39 4 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
INov. II, 1905. 
Waterloo Camp. 
“You asked me how this place came to be called 
Waterloo Camp,” said the game warden, when we had 
eaten our supper and lighted our pipes. “You must 
have heard of Tommy Keen, he was the best moose 
hunter in the five counties, and I honestly believe that 
he never set a snare or dogged a moose for twenty 
years before he died. How many snares he destroyed, 
and how many moose-dogs he poisoned none but him- 
self knew. He used to look on the moose as his own 
property, and a nice thing he made out of them from 
one year’s end to another. If you wanted a trip in 
the woods with Tommy Keen, you had to book it in 
April at the latest. He was always engaged from the 
first of the season until the end of November, or the 
middle of December. After that he used to go in and 
kill his winter’s meat, and if any one wanted meat after 
he had filled his own house up, he would go along and 
help get it for them. I don’t say he never outshot his 
limit, but when he did so, it was always for some one 
else; the meat was never peddled around, nor did it go 
to his house. His son, Malcolm, over to Keensville, 
about six miles from where we are now, has his ‘death 
register,’ as th,e old man called it. It’s got the measure- 
ments of over sixty bull moose, and the photographs of 
twenty-five or thirty, with the certificates of the men 
who shot them to Tommy’s calling. The rifles and 
guns that man had given him would stock a small-sized 
armory, and the house is almost furnished with the 
presents the army officers and rich Americans gave 
Mrs. Keen. They used to get all the best sporting 
papers free gratis for nothing, and every dog he had 
round the place was a thoroughbred, and a free present 
to boot. He had a pretty decent education, and be- 
fore he’d take a stranger into_ the woods, he would 
have an understanding in writing as to the smallest 
time he was engaged for, and how the stranger was to 
obey orders. 
“Tommy used to start ‘work’ in April, taking trout- 
ing parties out. When trouting was over, he would go 
cook and guide for Americans, who just wanted to go 
to the woods and ‘laze around.’ Then he went in calling 
and still-hunting, got his own meat in December, and 
from that out, he hunted foxes and cats. He never set 
traps, except dead-falls for bears, and he never used 
poison; he used to say the game and fur was worth 
more to him alive than any other way, and he was 
right there. Why, I’ve known a rich American go in 
with him, and pay $20 for a flashlight shot at a beaver 
at work, and he got a splendid photograph, it came out 
in one of the magazines. There was one thing none 
of us could understand. Tommy always seemed to get 
his moose just at the last minute — that is, if the weather 
was at all decent. Several times he kept strangers over 
for two or three days when they got nothing in the 
time they had hired him for, and then he almost always 
got them some sort of game — moose, bear or caribou. 
Every now and then he’d run foul of some crowd he 
couldn’t pull with, and he made short work of them. 
I remember him telling a rich Englishman that he 
hired to go into the woods with a man, and not with a 
jackass, and he wanted neither his money nor_ his 
company. The fellow would have lost himself in a 
good-sized orchard, and he presumed to try to teach 
Tommy Keen how to hunt moose. 
“There was an old Judge Richardson, from Phila- 
delphia, who used to come here year after year and 
pay his license to hunt. He wasn’t at all particular as 
to how much game he got, but Tommy always saw 
that he got something. He just loved the woods, and 
took his three weeks with Tommy every year. Last 
time^ he was down here, he got a fine bear, and when 
he went home, he sent Tommy’s boy, Malcolm, a book 
called ‘Tracks and Traces.’ It is about the best thing 
of its kind I ever read. Tommy took charge of the 
book, and he used to carry it into the woods with him 
and read it in his spare time. The author’s narne wasn't 
signed to it, he wrote under the name of ‘Cinchona.’ 
I fear the author didn’t make much out of his book, for 
we people can’t afford to pay $3 for such a book, and 
city men don’t understand that kind of thing. _ ' 
“Next year the Judge couldn’t come down — ^his wife 
died, and he wrote to Tommy and asked hirn to take 
a friend of his instead. The friend was to bring down 
a couple of young fellows the Judge had invited to join 
him. One of them had just graduated from Harvard, 
the other was just through at West Point. Tommy 
wired back for him to send them along, and in the 
course of a week, they turned up at my place to buy 
their licenses. The boys were gentlemanly young fel- 
lows. The man who came with them was about thirty- 
five of forty, I should judge. He was a quiet sort of 
chap, just medium size, and he looked as if he could 
take his share in a portage or a tramp with any man. 
The shoulders of his hunting coat were worn, and so 
was the inside of his right sleeve, where the gun had 
rubbed the corduroy, and he carried a rifle that looked 
as if it had seen service, though it was as clean as a 
new one. They wanted me to drive them over to 
Keensville, and I did so. We had supper at Tommy’s, 
and he showed them the ‘death register,’ with the 
names and addresses of all the different people signed 
on it. While we were looking over the book, we 
heard oxbells, and Tommy’s boy came up to the house 
with a bark canoe on a wooden-shod sled, drawn by a 
single ox — the kind of rig we call a ‘dagon.’ 
“‘If you gentlemen had the moose meat that ox has 
hauled out of the woods,’ said Tommy, ‘you could keep 
the Philadelphia market going for a week at least. 
I’ve been working him for five years, and between the 
game visitors have killed, and what I’ve killed myself, 
he’s averaged six carcases a year, besides bear meat and 
caribou.’ 
“After supper Tommy asked the men how many days 
they could stay in the woods, and the elder one said 
that they would like to leave for home in a for.tnight’s 
time. After some talk, he said that they could stay 
for three weeks, if it was necessary. The next morn- 
ing was a fine one. I helped them over to the First 
Lake, and wished them good luck. Tommy never 
carried a rifle with him on one of these trips, only a 
.22 target pistol in a holster — and a dandy little weapon 
she was. They made their camp about four in the after- 
noon. It came on to rain next morning, and it rained 
and blew for three solid days. Of course all the crowd 
could do was to stay in camp and cuss the weather. 
The mprning of the fourth day it was fine; but the wind 
was still high. Tommy said it was no use to call, but 
as the rain had washed out all the old tracks, he would 
circle round until noon and see if he could find any 
fresh sign. About two in the afternoon he came back 
with some partridges he had shot with his pistol, and 
he told the crowd that there were two bulls not more 
than a mile away, but they were both mated, and that a 
hltle further on he saw the track of a small bull, not 
more than two years old. Had it been later in the 
season he might have tried to call one of the mated 
bulls up, but everyone knows that it is almost impos- 
sible to call a newly mated bull away from his cow. 
They left the camp and went to a small shack about 
four miles off, crossing two tracks on the way, both of 
them of big lone bulls. In the morning they called 
and got an answer, but the bull wouldn’t come up. 
They moved over to another camp, and tried in the 
evening. The bull was coming through the bushes to 
beat four of a kind, but by the time he came within 
shot, it was too dark to see him. They called again 
next morning, but they got no answer, he had worked 
round to leeward of them, and got their scent. Early 
in the day it began to blow like fury, and Tommy went 
off to look for fresh signs. He came back about sun- 
down with another man, a Dutchman called Lutz. 
He told the party that he had hired him for a dollar a 
day as cookee, so that he could put in more time hunt- 
ing round for signs instead of chopping wood and 
cooking. 
“They had very bad weather for the next four days, 
and Willis the elder man used to go rock-breaking — 
so he said — while Tommy cruised around after fresh 
signs. The young fellows just lazed around the camp. 
Lutz was afraid Willis would get lost at first, but he 
soon found that he could steer himself round all right. 
One thing Tommy was particular to bargain for when 
he took a crowd in, was that no one should fire a shot 
unless it was at the game they were after. Of course 
if the party were after moose, and happened on a bear 
or wildcat, it was all right to shoot; but there was no 
cracking off round after round at rocks in the lake, or 
wasting cartridges on loons and cranes. Of course, 
there was no objection to a .22 rifle for small game, but 
Tommy’s pistol was enough to supply the camp with 
partridges and rabbits, and they caught quite a few 
trout in the streams. 
“The evening of the fifteenth day they were out, 
Tommy came back to camp just at dark. Willis had 
been away all day, breaking rocks, and hadn’t conle 
back. The young fellows were pretty sick of the trip. 
It had been nothing but wind and rain for a week; the 
leaves were too thick for still-hunting, and they had 
only heard two moose in the distance. Tommy had 
been going since six that morning, and he was pretty 
tired. He had a drink, and told Lutz to put up a day’s 
grub for the party as soon as he got the supper dishes 
washed. Just as supper was ready Willis came in. 
His rifle was as clean as it was the day he came in, he 
had never fired her once. They had supper and after 
it was over and the things washed up. Tommy told 
them that he had found two more bulls, a big one and 
a small one, and neither of them mated, not four miles 
from where they were. ‘Now,’ says he, ‘these bulls 
may take to traveling this evening, and be in the next 
county to-night, or by to-morrow morning, but_ the 
chances are they won’t. We can run over to Sickle 
Lake in good time to-morrow, camp in the old shanty 
there, and call until an hour after sundown. The moon 
goes down at ten to-night, tomorrow she sets at eleven, 
and we have the advantage of an hour more light, _ and 
a day’s fulling. If we get an answer, we can call again in 
the morning, and if you can stay a day or two longer, I 
can com« back here, and Lutz and I can run up enough 
grub in two or three hours, to last us our stay at Sickle 
Lake. Lutz will stay here, while we go over, and see 
that no one steals anything.’ 
“The boys were beginning to get tired of lying in 
camp and shooting nothing. Willis said he was game for 
the tramp, and the boys said they would come too. Early 
in the morning they took their packs and rifles, and hit 
the' trail. It wasn’t the best of walking, and the four 
miles was an uncommon long bit of road. After going 
for some time, they came on a logging road, leading 
to the camp, and in a miry place they found the fresh 
tracks of the big bull. Tracks, browsing, and dung were 
all as fresh as they could be. They gathered enough 
pine knots and dead wood to keep on a fire when they 
came in from calling, and just at sundown thew went 
down to Sickle Bog, about a mile from the shanty. 
Tommy posted them, and then he got up on a rock 
and began to call. He was a ‘slow’ caller; that is to 
say, he called about once, where most men call three 
times. Just as the moonlight was getting stronger than 
the daylight, they heard an answer. Tommy quit 
calling, and the moose kept coming in good shape. 
Sickle Bog is all covered with little spruce and hack- 
matack trees, and it’s a bad place to shoot by moon- 
light. The answers came louder and louder; then an- 
other answer only much deeper came, then the boughs 
began to crack and snap, then all was still, except for 
one or two grunts the bigger moose let out of him. 
They lay there half the night, every now and then they 
could hear the old fellow give ‘wough — wough’ in the 
distance. 
“They went back to camp, and early next morning 
tried it again. They got no reply, however, and about 
8 o’clock, they went down to the place where they had 
heard the little bull last, and found his fresh tracks in 
the soft bog. Further on they came on the tracks of 
the old bull. He had come out on the edge of the bog 
and gone back into the woods; the little fellow had 
gone to the eastward. ‘Now,’ says Tommy, ‘the little 
fellow and the big one have rowed before, and the little 
one is scared to death of him. He’s put for the east- 
ward and the big one is round these parts still; he’s 
the one we want. I told Lutz to start for here at 
8 o’clock, with some more grub, unless he heard a lot 
of shots fired one after another. That would mean 
that we had killed, and that he was to take the canoe 
and put for my place after the ox-sled and steer, He 
will happen along in about two hours* time, and you 
men can stay here, while I take a circle around and see 
what I can of the night’s work.* 
‘ Off he went, and about an hour later Lutz came into 
camp. Willis had gone down to the bog, and just as 
Lutz came in, he returned. He and the young fellows 
talked for a while, then he turns to Lutz and says. 
Leave that stuff and come along with us for a while; 
we want you down on the bog.* First of all Lutz didn*t 
want tO’ Come, but Willis had a way with him he couldn*t 
get over, and he promised to make it all right with 
Tommy if he found fault with him. 
“Lutz told me afteward that he never saw a hound on 
the trail like that man Willis. He went right to the 
tracks of the little moose and began to follow them. 
It was easy going on the bog, but when the track came 
on to hard ground it was different. Hard or soft, the 
ground didn*t bother Willis very much. At last Lutz 
says to him, ‘The big bull must have scared this little 
fellow mighty bad, for he*s had art attack of diarrhoea’^ — 
pointing to the ‘sign* on the ground. They went about 
half a mile further—Willis keeping the track like a 
weasel after a rabbit- — when he stoops down and picks 
up something off the ground. ‘Your moose get their 
clothes made in New York, I conclude,’ says he, and 
the two boys commenced to laugh. 
“They followed the tracks into a little bullch of fir 
trees, and white birches, some of the fir trees had been 
stripped of their rinds, and most of the birches had 
been barked. ‘This is the smartest little bull I ever 
came across,* says Willis, ‘he wears pants made in 
New York; he has a boy to tend him, and he sleeps 
in a shack roofed with fir rinds — or else the boy does.’ 
“Another hundred yards took them into the road we 
came up this afternoon; it was just about as muddy 
then as it is now. The moose tracks ran right down 
it, and on the nigh side were the tracks of a small 
foot, and a little further on Willis picked up the yellow 
wrapper of a stick of candy. 
“ ‘This moose wears trousers, .gathers rinds, and 
birch bark, eats candy, smokes cigarettes’ — picking up 
an_ old cigarette butt as he said so. ‘I wonder if he 
drinks whisky?’ 
“They came round the turn by the big hemlock tree 
and saw the camp, or rather the old one that stood here 
at that time, right in front of them. Tommy Keen’s 
sled was in the door-yard, and they could hear the 
‘ting, ting, ting, of art ox-bell from the little hovel we 
put the dunnage into tO-ilight. ‘There’s your nlodse,* 
says Willis. The bOy and the explanation of this is 
inside the camp. The big moose track we saW Oil the 
edge of the bog was a genuine one, but it was twO 
days old, and the moose who made it browsed dowil 
a dogwood just before we came Out. No One ever knew 
a bull to browse when he was answering a call, and 
there was another bull ahead of him. This has been a 
put-up game, and a clever one, too, but I’m on to it. 
Let’s circle round and see if there is any more devil- 
ment to be unravelled.’ / 
“Lutz and the boys were sortie tired, they sat down. 
Willis forbid them going into the camp, and after an 
hour, he canle back to them and said it was all right, 
they could go in. The first thing they saw was 
Malcolm Keen, dead done out, asleep in one of the 
bunks. There was a birch-bark call, and a wooden 
rattle on the table. The kid had undressed himself and 
his pants were hanging on a nail. Willis took them 
down, and Compared the button he had picked up,^ with 
those remaining ort them. ‘An old pair some visitor 
has left with Tommy, and his wife has Cut them over 
for the boy,* says Willis. ‘Wake up you young scamp,* 
says he, shaking the kid. The boy sat up and rubbed 
his eyes. 
“ ‘Father told me you were going to be at the camp 
at Sickle Lake all day,’ says Malcolm. ‘Have you 
killed the big bull?’ 
“ ‘We have been hunting you all the morning,’ says 
Willis. ‘Do you know that last night you were within 
two hundred yards of our rifles, playing that fool game 
with that ox, and the call and rattle?’ 
“Crack went a pistol outside the camp, and in a 
minute or two Tommy walked in with a partridge still 
fluttering in his hand. No owl ever had rounder eyes 
than he had when he saw Willis, Lutz and the two 
young men there. Willis didn’t wait for him to open 
his mouth. 
“‘Mr. Keen,’ says . he, ‘you lit on the wrong crowd 
this time, I began to suspect you the night you called 
up the first bull, and changed your call just as he was 
coming up. I followed you twice when you were cruis- 
ing round after sign, and I know where you have the 
bottle of rye whisky hidden under the maple stump, and 
if you deny it, I can take you there. Several days 
when you pretended to be cruising for us, you went 
home and worked on your place, and the furthest we 
have been from your door-yard is a short four miles, 
though you led us round the woods and over lakes and 
streams until any one who wasn’t an old hand would 
have believed himself twenty miles back. You take 
that boy and send him up to the muzzles of three rifles, 
so you can swindle the party you’re guiding out of a 
few extra dollars, and then I suppose you intended to 
let us kill at the last moment, when you’d sucked the 
very last dollar out of us. You’re an infernal scamp, 
and if you weren’t an old man. I’d take a stick and 
give you a thrashing you’d remember as long as you 
lived.’ . , 1 
“Tommy’s face grew whiter and whiter while he was 
talking, then he sat down on the deacon seat and com- 
menced to cry. It wasn’t sham crying either, the 
tears rolled down his cheeks, and he sobbed like a 
woman. _ . 
“ ‘Thirty years I’ve been a guide in these woods, 
says he, ‘and never anything like this happened. Are 
you the devil himself, or are you only a witch, that you 
can track me, or my boy over open barrens, and 
through bushes for miles? I saw those young fellows 
were getting tired of bad weather, and I wanted to 
encourage them along, so I told Malcolm to go to 
Sickle Bog and work the moose racket last night. 
I’ve met my Waterloo here, and I can’t but own up to 
it. Come back to Sickle Lake camp with me -to-night, 
and if we don’t get a good head before the moon goes 
down, I’ll give you men back the money you paid out 
