Aug. 26, 1911] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
331 
“A hundred and seventy-five yards,” I replied; 
“I paced it.” 
‘‘Well, that accounts for it. John ’ll never 
shoot at anything over a hundred yards, unless 
he has to.” 
I was using a .45-70. John still stuck to the 
.44. He was a survivor of the days when game 
was plentiful and gentle, had killed all the large 
animals of the old West, and still thought the 
.44 was good enough for him. 
On 
Trail of the 
Caribou 
Salmon 
By THOMAS TRAVIS 
In Two Parts—Part Two 
THE TOP RAIL. 
While mufflers for rifles are made here and 
abroad, the principle in both has been derived 
from the mufflers employed in motorboats and 
cars. So far “silencing” the report of revolvers 
has not been attained, and it probably will not 
be so long as the present semi-tight joint be¬ 
tween cylinder and barrel exists; at least not 
with the present devices. Reducing the report 
of shotguns is a- different problem, and one offer¬ 
ing many obstacles, chief among which are the 
size of any effective muffler and its influence on 
the handiness and balance of guns, particularly 
double guns, for which it would be necessary to 
provide double muffling tubes, thus increasing 
the weight and bulk of these guns. 
A European, therefore, has hit upon a device 
which is based on the principle of retarding the 
escape of gas without interfering with the free 
course of the shot charge and wads through and 
out of the barrel. He employs a cork wad in 
the periphery of which spiral grooves are cut. 
When this wad is placed behind the shot in th; 
shell and the cartridge is fired, it is said the wad 
stops in the muzzle of the barrel, which must 
be full choked, while the gas is bottled up, but 
escapes gradually through the grooves in the 
cork. It is claimed that no flame issues from 
the muzzle, and that both recoil and report are 
reduced. 
So far, all is well, but what to do with the 
obstructing cork has not as yet been solved. 
The modern gunner does not carry a wiping 
stick and probably could not be prevailed upon 
to do so, but even if he did he would not be 
likely to remember the necessity for employing 
it after every shot in removing the cork wad, 
even though the result would be disastrous to the 
gun if not to him; so this, like many another 
invention, is only half baked. 
If the inventor cannot furnish a better solu¬ 
tion, I offer this one, gratis: Why not equip 
the muzzle of the gun with a placard bearing 
the legend, “Have you drawn the cork?” Hinge 
this so that it will lie flat on the barrels, but 
with a bent wire carrying a disc so located ahead 
of the muzzle that the discharge will cause the 
placard to rise and face the shooter with the 
mute query given above. He could not aim with 
the disc up, but possibly the game would wait 
until he has searched about for a sapling of 
proper size, cut a stick and pushed the wads out. 
Grizzly King. 
H ERE we determined to try the river far up 
toward the source. So packing our duffle 
we started on the long trail over the rough 
cobbles and through the brush in places well nigh 
impassable. It was a hot journey, for the sun 
poured down on us and the rocks were sharp, 
but the outlook was fine. From the foothills 
where we stood the unknown stretched away to 
"BEYOND THE TRAIL STRETCHED TO THE UNKNOWN.” 
the distant hills. Through the glasses we could 
see the trees slowly diminish, tiil on the crag- 
crests there was nothing save brush and moss. 
Through the gorges we could glimpse still fur¬ 
ther away to untrodden forests and barrens with 
never a trail in. 
Nearby were little swampy ponds filled with 
fragrant water lilies. Great clumps of fire weed 
shone red among the black gashes made by some 
forest fire. Again, rose-colored and white 
orchids grew in profusion, while the river bed, 
glimpsed from the trail, was one gorgeous 
garden where the islands of rock and gravel 
were covered with a rose-colored flower. Three 
big ravens followed us afar. Whiskey jacks flut¬ 
tered before us, white-throated sparrows sang 
from the bogs. Now and again we started a 
big hare in his summer garb, and often a rustle 
in the thicket told where something had rushed 
away. Always the snowbird and chickadee sang. 
Here among the brush I picked up a pair of 
caribou antlers cast from the buck or left by 
some hunter, a stag horn with forty-four points 
and regular frontlets. Further on were veritable 
paths, worn even in the softer rock, where thou¬ 
sands of these animals migrate year after year 
on the same trail. 
Now we plodded over a “barren,” but a lovely 
barren in which we sank to the boot tops in soft 
caribou moss, while acres of pitcher plants in 
full bloom greeted the eye with their russet and 
green flowers and graceful jugs. Then the roar 
of the river came to us out of a deep canon 
where huge boulders ten feet high lay scattered 
in the water or over the glacial cobbles. Slid¬ 
ing down the wooded fern-covered banks we saw 
the Codroy running in silver and green at the 
bottom of a hundred foot crag that rose sheer 
from the water. 
But the limpid pools were like fairy land to 
us who saw them now for the first time. Great 
sea trout lay slumbering there, and again salmon 
in bunches of two and three, but when we came 
to fish for them, try we never so warily, they 
absolutely refused the lure. 
We whipped every pool fruitlessly till only 
one remained untried—a great, round hole worn 
among the huge boulders. Over this I cast my 
fly half-heartedly. A moment it fluttered in the 
gold of the lowering sun, then settled, only to 
disappear in a burst of silver and white foam 
as a salmon broke the green surface of the pool, 
shot quivering in the air, and fell with a crash 
that sent the echoes scampering along the crag 
and silent forest. But even as he disappeared 
the tip of my rod came loose, slid down the 
taut line and rested like a spear half buried 
in the ripple of the current. 
“Bring the gaff,” sang out the Lieutenant, and 
Charlie hastened to us. “My, he’s a beauty! 
See him go!” He was on the little Montreal 
trout fly. Every motion of the fish was per¬ 
fectly revealed in that pellucid water. Every 
time he dove, every time he leaped, his silver 
sides shone in the sunlight. Round and round 
that deep pool he went till, as he lay still a 
moment, Charlie brought him to us with the 
gaff, a beautifully formed male with notched 
jaws, a salmon that scaled eight pounds. 
A couple of hours later we were stretched on 
our blankets, with the soft sounds of the night 
stealing around the tents. The queer call of a 
rabbit sounded from the clearing, then an owl, 
then a wood mouse, and far off the roaring of 
water deep in the forest. 
Just then Charlie rolled over and said in a 
