November, 1917 
FOREST AND STREAM 
523 
I don’t like to be talked to as Hen talked 
to me when I am far from home. 
I wouldn’t feed parched-corn to a hen 
unless I had a grudge against her. 
Lifelike hand-tooled engraving of a 
night watchman watching for daylight. 
you see two toes are missin’? Newt, we’ve 
struck it rich !—this is the bear that busted 
out of Pete Laroux’s trap!” 
With that we began to pussy-foot it 
along on the bear’s trail. Fortunately the 
wind was in our faces. The foxy old fel¬ 
low apparently didn’t know where he was 
goin’ and didn’t care how long it took him 
to get there—his tracks zig-zagged up the 
mountain, then down again; once they 
looped and crossed themselves; at another 
point they disappeared under a windfall— 
but came out on the other side. “Wot’s 
he tryin’ to do,” whispers I over Hen’s 
shoulder, “play tag with himself?” “Shut 
up,” hissed Hen, “we may be right on top 
of him!” Then I looked down to see what 
I was standin’ on! Presently we came to 
a point where the bear had burrowed 
under the root of a big spruce—he had 
made quite an excavation, then had gone 
forward in his zig-zag way. 
ELL, that tells the story,” says 
Hen sitting down on a root. “Not 
to me, it don’t,” says I. “That 
bear,” says Hen, “is gonna hibernate.” 
“Well,” says I, “will that spoil his pelt?” 
“Spoil his pelt, you durn fool!” snaps 
Hen; “I mean he’s gonna den up—hole 
down for the winter. That’s why he dug 
this hole, but it didn’t suit him for some 
reason—now he’s somewhere ahead lookin’ 
up another snoozin’ nest. Newt, that bear 
is our meat!” “Well,” says I, shouldering 
mv rifle, “come ahead then and let’s kill 
’im, so we can git back to camp in time 
for lunch.” “Naw, naw, you don’t under¬ 
stand,” says Hen with a sigh; “we’ll go 
back to camp right now, pack some grub, 
lug along a blanket apiece and we’ll foller 
that bear to the finish. Chances are we’ll 
find him denned up and the rest will be 
easy. Sometimes, though, a bear travels a 
long ways before he goes into winter quar¬ 
ters, but we’ll be prepared for that because 
we’ll go light—very light.” All the way 
back to camp Hen preached a sermon from 
the text, “Going Light.” He said it al¬ 
ways gave him a pain in the neck to see 
a tenderfoot hunter luggin’ a lot of sur¬ 
plus junk on a forced march and that a 
man was no sport unless he could give up 
luxuries and live on emergency rations like 
our forefathers and the Injuns used to do 
when they wfent in quest of game. Just 
because Hen' had such decided opinions 
about “Going Light” I said never a word, 
but I did a lot of heavy thinkin’. I ached 
to make some helpful suggestions as to 
what we ought to take along, specially in 
the way of “eats,” but held my tongue. 
Hen took all the responsibility of packing 
—in fact I didn’t see what was in the little 
pack-sack with shoulder straps which he 
told me contained my outfit. This with my 
rifle was all I had to carry. His equipment 
was the same as mine. 
A FTER a hasty lunch we hit the trail 
again and in an hour’s fast hiking 
found ourselves at the point where 
Mister Bear had burrowed. I yearned to 
sit down and have a chat, but when Hen 
asked me if I was tired I told him I was 
fresh as a daisy. It may be sinful to lie 
when you’re tired, but it sounds better than 
the truth on the trail. Hen struck out at 
a hotter pace than ever. I tried to delay 
him by asking the names of various trees, 
but he told me he was no botanist and sug¬ 
gested I ought to save my breath for the 
mountain ahead. When we got to the top 
of it the wind nearly cut me in two. Go¬ 
ing down the other side was a lot easier— 
it was very steep and I went down most of 
the way sitting! At the foot of this grade 
the bear’s tracks entered a cedar swamp— 
and so did ours. Before we emerged on the 
other side of that swamp I had called that 
bear names I wouldn’t call a rabbit—unless 
I expected it to fight! There was snow 
down my neck as far as my shoes—my 
back was broken in two places and my 
clothes were torn through to my skin! 
Then we started up another mountain! 
Uf OOK here, Hen,” gasps I, “don’t 
I j you think it would be a good idea 
not to go so fast? If we don’t 
slow up we’ll pass that bear so fast we 
won’t see im at all and you know as well 
as I do that we can’t track ’im unless 
he’s ahead of us!” “Aw, come on and 
don’t be a quitter!” snaps Hen, tearing up 
the grade—and I tore after him as fast as 
I could tear, but I didn’t bust any speed 
records. I’m not gonna dwell on the three 
hours which followed—it’s too painful and 
wears me all out to think of it. Suffice to 
say it was 4 P. M. when we halted on the 
bear’s track and Hen with his belt-axe be¬ 
gan to chop some wood. “You needn’t 
build any fire for me, Hen,” says I; “I’m 
not cold—in fact I’m suffused with perspi¬ 
ration.” Hen paid no attention whatever. 
“Besides,” I goes on, “I think we’d better 
gobble a bite of lunch and beat it back for 
camp if we expect to get there before 
it gets too dark to find it.” 
Hen looked at me with sagging jaw—an 
armful of wood slipped from his arms 
and fell on his feet. “H—mi**** 
D—!!??***?!?!” he yells, then goes on in 
language not fit to print: “Camp before 
dark! Well, I’ll be jigger’d! Right here 
is where we’re gonna camp, y’understand ! 
Wot do you s’pose we brought blankets 
for ?—and grub enough for a week ?” “All- 
right, allright,” says I meekly, “it’s my mis¬ 
take. Don’t get sore and please take your 
nose out of my eye and stop shakin’ your 
fists behind my back!” Hen went on with 
his fire making while I sank down on a 
log. I was so tired I had to lean over to 
spit! I could tell I was sitting in three 
inches of snow, but I was too tired to 
move. Hen knocked up a rude lean-to 
facing the fire and bedded the space under 
it with boughs. By this time the tea was 
boiling. “You’ll find your grub in your 
sack,” says Hen beginning to open his. 
With watering mouth I began to haul out 
the contents:—first a woolen blanket, a 
waterproof match-safe and a cloth bag 
of what felt to me like unground coffee. 
“I guess,” says I, “you must put my grub 
in your bag—there ain’t none here.” 
“Guess again,” says Hen; “you’re holdin’ 
your grub supply right in your hands.” I 
undid the string and waddye s’pose was in 
that bag? 
ABOUT FIVE POUNDS OF 
PARCHED CORN—AND THAT WAS 
ALL! 
“Good Lord, man,” I gasps, “this is 
horse-feed!” “Newt,” says Hen wearily, 
“there is more nutritive value in one pound 
of parched corn than in three pounds of 
steak. Wot did Dan’l Boone live on when 
he was in the woods for weeks at a time? 
Parched corn! Wot did the Injuns live 
on the year round? Parched corn! On 
a trip like this there is nothin’ sticks to 
a man’s ribs like parched corn. It’s not 
only nourishing, but delicious.” “Aw, hen- 
feed !” snarls I in disgust. “I hope Dan 
Boone and the Injuns choked on it! I 
wouldn’t give a two-inch-thick, juicy steak 
right now for a carload of parched corn!” 
“That’s up to you,” says Hen, eating his 
parched corn out of the hollow of his 
hand; “if you can find any steaks and 
mushrooms here, you’re welcome to ’em.” 
W ELL, what else was there to do? 
Nothing! So I made my supper on 
about a pound of parched corn with 
a pint of tea for a chaser. Then I lighted 
my pipe and spent a gloomy evening be¬ 
fore the camp fire. About 7 P. M. Hen 
rolled up in his blanket under the lean-to 
and began to snore. I followed suit, but 
nix on the snore, or sleep either. That 
was the best ventilated little lean-to I ever 
slept in. It had a southern exposure and 
an icy northwest breeze!—also other mod- • 
ern accommodations such as running water 
—the snow from the roof-branches, melted 
by the fire, ran into my eyes and ears! I 
shook so from the cold that I couldn’t 
keep the blanket wrapped around me! 
After I figured that both feet were frozen 
stiff up as far as my shoulder-blades, I 
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