360 
July, 1920 
FOREST AND STREAM 
rest upon the specific grave of each mur- 
derer. The club foot was carefully sawed 
from the skeleton and is the gruesome 
magnet that attracts trade to a local bar- 
ber shop. 
Virginia City has a large collection of 
the relics of her past and is erecting a 
very creditable building in which to house 
them. There are most primitive mining- 
appliances, strange implements employed 
by the Chinese miner, and firearms car- 
ried by the Western pioneers, such as 
rifles and revolvers of the Henry, Spen- 
cer and Colt types. Here are, also, the 
sawed off rifles and shotguns borne by 
the road agents for robbery, and by the 
express drivers for protection. Many 
unique forms of gambling devices, 
through which the miner was separated 
from his earnings, are prominent in the 
collection. In brief, Virginia City bases 
her right to past historical prominence 
largely upon gold and crime. But with 
the placer gold gone, crime has disap- 
peared. To-day, there is no community 
more law-abiding, more peaceful, more 
just, than is Virginia City. 
After leaving it we continued our 
journey along the highway that connects 
Butte with the Yellowstone National 
Park and soon entered the valley of the 
Madison River. This stream is clear, 
rapid, and most picturesque as it winds 
its way among lofty mountain ranges. 
A motor car makes it possible for one to 
visit out-of-the-way places, and to enjoy 
landscapes that are denied to those who 
travel by rail. But to feel the real sub- 
limity of the mountains one must go with 
a pack train to the headwaters of the 
streams and then wend his way to the 
summits. 
We nooned by a delightful little stream 
of cold, pure water and built an Indian 
fire to make our tea. “Whiteman build 
big fire and sit ’way back,” says the red 
man, “Injun build little fire and sit up 
close.” A little fire will usually answer 
all the purposes of a big one, besides 
having the advantage of being easily 
extinguished. All through the West, 
warnings are posted, cautioning camper 
and tourist to stamp out his fire lest a 
disastrous conflagration start through 
negligence. During the year some of the 
most destructive forest fires ever known 
raged in the Rockies. Lightning is a 
frequent cause of forest fires and recently 
the plausible theory has been advanced 
tha forest fires are started by the fric- 
tion of two dead limbs being rubbed to- 
gether by the wind. Primeval man cre- 
ated fire by rubbing two pieces of dry 
wood together. Who can say that he did 
not learn his method by observing the 
formation of a blaze as the result of two 
dry pine limbs rubbing together in a 
breeze? 
T HE traveler, who has friends among 
the ranchmen along his route, or can 
make friends among them, is in luck. 
A few miles north of Henry’s Lake, we 
turned to the west and crossed a low 
pass into Antelope Basin in order to visit 
with Glen Conklin. As we drove up to 
his dwelling a young bull moose came 
trotting down the mountain side, leaped 
the fence and circled the motor car. His 
behavior plainly indicated both astonish- 
ment and curiosity. The former being 
overcome and the latter satisfied, he 
tossed his head, and the last we saw of 
him, he was trotting at a good pace 
toward Henry’s Lake. But do not im- 
agine, reader, that such greeting is of 
common occurrence. Conklin has lived 
in Antelope Basin many years, and this 
is the first moose seen by him from his 
cabin door. Conklin’s habitation is a 
typical mountain ranch, consisting of a 
cheerful, cozy log house, good outbuild- 
ings and a cellar that is proof against the 
frost. The altitude at his ranch is about 
seventy-two hundred feet. The life of a 
ranchman, at this altitude, is a constant 
struggle with the elements. In this part 
of Montana, ranchmen earn a livelihood 
by producing cattle for the Eastern mar- 
kets. Their gardens supply them with 
only the most hardy vegetables, such as 
carrots, rutabagas, cabbage, and pota- 
toes. Of course there can be no fruit 
trees in this northern latitude, at such 
an elevation. 
The summer of 1919 will long be re- 
membered by the inhabitants of Wyom- 
ing and Montana. The drought was the 
most severe that they have suffered in 
many years. Hay, that was not burned 
by the hot sun and the lack of rain, 
was eaten by the grasshoppers. The 
small haystacks, few and far between, 
looked pitifully inadequate for furnish- 
ing winter feed for the great herds of 
Herefords roaming over the cattle 
ranges. In spite of such discouraging 
conditions, all these good people accepted 
the situation with the cheerful philosophy 
that things might be worse. 
My stay at the Conklin ranch was a 
most enjoyable and restful recreation. 
The day after our arrival, Glenn and 
Blair drove the motor to a neighbor’s, 
twenty-five miles away and returned 
with one hundred and fifty pounds of 
honey. To the reader, this may seem 
like some honey. But the price of sugar 
is high; fruit, there is none and these 
people lay up a year’s supply at a time. 
Occasionally I hunted for ruffed 
grouse, but did not kill many. With 
Blair and Conklin I made long horse- 
back rides to Hidden Lake and Cliff 
Lake. Once, while riding along a moun- 
tain trail on horseback, I killed a grouse 
with a rubber sling. One morning, 
Conklin and I went to the pond, just be- 
yond his corral, to kill some ducks. We 
put up a blind of sagebrush, in which I 
concealed myself. Conklin then walked 
around the shore line to put the ducks 
to flight. As the flocks circled over the 
blind, I killed ten blue-bills, and they 
made us two good dinners. Mrs. Conklin 
saved the downy feathers from the 
ducks, and, when I left for home, she 
gave me a little pillow for a grandchild 
that was to be. And as I write this, the 
head of a tiny baby girl rests lightly 
upon the soft feathers plucked from wild 
ducks that were shot in Montana by the 
grandfather who loves her dearly. 
During the spring, one of the hens on 
the ranch hatched some domestic duck 
eggs. The ducklings did not know the 
ways of their kind and their adopted 
mother was not qualified to teach them. 
The thought occurred to Conklin that a 
wild duck might assist the brood; he 
picked up a tiny wild mallard one even- 
ing and put her into the coop with the 
domestic ducks. The next morning the 
little mallard took charge of the brood, 
and led them to the irrigation ditch, 
where she taught them how to feed in 
accordance with the ways of a duck. 
When the brood was fully grown, it 
looked odd to see the small mallard lead- 
ing the domestic ducks along the ditches, 
out on the marsh, and to the shore of 
the pond. She was more al'ert and 
active and better able to shift for her- 
self than were her charges. She would 1 
go out among the wild ducks every day, 
but she invariably returned at night. 
Conklin gave her to me and I brought 
her alive back to Ohio. 
One day, Blair and I took a trip in 
the motor to Alaska Basin to fish, but 
we found it too late in the season for 
trout. At another time, we went down 
to Lakeview to see some friends we had 
made on former trips, and visited with 
them. On the way I stopped where I 
had camped with my children, while on 
(CONTINUED on page 399) 
A motor road in Jackson’s Hole 
