814 
FOREST AND STREAM 
Dec. 27, 1913. 
after this. Still the rain had ceased, and we had 
that to be thankful for. 
We picked up the decoys, then turned about 
and took up the others, after which we ran 
further into the channel and made fast to a pole 
that was used as a boundary mark for shoal 
water. This location wasn’t as good as the 
other, but it was much better than nothing. The 
tide was getting better all the time, yet no ducks 
came our way. I had been pulling on my pipe 
for some eight or ten minutes, and was just de¬ 
liberating whether it was worth another match, 
when Mayland reached for his gun. “Over to¬ 
ward Beach Point,” he said, jerking his head 
sideways. I reached for mine, and we hunched 
our shoulders. Six coots were coming toward 
us, two grays and four white-wings. It was 
evident that they had seen the decoys, for their 
course never varied in the least. When within 
about sventy yards or so, they divided forces, 
four coming straight on, while the other two 
circled around on our left. The approaching 
four were coming prettily, head, neck and back 
in perfect alignment. A moment more and they 
scaled for the decoys, then we blazed away. 
The first one doubled up with a jump, and a 
second lowered himself by a slowly descending 
curve until he took the water with a splash; the 
other two escaped. We reached for our shell- 
boxes, when the two birds that had circled us took 
the decoys. I dropped two shells into an inch 
of water in the bottom of the boat, then swung 
up my gun. Mayland dropped one bird and I 
the other. I fished the shells out of the water 
and crammed them into the magazine. I’m not 
mentioning the make; they were waterproof, all 
right. Then we shot the lone cripple dropped 
from the first bunch. Hardly had we secured 
the ducks ere the rain was upon us again. It 
came in sheets; and Mayland pulled a canvas 
covering across the boat, while I dove under 
cover. How the rain poured on my canvas roof. 
I lifted one corner and saw Mayland standing 
in the stern of the boat, getting the whole thing. 
After awhile I crawled out. The rain had 
gone and the sun was vainly trying to struggle 
through the clouds. Over toward the Myles 
Standish monument, at Duxbury, and about three 
hundred yards from us, was a flock of old squaws 
swimming around, diving and calling out “Or-r- 
1 T was my second trip west of the Mississippi. 
Late in July Bill wired me that he and M. 
had started that morning in a new Winton 
six roadster, for which they had been waiting a 
month, and had reached Columbus, Ohio, bound 
for the headwaters of the North Platte River in 
southeastern Wyoming. 
Speedily arranging business, for I had been 
waiting for the word, I packed my grips, stowed 
in carefully my old Parker 20 ejector, tied a 
couple of flyrods to my umbrella, took a last look 
over the farm, and made a break for trout and 
chickens. 
Every foot of the way over the Pennsylvania 
Railroad from New Jersey to Chicago, and to 
St. Paul by the Milwaukee road, the heat was 
intense, and it continued very hot all of the way 
west over the Northern Pacific, right up to Gar¬ 
diner, the northern entrance to the Yellowstone 
National Park. 
I went around that way to do some sight¬ 
seeing, as I wanted to visit the Park, and con¬ 
cluded I had time to go through before the ar¬ 
rival of my friends. Nine days from home and 
net! Or-r-net!” We had just the right medicine 
to stir up their constitutions, and I decided to 
give them a dose in the shape of a .22 calibre 
pill. Pulling my little .22 Winchester from its 
case—I had brought it along to stir up distant 
birds—I fired in their direction. The bullet fell 
short, but went skipping along among them. They 
started up, circled around, then settled to the 
water again. I gave them another shot, and they 
took wing, split up into two flocks, one of which 
went over toward the flats, while the other came 
toward us. They ignored the old squaw decoys 
which were nearest them, and took the coot de¬ 
coys, probably because they were much larger. 
Mayland opened up, knocking down two, while I 
crippled another, and lost him. If they get under 
water you might as well say “Good night.” They 
are as cunning as loons and hell-divers. They 
present their bills only, and seldom stop for pay¬ 
ment. If it’s any rough at all, it’s impossible 
to see a “billing” duck. When calm, however, 
quite often you can nail them. Down in the 
bottom of my shell-box I found several U. M. C. 
Remington shells that I knew were at least four 
years old. I used them for shooting cripples 
and found them strong and sure. 
By this time the sun had obtained a strangle¬ 
hold on the rain, and the wind was freshening 
rapidly. The tide had receded to such an extent 
that Mayland suggested an attempt at locating 
the sunken mooring. We cast off from the stake 
and began taking up the decoys. We had secured 
one string and were about to pull in the other, 
when three coots—one white-wing and two grays 
—made for us. We were so near the decoys that 
the birds kept off. Still they circled around us, 
and one came so near as to draw a shot from 
Mayland’s gun. The duck was too far, however, 
and escaped without injury. 
We ran down to our buoy, which by this time 
was floating easily, put out decoys, and anchored. 
Not a bird came. It was getting too late, so 
we took up everything once more and started for 
home, while every other heavy sea broke against 
our bow and slopped a generous quantity of water 
down the backs of our necks. Still we were well 
satisfied, and resolved then and there to try it 
again as soon as the tide worked around suitably. 
This we knew would happen in about fifteen 
days, and I’ll tell you about that later. 
four and a half from Gardiner found me at Yel¬ 
lowstone station, on a branch of the Oregon 
Short Line, the western gateway to the Park. 
Thence down to Ogden and over the mountains 
by a day train of the Union Pacific Railway, so 
as to see what there was to be seen, I crossed a 
summit elevation 7,214 feet, near Altamonte, and 
slid down into the buttes and sage brush hills of 
Wyoming. 
Stopping off at Rawlins over night, I took 
No. 4 the next morning for Wolcott, so as to 
make connections with the Saratoga and Encamp¬ 
ment Railroad. This road, as far as its equip¬ 
ment and service is concerned, is about the bum- 
est proposition I have encountered, but I was 
very glad to see the train made up, waiting for us 
at the junction, as our train had changed its time 
and lost an hour besides. Missing connections 
meant a twenty-four-hour delay. 
A couple of hours sufficed to cover the twen¬ 
ty-four miles of road to Saratoga, a small village 
on the North Platte. Here I found my friends, 
including Bob the setter. They had come 2,400 
miles without mishap, except the blowing out of 
tubes, due to the great heat, in fourteen days 
from date of starting, beating me in two days. 
Bob was taken on in Denver. 
The Hotel Wolf stood in the same spot, and 
“Baldy” (G. W.) Sisson and Mrs. Sisson were 
on the job, as I soon found out when it came time 
for dinner. 
That afternoon we had to go fishing, so we 
selected South Spring Creek upon hearing of a 
fine basket of brooks that had been taken there 
a few days previously. But in the meantime the 
water had lowered and cleared up, and we found 
the fishing rather poor. 
The next morning we took Baldy along and 
went after sage chickens. Now, how can four 
people and a dog ride in a roadster? Easily, be¬ 
cause there was a folding seat on the left side, 
usually occupied by Baldy. The car was left- 
hand drive, with center control, which afforded 
me a comfortable seat on a cushion on the floor, 
with my feet on the right-hand footboard. Bill 
and M. took turns driving, and Bob occupied the 
seat of honor between them. There was ample 
room in the after part of the car for lunch, 
creels, waders, etc., and the car had a 48-horse 
power engine to drive the outfit over the trails. 
Sage chickens use the sage brush hills and 
the draws or gullies where they go for water. 
The draws may be only grass covered, fringed 
with tall sage brush, or there may be bunches 
of small cottonwoods, willows, black alder or 
stunted quaking aspen. These, varying in size 
and denseness of growth, depending upon the 
supply of moisture and water, are about the only 
kinds of tree growth I saw in the sage brush 
country. On the hills there is nothing but low 
sage brush heads about six or eight inches high. 
The chickens also frequent and breed along the 
natural and irrigated meadows bordering the riv¬ 
ers, creeks and ditches. 
Owing to the habit of feeding upon the sage 
the old. birds are unfit to eat and are not shot if 
recognized. Some of the old birds appear to be 
as large as a small hen turkey. Yet there is often 
considerable difficulty in distinguishing an early 
hatched and full-grown young bird from a small 
old one. Sometimes the shooting is very easy, 
while at other times, when the birds are rising- 
wild in a stiff breeze, they are not sure meat by 
any means. 
Aided by Baldy’s knowledge of the country 
and with Bob’s help, we bagged fourteen chick¬ 
ens •and got in for a late lunch, in time for the 
evening fishing. We had game enough to last 
over Sunday, so rested up that day. Monday 
afternoon Baldy and I fished alone in the river, 
taking about a dozen and a half of rainbow trout. 
Tuesday it was shooting in the morning, when 
we stopped at ten birds, and fishing in the late 
afternoon. 
So the dme went, shooting and fishing mod¬ 
erately, making side trips to call upon our ranch¬ 
men friends and resting up in the delightfully 
dry and cool climate. The elevation is about 
6,700 feet and we were in plain sight of snow¬ 
capped peaks all of the time. 
The Platte, which has a large volume of 
water, is hard wading, having a slippery round 
boulder bottom, and requires great caution ap¬ 
proaching dusk, when the bottom cannot be plain¬ 
ly seen. This applies particularly to fishermen 
unacquainted with the stream. It was our mis¬ 
fortune on several occasions to get caught on the 
wrong side from our car at nightfall. Ten or a 
dozen miles from town, with millions of mos¬ 
quitoes coming into action with the approaching 
darkness, constitute a situation that is not wholly 
agreeable. Some one with knowledge of the 
stream and having the necessary weight to stick 
Days In Wyoming 
