554 
FOREST AND STREAM 
Nov. i, 1913. 
killed his friend, Black-Neck, only this was 
larger. For a long time he stood motionless, 
scarcely daring to move as he realized the awful 
significance of it all. The shades lengthened, 
the birds became silent, a frog croaked from a 
leaf nearby and the woods hushed. Night had 
come. 
Under cover of the darkness he sought his 
home, and here again he told little Gray-Wing 
of the two strangers and their terrible weapons. 
There was a strange sound in the woods. 
Mushkodasa had heard it many times of late. 
It was sharp and loud. Not like the thunder, 
for that was like the sound of far-off-waters 
falling into deep chasms. Furthermore, he had 
sensed a peculiar odor. It was not the fir or 
boxberry, he knew all of these. It was heavy, 
sulphurous—he did not like it. 
One day he saw his little friend Adjidaumo, 
the squirrel, hurrying past. He carried a 
strange round white object in his mouth, and 
Mushkodasa stopped him. He examined the 
white object closely. It seemed to be covered 
with a substance like the wasp used in making 
its nest, while within appeared to be hair simi¬ 
lar to Adjidaumo’s own glossy coat, only a 
trifle darker. And as he examined it further, he 
noted a succession of little round indentations 
against the surface. They were black and small, 
about the size of the leaden pellet he had seen. 
There was a sulphurous odor about it, too. 
Mushkodasa was silent. He was thinking 
deeply. Adjidaumo received the strange object 
and passed on. 
Mushkodasa laughed softly to himself. 
What cared he for his enemies? Flad they not 
tried to harm him, and failed. He would show 
them—and straightway he sprang upon a log, 
and beat his wings until he awoke a thousand 
echoes in the forest. The silvery tinkle of the 
little brook was hushed, and even the birds and 
insects paused in wonder to watch him. What 
was that strange sound? The mighty rhythmic 
strokes of his wings ceased. A twig snapped, 
and he leaped straight into the air. Then came 
a thunderous roar behind him, and horrified, 
he gazed at the beautiful downy feathers that 
fell, plucked from his flying form. But he was 
not hurt. They had hurled their bolt and he 
was safe. Another flash of fire, a sharp report 
that awoke innumerable echoes, and lie felt as 
though he had been stung by a thousand hornets 
all over. He felt himself falling. His wings re¬ 
fused to move, and he crashed into the hushes. 
Alighting safely on his feet, he ran beneath a 
friendly bunch of tree-moss, just as his 
enemies sprang toward him. Here he remained 
silent and motionless, his heart beating wildly, but 
he was not discovered, and his foes went away. 
When everything was quiet again, he peered 
out. The way was clear, and walking painfully, 
he reached the little pool in the alders. A 
burning fever held him—he could not go 
further; so quenching his thirst, he lay down in 
the cool mosses. Opechee, the robin, sang 
from a tree overhead, and Mushkodasa tried to 
tell him that he was hurt, hut he could not 
make him hear. Then everything grew dark. 
He knew it was not night, yet it was dark. The 
soft murmur of the little brook was lulling him 
to sleep. The drowsy hum of the insects grew 
fainter and fainter, a dreamy softness was 
stealing over him, his eyes slowly closed and 
Mushkodasa slept—the sleep from which there 
is no awakening. 
Meat Guns 
W HEN one is off in the wilderness on a 
big-game hunt, he is supposed to have 
big game to eat—but: 
Once upon a time the lady and I sneaked 
off across the Mexican border on a mountain 
sheep hunt, troublous times to the southward 
making it desirable that no brass band an¬ 
nounce our going. 
The grub list was computed to give ample 
provender with the meat of the “kills,” and 
mighty scarce rations if no kills were made. 
Presently, after ten days’ wandering around 
a God-forsaken desert, spending half our time 
hunting sheep and half hunting water on which 
to exist, we found ourselves at a pleasant resort 
yclept, “The Well in the Desert.” Up to that 
time we had been fairly successful in the hunt 
for water. Also the well was a hundred miles 
and more from the American line; fifty miles 
from nowhere over the mountains to the east 
and forty miles from the jumping-off place the 
other way. 
Our grub list was down to brass tacks—no 
meat, no sugar, some flour, some coffee and 
some rice and some beans. Also, we were al¬ 
ways hungry. Also, thousands of desert quail 
swarmed around the mesquites • near the well, 
and came in for water. 
Because there were thousands of them, do 
not imagine that any idiot quail were present. 
They were just as hard to accumulate as a score 
would have been. We packed along a clumsy 
By EDWARD C. CROSSMAN 
double gun for such contingencies—and had for 
the beast just six shells left. 
Therefore, I acquired a most profound 
eagerness to see how many quail I could find 
together within the limits of one shotgun pat¬ 
tern, before I pulled trigger. Also I learned 
thoroughly the amazing fact that you can pull 
trigger on a huddle of quail so thick that the 
ground is not visible—and hit the ground under 
them with every pellet. Also our shells disap¬ 
peared—without visible results the rest of the 
party said, and we were very hungry before we 
made the line a week later. 
The point is this: That if I had not been 
so stiff-necked and set in my ideas, a .22 pistol 
or other arm of the- sort would have gone 
along, and with it and the ammunition that we 
could have carried, we could have lived off the 
fat of the desert, so long as those quail held 
out. You’ll recollect that one shotgun shell 
weighs as much as forty of fifty long rifle .22 
caliber cartridges, good either in the single shot 
pistol or one of the, supplementary chambers 
for the .22 Hi-Power. We had the .22 Hi-Power 
along, but nary an s. c. 
On previous and more lucky trips I had 
been possessed of the idea that the small gun 
was a piffling sort of arm, a gun merely for the 
amusement of the hunter, or, at best, for the 
slaying of a poor grouse or two that really 
were not needed. 
Now I am equally satisfied that on trips 
into the actual wilderness the “meat gun” may 
become a veritable life-saver, or at least a way 
of escape from the dread monotony of horrid 
beans, rice and the forms of bread you may 
get from flour. 
The small game supplement to the big 
game rifle may take various forms. Some folks 
pack adapters, which are steel dummies of the 
outward form of the regular cartridge, but 
which accommodate small pistol cartridges and 
a firing pin by which they can be fired by the 
regular lock mechanism of the rifle. The same 
things are used in the big guns of Uncle Sam’s 
navy, saving that in his guns, the adapters con¬ 
tain also short rifle barrels, and the bullets are 
not those of the full caliber of the gun. 
Adapters for big-game rifles are made to take 
small cartridges shooting bullets of the same 
caliber as the rifle—for example, a .32 Colt 
cartridge in the .30-30 rifle, the Colt automatic 
and .32 S. & W. for the .303 rifle, or the new 
Police cartridge for the .30-40. 
The best form is that which seats the small 
cartridge in the forward end of the adapter, 
which prevents the bullet taking a long run and 
jump into the rifling, as it does with adapters 
carrying the cartridges at the rear enu ot the 
dummies. The idea, of course, is that the small 
pistol cartridges make little noise and have little 
power, and are thus suitable for small game, 
although their bullets fit the barrels of the big- 
game rifles. 
