The Big Grizzly of the Bitter Roots 
What a Doctor, a Duke, a Colonel and an Indian 
Did when he Charged 
By CHARLES S. MOODY 
Charles S. Moody was born in a log cabin on the banks of Brush Creek, in Randolph county, Missouri, on 
Dec. 18, 1869, but his parents emigrated to Oregon when that State was new. Oregon was a big country then, 
unsettled, uninhabited, wild. The boy grew to love the clear streams and 
silent hills. The family moved to Washington early in the ’80s, and he 
learned the printer’s trade, but did not follow it long, owing to another 
move into northern Idaho at a time when there were no settlements 
near. 
To a nature-loving boy nothing could be finer. There were the great 
old pine-clad hills rearing their heads far above, an abundance of trout 
in the clear streams, and game on the hills and in the breaks in such 
profusion that it was not hunting to kill it. In this environment he 
lived for many years, gradually acquiring a fund of information that 
enabled him to teach the country schools of that period. 
When the subject of our sketch was about twenty-one he married, 
joined a political party, ran a local paper and “went broke.” Later, he 
moved to the Nez Perce Indian Reservation on the very border of 
civilization, where he lived for some time among the Nez Perces 
(Sahaptins) and for a few years served in the House and Senate of the 
State. 
In 1900 he graduated from the Central Medical College at St. Joseph, 
Mo., and returned to his Indian friends, of whom he says that the 
Indian is a splendid patient, but a far better hunting and shooting com¬ 
panion. With them Ire has hunted big and little game, and caught 
fish, both great and small, in the Bitter Roots. At various times the 
Doctor’s experiences afield and his observations about nature, extending 
over many years in countries where nature is yet virgin, have been pub¬ 
lished, as our readers know. I’irgil, Dr. Moody’s son, inherits his love 
of nature. Fritz, his favorite dog, has been with the Doctor so long that 
he knows just how the latter feels about business and sport. His master asserts that he would rather live in a 
cabin on the shores of Lake Pend d’Oreille than in a mansion on Fifth venue. 
Charles S. Moody and his favorite 
dog Fritz. 
T he Medicine Man sat in front of his 
white government office and smoked re¬ 
flectively. It was autumn and the even¬ 
ing sun flooded the peaceful little valley with 
a mellow light. It fell athwart the row of In¬ 
dian tepees ranged along the river bank, the 
smoke curling from their conical tops, soften- 
ijug their harsh lines until they became pictures 
■of savage contentment. It threw its radiance 
■over the good old flag floating lazily from the 
staff in the center of the parade ground, then 
shot the last level beams upon the twelve- 
pounder stationed at the foot of the flagstaff 
like some grim guardian dog of the banner up 
-■above, reflecting the brass work until it shone 
Hike burnished gold. The hush of an Indian 
"summer evening was in the air. Not a sound 
broke the stillness, save now and then the merry 
laughter of the Indian children romping in the 
sand along the river shore. 
Gradually the light dimmed until the distant 
blue line, marking the crest of the Bitter Roots, 
faded from sight. One by one the stars came 
out, lights glimmered in the officers’ quarters, 
the bugle sounded retreat, the flag fluttered to 
earth at the sound of the sunset gun, and the 
Medicine Man sat and smoked, his gaze fast¬ 
ened upon the distance where lay the mountains. 
While he sat thus, wrapped in reverie, the 
Briton, the camp’s latest importation, strolled 
up, his short black pipe glowing in the dark, 
his funny little cap perched on the back of his 
head. The Briton was a true son of Albion 
from brier pipe to pigskin leggins. No one 
knew his name, his station in life, or from 
whence he came. No one knew these things, 
and in the freemasonry of the West, until he 
saw fit to enlighten them, it was not etiquette 
to ask. It is not considered good breeding out 
M'est to ask a man for his biography, and his 
name being his own personal property, can be 
used by him or not just as he sees fit. If he 
does not choose to soil it by hard every-day use, 
that is then his own business. Some soldier had 
dubbed the Briton “Duke” when he first arrived 
and “Duke” he remained. He was a royal good 
fellow, a thorough sportsman, and in the West 
that sufficed. 
The Medicine Man pointed with his pipe to 
where the range lay and said to the Briton, as 
that individual seated himself upon a lower step, 
“Duke, there is a bear lives off yonder in 
those hills—so the Indians say—that is so large 
that he has them all scared. For years past 
they have been telling me about this monster 
bear until he has gotten on my nerves. I am 
inclined to believe they are stretching the size 
a little bit, but he must be a large bear or they 
would not be afraid to shoot at him, for they 
are not cowards. I have been thinking about 
him all afternoon and if you will accompany me, 
when the next berry expedition goes into the 
mountains, we will go with it and see just how 
big this animal really is.” 
The Duke was nothing if not laconic. He 
never uttered two words where one would suf¬ 
fice. “Fm with you,” was all he said, but it 
was enough. The two spent the evening dis¬ 
cussing plans, then parted for the night. 
The next day the K. O. was taken into the 
combination. Be it known that the K. O. was 
the commanding officer of the garrison, a griz¬ 
zled old war dog whose whole life, almost, had 
been spent on the Western frontier. A stern 
martinet with his men, withal one whose last 
drop of life blood would be spilled for them 
if need be, and they in turn idolized him—and 
swore at him as soldiers will. Of such as he 
are the salt of the earth. 
There was a fourth member of the party, a 
halfbreed, Hom-tits-seekum (Race Horse), but 
whom the whites named Charley Allen. No 
man in all the Sahaptin nation was such a 
woodsman as he. Every foot of the great 
Kooskia Basin was to him an open book, and 
as the front yard of his tepee. Convey him 
blindfold into the heart of the mountains and 
he would unerringly find his way back to the 
settlement. He was endowed with almost super¬ 
human endurance. For days he has been known 
to follow a deer trail and finally overtake and 
kill the animal, shoulder the carcass and carry 
it back to camp. Tall, over six feet, and erect 
as the pines upon his native hills, with a frank 
open countenance, combining the traits of his 
mixed ancestry, Charley Allen was one that 
any man could be proud to call friend. Add to 
these qualities a loyalty that is constant as the 
sun, a cheerful disposition under the most try¬ 
ing circumstances and you have a companion 
sans reproche for a hunting trip. No Helen, 
dear, Charley was hot a servant, nor did he ac¬ 
company any expedition as such. Your self-re¬ 
specting savage does not make a good servant; 
combine the savage with a little white blood and 
you produce a man that does not brook menial 
positions. 
The knowledge soon found its way among 
the Indians that an expedition was to join the 
next berrying party, and the Medicine Man was 
swamped with questions from the natives. They 
were all eagerness. In a few days the party 
was to start. The horses were driven off the 
range and corraled. The berry cases were got- 
