Nov. 25, tgo$.\ 
The Indians had hundreds and hundreds of prime buffalo 
robes, and they wanted whisky. They got it. By the 
time night elcsed in the single street was full of them 
.'.harging up and down on their pinto ponies, siriging; 
yelling, recklessly firing their gunS, and vociferously call- 
ing, so I was told, for more liquor. Thferfe was a brisk 
trade that night at the rear doors of the saloons. An 
Indian would ])ass in a good head and tail buffalo jtobe 
and receive for it two and even three bottles of liquor, 
lie might just as well have walked boldly in at the front 
door and traded for it over the bar, I thought, but I 
learned that there was a United States marshal some- 
where in the Territory and that there was no telling 
\whea he would turn up. 
In the brightly lighted saloons the tables were crowded 
iby the resident and temporary population, playing stud 
:and draw poker, and the more popular game of faro. I 
w/ill say for the games as played in those wide open and 
lawless days that they were perfectly fair. Many and 
nuany a time I have seen the faro bank broken, cleaned 
fcut of its last dollar by lucky players. You never hear 
(cf that being done in the ‘Tlubs,” the exclusive gambling 
Tens of to-day. The men who ran games on the frontier 
were satisfied with their legitimate percentage, and they 
<did well. The professionals of to-day, be it in any town 
or city where gambling is prohibited, with marked cards, 
false-bottom faro boxes and various other devices take 
the players’ all. 
I never gambled; not that I was too good to do so, 
but somehow I never could see any fun in gam,es of 
chance. Fairly as they were conducted there was always 
more or less quarreling 'over them. Men a half or two- 
thirds full of liquor are prone to imagine things and do 
things they would recoil from when sober; and, if you 
-.take notice, you will find that, as a rule, those who gam- 
Ible are generally pretty heavy drinkers. Somehow the 
ttwo run together. The professional may drink also, but 
fseldom when he is playing. That is why he wears broad- 
cloth and diamonds and massive gold watch chains ; he 
teejp.s cool and rakes in the drunken plunger’s coin. In 
Ken© Bars place that evening I was looking on at a game 
of faro; one of those bucking it was a tall, rough, be- 
whiskered buliwhacker, full of whisky and quarrelsome, 
and he was steadily losing. He placed a blue chip, $2.50, 
on the nine spot, and coppered it; that is, he placed a 
small marker upon it to signify that it would lose; but 
.when the card came it won, and the dealer flicked off 
•Ahe marker and took in. the chip. 
^Tlere, you,” cried the buliwhacker. “What you doin’ ? 
(Gxvk: me back that chip an’ another one with it. Don t 
you sage that the nine won?” 
“Of (Course it won,” the dealer replied, “but you had 
; your bet coppered.” 
“You’re a liar!” shouted the buliwhacker, reaching 
ffor his revolver and starting to rise from his seat. 
.1 saw the dealer raising his weapon, at the same in- 
stant Berry, crying out, “Down ! Down !” dragged me 
with him to the floor, everyone else in the room who 
could not immediately get out of the door also dropped 
prone to the floor. There were some shots, fired so 
quickly that one could not count them; then there was 
a short intense silence, broken by a gasping, gurgling 
groan. Men shuffled to their feet .md hurried over to 
the smoke enveloped corner. The buliwhacker, with 
three bullet holes in his bosom, lay back in the chair 
from which he had attempted to arise, quite dead; the 
;faro dealer, white, but apparently calm, stood on the op- 
iposite side of the table staunching with his handkerchief 
Ithe blood from the nasty furrow a bullet had plowed in 
Ihis right cheek. 
“Close call for you, Tom,” said some one. 
“He sure branded me,” the dealer grimly replied. 
‘■•‘Who was he? What outfit was he with?” was asked. 
“Don’t know what his name was,” said Keno Bill, “but 
Jibelfleve he rolled in with Missouri Jeff’s bull train. Let’s 
isadk fcim into the back room, boys, and I’ll get word to 
his friends to come an’ plant him.” 
This was done; the blood-stained chair was also re- 
moved, ashes were scattered on some dark spots staining 
the floor, and after all hands had taken a drink on the 
house, the games were resumed. Berry and I strolled 
out of the place. I felt queer; rather shaky in the legs 
and sick at the stomach. I had never before seen a man 
killed; for that matter, I had never even seen two men 
in a fist fight. I could not forget that terrible death 
■gurgle, nor the sight of the dead man’s distorted face 
:and staring eyes. 
“Awful, wasn’t it?” I remarked. 
‘Oh, I don’t know,” Berry replied, “the fish got what 
lie was looking for ; these bad men always do, sooner or 
later. He started first to pull his gun, but he was a little 
loo slow.” 
“And what next?” I asked. “Will not the dealer be 
arrested? Will we not be subpoenaed as witnesses in the 
case?” 
“Who will arrest him?” my friend queried in turn. 
“There are no police, nor officers of the law here of any 
description.” 
“Why— why, how, then, with so many desperate char- 
acters as you evidently have here, how do you manage 
FbRESt ANb stkEAM. 
to preserve any form of law and order?" 
“Seven — eleven — seventy-seveii,” Berry seiltehtiously 
replied. 
“Seven— eleven — seventy-seven,” I mechanically re- 
peated. “What is that?” 
“That means the Vigilance Gomniittfee. You donff 
know exactly who they are, but you may be ^ure that 
they are representative men who stand for law and 
order; they are nlofe feared by Criminals than are the 
courts and prisons of the East, for they always hang a 
murderer or robber. Another thing, do not think that 
the men you saw sitting at the tables in Keno Bill’s 
place are, as you termed them, desperate characters. 
True, they gamble some, and drink some, but on the 
whole they are honest, fearless, kind-hearted fellows, 
ready to stay with a friend to the end in a just cause, 
and to give their last dollar to one in need. But come. 
I see this little shooting affair has sort of unnerved you. 
I’ll show you something a little more cheerful.” 
We went on up the '‘street” to a fair-sized adobe cabin. 
Through the open doors and windows came the strains of 
a violin and concertina, and the air was about as lively a 
one as I ever had heard. Many and many a time I heard 
it in after years, that and its companion dance pieces, 
music that had crossed the seas in the ships of Louis XV., 
and, taught by father to son for generations, by ear, had 
been played by the voyageurs up the immense length of 
the Mississippi and the Missouri, to at last become the 
popular music of the American in the Far Northwest. 
We arrived at the open doorway and looked in. “Hello, 
Berry, come in, old boy,” and “Bon soir, Mons. Berri, 
bon soir; entrez ! entrez!” some of the dancers shouted; 
we went in and took seats on a bench against the wall. 
All of the females in the place were Indians, and for that 
matter they were the only women at that time in all 
Montana, barring a few white hurdy-gurdy girls in the 
mines of Helena and Virginia City, and of the latter the 
less said the better. 
These Indian women, as I had remarked in the morn- 
ing when I saw some of them on the levee, were very 
comely, of good figure and height, and neatly dressed, 
even if they were corsetless and wore mocassins, far dif- 
ferent indeed from the squat, broad, dark natives of the 
eastern forests I had seen. And they were of much pride 
and dignity ; that one could see at a glance. And yet 
they were what might be termed jolly, chattering and 
laughing like so many white women. That surprised me. 
I had read that Indians were a taciturn, a gloomy, silent 
people, seldom smiling, to say nothing of laughing and 
j oking with the freedom and abandon of so many children, 
“This,” Berry told me, “is a traders’ and trappers’ 
dance. The owner of the house is not at home, or I 
would introduce you to him. As to the others” — ^with a 
sweep of his hand — “they’re too busy just now for any 
introduction ceremony. I can’t introduce you to the 
women, for they do not speak ' English. However, you 
must dance with some of them.” 
“But, if they do not speak our language how am I to 
ask them to dance with me?” 
“You will walk up to one of them, the one you choose, 
and say: ‘Ki-tak-stai pes-ka’ — will you dance?” 
I never w'as what you may call bashful or diffident. A 
quadrille had just ended. I boldly walked up to the near- 
est woman, repeating the words over and over that I 
might not forget them, bowed politely, and said “Ki-tak- 
stai peska?” 
The woman laughed, nodded her head, replied “Ah,” 
which I later learned was yes, and extended her hand; 
I took it and led her to a place for another quadrille just 
forming. While we were waiting she spoke to me sev- 
eral times, but I could only shake my head and say: “I 
do not understand.” Whereupon she would laugh mer- 
rily and say a lot more in her language to her neighbor, 
another come'ly young woman, who would also laugh and 
look at me with anrusement in her eyes. I began to feel 
embarrassed; Fm not sure that I did not blush. 
The music struck u-p and I found that my partner was 
a light and graceful dancer, I forgot my embarrass- 
ment and enjoyed the quadrille, my strange partner, the 
strange music and strange surroundings immensely. 
And how those long-haired, buckskin-clad, moccasined 
plainsmen did caper and cut pigeon wings, and double 
shuffle, and leap and swing in the air ! I wondered if I 
could ever, since that seemed to be the style, learn to do 
likewise. I determined to try it anyhow, but privately 
at first. 
The quadrille ended I started to lead my partner to a 
seat, but instead she led me over to Berry, who had also 
been dancing, and spoke rapidly to him for a moment. 
“This,” said he to me, “is Mrs. Sorrel Horse. (Her 
husband’s Indian name.) She invites us to accompany 
her and her husband home and have a little feast.” 
Of course we gladly accepted and after a few more 
dances departed. I had been introduced to Sorrel Horse. 
He was a very tall, slender man, sorrel haired, sorrel 
whiskered, blue eyed, a man as I afterward learned of 
extremely happy temperament under the most adverse 
conditions, a sincere and self-sacrificing friend to those 
be liked, but a terror to those who attempted to wrong him. 
Sorrel Horse’s home was a fine large Indian lodge of 
eighteen skins, set up beside his two canva§ covered 
wagons near the river’s bank. His wife built a little fire, 
made some tea, and presently set before us the steaming 
beverage with some Dutch oven baked biscuits, broiled 
buffalo tongue, and stewed bull berries. We heartily 
enjoyed the meal, and 1 was especially taken with the 
luxurious Comfort of the lodge ; the soft buffalo robC 
couch upon which w'e sat, the sloping willow back rests 
at each entl of it, the cheerful little fire in the center, the 
oddly shaped, fringed and painted parfleches in which 
Madam Sorrel kept her provisions and her various be- 
longings. It was all vety new^ and very delightful to trie, 
and when after a smoke and a chat. Sorrel Horse said : 
“You had better camp here for the night, boys,” my 
happiness was complete. We went to sleep on the soft 
couch covered with soft blankets and listening to the 
soft murmur of the river’s current. This, my first day 
on the plains had been, I thought, truly eventful. 
Walter B, Anderson. 
The Free Trappers. 
Mr. John Healey, of early Montana and early Alaska 
days, writes to Mr. Tappan Adney, who had sent him a 
copy of Hamilton’s “My Sixty Years on the Plains”: 
“I thank you for ‘Wild Cat’s’ book. I received it last 
night at 9 o’clock, and finished reading it before going 
to sleep. I like Bill, and he is all he claims for himself. 
The story of his life is good. I knew him very weU, 
and have always admired the man. That he is still 
living seems wonderful, for Bill was an old man when I 
knew him forty years ago. I mean he was an old moun- 
taineer. 
It was give-and-take in those days, and life was 
cheap. A man had to take care of himself. The free 
trappers were all independent men, who would not 
work for any company. They got credit for their hunt- 
ing, paid their bills and dissipated their money racing : 
horses and outfitting their women. I have outfitted 
' many of these men, and a better lot never lived. In the 
Whoop country they were known as wolfers — Belly 
River wolfers. They were without any doubt the 
bravest and best men I ever knew. I can’t say enough 
for them. All rivalry ceased when one or more was 
missing, and whenever volunteers were called for to go 
in search of the missing ones, the trouble was to keep 
too many from going. Many of these men have seen ■ 
the passing of the buffalo, the wolf and the Indian; 
and now they are riding the plains with buggies and 
autos just the same as you are doing in the East. I 
can’t help taking off my hat to some of my comrades; 
they have developed into some of the finest specimens 
of the Westerp citizen.” 
Capt. Luther S. Kelly, better known as Yellowstone 
Kelly, and now agent of the San Carlos Apaches, writes 
of the author of “My Sixty Years on the Plains”: 
“Bill Hamilton was the best sign talker in the North- 
west. He talked so fast the Indians had to pay close 
attention to him.” 
The author’s observations upon the habits and customs 
of the Indians, the ways of wild beasts and their charac- 
teristics, and his accounts of the hardships and hazards 
of the trapper’s' Iff e^ — “cne day all eaimn and peaceful, the 
next surrounded by hostile Indians” — are very interesting. 
They describe a phase of our development that has all but 
passed away. The very simpUeity of the story, the ab- 
sence of any endeavor after “style” or effect, make it the 
more entertaining,--D§troit Free Press, 
Safgety m the Camp. 
Notre Dame Bay, Newfoundland, Nov. y.— Editor 
Forest and Stream : I read the letter in your issue of Nov. 
4 from R. S. Spears on a “Bit of Camp Surgery.” Some- 
thing like Mr. Spears’ case happened to me. In the fall 
of 1903 I was in camp at Patrick’s Marsh, one of the best 
caribou haunts in Newfoundland. Before leaving home I 
had cut off the top of the second finger of my left hand. 
It was so sore that I let no one know of it, fearing that 
its state would prevent my going on the trip. The first 
day in camp I struck the sore so badly that the wound 
was opened and it bled. During the night it pained so 
much that no rest couM be had. One of the party, a man 
from the Bay and used to nature’s remedies, inquired the 
cause of my trouble. When he saw the finger he said he 
would fix it up all right. Fle procured some turpentine, 
or little lumps of the fir tree. This he burnt in an iron 
spoon to take off the sp rits cr to reduce its strength. The 
cut was then well covered with the salve and bound up 
lightly. That night sweet was the sleep, and three days 
after the cut was clean and the flesh filling up. Within 
a week the finger was sound. Beothick. 
Brazilian Woods. 
According to Handel and Industrie Brazilian forests 
are furnishing a good field for the investment of foreign 
capital. Cabinet woods of many kinds abound, are easy 
to get at and fairly easy to get out. Only small quantities ;■ 
have been exported. This is due to a lack of enterprise ^ 
on the pa'rt of Brazilians. A German consular officer, '■ 
writing to his government, points out the enormous pos- ' 
sibilities of Brazil’s forests and calls attention to the fact ; 
that an American company, with $5,000,000, is beginning' 
to exploit some of the best regions. He assigns as a rea- - 
son for the backward state of the lumber trade the fact ^ 
that communication with the woods was bad, freights and' 
wages high. The new company hopes to overcome all , 
these by "the application of modern transportation and 
milling methods. For example, an elevated swinging rail- 
road will take the logs out of the woods to the mills and 
the mills will be near or on good roads. 
All communications for Forest and Stream must he 
directed to Forest and Stream Pub. Co., New York, to. 
receive attention. We have no other office. 
