A Crow Victory. 
There has recently come into our hands a 
letter which possesses so much interest as a 
reminder of old times in the West, that it seems 
worth reprinting for present day readers, less 
perhaps for those resident in the East, than for 
those who live in the prosperous and growing 
State of Montana. 
The letter was written by a young man, who 
was accompanying an exploring expedition as 
naturalist, to his younger brothers just out of 
college back in the East. While lacking in de¬ 
tail, it yet paints a picture of incidents that in 
those days happened in the West not very un¬ 
commonly. The Charley Reynolds spoken of in 
the letter is that celebrated scout and gentleman 
—sometimes known as Lonesome Charley—who 
for some years was chief of scouts at Ft. Lin¬ 
coln, Neb., and who less than a year after the 
date of this letter was killed by the Sioux and 
Cheyennes on the banks of the Little Big Horn 
River, when Custer’s command was wiped out 
of existence, and Reno’s suffered so severely. 
At the time this letter was written Camp 
Baker and Fort Lewis were military posts, each 
garrisoned by a single company of soldiers. 
They are now, the one a flourishing town on 
Big Trout Creek, a fork of the Judith River; 
and the other a military reservation about forty 
miles east of Helena, Montana. 
The letter, dated at Camp Baker, Aug. i, 
1875, reads as follows: 
“While you have been slaying the woodcock 
right and left, and now while you are loading 
cartridges for the rail, I have not been idle. I 
have had my first regular grouse shooting. The 
young sharp-tailed grouse are about as large as 
banties, the young sage grouse as large as com¬ 
mon hens and the young blue or dusky grouse 
about the size of partridges. All of them are 
delicious eating, and I have done what I could 
to keep the camp supplied with them. I sup¬ 
pose that in all I have killed between 75 and 
100 of them, and of these not six have been shot 
on the ground. Of course I have missed a great 
deal, but on the whole, with a properly loaded 
gun, I think I can stop them three times out. 
of five. I have not taken many birds as yet, 
owing to lack of time. *1 have, however, man¬ 
aged to take two specimens of the rare Neocorys 
spragueii and two or three of Mgialitis asiaticus 
var. monlanus, Coues. Almost all my grouse 
have been killed with cartridges loaded for small 
birds, and I can assure you it seems somewhat 
absurd to see a full grown sage grouse at 
twenty-five yards fall to a half ounce of dust. 
I killed my first dusky a week or so ago. Have 
only got three or four skins. 
“The day before we got to Camp Lewis a 
small party of Sioux came to that post in the 
evening before sunset and tried to run off the 
herd. Now, it so happened that there were 
camped near Lewis about 250 lodges of the 
Mountain Crows, a tribe friendly to the whites 
and bitterly hostile to the Sioux. As soon as 
they saw the hostiles they started after them. 
The Sioux ran, and at dark the trail was lost, 
and about three-quarters of the Crows—300 in 
number—returned to camp. The other one hun¬ 
dred camped on a mountain side and sent out 
scouts on the highest hills to watch for the 
enemy. Next morning the scouts reported that 
the Sioux, thinking all the Crows had gone back, 
were returning to make another attempt on the 
post, and before long the main body of the 
Crows could see the enemy coming directly to¬ 
ward them. The unlucky Sioux came right up 
to where the Crows were ambushed and the 
latter fired and killed five, and then charging, 
killed two more before they could get into the 
timber. The Crows lost one man, but he was 
a great chief; in fact, one of their principal war 
chiefs. He was named Long Horse. A Sioux 
shot him in the side just below the ribs, the 
ball passing just in front of the spine and com¬ 
ing out at the other side. Long Horse fell, but 
managed to raise up again and to shoot dead 
the Indian that had wounded him; then he died. 
“We had been about an hour in camp and 
Charley Reynolds and I were taking a bath in 
Trout Creek near the post, when we heard sev¬ 
eral shots and whoops, and as three men had 
been killed a few days before within a quarter 
of a mile where we were swimming, we crawled 
up the bank and looked about. We saw four 
Indians riding down the bluffs singing and yelp¬ 
ing and Occasionally firing a shot. Three of 
them were nicely dressed and had war bonnets 
trimmed with the tail feathers of the golden 
eagle; the fourth was naked and carried in 
one hand a pole, at the end of which dangled 
a bunch of long black hair. We had heard about 
the chase after the Sioux and saw that this must 
be the Crow party returning. We hurried into 
our clothes and soon saw the women and chil¬ 
dren coming out to meet the party. Pretty 
soon the procession came down the hill all 
dressed out in the finest war costume. They 
were all in black paint, and some of them had 
splendid bonnets reaching from their head away 
down to their horses’ flanks. Some of them 
had only shirts on and their naked legs looked 
rather absurdly. Every now and then a warrior 
would pass holding a scalp on a pole and around 
him would be ten or a dozen others shouting 
and singing and firing shots in the air. The 
same demonstrations of triumph were indulged 
in when one of the captured ponies was driven 
by, or when one of the captured guns was held 
up to view. One old fellow had saved the whole 
head of his Sioux and had spread it out and 
dried it so that it was as big as a dinner plate. 
As he rode along he slowly twirled his pole so 
that the long black waving hair and the bright 
red fleshy side alternately appeared and disap¬ 
peared. 
“After all the warriors had passed and quiet 
had settled down on the camp, we heard from 
up the valley sounds of mourning, and soon 
saw a boy about fifteen years old leading a mule 
on which was the body of Long Horse wrapped 
in a green blanket. Behind him rode a squaw, 
and behind her a buck, and they alternately sang 
dirges as they moved slowly along. When they 
reached the trading post both dismounted, and 
walking up to a wagon standing near, each laid 
one finger on the wheel, and drawing out their 
butcher knives, chopped them off and then re¬ 
mounting rode off. As they went off the squaw 
gashed her head with her knife again and again. 
Later in the day another relative chopped off 
two fingers at the trading post.’’ 
The Baker as a Cook. 
Berlin, N. Y., June 20.— Editor Forest and 
Stream: A baker, a carpenter and a mason (I 
give trades instead of names as designations for 
good reasons) planned a hunting excursion into 
the wilds of Pennsylvania in the early fall some 
years ago, intending to live in the woods for two 
weeks if not longer. They had to pack their 
supplies for a good many miles to reach the 
chosen hunting grounds, and beside some cooked 
food enough to last two or three days only, 
took with them a peck of beans. Any deficiency 
in the cuisine they expected to be able to supply 
by game killed. 
, It was agreed that each one should remain in 
camp and act as cook in turn, while the two 
others hunted. The mason and the carpenter 
each stood guard as watchman and cook, and 
on the third day came the turn of the baker. 
No game had been taken and all the provender 
had been devoured except the beans. The mason 
told me the story, and here is the rest of the 
tale in his words: 
“Hugh and I tramped all day and neither of 
us fired a shot. Disgusted and hungry, for our 
lunch was a mighty light one, we made an early 
break for camp. When we got in sight I stop¬ 
ped in amazement and told Hugh that something 
queer had happened, for Jim’s hair and long 
beard were white. 
“Jim seemed to be very busy about something 
and did not notice us as we approached. One 
look told the story. The camp kettle was over¬ 
running with beans. Our few dishes were full 
of beans and scattered around were slabs of bark, 
which Jim had torn off the trees, also full of beans. 
“He had put all the dry beans in the kettle 
and then started a fire. As they swelled he had 
dipped them out and disposed of them as I have 
explained. He had tasted them occasionally to 
see if they were done, and when they stuck to 
his hands he had used his hair for a towel. 
And he had for thirty years been running a 
bakery. 
“Of course they soured in a few days, and to 
avoid starving we broke camp and went home. 
When I go camping again no bakers need ap¬ 
ply.” Rob Saunderson. 
PURITY ESSENTIAL. 
In no other form of food is Purity so abso¬ 
lutely essential as in milk products.^ Rich¬ 
ness is also necessary, as without richness, 
milk is of little value as a food. Purity and 
richness are the embodiment of Borden’s 
Eagle Brand Condensed Milk. As a food for 
infants or for general household purposes it 
has no equal.— Adv. 
