May 13, igos-l 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
871 
turbed he saw and, long before we came to it, he 
spied the partridge. It was a splendid demonstration 
of the Indian's power to follow any kind of a trail, 
thro;igh any kind of a country. 
For dinner we had fried partridge, fried fish, boiled 
eggs, biscuit, and coffee, and had' just finished our re- 
? past whtn we heard the whistle announce the coming of 
Captain Ckirk's steamer to carry us on our return trip 
to Sturgeon Falls. 
We had come to pick out islands for camping pur- 
poses. Doctor Bragdon, Dayne Griffith, and the writer 
iiad each picked out his islands. The Doctor- has now 
:i fine six-room cottage on Island No. 126, and is 
iTady for the vacation season when it comes. 
We quickly sped up the lonely stretches of the French 
River, every miimte bringing us nearer and nearer 
home; though the poet assures you there is no place 
like it, the French River has it beat a mile, especially 
in the "Good Old Summer Time." 
Though our hearts were saddened by the arduous 
toils, business cares and. anxieties at home, yet that 
most precious part of every vacation is ours forever. 
It is the fond recollection of bright days joyously 
spent, and the bright anticipations of other vacation 
days yet to come — these form the connecting spans of 
■( hope, and over this ethereal bridge, high above vexa- 
tions and cares, march an ever-ending army of those 
v.iio have tired hands, weary brains, and heavy hearts, 
mavcin'ng on to 
■'The island of the home winds, 
To the island of the blessed, 
To the Kingdom of Ponomali, 
To the land of the Hereafter." 
James M. Norris. 
Homestead, Pa. 
^ Memories of the Buffalo Range. 
II,— Tfie Chimney Climbi g of Broken Knife, 
TfiE spring of 1880 found me engaged in the Indian 
i trade on the Missouri River at Wolf Point on the 
Yankton Sioux reservation. We were engaged also 
in trade over at Fort Peck at the mouth of the Milk 
River, which empties into the Missouri, and at Poplar 
River. The three posts were under my management. 
Business was quite large with the company I was with. 
The large trade in that country was handled by men 
who were with the Assinaboines, the Yankton Sioux, 
and Red River people from the north who made Poplar 
River and Wolf Point the centers in disposing of their 
furs, and in buying and trading for horses and supplies. 
The point at which I was trading was a favorite one for 
the selling of horses and ammunition to hostile Indians, 
i which was very heavy, and I was careful to see that I 
• did not engage in this. North of us was the Sitting 
Bull band of Indians, who had fled to Canada. 
While I was trading here, I had an experience which, 
\ while funny enough to look back on, was anything but 
amusing at the tim.e. I had heard of a camp of skin 
hunters that were situated in a little bunch of timber 
on a little fork running into Dry Creek about a day's 
drive distance, and wishing to get to them ahead of the 
Miles City buyers, who would be starting out very early 
in the season, I thought I would visit them. I did not 
know the precise location of their camp and needed 
me one to take me to it. 
There was a wild young Sioux named Broken Knife, 
Avhom I had employed at various times as runner to 
carry messages to distant camps of his people, and as 
hunter when meat was needed and there was no one 
to go out and kill. I sent for Broken Knife, and when 
: he came, asked him if he knew where these hide hunters 
, were located, and if he could and would take me to 
their camp. He replied that he knew where they were 
and would go with me, and that it would take us all 
day to get there. We started early one morning. It 
was late in the winter and bitterly cold. At length it 
grew dark and became much colder, but we kept on 
driving as fast as we could, crossing cooleys and going 
up and down hill, but not finding the roadway bad. 
About 9 o'clock we reached the camp, but the cabin 
was dark and there was no sound. I got down, and 
giving the lines to Broken Knife, knocked at the door 
without getting a reply; then I pounded, but all was 
' quiet. I walked around the house without seeing signs 
of life and whistled and called for a dog. I tried to 
open the door and to find the latch string, but could 
do neither. The door seemed to be barred. By this 
time Broken Knife had hitched the team to a tree and 
jomed me, and I said to him that I would get upon 
the roof and look down the chimney and see if anything 
could be learned there. It was growing steadily colder, 
and I wanted to get under cover. 
Broken Knife gave me a leg up on to the roof, and I 
went and looked down the chimney. I could see no 
fire, but warm air was ascending, so that I knew the 
house was still occupied or had been recently. The 
chimney seemed big enough for a man to pass through, 
and I spoke to Broken Knife, telling him to come up 
here and bring a lariat, and I would let him down 
through the chimney, so that he could open the door. 
He looked a little doubtful at this proposition, but after 
examining the chimney and measuring it with his hands, 
he dropped oflf his blanket and belted his white coat 
i close about him. I put the rope around his body under 
■ the arms, he got into the chimney and I began to 
1 lower him. 
I His body filled the chimney up, but he got down well 
enough, but when he reached the fire-place and put 
his foot down he found that there was a bed of hot 
! coals there covered up by the ashes, and with a grunt 
he jumped quickly out of the fire-place and landed with 
both feet on a man lying on the floor. As soon as he 
felt what was under his feet Broken Knife gave a jump 
to one side and shouted, "How cola." Meantime the man 
had awakened and started up with a burst of profanity, 
and when he heard the Indian words, he rushed at 
Broken Knife, cursing and swearing and yelling, while 
Broken Knife ran as hard as he could around the cabin 
to get away. Meantime on the roof I was yelling my 
name and imploring the man to hold on, telling him 
that we were friends. Almost at once I heard a shot 
and a loud yCii from the Indian, while the curses of the 
white man continued, and there were noises of stamp- 
ing feet, falling benches, grunts and ejaculations. I 
j limped down from the roof as quickly as I could, 
picked up a stick of wood and attacked the door, trying 
to batter it down, and all the time I was calling my 
name. Presently there was another shot and another 
yell, and as I pounded the door it suddenly flew open. 
I went in on my nose and hands on the floor, the 
Indian jumped over me and out, the white man fell 
across me and tried to throttle me. I grabbed him, 
took away the pistol that he still held, and in a few 
seconds made him understand the situation, and then 
I started out to look for the Indian. The moon had 
just come out, and I could see Broken Knife in his 
white coat streaking down the open bottom as hard as 
he could. I put after him as hard as I could, but I had 
on a buffalo coat and buffalo leggins, and did not, I 
fancy, go very fast. Besides this Twas yelling to him 
all the time, telling him to stop, that it was all right 
now, to hold on, to wait for me, and so forth. Just 
before he got to a piece of brush, he slowed down to 
a long trot and in the brush he stopped, and I over- 
took him, and, after I had got my wind again, I per- 
suaded him to come back to the house. 
It seems that the white man had been to town for 
mail, had got drunk there, come back to the cabin, 
gone in and shut the door, and then fallen asleep in front 
of the fire. When the Indian jumped on him and spoke 
to him in Sioux, he supposed, of course, that he had 
been attacked by Indians, and was just putting up the 
besc fight he could. Luckily he had but two shots in 
his six-shooter and in the dark missed Broken Knife 
both times. After the last shot the fire flickered up a 
little and Broken Knife saw where the door was and 
threw the bar, when I was trying my best to break in. 
Broken Knife was a curious sight. His white blanket 
coat was streaked with all sorts of shades of black and 
gray from his passage down the chimney, and although 
the night was cold, he had run so hard that the sweat 
was pouring down his face from his exertions, and mak- 
ing little trickles through the patterns of his face paint. 
The drunken skin hunter was full of apologies, but 
nothing would pacify the Indian, who was absolutely 
sullen and had nothing to say. An hour or two after 
things had quieted down the rest of the party of nine 
men came, and when the story was told to them they 
simply laid down on the floor and yelled. They made 
an immense amount of fun of their white companion 
and of Broken Knife, who sat in a dark corner at the 
far end of the room. They would take a lantern and go 
over and look at his face and then yefl with laughter 
and then would look at their companion and yell again. 
It was more than a year before Broken Knife got 
over his sense of injury from this mishap and forgave 
me for having got him into such a scrape. 
Charles Aubfey. 
Browning, Montana. 
An Unsalted Luncheon. 
There are other things beside doubtful stories which 
should be taken with a grain of salt — as witness rhese 
presents. 
The oftener a man goes into the woods the fewer 
things he takes with him. So constant is this ratio 
that, no doubt, if his days in the woodland, which the 
Lord gaveth him, were long enough, his outfit on the 
final trip would be even snugger than that which 
Kipling described: 
"The uniform 'e wore 
Was nothing much before. 
And rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind. 
For a piece o' twisty rag- 
And a goatskin water bag 
Was all the field equipment 'e could find." 
Most men who, in a spirit of beneficence toward their 
fellov.'S, give, from the hoarded store of their experi- 
ence, advice on this subject, feel it their duty to im- 
press upon the tenderfoot that his pleasures afield will 
vary inversely as the square of his provision list. Some 
of these gentlemen, in giving advice, go to extremes 
which indicate great frugality in the use of common 
sense. Some of them, I suspect, would oppose the 
carrying of prunes because of the added weight of the 
useless stones. How they must have welcomed the 
advent of smokeless powder! 
Now, I am not writing an article on "How to be 
Happy, Though Camping," nor a treatise on "The 
Lighter the Pack, the Lighter the Heart"; nor do I 
presume to give advice as to what ye shall eat or where 
withal ye shall be clothed. But from a bitter — because 
tasteless — experience I venture to suggest that if you 
have at all times a few pinches of salt in your pocket, 
yoij will greatly increase your chances of that happiness 
which the woodland ever holds in such ample store for 
those who seek it there. You can discard, or forget, 
many things, and from nature's warehouse supply their 
place with something which is either better, or so much 
worse that it distracts your attention from the loss. 
But you cannot procure salt, unless, indeed, you distill 
the tears you shed for having forgotten it; and that, 
of course, takes time. Hinc illce lacrimce. 
We were camped on the south shore of Lake 
Superior, in the latter part of November, duly ac- 
credited by the State of Michigan with licenses author- 
izing — but not always enabling — us to slay a stated num- 
ber of deer. The other part of the pronoun "we" 
stands for an eminent counselor at law, of whom it 
might truly be said 
"In camp and court he bore 
The trophies of a conqueror," 
— and not in dreams either, like Bozzaris. 
We had parted in the morning to hunt separately in 
a belt of woodland, and meet, unless the necessities of 
the chase prevented, at a small lake, where we designed 
to eat a frugal sandwich. The day was dark and 
lowering, the counterpart of many which had preceded 
it. In fact, it was a week since we had seen the sun, 
and every day had brought its rainstorm. So often had 
this been repeated that, if our spirits had not been 
waterproof, they surely would have been dampened. 
But some one has said—probably Christopher North in 
the "Noctes" — that, "There is no such thing as bad 
weather." And truly he is right about it, though you 
have to be out of doors and away from the pavements 
to appreciate it. Also must you have good foot gear, 
good legs, and a watertight spirit withal. Having these 
requisites we had spent an enjoyable week in the woods 
despite the rain, though daily we had prayed to Diana 
to send us the snow which was still withheld. 
Shortly after we parted I heard the counselor's rifle 
■ — he was ever a lucky dog. And soon luck came my 
way also. I was standing in a little open glade when 
a big doe, whose footfalls the wet moss had deadened, 
jumped- the brush and landed in the clearing behind 
me. I turned at the sound and got in four shots while 
she was making some of those spectacular leaps with 
which a frightened deer creates space in the rear. It 
did not take long to trail and find her, for a .38-55 
hollow-pointed ball is a difficult thing to carry, and I 
soon had my rifle against a tree and my hunting knife 
out. 
My appointment with the Counselor was several 
hours ofif in time, but only a couple of miles in space, 
and, having killed my deer, I had nothing to do but to 
kill time. So I set about doing an artistic piece of 
woodland butchering. 
Now, to "gralloch" a deer — the technical word of the 
old huntsmen is much nicer than any modern equivalent 
—is a task which has few elements of inherent pleasure; 
in fact, it will be almost repulsive unless you regard it 
as a legitimate toil of the chase. If you separate the 
work of capture from the pleasure of pursuit, and re- 
gard it only as a matter of blood and entrails, you had 
better trade your rifle for a shotgun and hunt clay 
pigeons. 
To clean a deer you must hang him up. I hasten to 
qualify this didactic statement by taking it back; it is 
not necessary to hang him up, if your purpose is merely 
to separate his "in'ards" from his "out'ards" in the 
shortest possible time and then go after another one, 
or get back to camp to tell about it. You can, in that 
case, simply rip him open as he lies on the ground, 
pull out his viscera, and get the blood all over his 
tawny hide, so that he looks as if he had been killed 
in a railway accident. But if you regard him as game 
and not meat, and hold him entitled to respectful treat- 
ment, you will proceed as if to a sacrificial ceremony, 
and hang him up. 
And now note that there are two ends to a deer, 
and that you are to choose between them in hanging 
him up. The ordinary method is that of the butcher 
with the sheep, which consists of running a "gam stick' 
through the gambrel joints between the bone and th 
big tendon and suspending him head down by a ropi 
tied to the stick and flung over a branch. This wi; ■ 
suffice, and is indeed the better way, after the deer ha' 
become meat; but while he is still game, ■ and you 
game, you should, in the transforming process, han- 
him up by the head. The reasons for this are purel 
practical, and tend toward that cleanliness which en- 
ables you to approximate godliness. When he is huni 
up stern first the ribs act like a basket, which securelr 
holds — being built for that purpose — all that you desir^: 
to remove. But if you hang him up by the head^tiii" 
rib basket is upside down, and thus gently empties it 
contents on the ground as soon as your keen-edge« 
knife gives the necessary assistance. 
It seems as if hanging up a deer would mean simply 
throwing a rope over a limb, tying it to his horns — or 
around the neck, if a doe — and then hauling on thi 
rope until he is "chock-a-block." But you cannot d< 
it alone unless you are very much stronger than tlu 
ordinary sportsman, and it requires a heavier rope than 
you can conveniently carry, unless you take a smal 
block. But you can always do it with a tripod oi 
stout poles about ten feet long. You tie the ends to- 
gether with the light rope which you carry around your 
waist, spread the ends of the legs out equally, and 
lift up the center until the tripod will stand. It ought 
to do this at a height of between three and four feet, 
though you may have to get the ends of the legs 
against something, or "jab" them in the dirt to make 
them hold while they are at so small an angle with the 
ground. Then you take a bight of the rope around 
the deer's neck, or horns, and shove the legs — the tri- 
pod's, not the deer's— alternately toward the center 
until the frame stands at a sufficient height to swing 
your game clear of the ground. 
By this method I hung up the doe, cleaned her, and 
buried the discarded portions in order that they might 
not offend the woodland air. But I saved the kidneys, 
for it occurred to me that, instead of our usual cold 
sandwich, we might as well build a fire and have a hot 
luncheon. And certainly those kidneys would suggest 
to anyone the idea of eating and of doing it quickly. 
Never have I seen a more luscious looking morsel, en- 
cased as they were in a delicate white tissue— "Sweetly 
oleaginous, oh, call it not fat!" as Charles Lamb said 
of the prosaic pig. 
While wrapping this addition to our luncheon in 
leaves I heard three quick shots from the Counselor's 
rifle, and knew by the sound that he was shooting the 
small charges in his .30 caliber. When I met him, an 
hour later, he made the greatest show of reticence I 
have ever witnessed. When I hailed him with the usual 
"What luck?" he replied, "Did you hear my three 
shots? That was at a partridge, and I never touched it." 
"Well," I said, "how about the other shot?" "Oh!" 
said this wily stoic, "Did you hear that, too?" And 
then his reticence gave way. "It was a whaling big 
buck, and I dropped him in his tracks!" Then we 
foregathered. 
On our way around the end of the lake to our 
luncheon place I shot a rabbit with the .22 caliber 
target pistol which I carry to shoot partridges. (I will 
kill a partridge with that pistol yet, if I, and the par- 
tridges, live long enough.) This gave us not only an 
abundance, but a choice of meat for our noonday meal. 
Usually we were not very hungry at noon, and limited 
ourselves to a sandwich and a piece of chocolate. But^ 
the doe's kidneys had aroused all our carnivorous in- 
stincts, and we were like cavemen. 
