JTi. 
places. It was a hard walk and climb 
to reach him, but I finally did, gasping 
for breath. 
“I gotta beeg snoshu rabbit, lie cair- 
ful, doan mak a nois, go slo, foar I doan 
no how fast I got ’im.” 
“Snoeshoe rabbit! Thunder! There’s 
rabbits all around here. No use for me 
coming all this way for a rabbit’s pic- 
ture.” 
I was mad, sure enough^ — the first time 
that I ever had cause to be mad at him. 
However, to please him (please an In- 
dian and you are solid with him) I con- 
sented to take a picture. But, instead 
of a rabbit, it was the largest lynx I 
ever saw, in fact the first one I ever 
for the “price,” but not for the “swipe” 
part of it. Stock stealing in the West 
is quite common, especially sheep. It is 
called “rustling.” I thought nothing of 
the incident, but had good cause to re- 
call it that night. 
I was completely tired out, and as 
soon as I had washed dishes, went to 
bed. It was eight- thirty, and I thought 
it funny that Bert did not retire. I spoke 
to him about it, and he told me that he 
was going up the arroyo to bait one of 
his “sets,” adding that he would be back 
in a half hour. I fell asleep soon after 
he went out; awoke at midnight, but he 
had not returned. In a way, I was 
worried; then worry gave away to sus- 
on a long, fruitless chase after other 
“rustlers,” as sheep and cattle stealing 
had been going on quite freely for some- 
time. After a lengthy word-picture, 
filled with visions of being “pinched,” a 
heavy fine or ninety days in the county 
jail, I finally succeeded in getting him 
to release the sheep. In the morning I 
saw no signs of it, and supposed that 
he had turned it loose. However, when 
I went to the barn after potatoes, there 
was the sheep neatly dressed in the latest 
style of the butcher’d art. For two 
weeks we had mutton at every meal, and 
in every conceivable style. 
He walked five miles with that sheep 
across his shoulders. Just what hap- 
pened to him, and how he got it, I am 
telling in his own words. (He is well 
educated, but a poor speller, and speaks 
rather brokenly, which is characteristic 
of the Indian- American.) 
“I get to sheep corral alrite. Dem 
dam dogs bark an’ com for me, an’ I 
kick um. I had roap ’round neck of 
sheep, then Mex come after me, ’an I 
drap it. I tell Mex I want buy sheep, 
an’ how mutch. Mex he say: ‘Yu got- 
tum firewatter?’ I say, ‘No, but sum 
two moons.’ Then Mex say, ‘Giv me five 
dollar, an’ yu take ba-baa.’ Then I get 
mad an’ pull gun on Mex, an’ mak him 
throw up bans, then I put two dollar in 
him pocket, pik up sheep an’ cum hoom.’’ 
Knowing that, as a rule, these Mex- 
ican sheepherders are poorly paid, and 
that their love for whiskey is so great 
that they have been known to give a 
sheep for a quart of it, or the price of 
a quart, I took his story for granted. 
The author with wolf and coyote, a morning’s catch 
Returning from the traps after a successful night 
saw in a trap. It was a good joke on 
me. I laughed; Bert laughed. That 
lynx was in an awful rage; glared at us 
in malignant hatred. It would crouch, 
then spring toward us, all the while mak- 
ing terrible, cat-like screams. I suc- 
ceeded in getting one fairly good picture, 
but spoiled another, as, when I snapped 
the camera the second time, it made a 
leap toward me, and thinking it had 
escaped from the trap, I jumped to one 
side, sliding several feet down the hill. 
When it was developed the picture 
showed nothing but Colorado’s famous 
blue skies. After it was skinned I re- 
turned to camp and prepared dinner. 
Bert returned about two o’clock, having 
caught 2 coyote besides the lynx. 
A S soon as we finished dinner, we 
cranked “Lizzie” and drove five 
miles south where we found the 
carcass of a cow that had died a short 
time ago. (Old carcasses are the best 
bait for coyote.) Bert chopped off as 
much flesh as he needed, then putting it 
in the car, started for camp. On the 
way back we passed a great herd of 
sheep; there were at least twelve hun- 
dred in that bunch. Three Mexicans 
were guarding them, assisted by the in- 
evitable Mexican sheep dog. Bert told 
me that he liked “mudden” better than 
any kind of meat, adding that he’d like 
to “swipe” one for our own use, as we 
had both grown tired of rabbits. I told 
him to stop and go and buy -one from 
the herder, as I was willing to stand 
picion — I saw mutton stew for dinner. 
At two-thirty I was awakened by a great 
racket. There was Bert — in the middle 
of the room — across his shoulders — was 
— a fine young sheep. The Indian blood 
in him had overcome that of his white 
brother. I had to laugh; I tried to con- 
trol myself but could not. He made a 
most comical sight standing there with 
that sheep kicking. Then I was mad, for 
I am Deputy State Game Warden, and 
am in league with the El Paso County 
Vigilante Society. Only two weeks pre- 
vious to this the Sheriff had been out 
A FEW days after the episode of the 
sheep, I was compelled to return 
to the city. Bert remained a few 
days longer, having poor luck, so he 
pulled his traps and returned to the 
cabin at the foot of Cheyenne mountain, 
where he intends to remain until the 
end of the trapping season. 
He has received word from one of the 
largest stockraisers in the Jackson’s 
Hole Country in Wyoming, to report for 
work as range rider for the summer 
roundup, then, in the fall, he will have 
his old position as “wolfer” back again. 
