388 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Oct. 22, 1904. 
3d 
V 
Trackers of the North. 
What appears marvelous and positively uncanny to a 
town person is simple to a bushman. 
Years of continuous observation develops the bump 
of locality, every object has a place and meaning to a 
trapper; his eye is ever on the alert, and what his eye 
sees is photographed on the brain and remains there 
for future reference at any time he may require it. 
This bump of locality is highly developed in all In- 
dians and whites who have passed many years in the 
bush. Without the faculty of remembering objects a 
bushman could not find his way through the dense 
forests. 
Providing the trapper has once passed from one 
place to another, he is pretty sure to find his way 
through the second time, even if years should have 
elapsed between the trips. Every object from start to 
finish is an index finger pointing out the right path. 
A sloping path, a leaning tree, a moss-covered rock, a 
slight elevation in land, a cut in the hills, the water in 
a creek, an odd-looking stone, a blasted tree — all help 
as guides as the observant trapper makes his way 
through a pathless forest. 
Of course, this tax on the memory is not required 
of trappers about a settled part of the country, but I am 
telling of what is absolutely necessary for the safety of 
one's life in the far-away wilds of the North, where to 
lose one's self might possibly mean death. 
I followed an Indian guide once over a trail of 280 
miles, whereon we snowshoed over mountains, through 
dense bush, down rivers and over lakes. To test my 
powers of a retentive memory, the following winter, 
when dispatches again had to be taken to headquarters, 
I asked the Indian to allow me to act as guide, he fol- 
lowing. 
On that long journey of ten or twelve days, always 
walking and continually thinking out the road, I was 
in doubt only once. We were standing on the ice; a 
tongue of land stood out toward us; a bay on either 
side. The portage leaving the lake was at the bottom 
of one of these bays, but which? The Indian had halted 
almost on the tails of my snowshoes, and enjoyed my 
hesitation, but said nothing. To be assured of no mis- 
take, I had to pass over the whole of last winter's trip 
in my mind's eye up to the point on which we stood. 
Once the retrospect caught up with us, there was no 
further trouble. Our route was down the left-hand 
bay. 
When the Indian saw me start in that direction, he 
said: "A-a-ke-pu-ka-tan" ("Yes, yes, you are able"). 
The most difficult proposition to tackle is a black 
spruce swamp. The trees are mostly of a uniform size 
and height, the surface of the snow is perfectly level, 
and at times our route lies miles through such a coun- 
try, and should there be a dull leaden sky or a gentle 
snow falling, there is nothing for the guide to depend 
on but his ability to walk straight. 
It has been written time and again that the tendency 
when there are no land marks is to walk in a circle. 
By constant practice, those who are brought up in 
the wilds acquire the ability to walk in a straight line. 
They begin by beating a trail from point to point on 
some long stretch of ice, and in the bush, where any 
tree or obstruction bars the way, they make up for any 
deviation from the straight course by a give-and-take 
process, so that the general line of march is straight. 
During forty years in the country, I never knew an 
Indian or white bushman to carry a compass. Apart 
from, a black spruce swamp, it would be no use what- 
ever. _ 
In going from one place to another, the contour of 
the country has to be considered, and very frequently 
the "longest way round is the shortest way home." A 
ridge of mountains might lay between the place of start- 
ing and the objective point, and by making a detour 
round the spur of same, one would easier reach his 
destination, rather than to climb up one side and down 
the other. ■ 
On the first day after my arrival in London (the only 
time I ever crossed the water) a gentleman took me 
out to see some of the sights. He lived on the Surrey 
side, and took me direct, or, I should say crooked, into 
the city across the Thames. After walking me around 
several blocks and zigzagging considerably about, he 
came to a sudden stop at a corner. "Now," he said, 
"Hunter, suppose I was to disappear all at once, do 
you think you could find your way back to Elm Tree 
Lodge? I have always heard that you bushmen can 
find your way anywhere." 
Now, although there was no necessity for it, my years of 
schooling had caused me to observe every conspicuous 
object, and every turn we had made since leaving his 
residence; and therefore I replied, with the utmost con- 
fidence, "Why, to return to your house from here is 
as simple as falling off a log." 
Looking at me with the greatest incredulity, he said, 
"If you can find your way back unaided I will pay for 
the best hat in London." 
"Well, my dear sir, my number is 7, and I want it 
soft felt and dark bottle-green. Now follow me, and 
you can get the hat in the morning." 
Without going into details, suffice it to say, I con- 
ducted him to his own door, and a more perplexed 
man was not in London; so much so, he fyad, tg ca|l 
in his wife, his mother-in-law and his next door neigh- 
bor to tell them of my achievement. 
At last I had to cut short his flow of words by say- 
ing my guiding him home was a most simple thing. It 
was merely the result of observing as I went along, and 
running the objects backward as I came to the house. 
"If I was to tell you as a fact, my dear sir, that a 
bushman sees the track of some wild animal in the 
snow, he can tell you not only the name of the animal, 
but if it was male or female, within an hour of the 
time the tracks were made, if it was calm or blowing 
and the direction of the wind at that time and many 
other minor things, you would think this wonderful. 
Yet, as wonderful as this may appear, and hardly to be 
credited, an Indian boy of ten or twelve can read this 
page from nature as easy as one of us can read a page 
of print." Martin Hunter. 
The Arkansas Market Hunter. 
License a safe-blower to ply his craft on Wall street, 
with the condition that he takes only the silver dimes 
and leaves other coin and collateral untouched, and 
possibly his dissatisfaction will equal that of an Ar- 
kansas market-shooter under the present State laws. 
Any professional man would dislike giving up a pay- 
ing general practice to become a specialist with a 
smaller income; but the market-gunner is permitted 
no choice in the matter. He can ship no game outside 
the State, nor sell at home anything save bear, rabbits 
and squirrels. Undoubtedly Arkansas has still a good 
many bear, but their habitat is the canebrake and 
swamp, where successful still-hunting is impossible and 
dogs can be used to little advantage. Bear tracks can 
be found any summer or fall within a dozen miles of 
my home; yet, during the fifteen years since I first 
hunted in this territory, not more than four or five 
bears have been killed — the last one in 1899. Conse- 
quently, the hunter's sole chance is now in squirrel 
shooting, since rabbits are hardly saleable in Southern 
markets, except to darkies, and many negroes will eat 
them only in the winter months. So we find the market 
shooter ranging the woods in quest of gray and fox 
squirrels, and supposedly unmindful of other species of 
game. The reader will take note of this word "sup- 
posedly." Coveys of quail may flush from under his 
feet; deer stare at him down the forest trails; turkeys 
"tree" in the surrounding oaks and gums, and the 
quacking of mallard and whistle of woodduck signal 
the vicinity of lake or stream; but he is supposed to 
keep his mind strictly on squirrel, and his finger off 
the trigger until said squirrel is discovered, for it is 
a matter of principle with the market-hunter to shoot 
nothing that he can't sell. He may feast, if he so 
pleases, on venison steak, fried turkey breast, and 
broiled woodcock, and quail; but he must not yield to 
temptation and ship his surplus birds in egg cases to 
Memphis or St. Louis, nor can he pack a trunk with 
venison saddles and intrust it to some friend bound to 
the World's Fair. However, he can give away as 
much game as he likes, and the generosity of our mar- 
ket-gunners as a class is something remarkable. Dur- 
ing the duck flight, last fall, roast mallard became as 
common as fried sowbelly, and it was reported that one 
enterprising shooter, with an unusually long list of in- 
timate friends, even hired men to assist him in keeping 
their tables supplied. Idle report, mind you — a mere 
rumor — that could by no possibility be traced to its 
origination. Not a conviction have I heard of under 
the new law; not even a prosecution, or as much as a 
complaint. And what does that prove? Why, that our 
market-gunners are a nice lot, superior to temptation 
and without guile. But they are death on squirrels. 
Bald Knob is situated on the St. Louis, Iron Moun- 
tain & Southern Railroad, at the very dividing line of 
flat lands and hills. Westward, clear to the border of 
the Indian Territory and beyond, nothing but ridges and 
valleys, limestone, sandstone and flint pebbles; eastward, 
to the Mississippi River, ninety odd miles away, ap- 
proximately a dead level expanse, with hardly a rock 
big enough to throw a dog. Hardwoods on the hills; 
the bottomlands covered with a giant growth of oaks, 
hickories, gums, cypress, etc., with abundant and dense 
undergrowth. Twelve miles to the east lies White 
River, and four miles to the south the Little Red, 
both navigable streams, their junction point some thir- 
teen miles to the southeast. From the limited territory 
within this irregular triangle, squirrels have been ship- 
ped about two-thirds of each year since 1894, the ship- 
ments each day in the week ranging from 100 to 250, 
with a probable average of about 125 — something over 
a quarter of a million in all, as a momen's figuring 
will show you. Until last season, other game in fair 
quantities was killed for the market, principally deer, 
turkeys and ducks; but even approximate data of the 
gross amount is not obtainable. Several years earlier 
than the date above mentioned — during the season of 
1888-9 — I know that seventy-three deer were killed with- 
in the triangle in question, and there were probably 
others that I heard nothing about. Possibly I should 
add that at no one time, to my knowledge, have there 
been more than five or six market-hunters shooting in 
this territory; that four dozen squirrels to the gun is by 
no means an unusual score for a single day, hunting in 
the morning and evening, and that the record at pre?b 
ent stands at seventy-six — credited to the redoubtable 
Zeke, whose camp I recently visited and will now pro- 
ceed to describe. 
Kings are born to the purple; Arkansas market- 
hunters have as their heritage the green woods, the 
inspiration of dad's old gun above the mantelpiece, and 
the droning repetition of hunting yarns of the long 
ago, and the intuitive knowledge that dad's old hound 
always leads in the chase and never — no never — barks 
up the wrong tree. They commence hunting by the 
time they have outgrown dresses, keep it up as long 
as there is chair room awaiting them at the parental 
board, and when at last forced to take up some regu- 
lar employment as means of earning a livelihood, they 
choose — hunting. I have yet to meet a market-hunter 
who has turned to that calling from any other, or 
who would leave the woods and a life of hardship, ex- 
posure and frequently semi-starvation for the best- 
salaried indoor position that one could offer him. 
Their choice of occupation is doubtless a foolish one; 
but who is to judge and condemn them for it. Cer- 
tainly not the sportsman, who, for the mere fun of the 
thing vainly strives to match them in endurance as well 
as in skill. Nor the law-makers, who might, but do not, 
make their arduous calling impossible. Most assuredly 
not the writer of these lines, who has shared their hos- 
pitality many times in the past; hunted with them, and 
tound them in no wise deficient in field courtesy and 
the ethics of true sportsmanship. Are the market- 
gunners of other regions cast in a different mould? 
Possibly not; yet, while the innate gentility, sturdy 
manliness and general lovability of moonshiner, 
smuggler and poacher have inspired the pens of novel- 
ists without number, and, which is more to the point, 
been accorded recognition by their sworn enemies, thjj 
game-keepers, United States marshals and excise offi- 
cials — when did a sportsmen's journal omit qualifying 
adjectives more or less derogatory and offensive in 
mentioning the man who shoots for the market? He 
is as avaricious as a gold miner, as sordid as a bank 
president, as regardless of the rights of others as the 
homesteader who gobbles up a whole quarter section 
of public domain. Maybe all his incomings and out- 
goings are not strictly legitimate in the eye of the law; 
but he cloaks them under a lawful calling, and there are 
others, equally culpable, who get a whole lot less of 
blame. Time and again I have discussed with Zeke the 
need of game protection. He knows that I would gladly 
see his occupation legislated out of existence. He 
knows too, that I do not blame him for continuing in 
business so long as the law permits. The best policy 
in dealing with woodsmen is one of perfect frankness, 
whether you have to do with a market-gunner who is 
not a law-breaker, or pork eaters and timber cutters 
who keep clear of the penitentiary because of the diffi- 
culty of getting the right sort of evidence against them. 
Let them one and all know exactly where you draw 
the dividing line between right and wrong, and you will 
find them jolly, good hunting and camp companions, 
and not given to embarrassing confidences, which you 
might later have to repeat to an inquisitive grand jury. 
Perchance, even in the big cities, one might find an oc- 
casional person with business secrets to be jealously 
guarded from a prying public. I have been told that 
such is the case, and have no reason to doubt the 
veracity of my informants. 
I found Zeke's party camped at Beaver Pond, some 
seven miles from town. More accurately speaking, I 
found the camp. The hunters had been away since early 
dawn, and the constant popping of shotguns from one 
to two miles distant showed that they were busily 
employed. A wisp of gray smoke, lazily ascending 
from a bed of dying embers, led me to the spot where 
four men had made their home for as many weeks. 
No cabin or tent; nothing ever so remotely resembling 
a shelter from sun and dew, save the spreading branches 
of a big white oak overhead, and the thick foliage of 
encircling saplings. Four stakes had been driven in 
the ground, supporting a rough board, which served 
as a table. A few cooking utensils were hanging from 
nails driven in the oak — a fiying pan and three smoked 
and battered tin buckets. On the bench I have men- 
tioned were a galvanized iron water pail, two tin cups 
and a single tin plate, and a worn and phenomenally 
dull butcher knife. Three soiled and tattered quilts were 
rolled together and thrust in the fork of a sapling; sun- 
dry coats and overalls hung here and there; a little 
sack held the supply of salt and coffee safely above the 
reach of visiting kine. This was all, save that among 
the branches of a bush not more than shoulder high 
casual scrutiny discovered several loaves of bread and 
a slab of the never-to-be-forgotten sowbelly. "The 
dogs can't git up thar," one of the boys told me later 
on, "an' these flatwoods cows won't eat baker's bread." 
Students of natural history will please stick a pin here. 
The discovery is of recent date, for only last year it 
was rulable to elevate the grub to the seven-foot 
level. 
A gray pony stood tied to a tree nearby, its hips and 
shoulders stained with blood as evidence of its daily 
trips from the camp to the railroad station. Against 
another tree leaned a bicycle, valuable when the state 
of the roads permitted, for trips requiring speed. J 
bitterly resented the introduction of bicycle and baker's, 
bread in this otherwise perfect picture of a forest 
pivouac; but the contaminating touch of modernism. 
