March 16, 1907.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
409 
near; that I must not shoot, nor expose myself 
in any way. 
“It was near sundown when I saw the scout 
leave the butte, and a little later the whole party 
left the timber and moved off across the bottom 
westward. As soon as it was dark I pushed out 
and landed near the buffalo carcass; there was 
still a plenty of meat on it and I took what I 
wanted, carried some of it over to the fire the 
party had abandoned, cooked and ate it. Then 
I went upon my way. 
“As far as the mouth of the Dried Meat River 
(the Musselshell) I knew the country well; be¬ 
yond that I knew it only in places, never before 
having traversed the whole course of the valley. 
I was familiar with it about the mouth of Little 
(Milk) River, and Elk (Yellowstone) River, 
and I had once been on a visit with my people 
to the Earth-house people (the Mandans), who 
live some little distance below the mouth of Elk 
would have taken her away on foot or on 
that vicinity in the big timbered bottoms, there 
were generally some Assinaboines or Yanktonais 
encamped. I felt that it was none of these peo¬ 
ple who had captured my woman. They feared 
i the water; had any of them stolen her they 
would have taken her away on foot or on 
horseback. But the tribes below them, the Man- 
dans and the Lower Big Bellies* (the Gros 
Ventres of the village) are river people, always 
paddling about in their skin boats. The Man- 
dans have ever been at peace with us, the Lower 
Big Bellies always at war with us. I felt, I had 
felt from the first, from the time I met the 
Ancient Beavers, that it was one of the last 
tribe who had captured her, that she was in his 
camp. So, after some nights’ drifting, when I 
came to the mouth of the Little River, I did 
not stop to look for any camp, but drifted on 
and on, hiding on a big island before daylight. 
I had passed a camp though in the middle of 
the night, for I heard many dogs answering the 
howl of wolves. 
“I. was now again out of food. I awoke late 
in the afternoon and had a look at the country 
from both sides of the island. There were deer 
trails criss-crossing the island in every direction ; 
| its shores were all cut up by their sharp hoofs. 
As I could see no sign of the enemy anywhere, 
as there were buffalo quietly feeding, on both 
sides of the valley, *1 felt that I could take the 
I risk and fire a shot. 1 had to—or starve. I11 
a little while, as I sat in the edge of the willows 
on the north . side pf the island, a big he sway- 
1 ing tail (white tail deer) came out on the shore 
i above, drank from the river and then walked 
down toward me sniffing the tracks he crossed. 
' When I fired he dropped right where he stood, 
! never even kicked. I sat still for a few minutes, 
carefully watching the opposite shore, which was 
a long gun shot distant. Nothing appeared; the 
buffalo beyond on the slope of the valley seemed 
j not to have heard the report, continuing to graze. 
I went out to my kill, drew my knife and com¬ 
menced to skin it. I hadn’t more than half 
ripped up a hind leg when some bullets zipped 
over my head, thudded into the sand, splashed 
into the water, and one struck the deer. I 
1 knew what they were before I heard the boom 
j of the guns, and saw smoke lifting from the 
*Pi-nap' Ut-se-na: Lower or down-river Big’ Bellies, 
as distinguished from the Ut-se-na, or Gros Ventres of 
the prairie. The Village Gros Ventres are really Crows, 
Dakotas. The L T pper Gros Ventres are Algonquins. The 
i Blackfoot name for them, however, implies that they 
1 are of common stock—a divided tribe. 
h 
lu 
willows over on the main shore. I didn’t let 
go of the leg. I unjointed it, skin and all, and 
got into cover with it before the enemy had 
time to reload and fire again. As soon as I was 
in the shelter of the brush I ran down it a ways 
and looked out. I could see no one, but the 
buffalo were running up on to the plain, and 
others that had been in the bottom were follow¬ 
ing them. Then I knew that those who had 
fired upon me were a war party and had 
lain concealed in the timber all day. The 
water was very shallow between us, the 
main river being on the opposite side of 
the island where my boat was concealed. 
‘They will wade over here as soon as it is dark,’ 
I said to myself. ‘I’ve *got to get away from 
here now.’ I had cached my boat at the upper 
end of the long island. I hurried over to it, 
threw in my meat, and pushed off, paddling for 
the south shore as hard as I could. The cur¬ 
rent was not very swift and I reached the land 
some little distance above the foot of the island 
which had hidden my movement from the enemy. 
As soon as I was ashore I broke some brush and 
threw it over the boat, and then crossed the 
wide sand bar and got into the timber; passing 
through that, then crouching- along in the high 
grease wood and sage brush, and lastly walk¬ 
ing up a narrow coulee, I arrived at the top 
of a high point from which I could plainly see 
the opposite bottoms. There were four men 
slowly sneaking down it, and when they reached 
the lower end, straight across from me, they 
concealed themselves in the sage brush at the 
edge of the high cut bank overlooking the river. 
The stream was narrow there and the deep chan¬ 
nel of swift water was right under them. No 
doubt they thought that I had a boat or raft, 
and right there they would lie in wait for me. 
They were not all of the party; I had seen the 
smoke of at least ten 'guns. I could see noth¬ 
ing of the others, however; they were concealed 
in the timber from which they had shot at me. 
From where I lay, peering through a low sage 
brush, I could see the four men on the cut 
hank very plainly, for I was high above their 
position. It was not so very far either. More 
than once I had killed buffalo and elk and deer 
at that distance by sighting my rifle a space of 
about three hands above their backs. One of 
the men lay flat on his belly, head to the river, 
and more than once I sighted my rifle at him. I 
thought that if I aimed at his heels the bullet 
would strike him somewhere in his back if I 
held true. The temptation to try it was great; 
my other mind was not to attempt it. ‘Think 
of what you are seeking,’ it said, ‘and run no 
more risk than you can help.’ And then the 
other one: ‘Perhaps this very party belong to 
the camp where your woman is captive; they 
have already shot at you, tried to kill you. 
Try it.’ J. W. Schultz, 
[to p.e concluded.] 
For a Bison Herd in the Adirondacks. 
A bill introduced in the New York Legislature 
last Friday by Mr. Hooper, of Essex county, pro¬ 
vides for the appropriation of $20,000 for the pur¬ 
chase of a small herd of bison and the setting 
aside and fencing of a suitable plot of land at 
the intersection of the counties of Essex, Warren 
and Hamilton, in the Adirondacks. The Ameri¬ 
can Bison Society is back of this bill, which is 
in accordance with the agreement reached at its 
recent annual meeting, when the advisability of 
such a step was discussed and the plan indorsed. 
The Right of Sanctuary. 
It was a mild, bright day, and we decided to 
give our camp a thorough airing. We opened 
the door and window, carried our bedding out 
and laid it on a pile of brush, swept the floor 
as clean as we could get it, and re-brushed the 
bunk with fresh spruce boughs. This done, we 
seated ourselves on the trunk of a fallen hem¬ 
lock, and lit our pipes. The snow was not more 
than six inches deep, but it was more or less 
crusted, and until it melted, or more snow fell, 
still-hunting was out of the question. We had 
partridges, rabbits, porcupine, smoked trout and 
black duck, in addition to the grub we carried 
in, so we were in no hurry to add moose meat 
to our menu, especially as the open season lasted 
for nearly a month longer. 
My Martini, Uncle Jake’s Snider, and the 
little .22 we used to shoot partridges and rab¬ 
bits with, lay against the log. A sudden scuffling 
over the snow attracted my attention, and in a 
minute I perceived a white rabbit, hopping to¬ 
ward the camp. I use the expression for lack 
of a better one, for between the brisk hop of a 
rabbit, as I have often seen one move in the 
clearings, and the labored movement of the one 
we noticed, there is a vast difference. The 
creature did not seem to notice us; it made its 
way to the camp door, hopped over the sill and 
vanished. Uncle Jake motioned to me to keep 
quiet, picked up the .22, slipped a cartridge in 
the breech, and in another moment pointed to 
a tiny black spot moving over the snow, about 
fifty yards from us. I strained my eyes, and 
finally made out the outline of an ermine, which 
was following in the tracks Bre’r Rabbit had 
made. Jake waited until the animal was within 
twenty yards of us, then he whistled. The 
little creature, which had been too much occupied 
in the chase to notice us, stopped, sat bolt up¬ 
right, and looked round to see where the noise 
came from. As he did so, the rifle cracked, the 
ermine collapsed, and a little spot of crimson 
formed in the snow eight or nine inches from 
the black tail tuft. 
“That there’s the gentleman who spoilt all 
our rabbits and stunk the camp out Sunday,” 
said Jake, as he picked up the dead animal. “I 
mind the time when white weasels were not 
worth ten cents a bushel, but now they say they 
are worth seventy cents each. There is two 
things I never could understand in this world. 
One is how a snake can catch a frog, the other 
is how a weasel can run down a rabbit. Did 
you notice how that fellow was going, as if he 
had a trap fast to all of his four feet? He 
could outrun the best dog that ever laid nose 
to a track, and yet that six inch strip of white 
fur and malice could run him down in ten 
minutes. Let’s go and see how he’s making out 
in the camp.” 
We entered the shanty and closed the door be¬ 
hind us. Jake dived under the bunk, a rabbit 
squealed as if his last hour had come, and the 
old man emerged with a bundle of quivering 
white fur in his hands. 
“Don’t kill him, Jake,” I cried: “we have plenty 
of fresh meat, and we can get lots of rabbits 
from the snares whenever we want them.” 
“Kill him ! Not much,” replied the old man. 
“Here, git,” and the prisoner found himself 
placed on the snow outside the camp door. He 
lost no time in obeying the injunction, and in 
ten seconds he had vanished from sight in the 
spruceslash. 
“It’s queer how hunted animals will sometimes 
run to a house, or a barn for shelter,” observed 
my friend, as he busied himself skinning the 
ermine. “I’ve seen a moose run right into the 
dooryard, when the doggers were after him, and 
more than once a hawk has chased a small bird 
into my house. I remember after Captain Ire¬ 
land had chased the fox into Mr. Castin’s barn, 
he told me something about a wild boar running 
into a church in England, in the old times, and 
the hunters killing the priest, because he for¬ 
bade them to follow it.” 
T quoted the lines from Scott’s “Marmion” 
and the old man nodded his head. “Yes, them’s 
the same identical words he used when he was 
talking with Miss Castin.— 
