82 8 
FORE ST AND S TREAMi 
[Dec. 24, 1904. 
The Pot-Hunter, 
Of the Strange Fate of Lonesome Sam. 
BY FRANCIS MOONAN. 
The locust had ceased its drowsy sibilation in the 
trees, and the cricket had commenced its death song in 
the withered grass. Among the crisp leaves of the oak 
not a rustle was heard, nor yet a sigh among the tops of 
the pines. A belated bee droned monotonously about a 
bed of goldenrod, and its droning could be heard at the 
distance of a hundred yards. The occasional tapping of a 
woodpecker on the tree trunks in the forest sounded like 
the beating of a hammer. A light amber mist hung upon 
the mountains, and the lake was undisturbed by a ripple. 
All was peace — the peace of the beautiful Indian summer. 
How often Lonesome Sam, the pot-hunter, had con- 
templated this scene with joy; not so much because it ap- 
pealed to any aesthetic sense in him, as because it heralded 
the glorious season of hunting. But to-day as he sat on 
a ledge of rock over the lake, he contemplated it with 
a dull, lack-lustre eye. 
Lonesome Sam, or, to give him his full name, Samuel 
Adams Gimble, was born of decent parents in the little 
village that nestled beneath the mountains at the further 
end of the lake. He was brought up in his father's trade, 
which was that of a carpenter and general handy man. 
From his earliest years he had, like most country boys, 
a taste for fishing and hunting, and as he grew older this 
taste developed into a positive passion. However, he 
continued to ply his trade as long as his father lived ; but 
after the old man had passed away, Sam, by degrees, 
dropped the use of his tools and took to roaming the 
woods all day with his dog and gun. 
Nobody in the village cared — nobody, at least, but one, 
and that was a bright-eyed young girl, Susan Hager, who 
was in love with Sam. She thought, and with reason, that 
the object of her affections was playing nine-pins with 
his chances in life; and, in fact, as she expressed it, was 
making a bee-line for the county jail. On the first favor- 
able opportunity she imparted her thoughts to him, and 
Sam, being a few-worded, good-natured sort, listened to 
her in silence. Finally, as he made no reply, Susan put 
her apron to her eyes and began to cry. This was too 
much for Sam. His hang-dog air deserted him in a 
moment, and moving closer to Susan he threw his arm 
about her waist and cried : 
"Don't little girl, don't!" 
"You're breaking my heart," wailed Susan. 
"I'll do anything you like," declared Sam, desperately, 
"if— if— " 
"If what, Sam?" asked Susan, looking up through her 
tears, her lips parted in a pathetic smile. 
"If you'll marry me," answered Sam, stoutly. 
"Oh, Sam!" 
So they were married, and Sam hung up the fiddle and 
the bow, and took down the shovel and the hoe, so to 
speak. But, alas ! how often a reformation which begins 
with marriage is doomed to failure ! Six months had 
hardly elapsed when Sam felt an uncontrollable desire to 
handle his gun one idle day while his wife was absent 
visiting her mother. So he sought it out in the lumber 
room, where it had been put away out of his sight. No 
sooner was the beloved weapon in his hands than his old 
passion awoke. He saw the vistas through the woods ; 
heard the patter of feet or the whirr of wings; recalled 
passed moments of intoxicating excitement or triumph. 
His face flushed and his eyes shone. He raised the gun 
to his lips and kissed it. Then a thought of his wife and 
his solemn promise to her flashed across his mind, and 
he hung his head in shame. But he clung to the gun, and 
presently, having provided himself with some ammunition 
which had remained hidden in his trunk, he rushed from 
the house and was off to the woods. 
When his wife came home and didn't find him, her 
feminine instinct told her that something was wrong. She 
went at once to the lumber room, and not seeing the gun, 
sank down on an old dusty settee and covered her face 
with her hands. 
Sad is the lot of the reforming wife. 
A year after this, Sam having served three months in 
the county jail, which experience only seemed to whet his 
appetite for pot-hunting, Mrs. Gimble abandoned her task 
in despair and went home to her mother. 
The double disgrace of imprisonment and wife deser- 
tion which had befallen Sam turned all his neighbors 
against him, and he began to feel like a pariah in the 
village. He made a brief attempt to rehabilitate himself, 
but though possessed of plenty of physical courage, he 
lacked the moral almost completely. And as the drunkard 
hungers for his glass, so he hungered for his gun. The 
issue, therefore, was foregone, and we find Sam stealing 
away one night with his gun under his arm, a big bundle 
slung over his shoulder, and his dog Scout (a great half- 
breed hound) trotting at his heels. 
Entering the woods he took an old unused Indian trail 
and traveling all night left the slumbering village far be- 
hind. At daybreak he found himself at the upper end of 
the lake. Here all was solitude. Selecting a little glade, 
Sam threw down his bundle and his gun, and there de- 
cided to pitch his tent. "I guess," he said, "I'll be quiet 
enough here. Leastways I'll be free from the gossips," 
he added, a little bitterly. 
The season being summer, the ground was dry, so he 
lay down and had a good sleep. When he awoke he 
undid his bundle and had a meal of biscuit and cold pork. 
Then, without a moment's delay, he set to work to- erect 
himself a dwelling, and being a carpenter by trade and 
provided with tools (for he had not left these behind), 
he made rapid progress. Within a week a very decent 
log cabin stood under the lee of the woods, about twenty 
yards back from the lake. 
At first the cabin was furnished with a bed of balsam 
boughs merely, but as time went on a rude table and 
chair and several furs of wild animals were added. It 
will appear from this that Lonesome Sam (as he now 
began to be known) was not idle with his gun; but, in 
addition to providing for his own wants, he was able to 
send not a little game to the village, where he had, 
through an intermediary, opened communications in due 
course. The proceeds of the game kept him in ammuni- 
tion and necessary domestic supplies. 
Instead of growing tired of his mode of life, he only 
grew more infatuated with it. Sometimes, indeed, during 
* i? ng w * nter evenings he would experience a yearning 
for human companionship, but he never felt tempted to 
return to the village. No, not even on Susan's account. 
Yet he had not ceased to entertain a regard for her; but 
he felt that she was better off without him. "She'll get a 
divorce after a while," he used to tell himself, "and 
marry again." 
But poor Susan didn't get a divorce— unless, indeed, 
that death can be considered one. She had secretly hoped 
that her desertion of Sam might cause him to look into 
himself and abandon his vagabond ways; but when she 
heard that he had left the village, the measure of her 
disappointment was full, and she pined away and died 
within a year. The news reached Sam through his inter- 
mediary with the game dealer, and made him feel very 
remorseful for a while. And being naturally of a super- 
stitious nature, as nearly all moody, solitary men are, he 
rather apprehended bad luck in some shape or form. 
However, the years passed and no especial bad luck be- 
fell him. He continued to dwell in his little cabin and 
hunt and fish with varying success. Game laws he set at 
defiance, and, singular to relate, he never fell into the 
hands of the law except that once in his callow days. 
His health was almost invariably good, and he felt per- 
fectly satisfied and in a manner even happy. Certainly, 
as he realized, it did not seem as if Fate had any grudge 
against him. 
But one evening he received a rude shock. Coming 
home at twilight, after a rather unlucky day, he found 
his cabin burned to the ground. He stood for a while in 
an attitude of extreme surprise; then walked up to the 
smouldering embers and surveyed them all round about. 
The weather was warm (it was the latter end of May), 
and he had left no fire burning when starting on his 
hunt; neither had there been a thunderstorm. Matches 
he never used (a flint and steel and touchwood were his 
means of making fire), and as it happened he had taken 
his last supply of ammunition in his pocket. Evidently 
the destruction had been malicious. But who had raised 
his hand against him thus? Whom had he offended? 
Certainly nobody since he left the village. Then he 
thought of his wife; but she had been dead five years, 
and if anyone connected with her had felt disposed to be 
revenged upon him he would not have waited so long. 
Nevertheless the idea clung to him that it was the part he 
had played toward poor Susan that brought this trouble 
upon him somehow. And a vague fear, springing from 
his innate superstition, took possession of him. 
What to do he didn't know. At one moment he was 
for flying from the spot, and the next tears ran down his 
cheeks at the idea of severing his connection with all his 
beloved haunts. He was strangely moved and agitated. 
Night had fallen, and he finally resolved to wait until 
morning for direction as to his future course. So he lay 
down supperless near the ruins of his cabin. But not to 
sleep. Even if his thoughts or feelings had been of a 
nature to predispose him to it, the dismal whining of the 
dog Scout, kept up intermittently all night, would have 
made sleep impossible. It was in truth a lugubrious night 
for Lonesome Sam, and the sight of breaking day 
afforded him infinite relief. 
One of the first things he heard was the drumming of 
a ruffed grouse in the woods. Seizing his gun, he made 
off in the direction of the sound, and returned in half an 
hour bearing the trophy of his skill. He lit a fire and 
cooked the bird, which he ate with the appetite of one 
who had not broken his fast for over twenty-four hours. 
The morning was fresh and beautiful, and what with this 
and his hearty meal he began to feel more serene and 
hopeful. What if, after all, the fire had been caused by 
some tramp who had wandered out of his way? Fie 
jumped at the idea, and it decided him not to move from 
his present location. He determined, however, that he 
should not be burned out a second time. Henceforth 
he would live in a cave, and this was ready at hand, or 
would be after not very much labor, beneath a ledge of 
rocks. He was for starting on the making of his new 
home at once, but recollected that he had an appointment 
with the game dealer's agent that very day to get am- 
munition and domestic supplies. This circumstance he 
deemed extremely fortunate, and it . instilled fresh hope 
into him. 
"Things ain't never so bad as they seem at first," he 
said, as he hurried off to keep his appointment. 
_ He returned late in the afternoon well laden down and 
tired, so he postponed beginning his new operations until 
.the morrow. All day his mind had been busy with the 
tramp idea. It was plausible, but not quite satisfactory, 
and the superstitious notions began again to flit, bat-like, 
in the recesses of his mind. However, he was decided 
to remain where he was at all hazards, and set to work 
at his cave the following morning. As we have intimated, 
the rocks overhung so that there was almost a natural 
caye, and it required only some hollowing out to make 
quite commodious quarters. Working steadily, there- 
fore, Lonesome Sam was able to stand erect and measure 
his full length upon the ground before nightfall. But it 
was several days before he took formal possession of his 
new home, so to speak. Meanwhile he slept in the open, 
which was a thing that came very natural to him. His 
slumbers were greatly troubled with dreams, chiefly of 
times long gone by, and he often saw Susan's pale, 
anxious face watching him or gazing reproachfully at 
him. This, he thought, could only have one significance, 
and put him more and more out of conceit with the tramp 
explanation of the fire, and more and more upon brooding. 
The summer waned slowly. He spent his days listlessly 
fishing in the lake or moping about the forest. Solitude 
had become such a habit with him that he never desired 
human companionship any more. Scout (now grown 
rather old, but still active) sufficed him for company. 
And it is to be noted that in these days of mental tribu- 
lation, he grew evidently ■ fonder of the dog — used to 
caress and converse with him more. Indeed, it may be 
said that he was his only consolation. 
It will be readily imagined, then, into what a state of 
mind he was thrown when he awoke one morning and 
found Scout missing. He (Lonesome Sam, that is) had 
slept in his cave, for the season was late September, and 
the nights had commenced to get chill. For nearly ten years 
he had been used to awake to receive Scout's caresses. 
When he didn't see him sitting expectantly by his pallet 
as usual, he received a shock, which presently turned into 
consternation after he had whistled and called in vain. 
He rushed from the cave and went scouring in this direc- 
tion and that, whistling and calling like a man half dis- 
tracted. But Scout appeared not. - At length he threw 
himself flat upon the ground and gave way to his feel- 
ings m a fit of lamentation. Even if the dog 
had disappeared under ordinary circumstances, Lonesome 
Sam would have been deeply affected, but now to his 
grief was added an access of superstitious fear and panic. 
Recovering from his fit, he returned to his cave and sat 
there the whole afternoon, hoping, though faintly, that 
the dog might return. It was just barely possible that 
he had been lured off on some hunt during the night. 
Foxes, and occasionally a bear, were in the habit of 
prowlmgaround,but though on these occasions Scout would 
give tongue, he had never, so far as Lonesome Sam knew, 
gone m pursuit, at least for any distance. Still, dogs, 
like men, do not always act in the same way, and are apt 
to be guided by circumstances. 
However, the day passed, and the beloved friend and 
companion did not return. Lonesome Sam slept none 
that night, nor for two nights following. He went wan- 
dering around, even in the darkness, like a restless spirit. 
Sometimes he would put his fingers in his mouth and 
whistle and whistle, and then he would call Scout by 
name till he was hoarse. For all answer he heard the 
lonely sighing of the wind among the pines. 
Naturally a lover of nature in his rude way, the sounds 
or voices of the forest were dear to him, but now they 
began to strike harsh and discordant on his ears. At the 
quavering of the owl at nightfall, -he would shiver from 
head to foot. His whole environment, in fact, became 
terribly oppressive to him. Every depth or aisle of the 
forest, every thicket, seemed to hide some mysterious 
foe, and the very air seemed pregnant with impending 
doom. He longed to flee, and yet could not. He felt, 
as it were, in the clutch of an avenging fate. 
The third night exhausted nature came to his aid and 
he slept. It was on the morning after this that we find 
him seated on a rock above the lake, lost in melancholy 
reveries. His appearance was sufficiently woeful. His 
tall frame was wasted away to mere skin and bone; his 
long hair and beard were matted and unkempt, and his 
brow was furrowed with premature old age. From his 
eyes looked out a spirit obsessed by years of solitude 
and now by phantom-like misfortune and superstitious 
dread. His clothes, for the most part, were skins of wild 
animals, kept in place with thongs instead of buttons. 
Evidently they were worn night and day. Altogether he 
presented a picture at once wild and pathetic in the 
extreme. He remained seated till well on in the after- 
noon, when he suddenly roused himself, clenched his 
hands, and broke into a bitter invective against his enemy 
or enemies. Then, swearing they should not down him, 
he picked up his gun and set off on one of his hunting 
trails. 
But the revival of courage did not last long. Besides, 
he soon realized that without Scout his hunting would 
not amount to much. He raised nothing of more im- 
portance than a rabbit, which he missed. At length, stag- 
gering almost with weakness (for he hadeaten practically 
nothing since the disappearance of Scout), he sat down 
on a sunny slope at the edge of the forest, and, reclining 
his head on his hand, soon fell asleep. 
When he awoke it was late evening. The sun had set, 
and a dark bluish atmosphere envelooed the lake and 
mountains. Everything looked bleak and cold. The wind 
was rising, and withered leaves rustled about, while the 
big trees of the forest began to boom in that solemn, 
melancholy fashion of theirs. Alarmed by the approach 
of the storm, the bluejays and woodpeckers set up a wild 
distressful crying. These things impressed themselves 
upon the sensitive soul of the poor hermit hunter, dissi- 
pating whatever calming influence his sleep had had upon 
him. He yawned and stretched his arms wearily, then 
looked about him for his gun. But the gun was not there. 
With a hghtmng-like motion of the head he looked on 
the other side. Neither was what he looked for there 
The gun had disappeared ! 
For a moment Lonesome Sam appeared as if petrified ; 
then, clapping his hands to his head, while his eyes 
bulged from their sockets, he jumped to his feet, and 
with a cry of terror, fled into the forest. 
* * * * * * / * 
A month later a tall, grave-looking individual was 
making his way through those gloomy wilds. Though he 
carried a rifle, it was evident from the way he kept his 
eyes about him— peering here and there and observing 
all the ground— that hunting was not his only objea 
Presently he came to a halt, let his rifle fall, and threw 
up his hands with an exclamation of pain. Before him 
doubled up alongside of a fallen log, lay the body of 
Lonesome Sam. It was badly decomposed, and eaten in 
parts by birds and animals, and presented a piteous spec- 
tacle. For a while the finder stood gazing upon it with 
a mournful countenance and tear-dimmed eyes 
"Poor Sam !" he said at length. "I had not intended 
that it should end like this. I only thought to drive him 
from his wild, savage way of life." 
He covered the body with leaves, took an observation, 
then walked sadly away. The following day he returned 
with two men and they buried decently all that remained 
of poor Lonesome Sam. 
The Indian Shoulder-Basket. 
From the Trappers' Guide. 
One of the most satisfactory arrangements we have 
ever made for carrying luggage on the back is the Indian 
shoulder-basket. They are made nearly square, or about 
ten inches by twelve, at the bottom, and twelve or four- 
teen inches high. One side is flat, the others are rounded 
and drawn in toward the top, making the mouth of the 
basket only about half the size of the bottom. Over the 
mouth, and extending some distance down the sides, a 
cover of rubber or enamel-cloth should be fitted. On the 
flat side of the basket shoulder-straps are fastened, cross- 
ing each other in the form of an X. These straps should 
be made of two thicknesses of strong cotton cloth, sewed 
together and stuffed with cotton. The great advantages 
of this basket are, that it is light, easily managed, fits the 
back well, bringing the load just where it is wanted, does 
not get out of place, and does not heat the back like a 
close-fitting knapsack. Combined with the basket the 
trapper needs/a small enamel-cloth haversack such as is 
worn by soldiers. 
