1 Oct. 12, 1907.] 

FOREST AND STREAM. 


lhat’s the way they’re goin’. They’re not headin’ 
iomeward, but are huntin’ a Blackfoot or maybe 
Gros Ventre camp to steal hosses, and they 
Icared that band of buffalo. 
“T went back to the river and collected my 
raps. I had the four I had raised that morn- 
ng in the boat. I had set five more on this 
‘north) side of the river: One of ’em had a 
eaver in it. I just cut off its tail, roasted an’ 
‘te it an’ threw the carcass, hide an’ all into 
he stream; ’twas a shame, but I had no time 
lo skin it, an’ six or seven dollars more went to 
lvash on account of the damn Crees. Well, 
avin’ now collected all my traps I pushed out 
n’ went down the river as fast as I could row, 
n’ that was some fast, as the current itself was 
lidin’ along at about six miles an hour. South 
f the river, from where I had seen the buffalo 
ltreamin’ out on to the plain, I had marked a 
sandstone bluff, formin’ the rim of the 
alley. When I got opposite it I went ashore 
nd sneaked up on to it, followin’ a coulée an’ 
hen turnin’ an’ crawlin’ out until I could look 
\ff it an’ see the valley for miles an’ miles down 
itream. Six or seven miles away another band 
Wf buffalo was breakin’ up out of the valley. 
hat was enough for me. I hurried back to the 
|kiff an’ did some hard rowin’ for a while. All 
he afternoon I followed the Injuns; in the latter 
jart of it goin’ pretty slow and landin’ often to 
-ee what was goin’ on ahead. The game always 
/ept me posted. The whole country was covered 
\vith buffalo and antelope, and there were hun- 
\ireds and hundreds of whitetail deer in the tim- 
jer borderin’ the river. I knew where the red 
\levils were all the time, just by watchin’ the 
|nimals runnin’ out of their way. Along toward 
junset I was never more ’n a mile or so be- 
Jind ’em, and just driftin’ along. ‘’Twon’t be 
jong,’ thinks I, ‘before they'll camp;’ how they 
Iver stood it this long without stoppin’ to make 
jome tea an’ cook some of my good bacon is 
aore ’n I can understand. Crees, you know, 
re great tea guzzlers. 
“<‘They’re sure to camp close to the water,’ I 
jays, ‘an’ in as thick a patch of willows and tim- 
er as they can find handy, so as to hide the 
ght of their fire. I’ve got to go mighty care- 
ul now.’ 
“The sun went down an’ I ran the skiff on to 
sandbar, waitin’ there until it was dark. Then 
pushed off again and floated on close to the 
outh shore as possible. I must have gone two, 
iaybe three miles when, turning a bend, I saw 
ie dim glow of a fire reddening the branches of 
tome cottonwoods a little ways ahead. I couldn’t 
se the fire at all, the underbrush was so thick, 
illows and big rose bushes. I paddled over to 
ae north shore as fast as I could, takin’ good 
lure to make no noise, and shoved the skiff into 
soft mud bank. Then, takin’ off my shoes, an’ 
ickin’ up my rifle, I began to slip up toward 
hat fire glow. It was easy goin’, for buffalo an’ 
ither game had made wide trails through the 
rush, an’ tramped the sticks lyin’ in ’em almost 
') powder. I didn’t make any more noise than 
cat. 
“Of course I was some excited, an’ as I got 
earer an’ nearer the fire my heart beat some 
ist I noticed. ‘Here, you old fool,’ I says, 
iain’t you never shot an Injun before, an’ are 
ou goin’ to git excited now, when your grub, 
Y your beddin’, an’ your fur, an’ your life de- 
end on keepin’ cool an’ doin’ good shootin’? 
Vhy, damn you,’ I says, stoppin’ short an’ gittin’ 
ugh, 
’ 
mad at myself, ‘anybody ’d take you for a ten- 
derfoot. Brace up, now.’ 
“T started again after a little while, all calm 
an’ easy-like. Pretty soon I heard ’em talkin’; 
one of ’em laughed. ‘You're probably laughin’ 
at me,’ I says, ‘an’ the easy way you got off 
with my outfit,’ I says. ‘Well, wait a minute 
an’ maybe I’ll do the laughin’. 
“T got down on my hands an’ knees and crept 
on, slow an’ careful, feelin’ every foot of the 
way to make sure I wouldn’t snap any dead 
branches. Once in a while I’d raise up an’ peek 
through the bushes. At last I could see the fire, 
an’ one of them sittin’ before it, back to it. I 
crawled a ways farther and again rose up a bit, 
then stood up. All was plain now. Two of 
"em were lyin’ down on their bellies, heads prop- 
ped up on their hands, smokin’, an’ one was 
sittin’ where I first saw him between me an’ the 
fire. There was only three of ’em then. I 

SCHULTZ, 
J. W. 
stood an’ waited quite a while, thinkin’ that the 
fourth one might be off in the brush somewhere, 
and would soon come in for his share of the 
tea that was bein’ made—my tea in my kettle. 
Then all to once I noticed my beaver skins. 
They were made up into three packs. Of course, 
then, there were only three Indians. I raised 
my Henry, took a good aim at the feller sittin’ 
before the fire, an’ let go. I didn’t look to see 
if I hit him, but throwed in another cartridge 
an’ plugged another one who had got on his 
feet. The last one, with a big screech, was up 
an’ runnin’ by this time, but just as another 
jump would have taken him out of sight in the 
dark I let go again an’ over he toppled an’ lay 
groanin’ plenty. I’d hit him too low down. The 
other two were dead when I got over to the 
fire. I walked over to the crippled one an’ gave 
him another shot in the right place. Then, 
while my mad was still up, I out with my knife 
an’ scalped all three of em’, went to the river 
an’ washed my hands and knife, an’ started back 
after my boat. 
“When I came to size things up after beachin’ 
the skiff near the fire, I found I wasn’t so bad 
off after all. There was my tea, an’ sugar, an’ 
bacon, cartridges, tobacco, beddin’, includin’ my 
canvas bed sheet which would do for shelter in 
case of rain. Also, there were my beaver skins 
an’ two kettles. I loaded ’em all into the boat 
including the scalps. Then I had a look at the 
_ miserable. 
Injuns’ stuff. Two of their guns were Hud- 
son’s Bay Co. fukes, one a smoothbore cap lock. 
I tossed them along with the ammunition into 
the river. One had a big, heavy north knife 
in his belt. I took that, seein’ my axe was 
burned an’ then I got into the skiff, pulled down 
stream a ways an’ to the other side, an’ had a 
good sleep. 
“So I made the trip all right after all, an’ did 
ketchin’ in all fo’teen hundred dollars’ 
worth of fur. Just one thing bothered me. I 
had no salt to eat on the meat I killed, an’, of 
I sure did 
well, 
course, meat was all I had to eat. 
hanker for salt.” 
There can be no doubt but what this hap- 
pened just as Weaver related it, for when he 
returned to Fort Benton—taking a steamboat up 
from the mouth of the Marias—he gave the 
three scalps to Keno Bill. The latter hung them 
up behind his bar with a suitable legend at- 
tached to them, and there they remained for 
several years and were incidentally a source of 
profit to the owner, for tenderfeet would go 
in to see and handle them, and, of course, buy 
a few drinks and cigars. 
Another of Weaver’s adventures, which I have 
very vividly in mind, was his experience with 
grizzlies down in the Bears Paw Moun- 
It was in the fall of 1875 that he went 
with Ed. Tingle and Old Sorrel Horse— 
Abbot—on a wolfing expedition. Wolf 
were then worth five dollars each, and 
there was big money in poisoning them. A 
buffalo was killed here and there, and three 
bottles of strychnine stirred into the blood and 
smeared into the meat. So plentiful were the 
wolves in those days that it was not uncommon 
to find thirty or forty of them of a morning 
lying dead around a single bait. 
The outfit camped about a mile from the foot 
of the mountains, in a grove of cottonwoods 
where there was a spring, and began putting out 
baits. One day, late in October, there came a 
snowstorm, and the next morning there was 
something like eight inches of it on the ground, 
dry and fluffy. After breakfast Weaver said 
that he had concluded to go up in the moun- 
tains and kill an elk or two. “I’m kind o’ tired 
of buffalo meat,” he told them, “an’ am just 
for some fat cow elk ribs, roasted 
some 
tains. 
there 
Sol. 
skins 
hankerin’ 
brown.” 
His partners told him that he was foolish to 
go out. “You'll get your feet wet,’ they told 
him. 
To a hunter and trapper of the forests that 
was a matter of no consideration; but the men 
of the high, dry plains hated nothing more than 
getting wet feet. Water oozing in and out of 
their moccasins at every step made them absolutely 
But Weaver had made up his mind. 
He was elk rib hungry, and he was going to 
have some that very day. He picked up his 
Henry and left camp. 
Up on the side of the mountains the snow 
was deeper, the boughs of pine and fix were 
loaded with great masses of it, so that the lower 
ones were bent to the ground. Tracks there 
were of deer, but more of elk. Up and ur 
Weaver toiled through the snow and presently 
came to the edge of a very dense thicket of 
second growth pine which he started to skirt 
on the upper side. I will tell the rest of the 
story in his own words as nearly as I can re- 
member them: 
“T was pokin’ along,” 
he would say, “lookin 

