556 
FOREST AND STREAM 
]\1ay 3, 1913 
Benjamin Trautmann, alias Ben Trout 
By J. H. LEEBRICK 
And wlien at last we got on to the plain, he 
was out of sight, though we could hear the bay¬ 
ing of the dogs. On the flat we soon made up 
the lost ground. Both of our ponies had a fine 
turn of speed, and laying their bellies almost on 
the ground they fairly flew along. Soon the 
noise of the dogs came closer, and at last after 
tearing through a thick belt of undergrowth, 
during which one of my hoots was - nearly 
dragged off, we came upon our quarry. He 
was what is called “bailed” up against a big- 
eucalyptus. ^Mien pressed hard, these foresters 
turn on the dogs, and putting their backs against 
a large tree, face them. Then, if the dogs come 
too close, the kangaroo clasps them in his arms, 
and lifting one leg, rips them open with the long- 
claw that decorates each hind foot. The fox¬ 
hound had incautiously run in, and the kangaroo 
had grabbed him and was about to give him the 
coup de grace, when the deerhound sprang at 
his tail. This made the kangaroo drop his prey 
and turn to face his new enemy. But the cau¬ 
tious old deerhound knew the danger and backed 
off, growling savagely. My cousin jumped off 
his horse, and picking up a small stick, ran at 
the kangaroo. Curiously enough, the kangaroo 
is very soft about the head, a small tap there 
settling him. But in his hurry my cousin missed, 
the stick breaking on his shoulder. The kan¬ 
garoo jumped forward, and was grabbing him, 
when the deerhound again made a flank attack, 
thus probably saving his life. My cousin then 
went to his pony, and took off the stirrup leather. 
This, with his iron attached, makes a favorite 
bush weapon, and is used on dingoes, kangaroos 
and snakes. Swinging it round his head, he 
watched his opportunity, and presently the iron 
fell with a crash on the forester's head and 
ended his career. He was seven feet high. We 
skinned him, as my cousin wanted the skin to 
make stock whips of, it being the very best 
material for that purpose. Tying the skin to the 
saddle, we set off along the foot of the range, 
and presently had the luck to put up a solitary 
forester. This led to another fine chase, nearly 
as exciting as the first, my pony taking a moun¬ 
tain stream in his stride, and nearly leaving me 
in it. Eventually this kangaroo took to the 
water, wading out into a marsh until he was 
half submerged. Neither of the dogs would fol¬ 
low him, as it meant certain death. The kan¬ 
garoo would have clasped the dog and held him 
under water until he drowned, so my cousin 
rode his mare in after it with a long stick. The 
kai-igaroo. however, would not let him come to 
close quarters, but bounded out and off again. 
The dogs were soon on his trail and another 
merry ten minutes’ burst saw the end. The deer-' 
hound put on a spurt, and jumping at the kan¬ 
garoo’s neck, had brought him heavily to the 
ground, where he soon killed him. It was still 
early, so we put in the rest of the afternoon 
after wallabies, a small species of kangaroos. 
\Ve caught six of them after fair runs, and duly 
skinned them all. It was after five when, with 
quite a pile of skins on his saddle jiow, my 
cousin turned his pony’s nose for home. I had 
no idea where we were, but after an hour's ride 
the spring and our camp hove in sight, and very 
tired but very happy, we both rolled off our 
horses and sat in our bunks for a breath before 
n-iaking tea. .Mtogether the trip was a most en¬ 
joyable one, and one which I always look on as 
a red-letter day in my calendar. 
‘‘r^ON’T fish here, and by thunder I mean it,” 
straggled across a rough board emphati¬ 
cally nailed to a sturdy bull pine near a 
quiet, but deceptively deep pool of crystal moun¬ 
tain water. 
“That's the first sign of civilization of that 
disagreeable kind we've met in Montana. Is it 
a jest?” I inquired. 
“Jest! why no, that's anything but a jest; 
don’t 3’ou see those speckled heauties and h®w 
fearless they seem? They don't dart under 
cover of those rocks as you e.xpected.” 
“Well, who or what protects them?” I 
queried. 
“It’s Ben Trout. We want to take dinner 
there on our return. I’ll try to get him to tell 
you his story. If I succeed. I’m sure you'll 
find it unique to say the least.” 
We passed without as much as taking a 
single cast in that tabooed pool. After the best 
morning's fishing I had ever experienced, noon 
found us nearing that guarded and fascinating 
aquarium. 
A long, low cabin in the midst of a clear¬ 
ing came into view. There was an indication 
of thrift in the neatly kept out-building, and a 
curl of light, blue smoke from the broad chim¬ 
ney told that the mid-day meal was in progress. 
As vve neared the house, a tall muscular 
man, whose stalwart form seemed well in keep¬ 
ing with the rugged pines about him, approached 
and gave my companion a hearty hand shake, 
and me a friendly nod. When I was introduced 
as a particular friend, that hand shake was ex¬ 
tended to me, and a hearty one it was. 
He has gained that vigorous frame by hard 
knocks in the wilderness, I thought, and -re¬ 
gretted my shut-in life and wished that I might 
have spent it more as “Ben Trout” had done. 
"Been fishin' ?” he asked, looking at our 
creels, which we had proudly held up for his 
inspection. 
“We’ll have them for dinner,” said my com¬ 
panion, "if you say so.” 
“For your dinner, not mine; no, thankee,” 
said Ben. ‘T'd about as soon eat a brother as 
one of them people. I lived with them once, or 
thought I did, and I reckon that amounts to 
about the same thing.” 
Thinking the story was approaching, I 
thought to draw him on. 
"That sounds fishy,” said I, with a ques¬ 
tioning smile. 
“So it does. It be an old story to Bill, 
there, but reckon ef he kin stand it, I kin.” 
We sat on a group of socially-arranged 
boulders in the shade of a pine that had been 
spared to shade the cabin. 
“Wall,” began Ben, as he laid his rough 
hand gently on a beautiful greyhound that was 
leaning against him, gazing wonderingly at the 
two strangers, "I was the laziest cuss that ever 
had to draw breath in Arkansas, and that ain’t 
sayin’ no little neither, but I was. That was 
given up by all the folks for miles round Tarkill, 
t’other side of Boston Mountains, where I come 
from 'bout ten year ago. The folks never could 
get me to go to school or nothin’ else, an’ it 
wa’nt my fault neither, for I always ’lowed lazi¬ 
ness was a disease. I always feel sorry for any¬ 
one that’s got it—but I git off my story. I was 
sayin’ I couldn’t be made go to school, but I 
did once in spite of my disease, an’ it was that 
gal in the house yonder that made me. I heard 
her say once that she’d no use for a man that 
couldn’t read nor write, an’ said right afore rne 
