Oct, a, tm-t 
works havoc everywhere in the present day and time, 
and that which can't be helped must be endured. 
Presently the hunters commenced straggling in, each 
heavily burdened with game. The first comer counted 
twenty-three squirrels as he unstrung them from the 
thong which had crossed his shoulder, and later ar- 
rivals had averaged as well; but it was generally con- 
ceded that Zeke's score would prove best. "His gun is 
a io-bore," said one. "An' he can beat us shootin'," 
added another. "An' kin see squirrels the rest of us 
can't find," supplemented a third. All this_ was no news 
to me, for I have hunted side by side with Zeke, and 
know that his big repeater can be depended upon for a 
90 per cent, gait, while no man in the country will burn 
more powder on the same ground and in the same 
length of time. He brought in thirty-three squirrels, 
and reported them growing very scarce and wild. I 
presume that Northern and Eastern squirrel hunters 
will smile incredulously at this bare statement of facts; 
but let them spend a season in the Arkansas low 
grounds, and, as the writer has done before now, shoot 
down twelve and thirteen squirrels before taking time 
to gather them for a count, and they will be ready to 
accept without murmur statements more remarkable 
still. 
As the time was early in September, and the weather 
very warm, the game had been drawn as killed. Later 
in the season, this work will be deferred until camp is 
reached, and then the hunters will feast upon fried 
squirrel liver. I recall making one of a party of seven 
very hungry men who attacked and demolished a frica- 
see of ninety-five livers. We thought them very good, 
and they certainly served to sustain life until a twenty- 
pound gobbler could be roasted and the accompanying 
side dishes prepared. Had we been market-hunters, 
the turkey would have been sold and the proceeds in- 
vested in "good old greasy hog meat." But this is a 
digression. Ten minutes after Zeke's coming, the squir- 
rels, duly counted and bundled into a gunnysack, were 
resting on the withers of the gray pony, with a sturdy 
rider in the saddle, whipping and spurring toward town. 
And in ten minutes more Zeke was following on the 
bicycle with a dozen big-mouth black bass, freshly 
taken from the live box, resenting with flops and gasps 
the coating of ashy dust which speedily covered them 
as they dangled from the frame. Another half hour 
would see them on the local market freshened and re- 
vived by a bath at the town pump. They had been 
caught the evening before, on a Skinner spoon, in this 
little mud hole of a beaver pond, which covers a scant 
twenty acres and shows a dry-weather depth of not 
more than three feet; yet there were 5 and 6-pounders 
in the lot, and more of the same* sort would be taken 
the following evening, and five days out of six for weeks 
to come. ■ " 
Squirrels and black bass! Truly, evil days have be- 
fallen the Arkansas market-hunter when he must con- 
tent himself with such small fry. The first of them I 
ever knew — quaint and kindly old Ganoway Malcolm, 
the Raft Creek philosopher — would never consent to 
-waste a bullet on game smaller than deer or turkey; 
and it was because of his adherence to this rule that 
I lost the good opinion of his wife. The pair were 
childless, and in their old age had adopted an orphan 
boy, a sickly, peevish six-year-old, who was idolized by 
the old lady and petted and whipped in turn by her 
usually kind-hearted but sometimes irritable husband. 
"Pinky" was a dainty feeder, and his appetite fre- 
quently craved delicacies the family larder did not af- 
ford; so, in time, there came a demand that old Gan 
positively refused to supply. The boy wanted "squirrel 
heads," and as I was passing the cabin on my way from 
camp to the deer crossing on Dick's Point, Mrs. Mal- 
colm hailed me with a request, which, as it' afterward 
transpired, I did not fully understand. On my. return 
that evening I brought her six plump young squirrels. 
I had taken pains in their killing, and the head of each 
and every one was either missing or torn into frag- 
ments. The good lady was too angry to accept ex- 
planations, and I am well assured that she never for- 
gave me. 
Malcolm taught me many tricks of the deer hunter's 
craft; among the rest, that there were other ways to 
stop a running deer than by whistling or bleating at it. 
His own method was to call out, as though addressing 
an old acquaintance, "Hello, old man!" "Hi, thar. 
gal!" or "Run, you little devil!" varying the summons 
as the age and sex of the subject demanded, and timing 
it so exactly that the deer would always halt in a clear 
spot, where there was nothing to obstruct the shot. 
Judged by the standards of to-day, Malcolm was not a 
market-hunter pure and simple, for he followed trap- 
ping in its season, cut and rafted logs when offered 
what he considered rightful pay as an expert hand, 
and of the game he killed, the greater part was con- 
sumed by the family and their numerous guests. Hide 
hunting was his specialty, and his harvest time came 
twice each year: once early in the winter, when the 
annual overflow ran the deer from the low grounds to 
the flat woods, along well defined routes of travel, af- 
fording the best of opportunities for bushwhacking; 
and again late in February and early in March, during 
the buffalo gnat season. Of late years the buffalo gnats 
have noticeably decreased in their numbers, and there 
are springs when they are noticeable principally by their 
absence; but in the early '80s they were a scourge to be 
dreaded, making life an endless misery for every four- 
footed creature within the territory where they abound. 
Deer and domestic animals frequently succumb to their 
attacks. The planters and woodsmen owning horses 
and cattle practice keeping "smokes" burning near 
their dwellings during the time the buffalo gnats have 
the country in keeping, and to these smouldering 
stumps and log piles come the tortured stock and wild 
creatures, and there remain, even starvation failing to 
drive them away. So, in the buffalo gnat season Gano- 
way built his smokes in the woods roundabout, march- 
ing along his beat from one to another, and killing any- 
where from one to five and ten deer a day. It was 
while thus engaged that he sighted and shot some- 
thing that he used to describe as "a master big deer, 
taller'n my Molly mule (a good 15 hands high) an' 
heavier'n four deer orter be." The creature was a 
male, but had shed its horns. A square timberman who 
saw it was positive that it was an elk, but admitted he 
knew nothing save from hearsay of how an elk should 
look. But an elk it was from that day, according to 
Malcolm and his fellow woodsmen, and an elk it will 
remain in the traditions of that region; however, from 
personal knowledge of Ganoway's love for exaggera- 
tion in yarn spinning, I hold to the theory that it was 
about a 250-pound buck — out of the ordinary in size 
for Arkansas, where the average big deer runs about 
one-third lighter. 
The old man steadfastly refused to see aught repre- 
hensible in that "smoke shooting" at a season when 
deer were thin in flesh and unsuitable for food, and 
when closely pressed, was always ready with the mar- 
ket-gunner's unfailing argument, "The law says it's 
right, and I might as well get them as some one else." 
But later events furnished irrefutable proof that Mal- 
colm's implied respect for the law and its mandates 
was merely a convenient fiction. Arkansas at last gave 
her deer the protection of a close season, and my aged 
acquaintance was the first man to suffer for its in- 
fringement. One day in July the habit of a lifetime as- 
serted itself, and a nice young buck fell at the salt lick 
where so many had fallen before. A half-mile away 
lived a widow, Mrs. Citterdene, lone, friendless, and 
in destitute circumstances. Malcolm called on her to 
assist in skinning the deer he had "found dead," and 
that night she had meat in the house sufficient for many 
days to come. Nice old man! Nice old lady, too; for 
next morning she went direct to the county seat where 
the grand jury was then in session and reported the 
killing for the sake of the informer's fee. At the trial 
Malcolm plead guilty. "Half the meat she had, and all 
the skin," said he to his Honor. "She was a widder 
an' starvin', an' I don't begredge her what she got. 
What's more, I'll be one of five men to give her a 
dollar a piece over an' above her share of my fine." 
I am glad to say that the judge assessed the lowest pen- 
alty admissible under the law, and that the judicial cen- 
sure was directed, not at old Ganoway, but at the sole 
witness for the State. 
From Ganoway, who stands first on the list, to Zeke, 
its latest addition, I have known market-gunners not a 
few, and have found each and every one thoroughly as- 
sured of the perfect legitimacy of his calling and con- 
tent to continue in it. Making more than the barest 
living is quite outside his calculations, and, as op- 
posed to the keen delights of the woods life, its ex- 
posure and hardships are as nothing. With different 
early training, he would have been the most ardent of 
sportsmen; but he was taught to combine business with 
pleasure, instead of earning a right to the last by close 
attention to the first. He is the living exemplification 
of a sad and serious mistake, and that is about the 
worst that can be said of him. And even this can be 
said of others, who never sold a squirrel or shot one, or 
even enjoyed the pleasure of seeing a streak of gray 
fur shoot up a tree and disappear in a ho41ow. So, if 
not deserving of unqualified blame, neither is the mar- 
ket-hunter an object of common pity, at least to a de- 
gree which should set him aside and apart from his 
fellow man. S. D. Barnes. 
Arkansas. 
The Horse that was Locoed. 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
In your very complete account of our poison plants 
and weeds in the number for Oct. 1, is a mention of 
the loco weed. I have good cause to remember that 
weed; it gave me two of the most miserable days' travel 
that I have ever had. 
The weed is quite common in some parts of what 
was the Indian Territory, Oklahoma now; but our 
cavalry horses did not seem to want to eat it. I had 
never seen an instance of their having done so until 
my horse made a supper of it, and came near killing 
himself. Had he not been a big, strong horse, he no 
doubt would have died then and there. 
I had been sent with a dispatch up to Fort Supply 
from Fort Reno. Both posts are on the North Fork 
of the Canadian; Supply is at the head of it, where 
W olf and Beaver creeks unite to form the North Fork. 
When going up I took the trail on the north bank of 
the river in order to hunt turkeys on my way up 
There was a large roost of them, called Sheridan's 
Roost; the General had hunted them, and we gave his 
name to the roost. When ready to return from Supply, 
I took the trail on the south side of the river. I had 
left ■ Supply at noon, and meant to get home the fol- 
lowing day. I kept on until nearly dark, then camped 
just where night had found me, staking out my horse 
and lying down within reach of him. He had a habit 
of coming to where I lay and waking me up if anything 
happened in the night to alarm him. I needed no guard 
on when I had this horse with me. He never came 
near me this night, and when I got up next morning 
he was lying down; and on going to him I soon saw 
that there was something wrong with him; he got up 
when I told him to do so, then, after staggering around 
a while, fell down again. I examined the grass (it had 
been too dark when I came last night to do it), and 
found loco weed everwhere. 
"I guess I have ridden you for the last time, Billy," 
I said, addressing the horse. "I can walk home now, 
then proceed to 'swear you off the papers' " — make an 
affidavit that the horse had died to avoid having to pay 
for him. I hated to lose the horse, I had ridden him 
three years; and as it afterward turned out I rode him 
the other two; but I did not expect to do it when I 
stood looking at him then. I got him on his feet 
again, and after giving him a good rubbing down with 
dried grass, took him down to water him. He drank 
a little, then I put him on fresh green grass here where 
there was no loco, and he tried to eat, but soon gave 
up and lay down again. 
I had a small bag of salt in my saddle pocket, and 
gave him half of it. He licked it up, then, getting up, 
went at the grass as if he meant to live a while longer 
yet. 
"I'll stay right here to-day," I said to myself, "and 
give you a rest." I had a dispatch to take down, but it 
could wait; it was not of much importance, or else it 
would have been sent by the telegraph line between 
the two posts. I started a fire and got breakfast, the - 
339 
last I would get until I had reached home, unless I 
killed something. 
1 I was nearly opposite to the turkey roost; so, leav- 
ing the horse, which was still trying to eat, I got across 
the river and shot a small hen turkey, killing her with 
a big .45 ball, that tore her up badly; but she would do 
for me to-day, I was not particular now. 
The horse was still grazing when I came back, but 
looked very bad; in fact, he looked as if I had been 
riding him fifty miles a day for the last month. I 
stayed here all day, and late in the evening it began to 
snow, but the snow melted as fast as it fell; and it kept 
on snowing all night, while I stood over a fire drying 
one side of me while the other side was getting wet 
again. At daylight I got the saddle on and started 
walking and leading the horse. 
The weather had got colder, and the snow, still fall- 
ing, lay on the ground. It was the first week in Novem- 
ber, and this was our first snowstorm. 
After going twenty miles, I had to camp. Neither 
I nor the horse could go any further to-day; and I was 
still fifteen miles from the post. 
When I started to make a fire I found my matches 
were all wet; the snow had got into the saddle pocket. 
Hunting up some dry cedar bark, I rubbed it until it 
was broken up; then wrapping it and a greasy rag that 
I used for a gun stopper, together, I scraped the snow 
carefully away from around an old dry log, and shoving 
the wad in under it, fired a shot from my pistol into it, 
and soon had a fire. 
I had nothing to eat; there would be no chance to 
get anything here. It was too near the Indian camps 
to find any game; the Indians would not let game 
stay long enough for any one to find. After boiling a 
tin cup of coffee, the snow having stopped at last, I 
lay down in front of my fire and slept all night, not 
having had any sleep last night. 
I started at daylight next morning, still leading the 
horse, and was home before noon. I put the horse in 
his stall, where he stayed for the next five months, look- 
ing at himself and doing nothing. 
The dose of the loco he had got was a lucky dose for 
him; he was well of it in a fortnight, but he never had 
a saddle on him until I put it on about the first of the 
following April. A week after I had brought him 
home I was sent off again to go to the Antelope Hills 
and stay there all winter to watch Indians, who were 
out on their winter hunt. I had to ride a borrowed 
horse, one belonging to the saddler. His and mine 
were the only two sorrels in the troop, and I would 
not ride a horse of any other color. I might get shot 
off him if I did. I could not be hurt while on a sorrel. 
This is a fool notion, of course; but most of us 
have a fool notion of some kind or other. I have gone 
into places on a sorrel horse — and the sorrel and I 
have, come out of them again, too — when I would not 
have gone within a mile of those places riding a horse 
of any other, color. 
My horse .escaped work that winter because it was 
a rule in the troop that no man could ride another 
man's horse 1 without the owner's consent, unless the 
owner was iff the guard house — then he could. 
I was not there all winter to give my consent, and 
was not in the guard house either, so Billy had a soft 
snap of it. 
The most . disappointed man at the post, when I 
brought that horse in was the captain. The horse was 
a thorn ,in his side, that he tried to get rid of, but 
never could. I once told him that I was willing he 
should transfer both me and the horse to another troop, 
but he would not let me go. 
The horse was one of the meanest kickers I have 
ever seen. He would not kick at a man; but every 
horse or mule that came near him would get a kick, and 
often it would miss the horse and send the man to the 
hospital. The captain had been trying for several 
years to have the horse condemned, to get rid of him— 
he was really dangerous — but the inspecting officer 
would always be either Gen. Makenzie or Col. Mizner, 
our senior major; they knew I did not want him con- 
demned, and he was not condemned. He had to be 
kept in a stall by himself; he would kick a mule out 
of it if one were put in, and he always ate two rations — 
one that was given him and one that I stole for him. 
I continued to ride him for two years after he had 
got the loco weed, then turned him in and left the 
troop. The next day the Captain got rid of him; he 
turned him in to the quartermaster. 
Two years after that I met him again. He was still 
in the service, though fourteen years old. He be- 
longed now to the 10th Cavalry, colored; the colored 
man who rode him told me that he still kicked as badly 
as ever. 
Although the horse had not seen me for two years, 
he still knew me; and taking him out of his stall I put 
him through a number of circus horse tricks I had 
taught him; he had not forgotten them either. 
When I had told the captain of my fear of leaving 
the horse the morning I found he had eaten the loco, 
he said, "Oh, you need have no fear of that horse dying. 
There is not enough loco in the Territory to kill him. 
He is too mean to die; if he was not, you would not 
be so anxious to keep him." Cabia Blanco. 
A Wotd to Cabia Blanco. 
The Hopewell Church, which I mentioned in my 
little paper of Sept. 17, is not the Hopewell Church in 
Allegheny county, to which you refer in your commu- 
nication of the 8th inst. ; but is in Indiana county, Pa., 
four or five miles north of Blairsville. It is rather an 
interesting coincidence that we should both have had 
some early associations of the ignis fatuus with Hope- 
well Church, and not the same Hopewell. Was pleased 
to see your article in the. Forest and Stream. 
T. J. Chapman. 
Ingram, Allegheny Co., Pa. 
When a Kansas City fire destroyed three buildings of 
the plant of the United Zinc and Chemical Company, at 
Argentine, Kan., thousands of fish in the Kaw River 
were killed by acids and chemicals that escaped from the 
plant into the stream. 
