October, 1918 
FOREST AND STREAM 
579 
I narrowly missed hitting a big husky 
specimen of a red and white steer! 
there with my mouth open as the fren¬ 
zied animal tore up the grade and dis¬ 
appeared from sight and hearing. Then I 
remembered that Bill had told of live cat¬ 
tle which had escaped from a lumber camp 
corral seven miles west the fall before. 
Three of these had been hunted down and 
shot, but the remaining two had escaped 
to forage in the forest and had become 
practically wild. Evidently my ‘‘moose” 
was one of this duet. I made up my mind 
this little transaction would be strictly 
private and confidential between me and 
the steer. Then I continued north. 
I T was too dusky to see the sights when 
I struck the tote-road and headed for 
camp with no reward for my day’s 
tramp except a couple of tired legs and 
the appetite of a goat. Just after I 
glimpsed the cheery lights of camp a fig¬ 
ure loomed up in the path ahead. It was 
Sam. “S-h-h, Newt!” says he very mys¬ 
terious. “S-h-h, yourself,” says 1 ; “why 
the hold-up?” “Listen,” says Sam, “you 
know my friend Hen from Boston who 
was due today? Well, he’s here. Now 
Hen’s a non-resident and he’s supposed to 
take out a license, but he didn’t. He’s 
only gonna be here three days and on the 
strength of owning a summer camp at 
Belleville in this state, he’s gonna claim 
state residence—that is if a game warden 
should say anything to him.” “Well, then 
what?” says I. “I’m cornin’ to that,” says 
Sam; “you see Hen doesn’t know you’re 
with us and we’ve framed it up for you to 
impersonate Dave White, the local game 
warden, a man Hen has never seen. 
Whaddye say?” “I’m game for the game 
warden stuff,” says I gleefully. “Good!” 
says Sam; “now I’ll beat it back to camp. 
In about ten minutes you drop in and ask 
to stay all night. Bill will introduce you 
all around as the game warden. Then 
later you put Hen on the rack for hunting 
without a license—he’s been out with me 
after deer all afternoon. Throw a good 
scare into him.” “You leave it to me,” 
says I. 
Thereupon Sam returned to camp while 
I sat down on a log to frame up the de¬ 
tails of the joke. After a decent wait I 
walked into camp without knocking. 
“Why, hello there, Dave!” says Bill cor¬ 
dially; “where did you drop from?” 
‘Drifted down river in my canoe,” says 
I; “on my way to Merry Lake. Can you 
put me up for the night?” “Sure thing,” 
;ays Bill; then turning to the others, 
‘boys, this is Dave White, game warden 
or this district.” Doc and Sam (whom I 
tad known for years) got up and shook 
Just outside of camp I met Sam and we 
framed up a big joke on his friend Hen. 
hands with me soberly—and so dfd Hen, 
but he seemed uncomfortable and ill at 
ease. That Hen was certainly some hulk 
of a man—he stood about six feet in his 
shoes and was husky in proportion. I felt 
like a pretty small potato as I looked up 
at him, but (to all intents and purposes) 
I represented the majesty of the law and 
when the time came I made up my mind 
to grill him unmercifully. 
Shortly we all sat down to supper. I 
was asked the usual questions about how 
much game I had seen in my travels, if 
there was much violation of the law, etc. 
Hen said little and seemed to be gloomy. 
Several times I surprised him looking at 
me with what I took to be fear and guilt 
on his face. After we had pushed our 
stools back from the table and filled our 
pipes, I says to Bill, “Any non-residents 
in this bunch?” “No,” says Bill, “we all 
live in the state.” “Whereabouts in this 
state do you live?” I asks turning sudden¬ 
ly to Hen. “Who, me?” gulps Hen; “why 
I—er—I live in Belleville.” “Nice little 
town, Belleville,” says I; “make your 
home there the year round?” “Well, not 
quite all the year round,” hedges Hen, 
twisting on his chair. “What Is your 
name?” says I. ‘“Henry Ryder,” says Hen 
meekly. “Ryder?” says I scratching my 
head; “Ryder ?—I’ve been in Belleville 
considerable, but I don’t seem to remem¬ 
ber anybody there by that name.” “I guh- 
guh-guess I’m the only Ryder there,” gur¬ 
gles poor Hen. “How long have you lived 
in Belleville, Mr. Ryder?” says I, turning 
the screws a bit tighter. “Lemme see?” 
says Hen; “oh, about three years, I guess.” 
“Do you vote in this state?” I inquires. 
“Yes—I mean, no!” gasps Hen, wiping the 
perspiration from his brow, although it 
was quite cool in camp. At this point Sam 
had to get a drink of water to keep his 
countenance. Bill and Doc had hard work 
to keep straight faces. 
< 1/I R- RYDER,” says I, sternly look- 
1 V 1 ’ n the eye, “isn’t it a fact 
that your home is in Boston? that 
you live there, work there, pay your taxes 
there, vote there?—that all you own at 
Belleville is a summer camp where you 
spend only a couple of weeks a year? Am 
I right?—answer me?” 
“Yuh-yuh-y-e-s, that’s true,” admits Hen 
in a low voice. “Then you’re a non-resi¬ 
dent and I want to see your license,” snaps 
I. “I haven’t any license,” says Hen drop¬ 
ping his head. “It’s plain to be seen, 
Ryder,” says I, “that you are deliberately 
trying to evade the law—you hunted this 
afternoon without a license and there is 
I was naturally surprised when Hen 
slammed me down and sat on me! 
nothing for me to do but put you under 
arrest and take you before the commis¬ 
sioners.” 
Hen’s chin was on his chest in the 
silence that followed. Then Bill broke out 
and you’d have thought he was fighting 
mad the way he talked. He pounded the 
table and shook his fist under my nose so 
close I could smell it. He told me plainly 
he dian’t like the way I butted into his 
camp and treated his guests and threatened 
to kick me out. To add to the realism of 
this scene I jumped to my feet and dared 
him to touch me. I told him I would do- 
•my duty in spite of him or anybody else, 
A LL this time Ryder was trying to 
make peace between Bill and me— 
he plead with us not to have any 
trouble on his account. Finally, in des¬ 
peration, Ryder asked me if I would step- 
out of camp a few moments so he and J 
could discuss the matter quietly. I agreed 
and followed him out. The moon had 
risen. We walked across the lumber yard 
and stood in the shadow of an old shed 
open at both ends. Ryder was penitent 
and apologetic. He wanted to know if, in 
case he would pay me the regular license 
fee of $25 I would be willing to drop the 
matter. I told him the thing had gone too 
far for me to do that and he would have 
to take his medicine. 
Suddenly as I stood there with my hands 
in my pockets Ryder pinned my arms, 
kicked my feet from under me and threw 
me on my back! I kicked and clawed like 
a wuld-cat, but it was no use—that man 
had the 'strength of a bull. Next thing I 
knew he had me gagged with a handker¬ 
chief ! Dragging me with him into the 
shed he got a coil of rope (used In hang¬ 
ing deer) and tied my hands behind me. 
Then he pushed me ahead of him out the 
tote-road beyond sight of camp and bound 
me to a birch tree. During this perform¬ 
ance no word was spoken, but, believe me. 
I was doing a good deal of heavy thinking. 
Ryder then calmly lighted a cigarette. 
He stood in front of me with his hands 
on his hips and took a few puffs. 
“Well, Mr. White,” he began, “how do 
you like it?” “None of your - busi¬ 
ness !” I gurgled through the gag. Ryder 
giggled and then went on, “Just a few 
words before I say goodnight: I’m goin’ 
back to camp and tell the boys that you 
and I have fixed this thing up and that 
you’re so peeved at the way Bill talked 
you’re goin’ on down the river instead of 
stayin’ all night. Then after they get to 
sleep I’m gonna sneak out, take your canoe 
(continued on page 620) 
