FOREST AND STREAM. 
[APRIL 28, 1906. 

man,” Berry exclaimed. ‘“He’s sure a_ friend 
worth having.” 
For obvious reasons we kept what we _ had 
learned to ourselves, although I had a struggle 
to do so. It was years afterward when I finally 
told Nat-ah’-ki about it, and when the time came 
that our friend certainly did need help he got it. 
We had with us that winter one Long-haired 
Jim, bull-whacker, a man about forty years of 
He wore hair that was at least two feet 
long and which fell in dark, rippling waves very 
gracefully over his back and shoulders. When 
on the road or out at work in the wind he kept it 
braided, but in camp it was simply confined by a 
silk bandage bound around his head. He was 
very proud of it and kept it nicely washed and 
combed. 
Jim had made various trips, he claimed, on the 
Santa Fé and the Overland Trails, and had 
drifted up into Montana from Corinne. Accord- 
ing to his own story, he was a great fighter, a 
successful gambler, but these advantages, he said, 
were offset by the fact that he was terribly un- 
lucky in love. “I have set my affections on four 
different females in my time,’ he told us, “an’ 
I'll be dog-goned ef I got ary one of ’em.” 
“T come mighty close to it once,” he continued. 
“She was a red-haired widow what kept a board- 
in’ house in Council Bluffs. We rolled in there 
one evenin’, an’ as soon as we had corralled all 
hands a went over to her place fer supper. As 
soon as I set eyes on her I says to myself, “That’s 
a mighty fine figger of a woman.’ She was small, 
an’ slim, an’ freckled, with the purtiest little turn- 
up, peart nose as ever happened. ‘Who is she?’ 
I asked a feller settin’ next me. 
““A widder,’ he says, ‘she runs this here place.’ 
“That settled it. I went to the wagon boss, 
told him I quit, drew my pay, an’ packed my bed- 
din’ and war sack over to her place. The next 
evenin’ I caught her settin’ out on the steps all 
by herself and walked right up to her. ‘Mrs. 
Westbridge,’ I says, ‘I’ve sure fell in love with 
you. Will you marry me?’ 
““Why, the idear!’ she cried out. 
to the man; an’ him a stranger. 
here!’ 
age, 
‘Jest listen 
Scat! git out 0’ 
An’ she up an’ run into the house an’ into 
the kitchen an’ slammed an’ locked the door. 
“That didn’t make no difference to me. I wa’n’t 
ordered to leave the house, so I staid right on, 
an’ put the question to her every chanct I got, 
sometimes twict a day. She got sost she didn’t 
run, took it kinder good-natured like, but she al- 
Ways gave me a straight ‘No’ for an answer. I 
wa'n’t no way discouraged. 
“Well, it run along a matter of two weeks, an’ 
one evenin’ I asked her again; ’twas the twenty- 
first time, which number bein’ my lucky one, I 
considered it sure to win. An’ it did. 
“*Yes, sir, Mr. Jim What’s-yer-name,’ she says, 
straight out, ‘I'll marry ver on certain conditions: 
You must cut your hair.’ 
TCeDN 
““An’ throw away them six-shooters an’ that 
long knife.’ 
a LenS 
““An’ quit gamblin’.’ 
yeueDe 
“*An’ help me run this yere boardin’ house.’ 
“Yes, I agreed to it all, an’ she said we’d be 
married the comin’ Sunday. I asked her fer a 
kiss, but she slapped my face an’ run off into the 
kitchen, ‘Never mind,’ I says, settin’ down on 
the steps, ‘lll wait ’till she comes out an’ ketch her.’ 
“Wal, sir. I was a settin’ there all peaceful an’ 
happy like, when along comes an ornery lookin’ 
one-leg cripple an’ he asks, ‘Is this whar Miss 
Westbridge lives?’ 
NGS mon. Alea 
of her?’ 
“‘Oh, nothin’, he says, “cept she’s my wife.’ 
“T allow I might have swatted him, even if he 
was a cripple, if the woman hadn't come out just 
then. When she see him she jest throwed up her 
hands and cried out: ‘My Gawd! Wherever did 
I thought you was dead. They 
told me you was. Are you sure it’s you?’ 
“Ves, Sairy,’. he said. ‘It’s me all right; that 
is, what’s left of me. It was reported that I died, 
or was missin’, but I pulled through. I been 
trailin’ you a long time. It’s a long story— 
“T didn’t wait to hear it. Went up to my room 
and sat down. After a while she come up. ‘You 
see how 'tis,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to take care of 
him. Yer a good man, Jim; I admire yer spunk, 
a askin’ and a askin’, an never takin’ “no” fer an 
answer. As it is, ef you care fer me I wisht you'd 
, 
go. 
“T packed right up an’ pulled out. No, I never 
did have no luck with women. Sence that hap- 
pened I ain’t had a chance to tackle another 
one.” 
Jim took great interest in Nat-ah’-ki and me. 
“My Gawd!” he would say, “just hear her laugh. 
She’s sure happy. I wisht I had such a nice 
woman.” 
He spent much time in the trade room, and 
went often through the camp seeking to make a 
conquest of some fair damsel. He was really 
ridiculous, smiling at them, bowing and saying 
something in English which none could under- 
stand, The maidens turned away from him 
abashed. The men looking on either scowled or 
laughed and joked and named him the One- 
unable-to-marry, a very bad name in Blackfoot. 
The main trouble was that he wore an im- 
mense mustache and chin whiskers. The Black- 
feet abhorred hair, except that of the head. An 
old acquaintance never buttoned his shirt winter 
nor summer; his breast was as hairy as a dog’s 
back. I have seen the Blackfeet actually shud- 
der when they looked at it. But a happy day was 
coming for Jim. On a trip out from Fort Benton, 
Berry brought him a letter containing great news. 
A woman back in Missouri whom he had known 
from childhood had consented to marry him. He 
left for the States at once by the way of Corinne. 
We heard from him several months later: “Dear 
friends,’ he wrote, “she died the day before I 
got here. I’m sure grevin’. Theys a nuther one 
here, but she’s got seven children, an’ she’s after 
me. I take the Santy Fé trail to-morrer. Hain’t 
I sure out of luck?” 
By the same mail we heard from Ashton, He 
was in Genoa, Italy, and expected to be with us 
in the spring. He also wrote that he was get- 
ting good reports of his protégé’s progress. A 
little later there came a letter for Nat-ah’-ki from 
the girl herself, which was very touching. It was 
in print, and read, including some additions by 
the sisters: “I can read. I can write. The sis- 
ters are good to me. I have pretty dresses. When 
I sleep I see the lodges and the peopie, and I 
smell the kak-sim-i’ (sage). I love you. Diana 
Ashton.” 
Dear me! but Nat-ah’-ki was proud of that let- 
ter. She carried it around and showed it to her 
friends and had me translate it many times. She 
‘An’ what might you want 
you come from? 
c 
made several beautiful pairs of moccasins for the 
child, and after we returned to Fort Benton in 
the spring had me ship them on a steamboat with 
a lot of pemmican, dried meat and tongues, and 
a big bunch of sagebrush. I objected to sending 
the pemmican and meat, saying that the girl had 
all the food she wanted and the very best. 
“Yes,” she said, contemptuously, “white peo- 
ple’s food; nothing food. I know she is hungry 
for real food.” 
We had a good trade that winter, but troublous 
times succeeded. A part of the Piegans, the 
Bloods and Blackfeet became a real terror to the 
whites in the country, and it was really unsafe to 
try to trade outside of Fort Benton. We passed 
the following two winters there. In January of 
the second one the Baker massacre occurred, and 
the Indians at once quieted down. In the spring 
of 1870 we began to plan for another season at 
some more or less distant point. 
WALTER B. ANDERSON. 
[TO BE CONTINUED. ] 
A Boy. 
For the last four or five years, I have noticed 
a boy fishing from the docks at this place. When 
he first started in at the spot he was quite young, 
and at that time he was generally in company 
with some older person. Later on he came alone 
and used to sit for hours waiting for a “bite.” If 
unsuccessful he still seemed contented enough. 
He would come the next Saturday or some other 
day when he did not have to go to school. 
Sometimes he would have good luck. I have 
seen him take home a nice string of flounders, 
and in their season snappers (young bluefish), 
blackfish and so on. Now that he is a little 
older I see he has a nice rod and reel. He goes 
to the beach with his little spading fork on his 
shoulder to dig his sand worms for bait. Later 
in the season you will see him along the creek 
with a basket holding some sawdust ready to re- 
ceive the shrimp ke will catch with his net. In 
the fall you will see him chasing fiddler crabs 
a the beach. He wants them to lure the black- 
sh, 
He is still a small boy, not yet grown out of 
short trousers, but in his head he is older than 
the boys that use their spare time at a crap game 
or stealing some one’s watermelons or robbing 
birds’ nests. I do not know that he ever played 
truant to go fishing, but if I knew that he had 
done so I would suspend sentence. I often did 
that and was brutally used for doing so, but I 
was brought up in that eld Puritanical common- 
wealth where they used to squeeze witchcraft out 
of existence. 
This boy has been told by his grandfather 
about the great fishing he formerly had in Rari- 
tan Bay, how people used to make their nets to 
catch every striped bass that came, along the 
shore. The boy has had the spot pointed out to 
him where the old settlers used to catch sheeps- 
head. The boy tried it last year, but he went 
home without sheepshead, and the reason why 
is not yet quite clear to him. He is going to try 
fishing for sturgeon when he gets old enough. 
His plans are all laid to have a motor boat when 
he is large enough, and perhaps lots of other 
modern improvements, but when he is old 
enough for all these things he may not have the 
chance to use them. He can remember, though, 
the pleasant boyhood days, and as he grows older 
they will be brought out more clearly. 
I can never forget the early years of my New 
England life and cannot but compare a dirty salt 
water beach to the beautiful clear trout streams, 
mountain meadows and sweet smelling forests 
that I used to know. This is a matter of indi- 
vidual association and taste. Let the natural 
fisherman enjoy looking over the past wherever 
it happened. **%K 
PrINcE's Bay, April 1S. 
