically, 
gave it a shove off the shore, and jumped in well amid- 
ships, catching his balance like an experienced log- 
runner. "Our Indians up home could give you fellows 
cards and spades in boat-building," he told me, paddling 
back to load in our baggage. "There's no shape to this 
old ark, and there's too much timber in its bottom. Get 
forward, there,' and let me furnish the motive power. I 
haven't swung a paddle since a year ago last August." 
So I made myself comfortable on a roll of blankets with 
my .25 rim-fire across my lap, filled and lighted my pipe, 
and pointed out the course he should follow. The work 
of paddling did not seem to hinder Jones from looking 
at the trees and asking questions, while I was too thor- 
oughly satisfied with my own job to insist on a change. 
Presently it developed that my companion had a fairly 
good eye for game. "There's a squirrel in the fork of 
that big, tree," he announced. "Can you kill him?" I 
could and did, and then Jones paddled on without com- 
ment, looking guilty and remorseful, as is seemly in one 
who has prompted a deed of slaughter. In a few minutes 
I saw a 'coon on some drift a hundred yards to 
the right of our course, but said nothing, waiting to see if 
Jones would discover and identify it. "Lighter colored 
than they are up north," said he, as though taking it for 
granted that six pounds of flesh and fur could not be 
overlooked by the casual eye. "Don't shoot him— there's 
a wood duck under that willow ahead yonder." And then 
he checked up paddling, and I potted that duck with a 
200-yard shot which I never expect to duplicate. "A 
bully little rifle !" exclaimed my non-sporting friend, sur- 
prised into momentary forgetfulness. "I wouldn't mind 
changing places with you a while — if this wasn't Arkan- 
sas, and I knew how to shoot." 
When the sun was still an hour above the western 
horizon, we ran the dugout ashore on a hardwood ridge 
lying only a foot or two above the flood level. Jones 
wanted to assist in stretching our little shelter tent and 
getting supper ready, but I objected. "Remember what is 
expected of an explorer. Here's a 160-acre island with 
nary a Crusoe, and maybe you'll find a big crop of wood 
pulp ripe and ready for harvesting." He started leisurely 
into the interior; then retraced his steps. "I'll take the 
rifle— for protection, you know." "Sure," said I. "There 
was a bear killed on this ridge in '79." A squirrel came 
skurrying down the trunk of a hickory, found a com- 
fortable seat on one of the lower limbs, and commenced 
chattering his astonishment at our presence. I expected 
Jones to shoot, but he contented himself with drawing a 
long and careful bead, and then tossed_ the rifle on our 
blankets. "Wish he was one of your idiotic lawmakers," 
he growled. "Here, let's get busy with that tent." 
Next day, as we drew near the shingle mill, Jones' in- 
terest was aroused by the, to him, unique logging work 
going on around him. Said he, "I have seen loggers at 
work on six feet of snow, but never before in ten feet of 
water." So I gave him a discourse on the southern 
cypress, and the approved methods employed in getting it 
1o the saw. When a tree is anywhere from six to four- 
teen feet in diameter at the ground and dwindles to 
twenty-four or thirty-six inches some ten feet higher up, 
common iense suggests tbj jpeliey &f shepping or sawing 
II above ttto "'bulge" In w itf-Wm fcftPlpj !§ 
employed to furnish the axman footing at the proper 
level, generally of a most insufficient character in the eyes 
of an amateur. The swell butt of a large cypress is 
usually a mere shell. A hole is chopped through to the 
hollow and a slab or split board driven in, upon which 
the workman stands to fix another "springboard" higher 
up ; so continuing until the right height is reached. Not 
every man can ply the ax while balancing on a six-inch 
footing, and for this reason it is customary to cut cypress 
when the overflow is at its highest level. Formerly, when 
the work was all done with the ax, the chopper would 
stand in a dugout, the craft swinging away from the tree 
as he raised his ax, and back again as the blow fell, thus 
giving additional force to the stroke. There is quite a 
knack in this sort of chopping, as anyone can easily learn 
by practical test ; but as a matter of precaution, the first 
lesson should be taken where the water is quite shallow. 
At present a crosscut saw is employed in felling the 
timber, two men working together in a "John boat." 
Sometimes the tree refuses to fall in the direction in- 
fended, and a boat is smashed and maybe a man crippled 
or killed, but such occurrences are rare. 
Once down and afloat, a single log is taken from the 
trunk, sawing it off as far up as the timber is good and 
reasonably clear from knots. This is done by a single 
man, who stands either in a boat or on the log itself, with 
a saw from which one handle has been removed- — the 
blade, of course, being steadied by the water. We ran 
across an old fellow so employed, and halted to watch 
him at his labor ; but he caught sight of my rifle, and 
would do nothing but examine and criticise it. "Purty 
gun," he admitted, "but too dadgummed leetle in the 
hole. Might dew fer a bluff, though, like Ben Tidwell's 
six-shooter. Ever hear 'bout that? Well, Ben's the 
shingle-packer hyar at Bradley's, an' las' summer he gits 
down with the chills an' sends fer two gallons of whis- 
key. When she come, the boys all hinted 'round fer a 
drink, but Ben wouldn't hyar 'em. One night they holds 
a caucus an' 'cided things had ter go dif'rent, an' so the 
gang goes in on Tidwell an' Big Sam Springer does the 
talkin'. 'Ben,' sez he, 'we on'y ax what's right 'twixt 
man an' man. Fotch out that jug an* save yerse'f 
trouble.' Ben sizes up the crowd, sorter hesitates a 
minnit, an' then dives under his bunk. 'Jug's thar,' he 
sez, settin' it on the table ; then he reaches fer a big cap- 
an'-ball navy six an' monkeys with the hammer. 'Which 
one of you all is driest,' sez he, 'kin take the fust pull.' 
The boys look at the jug, then at Ben. 'Tidwell's got a 
mighty bad color,' allows Big Sam Springer. 'Mightily 
like yaller janders,' sez Tom Pate. 'Mebby he'll need all 
this whiskey.' An' then all the fellers allowed they wa'n't 
much dry nohow, fust one an' then t'other slidin' fer the 
door; an' as the last one groes out, Ben slings the six- 
shooter atter 'im. 'She hain't had a load in her fer five 
year,' sez he, 'but she was sure a peach afore I broke the 
mainspring an' then bent the bar'l crackin' hick'rynuts.' " 
Dave Bradley, owner and manager of the shingle mill, 
proved an object of interest to Jones, even as he had to 
me in the earlier days of our acquaintance. He would 
never acknowledge to a college education, but his 
knowledge of ologies and isms sometimes made our con- 
versation's a bit too lopsided for my own comfort, as in 
the old days when I used to respond "Yes'm" to my 
teacher's "You will doubtless remember, etc." Once I 
asked Bradley why he was not holding down a chair at 
some university, instead of hiring mill hands at a dollar 
a day and paying them out of the commissary at a mere 
100 per cent, profit. "Emotional insanity, my dear boy," 
said he. "It's the old story of a whole life spoiled by the 
idiocy of a single moment." Which, as Jones said, was 
"plenty vague, and might mean either a case of mother- 
in-law, horse stealing, or backing the wrong poker hand." 
Bradley seemed to be a jolly good fellow, and if he knew 
the gnawing of remorse for past misdeeds there was no 
reading the fact in his merry eyes or detecting a false 
ring in his laughter. His idea of a pleasant conversation 
was to do practically all the talking himself, and I never 
knew a listener to object, because Bradley's stories were 
interesting. One day he sent a boy to call us to the com- 
missary, where a trio of trappers were trading furs for 
provisions. Two of the three were father and son — 
woodsmen of the ordinary type, and, from their language, 
reared in the woods. They were garbed in brown duck- 
ings considerably worn, but clean and showing the darn- 
ing and patching of a careful housewife, whose home 
might be a mere pole shanty hidden away in some cane- 
. brake. To give a comprehensive description of the third 
man's appearance is beyond the possibilities of type. 
Jones contended that even a photograph would fail to 
give his strongest claim to particular notice, and I agreed 
with him. Whispered Bradley, "He is a skunk catcher— 
a specialist, as you might say. I buy the fur, but he re- 
tains the aroma, and most of the grease seems to have 
soaked into his clothes. I'll tell you about him after 
a while." 
"1 
whc 
soli, 
and 
a -tit 
was 
trig 
him 
w anted you to see that fellow," said the mill owner, 
n we were again. alone. "His present name is John- 
bui it was something else before he left England, 
there was a chance that he might some day claim 
; .le. You wouldn't think it, but twenty years ago he 
one of the slickest gamblers that made a living pluck- 
jpigecr.s in our lower river towns. Grim fate overtook 
one right in a card game at Helena, A young Mid 
'pr-inn sat in fte .game. Rtakc4 pad jest hia.tast.flellnr, 
\]\tt\ i'StiOu il tOiigii . I]'jus(:, i liayuii'l- the BltfutSsf 
doubt he had been robbed, but he was very foolish to 
start a gun play, with a fellow like Johnson. They took 
the boy home next day for burial, and Johnson found it 
convenient to seek greener fields and pastures new. Two 
years later he was behind a roulette layout on an Ohio 
River boat, when a dead ringer of the Helena party 
slipped into a chair facing him. 'Johnson,' said he, T 
know you for a murderer and a cheat; now, suppose you 
prove to me that you are not a coward, as well.' 'How?' 
inquired Johnson, suddenly gone as pale as a sheet. At 
the next landing we will go ashore and exchange shots. 
It's more gentlemanly than potting a fellow across a 
table; but if you prefer that sort of a death, you can get it 
by the slightest treacherous move. Fight fair, and possi- 
bly you will live until one of my younger brothers gets 
old enough to take up the quarrel.' Johnson agreed to 
the proposition, but was only fighting for time, for his 
nerve had entirely fled. The boat whistled for a landing 
about 9 o'clock that night, and passengers and crew 
tumbled ashore to witness the duel; and then it was dis- 
covered that one of the principals was missing. Johnson 
had quietly slipped into the river, swam to the Illinois 
side, and struck a bee-line for the Rocky Mountains, 
where for a time he found safety. At Cripple Creek, the 
winter after the big strike, his enemy again found him, 
and this time there were two brothers in company. John- 
son was in a saloon and went out of the back door a 
moment after they entered at the front. The poor devil 
was simply frantic with terror, and the railroad trains 
that hustled him along toward Arkansas were not half 
speedy enough to suit him. When you come to think of 
it, three days is a short time for transforming a spick-and- 
span gentlemanly gambler into such a nondescript as you 
just now saw; but, all the same, Johnson managed it 
somehow, and a greasy, ill-favored and worse flavored trap- 
per he has been from that day to this. Not a very success- 
ful one, either, though that should not be charged against 
him, for he lacked the advantage of early training. Take 
the best of men out of their business latitude and they are 
no good ; in proof of which statement I will tell you 
another story: 
"Along the merging line of that which people are pleased 
to term a higher civilization and the semi-savagery of 
pioneer days, countless little social tragedies are con- 
tinually cropping up, direful enough in their effect upon 
the party or parties concerned, though the world would 
count them of little moment. When Dave Parker went to 
the penitentiary for embezzlement, a host of former 
friends wondered at his downfall, but its cause was no 
mystery to me, and I had long foreseen some such an 
ending for a good man who deserved a far better fate. 
Dave was my partner when I first butted into this shingle 
business, and a likelier or smarter fellow never drew the 
breath of life. He was a born hustler, continually had a 
dozen irons in the fire, and none of them burning, and 
could make ten dollars to my one any day in the week. 
In a year or two he was running a- big real estate business 
at the county seat, and clearing hundreds of dollars a 
month in commissions. His pet scheme was to sell a cer- 
tain twenty thousand acre tract as a game preserve, and 
he eventually got in correspondence with the right party, 
a northern millionaire, who came down to look over the 
ground, and brought his daughter with him. She was an 
ex-society belle, grown a little too aged to hold her hand 
against younger rivals, but still sufficiently attractive to 
turn Dave's head for good and all. To do the woman 
justice, it was doubtless a case of mutual attraction, for 
my old partner was a handsome, manly fellow, with that 
brusque, careless courtesy of manner that somehow finds 
its way straight to the hearts of womankind. They were 
together continually for a couple of weeks, and a month 
after her return home Dave followed her. Just what 
transpired upon his forcibly breaking into the swell social 
circles of upper tendom, I never learned. It is easy to 
guess that his lack of culture caused a sensation, and 
caused no end of chagrin to his lady love. Anyway, she 
gave him an unmerciful calling down and packed him 
back to the swamps, and two or three days later wrote 
him a letter full of agonizing self-reproach for her heart- 
lessness and begging his return. So Dave once more hit 
the trail for Gotham, and this time made so flagrant an 
exhibition of his ignorance that the lady packed her trunk 
and absconded across the Atlantic. The next time I saw 
Parker he was a bit downcast, but a long way from utter 
discouragement. Books on etiquette became his regular 
nightly study, while his days were employed, as formerly, 
in piling up the dollars. Then suddenly he sold out his 
business and disappeared, and I afterward learned she 
had written him from Paris, telling how bleak and lonely 
life had grown to her, and how she yearned for a chance 
to beg his pardon for the crime of desertion. Dave was 
away the better part of a year and acquired quite a pass- 
able knowledge of western Europe, for she led him a 
merry chase around the circle and never ; once did .he as 
much as catch a glimpse of her golden hair. He came 
home dead broke and afoot, and I staked him for a fresh 
start in business ; but he took to drinking, and went from 
bad to worse as rapidly as man ever did. Maybe -his 
fickle-minded love took the trouble of sending a private 
detective to look hjm up. At any rate a letter came, and 
I afterward fc ur.d it. wifli others from the same source, 
between the loaves of his mother's old family Bible, She 
was 'astounded 1 fco-haar certain facta whieh were not 
mc-\m, pr.,1 iip mm nTO^piet te. sm torjitin, fer 
filiy jmtj pffil 'fli'y> Hvaj (jit "in ?0iuphftn5p Wills a ||||a 
