68 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
tjAN. 28, 190S. 
this side of that timber, when crossing a draw — a dry 
watercourse — we scared up a band of antelope that had 
been lying down in here to get out of the storm. Jump- 
ing olf the pony, I turned the Winchester loose, and two 
of the antelope dropped. We let them lie here, then kept 
on to the timber, which we found to be down in a small 
cafion. There was good grass and water down there, 
and the canon ran east and west; that sheltered us from 
the wind. As soon as we had our ponies tied out, I 
and the Antelope went after our game, while the Crow, 
who was cook for the expedition, started a fire and got 
his coffee on in quart tin cups. We brought in the ante- 
lope, then leaving the boy to dress them, I put up a shel- 
ter out of pine boughs and saddle blankets to keep the 
snow off us. Between now and next morning the three 
of us had about finished one antelope, and the boys had 
started in on the other. I managed to get all I needed 
at dinner and supper, but the boys put in the first part of 
the night hailf the time making and smoking cigarettes 
and the rest of the time broiling steaks and ribs; then 
they went to bed — or I thought they did — but they were 
up several times between then and morning cooking more 
meat and eating it. 
An Indian can eat all day if he has it, then go a week 
without eating anything and not growl unless he_ thinks 
that you have something of which he is not getting his 
share. I was not Indian enough yet, nor never got to be 
Indian enough, to want to eat more than three times a 
day. 
It had cleared off next morning, and after breakfast 
the boys started off after more antelope, while I took the 
gun and went up along the canon to hunt turkeys or 
anything large enough fcr a .44 ball, but sa^v nothing, 
and after a while came back to camp to wait for the 
boys to come in. I wanted to leave now since the 
weather had got warm again. I had hardly sat down 
when I heard a shot fired off on the prairie, and a 
moment after my boys came tumbling down the bank 
here so badly scared that they could not speak. 
I asked them no questions, but taking up the carbine 
pumped a load into the chamber, then got it_ to my 
shoulder and pointed up the hill, just as a white man 
rode forward. 
"Halt!" I told him. "Up with your hands — quick, 
now !" 
He pulled up his horse, and his hands went up quick 
enough for me even; he seemed not to be able to get 
them up quick enough or high enough to suit himself, 
though his gun lay across his legs as he sat in the sad- 
dle, but mine was in my hands here pointed at him. 
The Antelope had got over his scare now, and the 
first thing he did was to reach and take one of my pis- 
tols and throw up the hammer; the next thing would be 
a ball sent into that man there. He never knew how near 
death he was. 
"Wait," I told the boy, "I'll tell you when to shoot." 
The Crow took the other pistol. I heard his hammer 
go up, but knew he would not fire until I told him. 
These pistols were now where I wanted them. If there 
were any more shootirig to be done here, these boys 
could and would do their share of it. 
The man's hands began to drop. 
"Keep those hands up, sir, or I'll send a ball into you !" 
I told him. 
"Why, I don't want to hurt you, partner. I would be a 
fool to fire at you now." 
"Well, I won't take your word for it. Have you got 
anyone along with you?" 
"Yes, sir, I have two Mexicans. They have stopped 
back here, I reckon," and he was about to look back, 
when I said, "Keep your head this way and call them." 
He did so, and both came in sight now, their hands 
up also. Had they been white men their guns would 
probably have been up, but a Mexican never does any- 
thing until he is told, then does it wrong, if possible. 
"Is that all of your party?" I asked. 
"Yes, sir, this is all. Now can't. I get my hands down? 
We ain't dangerous." 
"Not now you are not. There is a little difference be- 
tween shooting at two boys who have no arms and three 
of us who have and know how to use them. Yes, put 
your hands down and come in. I only wanted to be sure 
that you did no more shooting." 
They led their horses down, and the white man said: 
"I had not the least idea that there were any white men 
but myself in the country." 
"It is a good thing for you that there was, or else there 
would be no' white man alive here now. Had there been 
a party of the tribe these boys belong to here instead of 
me, they would have killed you so quick you would never 
have known who did it. What was your idea in firing 
at these boys, anyhow?" 
"Why, I shot a mile above their heads. I would not 
shoot a boy, of course, even if he is an Indian." 
"Then never do a trick like that again. If I had said, 
'Shoot !' a few minutes ago, that boy would have sent a 
ball through you in a hurry." 
"Yes, I reckon he would — that is, if he could hit me. 
I w£S afraid he might be fool enough to try." 
"Don't worry about his not hitting you. He would hit 
you, and hit you where you live, too." 
The boys still had the pistols; they would not put 
them up now until I told them to do it, and the Antelope 
kept eyeing this man. He at least understood part or 
all of what was said, as I had been teaching him English. 
"Put the pistols away now," I told them in Comanche, 
"the war is over." They laughed and returned the 
pistols. 
"Can you talk their lingo?" the man asked. 
"A little, enough to make myself understood, and these 
boys both understand English." I thought I would tell 
him so, as then he might be careful about what he said. 
These boys rnight meet him some time again when there 
was no white man with them, and they have long 
memories. He took the hint, and I heard no more about 
Indians. 
I got out the tobacco now and we made cigarettes; 
the boys had no more shucks for wrappers they told me, 
so I got them a bunch from these Mexicans. This man 
told me that he had a large party of Mexicans west of 
this killing buffalo. He used lances, he said. I had heard 
that they did, but had never seen them used, and told 
him that a Colt was good enough for me. 
He wanted us to go home with him and visit his camp. 
I should have liked to have done so, but he was too far 
out of mj' road. I meant to go south from here, and 
not any further west. I had told the chief before leav- 
ing that I might be gone a week, and did not want to 
stay longer lest he should be uneasy and send out to 
hunt for us. 
There was a lieutenant of ours with half a troop of 
cavalry out here somewhere, and I asked this man if he 
knew where this camp was. Yes, he did, but it was a 
long distance south of this. He could direct me, though, 
if I wanted to see him. 
I did not want to see him. In fact, he would be about 
the last man out here that I would care to see; for I had 
not been sent out here to go prowling all over New 
Mexico with two young Indians, but to stay in that In- 
dian camp and keep them out of mischief. There was 
no danger of their getting into any or I should not have 
left them; but it would be of no use for me to tell 
him so, and he would waste some of his valuable time 
and some of mine in telling me what I had been sent here 
for. It would all be wasted, though. I did not want any 
more orders, and wanted to know where he probably 
was so that I could steer clear of him. 
We got our saddles on now, and all left here, keeping 
each other company for a few miles; then these men 
turned north, while we kept on toward the southwest. 
Cabia Blanco. 
[to be continued.] 
trees; you will probably hear them calling at a distance 
in the forest, and may see a number hastily disappearing 
in the shadowy distance; and you get a crack at a fine 
old gobbler that you have warily called to a point almost' 
outside the range of your rifle (for it is small caliber), 
and to your delight may see flutter his last at your feet. 
And again yen may bring in three or four from one 
day's hunt, while your less fortunate comrade may hunt 
four days and bring in nothing but his tired frame. But 
you have enough for both, and the central roast will 
compensate for the vain tramping over the hills. 
George Enty. 
Templeton, Pa. 
Growing Wild Turkeys* 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
And why not? One man's recreation is in studying the 
haunts and habits of the chickadee, the swan, the black 
bear_ or field mice; of another the chief delight is in 
angling for black bass, sea trout, pike or sunfish; his 
neighbor takes stock in nothing but canoes, paddles, 
creeks, rapids and rivers; and those four gunners coming 
up the road hunt respectively quail, deer, rabbits and 
turkeys. And no man knows better than this last-named 
nimrod what a keen eye, quick ear, power of mimicry 
and tireless legs are good for. And more than this, no 
man knows better how tO' keep a cool nerve under a 
hard strain if we may except the deer hunter and his 
brother hunter who goes out for sheep, elk or moose. 
Then why not turkeys? 
Thousands of acres of farm and forest land in all the 
New England, Middle, Southern and Central Mississippi 
States would make veritable paradises for wild turkeys 
if they were once stocked with these noble birds. And 
the amount of good sport that might be had in a few 
years by a little effort upon the part of the populace 
• can only be imagined. 
But just here is the most serious obstacle in the work 
of stocking a section of country with turkeys. It is 
practically impossible to restrain people from killing 
them at every opportunity, in season and out, Sunday, 
Monday and every other day, old or young, either or both 
sexes and by any means, legitimately or diabolically, 
day or night, lean or fat. The people simply go mad 
after them, and the only compensation the propagators 
have is in the thought that perhaps some of the reckless 
gunners will surely pepper each other with No. 4 shot. 
In the winter of 1888 four pairs of fine wild turkeys 
wandered into the woody hills back of our home. They 
were part of a large flock we had grown from birds ob- 
tained in the mountains of Central Pennsylvania. They 
became nervous at my young brothers' style of catching 
them — namely, by picking out the birds wanted and 
shooting their heads off — and betook themselves to the 
wood3._ The next season these birds made a brave fight 
for existence, and succeeded in reaching September over 
forty strong, and this in spite of the fact that one man 
accidentally found one nest of nine eggs which he 
hatched at home, of course; another fellow shot and 
killed a hen brooding a flock of poults a week or two old, 
and other equally atrocious raids. 
It was a sight worth seeing! Somewhere on those 
chestnut ridges, basking in the warm sunlight that 
glinted between the trees that made the resting birds look 
like a dozen, a score, yes, two dozen figures in purple and 
green gold, these noble birds reclined upon the brown 
leaves and dreamed of old pastures teeming with grass- 
hoppers, chestnut trees from which the brown nuts 
rustled like rain, wild grapes loaded with purple fruit, 
and here and there a field of buckwheat and corn from 
which a small tribute would ..occasionally be exacted ! 
Yes, they were beautiful, those wild fellows, ten to 
twelve pounds for hens, and thirteen to eighteen pounds 
for gobblers, and as fleet of foot and strong of wing as 
rhe wind itself. 
But their_ halcyon days were of short duration, for all 
the guns within a radius of ten miles were soon in pur- 
suit of them, and ceased only when but a straggling, 
widely scattered remnant was left. 
This taught us the folly of trying to stock a locality 
with these birds under ordinary conditions. But some- 
thing might be done if the work were taken up by a 
club with some means back of it. In fact, I believe I 
could stock a large preserve or a section of farming 
country at small cost comparatively. 
The exclusive right to shoot over all the territory in 
question wonld be obtained of the owners and tenants. 
The actual tenants of each farm might be permitted to 
quietly take one or two turkeys each year, one for 
Thanksgiving, another for Christmas, after the flocks 
had once got a good foothold. Compensation for actual 
damage done crop of com and buckwheat (they would 
injure no others) should be made where it amounted to 
more than the value of two turkeys allowed each tenant, 
and a liberal reward for apprehending illegal killing and 
trespassing. This wonld, I think, insure the faithful 
service of all dwelling on the stocked grounds. 
To a certain extent the turkeys wonld get beyond any 
ordinary preserve, and would fall victims to hunters; 
but they would never be decimated, for they soon learn 
where safety lies. Again, they may be raised and 
stocked upon forest land where there are few inhabitants, 
and these can usually be paid to protect the turkeys, thus 
insuring large flocks and good hunting. 
Well, don't imagine that yon are going to have any 
serions trouble getting your game home when you have 
your preserve stocked and go out after the birds some 
fine September or October morning. You will see where 
they have been feeding beneath the acorn and chestnut 
Death of Old Non Comprend. 
Joe Francis told it to me in this way, when we were- 
at supper at Rippogenus: 
"One fall I was guiding Frank Hinkley; Louie Nicho- 
las was guiding another sport. We were near the mouth i 
ot Aljigash Frank said, 'Joe, do you speak French?'! 
^1 don t know a word of French, but I said 'Yes.' I 
Well,' says Frank, ' I want you to go down to the' 
M. Johns with me this afternoon to get some milk andl 
butter and eggs.' 
"I told him to get Nicholos, as I knew he spoke? 
I^rench; but he must have me; so I thought I could work! 
It. I asked Nicholas in Indian what milk, butter and' 
eggs were m French, and I kept saying over the words ^ 
till 1 thought I knew them. Well, when we came to the.'i 
first house, Frank says, 'Joe, let us stop here.' ! 
"When I tried to remember the words I found I had! 
forgotten them all. There were a lot of children ouV 
doors, and I says, 'Frank, you don't want to stop here.t 
1 his IS a school house. Don't you see the children?'' 
I was in hopes I might get time to remember, but Frank' 
would go m. Well, when we got in there were over a' 
cozen children. They had no ladder, but there were pins ' 
driven into the corner posts, and the children were run-li 
nmg upstairs just like mice. Frank says, 'Joe, fire away 
your French.' • 
"I asked the woman in Indian. She says, 'Non com-^ 
prend.' Frank says, 'What does she say?' I says, 'Shei 
says there is an old peddler named Non Comprend 
who comes round every week and buys all the milk, but-ii 
ter and eggs. He has just been round.' Frank says. 
Then we will try the next house.' ' 
"I asked the next woman in Indian. She says, 'Non 
comprend.' I says, 'There, Frank; didn't you hear her 
say Non Comprend? I tell you, Frank, it is no use;' 
that old Non Comprend has just been and bought up all 
the milk and eggs and butter there is.' Frank says, 'I' 
don't believe yon can speak French.' I told him I conld, 
but no one could get any milk and butter and eggs when 
they were all bought up. 
"Well, next day we were paddling down the St. John, 
and where the road came close to the river there was a 
funeral. I saw a boy on the bank, and I says, 'Boy,' 
whose funeral is this?' It was a French boy, and hei 
says, 'Non comprend.' I says, 'There, Frank,' do you 
hear that? He says it is old Non Comprend's funeral'! 
'Never was so glad in my life that old Non Comprend 
IS dead. Now we can get all the. milk and butter and' 
eggs we want.' " , M. HARpy. 
In Appreciation of Cabia Blanco. 
_ I've been reading your work, C. B., from the smallest 
jotting upward, and if I've skipped any it was because; 
i didnt see it. I know something about those old buf-: 
falo bows, with their dark brown matting of sinew glued j 
on the back, and the dirty old rag wrapped around thei 
middle, the back as wide as a shovel to a small boy's 
hands. I had one once, with a sheaf of flint-headed 
arrows, now full thirty years ago; but I could as easily 
use a crowbar as that bow! The arrows were another; 
matter, and gave me cause to love a long bow from: 
that day till now. Incidentally, an enemy might say l' 
could use one, on a pinch; but why not? 'Tis a warrior's^ 
trade. 
But I'm truly glad for that translation of your name ! 
Taken with probable age, possible youthful hirsute char- 
acteristics, and a wild shot at impossible Spanish, I'd;; 
figured It out as "Tow-head" in my mind. That was" 
my name some forty years ago; but I was perfectly ready 
to give it up if yoii bad a prior claim. How! Give us 
plenty more, J, p_ 
Boston, Mass, 
Medicine in Camp, 
_ Chicago, Jan. is.—Editor Forest and Stream: I no-' 
ticed Mr. George Kennedy's inquiry about medicines to 
be taken m camp. I am an old-time camper; have, 
camped all over the Northwest, often a hundred miles; 
from the railroad. Some years ago one of our eminent- 
physicians here, Dr. Gustav Fiitterer, a fine sportsman, 
whose office is in the Venetian building, presented mes 
with a small medicine case which I have carried ever- 
since, and which, in my estimation, cannot be improved 
upon. It is abont 8 inches long, s inches wide, and 2j4 
inches thick. It contains about thirty small glass tubes 
filled with condensed tablets ; has forceps, a lancet, hypo- 
dermic syringe, plasters, surgeons' needles, and a printed 
list of contents and how and when to use same. I always 1 
carry the little case on my trips, and it has proven of 
great value in many instances. | 
If you wish to see it, or if any of your readers wish^ 
to have one made like it, I shall be only too glad to ex-i 
press vou the small case and its contents. Besides the! 
case, I always carry two rolls of bandages, one narrow 
and one wide, and a small package of antiseptic cotton., 
E. LiPKAU. 
"Next time you're in the armory," said the captain of! 
G Company, proudly, "take a look at our room. We've 
had it repainted and refurnished throughout." "I saw it,"i 
replied the major, "and really, sir, your room is better! 
than your company." — Philadelphia Ledger. 
First Young Highwayman (in dark and deserted street) 
— "Say, Chimmie, is dey any danger in bein' out late ati 
night like dis ?" Second Highwayman— "Naw ' O' coursei 
dey ain't Why, we is d' real dangers 1"— Life. 
