Title: Trails Plowed Under (1927)
Author: Charles M Russell (1864–1926)
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eBook No.: 0700941.txt
Language:  English
Date first posted: July 2007
Date most recently updated: July 2007

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Title: Trails Plowed Under (1927)
Author: Charles M Russell (1864–1926)




[WITH ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOR AND LINE BY THE AUTHOR]



CONTENTS
========


INTRODUCTION

AUTHOR'S NOTE


OLD WEST
--------

THE STORY OF THE COWPUNCHER
A GIFT HORSE
A SAVAGE SANTA CLAUS
DUNC MCDONALD
THE TRAIL OF THE REEL FOOT
BULLARD'S WOLVES
INJUNS
WHISKEY
WHEN PETE SETS A SPEED MARK
BILL'S SHELBY HOTEL
DAD LANE'S BUFFALO YARN
BAB'S SKEES


MANY TRAILS
-----------

NIGHT HERD
CURLEY'S FRIEND
WHEN MIX WENT TO SCHOOL
MORMON MURPHY'S CONFIDENCE
LEPLEY'S BEAR
HOW LOUSE CREEK WAS NAMED
JOHNNY REFORMS LANDUSKY
SAFETY FIRST BUT WHERE IS IT?
A PAIR OF OUTLAWS
THE GHOST HORSE


MAVERICKS AND STRAYS
--------------------

RANGE HORSES
THE HORSE
TOMMY SIMPSON'S COW
HANDS UP!
MORMON ZACK, FIGHTER
FINGER-THAT-KILLS WINS HIS SQUAW
DOG EATER
HOW LINDSAY TURNED INDIAN
BROKE BUFFALO
A RIDE IN A MOVING CEMETERY.
A REFORMED COWPUNCHER AT MILES CITY


WIDE RANGES
-----------

RANCHES
FASHIONS
THE OPEN RANGE
BRONC TWISTERS
THERE'S MORE THAN ONE DAVID
THE WAR SCARS OF MEDICINE-WHIP
HOW PAT DISCOVERED THE GEYSER
SOME LIARS OF THE OLD WEST
HIGHWOOD HANK QUITS
LONGROPE'S LAST GUARD




INTRODUCTION
by Will Rogers


The Old World.
1926.

Hello Charley old hand, How are you?

I just thought I would drop you a line and tell you how
things are a working on the old range since you left. Old Timer
you don't know how we miss you, Gee but its been lonesome since
you left, even to us away down here in California, where we
dident get to see near as much of you as we wanted to anyhow. But
think what all them old Montana Waddies are thinking. Why some of
these old Birds would miss their wives less than they do you.

Nancy come down to California this fall as usual her and
Jack, I dident want to tell her so and she tried to let on they
wasent but I tell you they was a pretty sad looking outfit. They
sho was a lonesome layout. Nancy and I talked over the usual old
routine about "it all being for the best, and that you had a
better job, and would do maby better work there than you did
here," Yes we both said that we kinder agreed in our talk with
each other, and we joshed it off and sorter smiled a little, but
I want to tell you that it was a mighty sickly little grin, and
between you and me, in our own hearts we knew we were both trying
to load each other, We knew in each others own hearts that we
couldent see why you had to go and switch outfits, just when you
had got to be Boss of this one.

You know I hadent seen you in about a year, and she told me
the most part of that Time, that you were working on a Book of
yours even more than on your Paintings, She said you had the
thing all just finished up. She said she wanted me to write a
sort of an introduction to the book, Said you wanted me to before
you left. My Lord Charley you know I cant write any Introduction,
thats for writers to do, Why a book like you got Charley that you
put all your best Stories in, and spent all that time drawing, I
bet a hundred wonderful pictures are with it, Why you ought to
have somebody turn an introduction out of the "schute" that would
really turn on some high grade words, and doctor them up with
some pretty salty ideas. It ought to be sorter classy, I couldent
try to make it funny in the introduction, for you know yourself
Charley what chance I got being in the same book with my little
maverick brand along side of your outfit of humor. Why you never
heard me open my mouth when you was around, and you never knew
any of our friends that would let me open it as long as there was
a chance to get you to tell another one. I always did say that
you could tell a story better than any man that ever lived. If I
could a got you to quit that crazy painting idea, and took up
something worth while like joke telling, Why I would a set you
out there on the stage at the tail end of an old chuck wagon,
hunched up on an old roll of "Sougans" and a "prop" campfire
burning in your face, Say you would have been the biggest thing
that ever fit in while the "Glorified Beauties" was changing
their color of powder. But you would dab around with them old
brushes, and squeeze a handful of mud into the shape of some
old "limber neck" bronk, You looked to me at times like you
would ruther be a good dirt dobber, or a sort of an old painter
than just about anything.

Now I am going to try to talk Nancy out of that introduction
Gag to that book, Every one of your old friends are too anxious
to get into the book, to be messing around with any introduction
anyway, I don't know why it is but everyone of them feel that this
book will be more like you than anything you have done. We can
just set there by the hour and imagine you telling that very
yarn, and then we can look at the drawing and you will show us in
it the things that we might never get if it wasent for you
pointing it out to us, I bet we get many a laugh out of all those
comical drawings. I want to see old Ed Borein when he starts a
pointing out all the little cute things in the pictures that he
thinks we don't get. Some of them stories of yours is going to be
mighty sad when somebody else tries to tell em like you did. They
say your range is up on a high Mountain and you can look down on
all these little outfits like ours, You will get many a quiet
laugh hearing modern "grangers" trying to unload one of your old
favorites.

There aint much news here to tell you, You know the big Boss
gent sent a hand over and got you so quick Charley, But I guess
He needed a good man pretty bad, I hear they been a working
shorthanded over there pretty much all the time, I guess its hard
for Him to get hold of good men, they are just getting scarce
everywhere. But you was gone one morning before the old cook
could roll out, and when you beat him up you are stepping, But
after we had realized that you had rolled your Bed and gone, it
sure would a done your old hide good to a seen what they all
thought of you, You know how it is yourself with a fellow leaving
an outfit and going over to another, in talking it over after he
has gone there is generally a BUT to it somewhere, Some old
"Peeler" will unload some dirt about him, But there sure wasent
any after you crossed the skyline, Why it would a been almost
worth your going to a new Outfit just to have heard all the fine
things said about you. Why even a lot of them old Reprobates
(that perhaps owed you money) they said "we may have Painters in
time to come, that will be just as good as old Charley, We may
have Cowboys just as good, and we may occasionally round up a
pretty good man, But us, and the manicured tribe that is
following us, will never have the Real Cowboy, Painter and Man,
combined that old Charley was, For we aint got no more real
cowboys, and we aint got no real Cows to paint, and we just don't
raise no more of his kind of men, and if by a Miracle we did get
all that combination why it just wouldent be Charley."

Why you old Rascal you would a thought you was somebody. Why the
Governor and the State Legislature of that big old commonwealth of
Montana, said you was the biggest thing ever produced in the State, That
your work would live and be known when maby Montana was the central part
of Japan. Why we got ahold of Editorials by big Writers and Art Guys
from all over the east, that said that you was the Michael Angelo of the
west, (Thats some Dago over there that was as big in his day as
Mussolini is now), You never was much for swelling up, but I tell you
your old hat band would be busted if you had heard what was said about
you.

Ah! but it was wonderful Charley, and it did please your old
friends that the world recognized you. But somehow that dident
seem to repay us, It wasent what you had done, it wasent because
you paint a horse and a cow and a cowboy better than any man that
ever lived, I don't know, it was just you Charley, We want you
here if you couldent whitewash a fence, We are just sorter
selfish I guess, Why when you left there was actually old
"Rounders" cried, that you would a bet your last sack of tobacco
that dident have any more sentiment than a wet saddle blanket.
Why even your old horse followed you off with your saddle on, if
you had looked back you would a seen him.

But we all know you are getting along fine, You will get
along fine anywhere, I bet you hadent been up there three days
till you had out your old Pencial and was a drawing something
funny about some of their old punchers. That makes us want to see
you more than ever for we know that you will have some new ones
for us about some of them Sky Line Riders up there. I bet you
Mark Twain and Old Bill Nye, and Whitcomb Riley and a whole bunch
of those old Joshers was just a waiting for you to pop in with
all the latest ones, What kind of a Bird is Washington and
Jefferson I bet they are regula fellows when you meet em aint
they? Most big men are. I would like to see the bunch that is
gathered around you the first time you tell the one about putting
the Limburger Cheese in the old Nestors Whiskers, Don't tell that
Charley till you get Lincoln around you, he would love that, I
bet you and him kinder throw in together when you get well
acquainted, Darn it when I get to thinking about all them Top
Hands up there, If I could just hold a Horse wrangling job with
em, I wouldent mind following that wagon myself.

Write me about Bret Harte, and O Henry, I bet there is a
couple of Guys standing guard together, auger awhile with them,
and you will get many a laugh.

With that sign language that you "savvy" why you can gab
with any of those old "hombres" up there, Tie in to that old
Napoleon some time and pick a load into him, you ought to get
something pretty good from him, if it aint nothing but about war,
and women.

At first we couldent understand why they moved you, but we
can now, They had every kind of a great man up there, but they
just dident have any great Cowboy Artist like you. Shucks! on the
luck, there was only one of you and he couldent use you both
places.

You will run onto my old Dad up there Charley, For he was a
real Cowhand and bet he is running a wagon, and you will pop into
some well kept ranch house over under some cool shady trees and
you will be asked to have dinner, and it will be the best one you
ever had in your life, Well, when you are a thanking the women
folks, You just tell the sweet looking little old lady that you
know her boy back on an outfit you used to rep for, and tell the
daughters that you knew their brother, and if you see a cute
looking little rascal running around there kiss him for me. Well
cant write you any more Charley dam papers all wet, It must be
raining in this old bunk house.

Course we are all just a hanging on here as long as we can.
I don't know why we hate to go, we know its better there, Maby its
because we havent done anything that will live after we are gone.
from your old friend,


WILL.




A FEW WORDS ABOUT MYSELF

(A personal introduction written by the author but a few months
before his death)


The papers have been kind to me many times more kind than
true. Although I worked for many years on the range, I am not
what the people think a cowboy should be. I was neither a good
roper nor rider. I was a night wrangler. How good I was, I'll
leave it for the people I worked for to say there are still a few
of them living. In the spring I wrangled horses, in the fall I
herded beef. I worked for the big outfits and always held my job.

I have many friends among cowmen and cowpunchers. I have
always been what is called a good mixer I had friends when I had
nothing else. My friends were not always within the law, but I
haven't said how law-abiding I was myself. I haven't been too bad
nor too good to get along with.

Life has never been too serious with me I lived to play and
I'm playing yet. Laughs and good judgment have saved me many a
black eye, but I don't laugh at other's tears. I was a wild young
man, but age has made me gentle. I drank, but never alone, and
when I drank it was no secret. I am still friendly with drinking
men.

My friends are mixed preachers, priests, and sinners. I
belong to no church, but am friendly toward and respect all of
them. I have always liked horses and since I was eight years old
have always owned a few.

I am old-fashioned and peculiar in my dress. I am eccentric
(that is a polite way of saying you're crazy). I believe in luck
and have had lots of it.

To have talent is no credit to its owner; what man can't
help he should get neither credit nor blame for it's not his
fault.

I am an illustrator. There are lots better ones, but some
worse.

Any man that can make a living doing what he likes is lucky,
and I'm that. Any time I cash in now, I win.

CHARLES M. RUSSELL.

Great Falls, Montana
OLD WEST


* * * * *


OLD WEST
========



THE STORY OF THE COWPUNCHER


"Speakin' of cowpunchers," says Rawhide Rawlins, "I'm glad to see
in the last few years that them that know the business have been
writin' about 'em. It begin to look like they'd be wiped out
without a history. Up to a few years ago there's mighty little
known about cows and cow people. It was sure amusin' to read some
of them old stories about cowpunchin'. You'd think a puncher
growed horns an' was haired over.

"It put me in mind of the eastern girl that asks her mother:

"'Ma,' says she, 'do cowboys eat grass?' 'No, dear,' says the
old lady, 'they're part human,' an' I don't know but the old gal
had 'em sized up right. If they are human, they're a separate
species. I'm talkin' about the old-time ones, before the
country's strung with wire an' nesters had grabbed all the water,
an' a cowpuncher's home was big. It wasn't where he took his hat
off, but where he spread his blankets. He ranged from Mexico to
the Big Bow River of the north, an' from where the trees get
scarce in the east to the old Pacific. He don't need no iron
hoss, but covers his country on one that eats grass an' wears
hair. All the tools he needed was saddle, bridle, quirt,
hackamore, an' rawhide riatta or seagrass rope; that covered his
hoss.

"The puncher himself was rigged, startin' at the top, with a
good hat not one of the floppy kind you see in pictures, with the
rim turned up in front. The top-cover he wears holds its shape
an' was made to protect his face from the weather; maybe to hold
it on, he wore a buckskin string under the chin or back of the
head. Round his neck a big silk handkerchief, tied loose, an' in
the drag of a trail herd it was drawn over the face to the eyes,
hold-up fashion, to protect the nose an' throat from dust. In old
times, a leather blab or mask was used the same. Coat, vest, an'
shirt suits his own taste. Maybe he'd wear California pants,
light buckskin in color, with large brown plaid, sometimes foxed,
or what you'd call reinforced with buck or antelope skin. Over
these came his chaparejos or leggin's. His feet were covered with
good high-heeled boots, finished off with steel spurs of Spanish
pattern. His weapon's usually a forty-five Colt's six-gun, which
is packed in a belt, swingin' a little below his right hip.
Sometimes a Winchester in a scabbard, slung to his saddle under
his stirrup-leather, either right or left side, but generally
left, stock forward, lock down, as his rope hangs at his saddle-fork
on the right.

"By all I can find out from old, gray-headed punchers, the
cow business started in California, an' the Spaniards were the
first to burn marks on their cattle an' hosses, an' use the rope.
Then men from the States drifted west to Texas, pickin' up the
brandin' iron an' lass-rope, an' the business spread north, east,
an' west, till the spotted long-horns walked in every trail
marked out by their brown cousins, the buffalo.

"Texas an' California, bein' the startin' places, made two
species of cowpunchers; those west of the Rockies rangin' north,
usin' centerfire or single-cinch saddles, with high fork an'
cantle; packed a sixty or sixty-five foot rawhide rope, an' swung
a big loop. These cow people were generally strong on pretty,
usin' plenty of hoss jewelry, silver-mounted spurs, bits, an'
conchas; instead of a quirt, used a romal, or quirt braided to
the end of the reins. Their saddles were full stamped, with from
twenty-four to twenty-eight-inch eagle-bill tapaderos. Their
chaparejos were made of fur or hair, either bear, angora goat, or
hair sealskin. These fellows were sure fancy, an' called
themselves buccaroos, coming from the Spanish word, vaquero."

"The cowpuncher east of the Rockies originated in Texas and
ranged north to the Big Bow. He wasn't so much for pretty; his
saddle was low horn, rimfire, or double-cinch; sometimes
'macheer.' Their rope was seldom over forty feet, for being a
good deal in a brush country, they were forced to swing a small
loop. These men generally tied, instead of taking their
dallie-welts, or wrapping their rope around the saddle horn. Their
chaparejos were made of heavy bullhide, to protect the leg from
brush an' thorns, with hog-snout tapaderos.

"Cowpunchers were mighty particular about their rig, an' in
all the camps you'd find a fashion leader. From a cowpuncher's
idea, these fellers was sure good to look at, an' I tell you
right now, there ain't no prettier sight for my eyes than one of
those good-lookin', long-backed cowpunchers, sittin' up on a
high-forked, full-stamped California saddle with a live hoss
between his legs.

"Of course a good many of these fancy men were more
ornamental than useful, but one of the best cow-hands I ever knew
belonged to this class. Down on the Gray Bull, he went under the
name of Mason, but most punchers called him Pretty Shadow. This
sounds like an Injun name, but it ain't. It comes from a habit
some punchers has of ridin' along, lookin' at their shadows.
Lookin' glasses are scarce in cow outfits, so the only chance for
these pretty boys to admire themselves is on bright, sunshiny
days. Mason's one of these kind that doesn't get much pleasure
out of life in cloudy weather. His hat was the best; his boots
was made to order, with extra long heels. He rode a center-fire,
full-stamped saddle, with twenty-eight-inch tapaderos; bearskin
ancaroes, or saddle pockets; his chaparejos were of the same
skin. He packed a sixty-five-foot rawhide. His spurs an' bit were
silver inlaid, the last bein' a Spanish spade. But the gaudiest
part of his regalia was his gun. It's a forty-five Colt's,
silverplated an' chased with gold. Her handle is pearl, with a
bull's head carved on.

"When the sun hits Mason with all this silver on, he blazes
up like some big piece of jewelry. You could see him for miles
when he's ridin' high country. Barrin' Mexicans, he's the
fanciest cow dog I ever see, an' don't think he don't savvy the
cow. He knows what she says to her calf. Of course there wasn't
many of his stripe. All punchers liked good rigs, but plainer;
an' as most punchers 're fond of gamblin' an' spend their spare
time at stud poker or monte, they can't tell what kind of a rig
they'll be ridin' the next day. I've seen many a good rig lost
over a blanket. It depends how lucky the cards fall what kind of
a rig a man's ridin'.

"I'm talkin' about old times, when cowmen were in their
glory. They lived different, talked different, an' had different
ways. No matter where you met him, or how he's rigged, if you'd
watch him close he'd do something that would tip his hand. I had
a little experience back in '83 that'll show what I'm gettin' at.

"I was winterin' in Cheyenne. One night a stranger stakes me
to buck the bank. I got off lucky an' cash in fifteen hundred
dollars. Of course I cut the money in two with my friend, but it
leaves me with the biggest roll I ever packed. All this wealth
makes Cheyenne look small, an' I begin longin' for bigger camps,
so I drift for Chicago. The minute I hit the burg, I shed my cow
garments an' get into white man's harness. A hard hat, boiled
shirt, laced shoes all the gearin' known to civilized man. When I
put on all this rig, I sure look human; that is, I think so. But
them shorthorns know me, an' by the way they trim that roll, it
looks like somebody's pinned a card on my back with the word
'EASY' in big letters. I ain't been there a week till my roll
don't need no string around it, an' I start thinkin' about home.
One evenin' I throw in with the friendliest feller I ever met. It
was at the bar of the hotel where I'm camped. I don't just
remember how we got acquainted, but after about fifteen drinks we
start holdin' hands an' seein' who could buy the most and
fastest. I remember him tellin' the barslave not to take my
money, 'cause I'm his friend. Afterwards, I find out the reason
for this goodheartedness; he wants it all an' hates to see me
waste it. Finally, he starts to show me the town an' says it
won't cost me a cent. Maybe he did, but I was unconscious, an'
wasn't in shape to remember. Next day, when I come to, my hair's
sore an' I didn't know the days of the week, month, or what year
it was.

"The first thing I do when I open my eyes is to look at the
winders. There's no bars on 'em, an' I feel easier. I'm in a
small room with two bunks. The one opposite me holds a feller
that's smokin' a cigarette an' sizin' me up between whiffs while
I'm dress-in'. I go through myself but I'm too late. Somebody
beat me to it. I'm lacin' my shoes an' thinkin' hard, when the
stranger speaks:

"Neighbor, you're a long way from your range.'

"You call the turn,' says I, 'but how did you read my iron?'

"I didn't see a burn on you,' says he, 'an' from looks,
you'll go as a slick-ear. It's your ways, while I'm layin' here,
watchin' you get into your garments. Now, humans dress up an'
punchers dress down. When you raised, the first thing you put on
is your hat. Another thing that shows you up is you don't shed
your shirt when you bed down. So next comes your vest an' coat,
keepin' your hindquarters covered till you slide into your pants,
an' now you're lacin' your shoes. I notice you done all of it
without quittin' the blankets, like the ground's cold. I don't
know what state or territory you hail from, but you've smelt
sagebrush an' drank alkali. I heap savvy you. You've slept a
whole lot with nothin' but sky over your head, an' there's times
when that old roof leaks, but judgin' from appearances, you
wouldn't mind a little open air right now.'

"This feller's my kind, an' he stakes me with enough to get
back to the cow country."



A GIFT HORSE


Charley Furiman tells me about a hoss he owns and if you're able
to stay on him he'll take you to the end of the trail. The gent
Charley got him from, says he, "Gentle? He's a pet." (This man
hates to part with him.) "He's a lady's hoss. You can catch him
anywhere with a biscuit."

Next day Charley finds out he's a lady's hoss, all right,
but he don't like men. Furiman ain't a mile from his corral when
he slips the pack. Charley crawls him again kinder careful and
rides him sixty miles an' he don't turn a hair. Next day he
saddles him he acts like he's harmless but he's looking for
something. He's out about ten mile. Charley notices he travels
with one ear down. This ain't a good sign, but Charley gets
careless and about noon he comes to a dry creek bed where there's
lots of boulders. That's what this cayuse is looking for 'cause
right in the middle of the boulder-strewn flat is where he breaks
in two and unloads. Charley tells me, "I don't miss none of them
boulders an' where I light there's nothing gives but different
parts of me. For a while I wonder where I'm at and when things do
clear up it comes to me right quick. I forgot to bring the
biscuits. How am I going to catch him? If I had a Winchester, I'd
catch him just over the eye.

"To make a long story short, I followed him back to the
ranch afoot. Walking ain't my strong holt an' these boulder bumps
don't help me none. Next morning after a good night's sleep, I
feel better. Going out to the corral, I offer this cayuse a
biscuit, thinkin' I'll start off friendly. He strikes at me and
knocks my hat off. My pardner tries to square it by telling me I
ain't got the right kind. 'That's a lady's hoss,' says he, 'and
being a pet, he wants them little lady's biscuits; it's enough to
make him sore, handing him them sour doughs.'

"While I'm getting my hat, I happen to think of a friend of
mine that's got married and I ain't give him no wedding present.
This friend of mine is a bronk rider named Con Price. So while my
heart's good, I saddle a gentle hoss and lead this man-hater over
and presents him to Price with my best wishes.

"I don't meet Con till next fall on the beef roundup. He
ain't too friendly. Next morning when we're roping hosses, he
steps up to me and says, kinder low, holdin' out his hand to
shake, 'Charley, I'm letting bygones be bygones, but if I get
married again anywhere in your neighborhood, don't give me no
wedding presents. If you do you'll get lots of flowers."



A SAVAGE SANTA CLAUS


"Talkin' about Christmas," said Bedrock, as we smoked in his cabin
after supper, an' the wind howled as it sometimes can on a
blizzardy December night, "puts me in mind of one I spent in the
'60s. Me an' a feller named Jake Mason, but better knowed as
Beaver, is trappin' an' prospectin' on the head of the Porcupine.
We've struck some placer, but she's too cold to work her. The
snow's drove all the game out of the country, an' barrin' a few
beans and some flour, we're plum out of grub, so we decide we'd
better pull our freight before we're snowed in.

"The winter's been pretty open till then, but the day we
start there's a storm breaks loose that skins everything I ever
seed. It looks like the snow-maker's been holdin' back, an'
turned the whole winter supply loose at once. Cold? Well, it
would make a polar bear hunt cover.

"About noon it lets up enough so we can see our pack-hosses.
We're joggin' along at a good gait, when old Baldy, our lead
packhoss, stops an' swings 'round in the trail, bringin' the
other three to a stand. His whinner causes me to raise my head,
an' lookin' under my hat brim, I'm plenty surprised to see an old
log shack not ten feet to the side of the trail."

"'I guess we'd better take that cayuse's advice,' says
Beaver, pintin' to Baldy, who's got his ears straightened,
lookin' at us as much as to say: 'What, am I packin' fer
Pilgrims; or don't you know enough to get in out of the weather?
It looks like you'd loosen these packs.' So, takin' Baldy's
hunch, we unsaddle.

"This cabin's mighty ancient. It's been two rooms, but the
ridge-pole on the rear one's rotted an' let the roof down. The
door's wide open an' hangs on a wooden hinge. The animal smell I
get on the inside tells me there ain't no humans lived there for
many's the winter. The floor's strewn with pine cones an' a few
scattered bones, showin' it's been the home of mountain-rats an'
squirrels. Takin' it all 'n all, it ain't no palace, but, in this
storm, it looks mighty snug, an' when we get a blaze started in
the fireplace an' the beans goin' it's comfortable.

"The door to the back's open, an' by the light of the fire I
can see the roof hangin' down V-shaped, leavin' quite a little
space agin the wall. Once I had a notion of walkin' in an'
prospectin' the place, but there's somethin' ghostly about it an'
I change my mind.

"When we're rollin' in that night, Beaver asks me what day
of the month it is.

"'If I'm right on my dates,' says I, 'this is the evenin'
the kids hang up their socks.'

"The hell it is,' says he. 'Well, here's one camp Santy'll
probably overlook. We ain't got no socks nor no place to hang
'em, an' I don't think the old boy'd savvy our foot-rags.' That's
the last I remember till I'm waked up along in the night by
somethin' monkeyin' with the kettle.

"If it wasn't fer a snufflin' noise I could hear, I'd a-tuk
it fer a trade-rat, but with this noise it's no guess with me,
an' I call the turn all right, 'cause when I take a peek, there,
humped between me an' the fire, is the most robust silvertip I
ever see. In size, he resembles a load of hay. The fire's down
low, but there's enough light to give me his outline. He's humped
over, busy with the beans, snifflin' an' whinin' pleasant, like
he enjoys 'em. I nudged Beaver easy, an' whispers: 'Santy Claus
is here.'

"He don't need but one look. 'Yes,' says he, reachin' for
his Henry, 'but he ain't brought nothin' but trouble, an' more'n
a sock full of that. You couldn't crowd it into a wagon-box.'

"This whisperin' disturbs Mr. Bear, an' he straightens up
till he near touches the ridge-pole. He looks eight feet tall. Am
I scared? Well, I'd tell a man. By the feelin' runnin' up and
down my back, if I had bristles I'd resemble a wild hog. The cold
sweat's drippin' off my nose, an' I ain't got nothin' on me but
sluice-ice.

"The bark of Beaver's Henry brings me out of this scare. The
bear goes over, upsettin' a kettle of water, puttin' the fire
out. If it wasn't for a stream of fire runnin' from Beaver's
weapon, we'd be in plumb darkness. The bear's up agin, bellerin'
an' bawlin', and comin' at us mighty warlike, and by the time I
get my Sharps workin', I'm near choked with smoke. It's the
noisiest muss I was ever mixed up in. Between the smoke, the
barkin' of the guns an' the bellerin' of the bear, it's like hell
on a holiday."

"I'm gropin' for another ca'tridge when I hear the lock on
Beaver's gun click, an' I know his magazine's dry. Lowerin' my
hot gun, I listen. Everythin's quiet now. In the sudden stillness
I can hear the drippin' of blood. It's the bear's life runnin'
out.

"'I guess it's all over,' says Beaver, kind of shaky. 'It
was a short fight, but a fast one, an' hell was poppin' while she
lasted.'

"When we get the fire lit, we take a look at the battle
ground. There lays Mr. Bear in a ring of blood, with a hide so
full of holes he wouldn't hold hay. I don't think there's a
bullet went 'round him.

"This excitement wakens us so we don't sleep no more that
night. We breakfast on bear meat. He's an old bear an' it's
pretty stout, but a feller livin' on beans and bannocks straight
for a couple of weeks don't kick much on flavor, an' we're at
a stage where meat's meat.

"When it comes day, me an' Beaver goes lookin' over the
bear's bedroom. You know, daylight drives away ha'nts, an' this
room don't look near so ghostly as it did last night. After
winnin' this fight, we're both mighty brave. The roof caved in
with four or five feet of snow on, makes the rear room still
dark, so, lightin' a pitch-pine glow, we start explorin'.

"The first thing we bump into is the bear's bunk. There's a rusty pick
layin' up against the wall, an' a gold-pan on the floor, showin' us that
the human that lived there was a miner. On the other side of the shack
we ran onto a pole bunk, with a weather-wrinkled buffalo robe an' some
rotten blankets. The way the roof slants, we can't see into the bed, but
by usin' an axe an' choppin' the legs off, we lower it to view. When
Beaver raises the light, there's the frame-work of a man. He's layin' on
his left side, like he's sleepin', an' looks like he cashed in easy.
Across the bunk, under his head, is an old-fashioned cap-'n-ball rifle.
On the bedpost hangs a powder horn an' pouch, with a belt an' skinnin'
knife. These things tell us that this man's a pretty old-timer.

"Findin' the pick an' gold-pan causes us to look more
careful for what he'd been diggin'. We explore the bunk from top
to bottom, but nary a find. All day long we prospects. That
evenin', when we're fillin' up on bear meat, beans and bannocks,
Beaver says he's goin' to go through the bear's bunk; so, after
we smoke, relightin' our torches, we start our search again.

"Sizin' up the bear's nest, we see he'd laid there quite a
while. It looks like Mr. Silvertip, when the weather gets cold,
starts huntin' a winter location for his long snooze. Runnin'
onto this cabin, vacant, and lookin' like it's for rent, he jumps
the claim an' would have been snoozin' there yet, but our fire
warmin' up the place fools him. He thinks it's spring an' steps
out to look at the weather. On the way he strikes this breakfast
of beans, an' they hold him till we object.

"We're lookin' over this nest when somethin' catches my eye
on the edge of the waller. It's a hole, roofed over with willers.

"'Well, I'll be damned. There's his cache,' says Beaver,
whose eyes has follered mine. It don't take a minute to kick
these willers loose, an' there lays a buckskin sack with five
hundred dollars in dust in it.

"Old Santy Claus, out there,' says Beaver, pointin' to the
bear through the door, 'didn't load our socks, but he brought
plenty of meat an' showed us the cache, for we'd never a-found it
if he hadn't raised the lid.'

"The day after Christmas we buried the bones, wrapped in one
of our blankets, where we'd found the cache. It was the best we
could do.

"I guess the dust's ours,' says Beaver. 'There's no papers
to show who's his kin-folks.' So we splits the pile an' leaves
him sleepin' in the tomb he built for himself."



DUNC McDONALD


"Dunc McDonald, the breed, tells about a buffalo hunt he has when
he's a kid," says Rawhide Rawlins. "Like all things that happen
that's worth while, it's a long time ago. He's traveling with his
people, the Blackfeet they're making for the buffalo country.
They're across the range they ain't seen much maybe an old bull
once in a while that ain't worth shootin' at, so they don't
disturb nothin'. They're lookin' for cow meat and lots of it.

"Dunc's traveling ahead of the women with the men. As I
said, it's a long time ago when Injuns ain't got many
guns they're mostly armed with bows and arrows. There's one old
man packing a rifle. It's a Hudson Bay flintlock but a good gun,
them days. Duncan is young and has good eyes that go with youth.
He sees a few buffalo in some broken hills, and tells this old
man if he'll lend him his gun, he'll get meat. The old man don't
say nothin', but taking the gun from its skin cover, hands it to
Dunc. Dunc wants bullets and the powder horn but the old man
signs that the gun is loaded, and one ball is enough for any good
hunter. The wolf hunts with what teeth he's got.

"Dunc knows he won't get no more so he rides off. There
ain't much wind, but Dunc's gettin' what there is, and keepin'
behind some rock croppin's he gets pretty close. There are five
cows, all laying down. Pretty soon he quits his pony and crawls
to within twenty-five yards and pulls down a fat cow. When his
gun roars, they all jump and run but the cow he shoots don't make
three jumps till she's down.

"When Dunc walks up she's laying on her belly with her feet
under her. She's small but fat. When Dunc puts his foot agin her
to push her over, she gets up and is red-eyed. She sure shows
war. The only hold Dunc can see is her tail and he ain't slow
takin' it. The tail-hold on a buffalo is mighty short, but he's
clamped on. She's tryin' to turn but he's keepin' her steered
right and he's doing fine till she starts kickin'. The first one
don't miss his ear the width of a hair. If you never saw a
buffalo kick it's hard to tell you what they can do, but Dunc
ain't slow slippin' his hold.

"There's nothin' left but to run for it. This rock croppin'
ain't over two feet high, but it's all there is. These rocks are
covered with ground cedar and Dunc dives into this. He gophers
down in this cedar till a hawk couldn't find him. He lays there a
long time, his heart poundin' his ribs like it will break
through. When the scare works out of him he raises, and there
agin the rock rim lays the cow it's a lung shot and she's bled to
death.

"There's only one hold,' says Dunc, 'shorter than a tail-hold
on a buffalo that of a bear.'"



THE TRAIL OF THE REEL FOOT


"Gettin' mighty weary of holin' up in this line camp," said Long
Wilson, scratching the frost from the window and gazing
discontentedly out at the storm. "If the snow ever lets up, it'll
be fine trackin' weather, an' chances 'll be good for a blacktail
over on Painted Ridge."

"Tracks 'd do you a whole lot of good, old scout," said
Bowlegs, sitting up cross-legged in the bunk and rolling a
cigarette. "You couldn't track a bed-wagon through a boghole. I
ain't forgot last winter, when you're lost on Dog Creek. You're
ridin' in a circle, follerin' your own trail, an' you'd a-been
there yet if the Cross H boys hadn't found you. You're a tracker,
I don't think."

"Speakin' of trackin'," broke in Dad Lane, the wolfer,
"reminds me of a cripple I knowed who goes by the name of Reel
Foot. He's one of nature's mistakes, a born deformity. It looks
like when Old Lady Nature built him, she starts from the top an'
does good work till she gets to his middle, an' then throws off
the job to somebody that's workin' for fun.

"This cripple was before your time, but he's well known on
the lower Yellerstone in the early '70s. The first winter I ever
see Reel Foot I'm sittin' in a poker game with him. Now, lookin'
at him across the table, he'll average up with any man for shape
an' looks, but at this time I ain't acquainted with him from his
waist down.

"For two weeks I've been eatin' plenty booze, an' I'm at
that stage where I see things that ain't there. Old Four-Ace Jack
that's handin' us the beverage, looks like twins; my sight's
doublin' up on me. The game's goin' along smooth enough till I
reach for a pot on a pair of aces, an' Reel Foot claims I only
got one. There's quite a little argument, an' while he's
convincin' me I spill some chips. When I'm gropin' 'round for 'em
under the table, I run onto them hoofs, warped an' twisted. As I
said before, I ain't acquainted with his hind quarters, an' it
rattles me till I see feet enough for four men, an' there's only
two of us playin'. This ends the game with me, so cashin' in, I
tell Four-Ace to pour my drink back in the bottle. I'm that shaky
I couldn't empty it into a barrel with the head out, an' don't
swallow no more booze that trip.

"The scare wears off when I get acquainted with Reel Foot,
but I never do look at him without wonderin' which way he's goin'
to start off. His right foot's straight ahead, natural; the left,
p'intin' back on his trail. It's an old sayin', 'a fool for
luck,' an' in this case, I guess it goes with cripples, for it's
these twisted hin' legs of his'n that saves his hide an' hair for
him once.

"It happens when he first hits the country from Nebrasky.
He's camped on the Porcupine, an' as trappin's good an' he's
figurin' on staying awhile, he's throwed up a lean-to of brush.
He's one of these kind that don't get lonesome, an' 'lows if you
don't mix with no worse company than animals you're all right.
Livin' so long with cayuses, he savvies 'em an' they understand
him. They even seem to know what he's talkin' to 'em about.

"One mornin' Reel Foot leaves camp to visit his traps. He's
on his pony, but about a mile down the creek, the brush bein'
thick, he quits the cayuse an' goes afoot. After visitin' his
traps Reel Foot circles 'round an' doubles back on his old trail
a couple of hundred yards below where his hoss is tied. When he
reaches his cayuse he climbs on an' rides into camp.

"Now, there's a bunch of Ogallaly Sioux in this country, led
by Blood Lance. They're runnin' buffalo, an' one day they find
where some whites has made a killin' an' tuk nothin' but the
tongues. This waste of meat makes their hearts bad, an' it
wouldn't be healthy for no whites they run across. Their feelin's
are stirred up this way when they strike Reel Foot's tracks,
which causes them to pull up their ponies, an' every Injun skins
his gun. There's snow on the ground, so the readin's plain. He's
wearin' moccasins, but that don't fool 'em none; they see where
he's shuk out his pipe while he's walkin'. This tells 'em he's a
white man, 'cause Injuns don't smoke while they're travelin'.
Whenever a redskin lights his pipe, you can bet he's down on his
hunkers, takin' comfort.

"My brothers,' says one wise old buck who's been sittin'
wrapped in his blanket, sayin' nothin', 'are the Ogallalys like
the bat that cannot see in the light of the sun? Shall we sit an'
talk like women while these men with hair on their faces, who
leave our meat to rot on the prairie, walk from under our knives
an' laugh at us? I am old an' do not boast of the eye of the
hawk, but it's as plain as the travois tracks in the snow; there
are two men.'

"After studyin' the tracks awhile they decide the old man's
right. There are two one-legged men travelin' in opposite
directions. From the length of the strides showed by the tracks,
they figger these men are long in the leg, an' must be very tall.
They talk it over an' decide to split the party an' take both
trails."

"Of course, they go lookin' for the track of a crutch or
wooden leg, but finally the only way they can figger it out is
that these two men's travelin' by hoppin', an' the tricks these
cripples does has them savages guessin'. There's one place where
Reel Foot's jumped off a cutbank; it's anyway ten feet straight
down. Now for the cripple that jumps down, it is easy, but what's
worryin' these Injuns is how the other one-legged man stands
flat-footed an' bounds up the bank, lightin' easy, with no sign
of scramblin'.

"When the party that takes the trail towards camp gets to
where Reel Foot doubles back, they're plenty puzzled. Injun-like,
these fellers are superstitious, an' when the tracks run
together, they're gettin' scary.

"It looks like the tracks of two two-legged men walkin' in
opposite directions,' says a young buck named Weasel. 'Or else
the one-legged men have found their lost legs.'

"But the old wise man says: 'Again the young buck has the
eyes of the bat. There are four tracks; two of the right foot an'
two of the left. These are the tracks of four one-legged men.'

"Some thinks it's the work of ghosts an' are willin' to turn
back, but their curiosity downs their fear, an' they foller the
trail mighty shaky till they run onto where Reel Foot mounts his
hoss. Here they figger that two of these one-legged men got off
the hoss, while the other two, comin' the opposite way, get on
an' ride into the willers.

"By this time these savages are so rattled that the snappin'
of a twig would turn the whole band back. They're beginnin' to
think they've struck the land of one-legged men, an' they're
follerin' the trail mighty cautious when they sight the smoke of
Reel Foot's camp.

"Now when the Reel Foot gets in from his traps, he's mighty
leg-weary after draggin' them warped feet of his'n through the
snow. So the minute he gets some grub under his belt, he freshens
the fire an' beds down with his feet stickin' out towards the
warmth. He's layin' this way asleep, when these killers come up
on him. The minute they sight his feet, every buck's hand goes to
his mouth, an' when an Injun does this, he's plenty astonished.
All the tricks in the tracks are plain to 'em now. Some of 'em
are hostile an' are for killin' him, but the old men of the party
say it is not good to kill a man whose tracks have fooled the
hawk-eyed Ogallalys. Deformities amongst these people are few an'
far between. In buildin' all wild animals Nature makes few
mistakes, Injuns 're only part human, an' when you see a cripple
among 'em, it's safe bettin' that somebody's worked him over.

"They don't even wake Reel Foot, but coverin' their guns an'
crawlin' their ponies, sneak away. When he raises from his nap he
finds pony an' moccasin tracks, but never knows how close he
comes to crossin' the range till about two years later, me an'
him's in a Ogallaly camp doin' some tradin'. We're in Blood
Lance's lodge, smokin' an' dickerin' on this swap, when Blood
Lance, who's been starin' at Reel Foot between puffs, lays down
the pipe an' signs he knows him. 'Those feet,' says he, pointin'
to Reel Foot's twisted legs, 'fooled the Ogallalys an' saved the
white man's hair,' an' with that he spins us the yarn of Reel
Foot's crooked tracks. Always after, he's knowed amongst the
Ogallalys as 'The Man-Who-Walks-Both-Ways.'"



BULLARD'S WOLVES


Lots of cowpunchers like to play with a rope, but ropes, like
guns, are dangerous. All the difference is, guns go off and ropes
go on. So you'll savvy my meanin', I'll tell you a story.

One time Bill Bullard's jogging along towards camp when he
bumps into a couple of wolves that's been agin a bait. They've
got enough strychnine so they're stiff and staggerin'. Bill drops
his loop on one easy. Then he thinks, "What's the matter with
taking both?" So he puts a couple of half hitches in the middle
of his string, drops 'em over the horn, builds a loop at the
other end of his rope, and dabs it on the second wolf. He's
snaking 'em along all right till one of these calf-killers bumps
on a sagebrush and bounces too near his hoss.

Right then's when the ball opens. The old hoss will stand
anything but he don't like the smell of these meat eaters, so
when this one starts crowdin' him, snappin' his teeth, he goes
hog-wild; and wherever he's goin' Bill don't know, but the gait
he takes it's a cinch they won't be late. Tain't so bad till they
hit the sagebrush country. Then, first one and then another
bounces by Bill's head and lands ahead of him. This old cayuse
starts trying to out-dodge this couple. Mr. Bullard manages to
keep his cayuse headed for the camp, but he's mighty busy staying
in the middle of this living lightning he's riding.

When the boys in camp see him coming down the bottom, they
all wonder what's his hurry, but they heap savvy when they see
what's following him. He don't slow up none when he reaches camp,
so the boys hand him some remarks like: "What's your hurry, Bill,
won't you stay to eat?" "Don't hurry, Bill, you got lots of
time." "If you're going to Medicine Hat, a little more to the
left!"

Bullard's red-eyed by this time, and of course these remarks
cheer him up a whole lot. A little more and Bill would bite
himself. If he had a gun, there'd be a massacre. Finally the hoss
wrangler, who's afraid Bill will mix with the saddle band, rides
out and herds the whole muss into the rope corral.

When Bullard dismounts he don't say nothing an' it don't
look safe to ask questions.

Bill's mighty quiet for days. About a week later somebody
says something about killin' two birds with one stone. "Yes,"
says Bill, "maybe you'll kill two birds with one stone but don't
ever bet you can get two anythings with one rope."



INJUNS


"Some of these wise book-learned men claim that our red brothers
come from China but they can't prove it," says Murphy. "These
folks ain't got no history, barring a few paintin's or carvin's
on rocks. They don't write these folks ain't got no books, an'
books are back-tracks of man. An Injun can't tell you further
back than his grand-dad told him, an' you can't back-track far on
grass and most Injun trails are grass-grown.

"If I told only what I know about Injuns, I'd be through
right now. I run on to a beaver house last fall. It looked the
same as the first one I ever saw that's over forty-five years
ago. The Injun is no different the buffalo skin lodge of long ago
is the same thing as the canvas lodge of to-day. What changes the
red man has made, he took from his white brothers.

"The big change came when old Cortez brought that three-cross
brand of hosses over. Mr. Injun wasn't long afoot. Before
this he had only wolves broke to pack or drag a travois. The
country was lousy with meat but in open spaces it ain't easy to
get when you're afoot. The Injuns, like their brother, the wolf,
followed the herds. The wolf had the edge with his four legs, and
when the wolf made his kill it's a safe bet that if there was
enough Injuns so they wouldn't be bashful, they took it away from
Mr. Wolf and sometimes they took what the wolf left. When man
gets his feed this way, he don't get his meals often or regular
enough to hurt his digestion, an' where meat lays too long in hot
weather, it doesn't need cooking but when you go a few days
without eatin', you won't mind this."

"Sometimes they'd run buffalo off cliffs. These were big
killin's. This was pulled by the medicine man who owned a buffalo
stone. I've seen one of these stones. Injuns claim this stone
could call buffalo. It's a queer-looking rock about the size of
your fist. If a band of buffalo comes near one of these cliffs,
Mr. Medicine Man goes out with his stone. He ain't wearing much
but his robe. Under that he's stripped, knowing, if he's lucky,
he's got to make a race out of it and outrun the buffalo. He gets
as near as he can to the herd, wraps his robe around him and gets
down on his hands and knees an' starts going through all kinds of
manoeuvres, makin' noises and at the same time working towards
the cliff.

"While this is going on, the rest of his folks is sneaking
up behind the buffalo that's so busy watchin' this thing that's
wearing one of their hides. Naturally, the buffalo want to know
what this thing is that dresses like them, but ain't got no shape
that they ever saw. This medicine man knows enough; he's got
their wind, they can't smell him. They follow him slow first, but
soon they're running. When they're close enough to the cliff, he
drops his robe, and makes a getaway. When they try to turn, all
these Injuns behind them rares up, waving their robes and
yelling. In a minute they're all millin' and crowdin' till most
of them, maybe all, go over, an' them that ain't killed are
crippled so bad they're easy finished with lances or arrows.

"I seen one of these places near the Teton River, where
there's three feet of buffalo bones, about a hundred yards long
under this cliff. Them days, the squaws stripped the meat with
their knives, leaving the bones. At this place the whites gather
arrow heads to this day. Them they find are stone, telling that
it happened a long time ago. There are layers of buffalo hair and
wool that looks like felt.

"Such places were called by the Blackfeet, piscum. These
places weren't used much, I don't think, after they got the
hoss they didn't need them. With a good hoss under him, a bow and
arrows with steel or iron points that the white traders brought,
it was easy for an Injun to get meat."

"While the buffalo lasted, the Injuns counted their wealth in hosses.
The Injun always was a trouble hunter, and getting hosses don't make him
any easier to get along with. Whites that don't know him think he never
smiles. They got this idea walking into lodges without no invite,
pickin' up anything they see. Maybe the owner of this lodge is talking
to a friend. The white man thinks it's all right to stand between these
two redskins. If the Injun is smoking, the civilized man takes the pipe
and examines it. If there's a party of these wedge-ins, they're picking
things up and talking and making all kinds of remarks one'll tell the
rest what dirty people Injuns are. Maybe there's an Injun in the lodge
that savvys white man talk; if he does, he ain't slow tellin' what the
white man says. Naturally, the red man that's been starving for years on
white man's promises ain't got lots of love for him, so when he busts in
on his home and fireside, the Injun don't show much joy. If other people
would walk into my house without bein' asked, I don't think I'd smile
an' look pleasant. What would I do if I wasn't able to throw them out?
I'd call the police. An Injun laughs only when it's on the square.

"Some white men, especially these wedgers-in, are as welcome
in an Injun camp as a rattlesnake in a dog town. If an Injun
likes you, he'll go to the end of the trail for you; if he don't,
he'll go further the other way. If he's a friend, anything he's
got is yours. If he don't like you, anything you got is his if he
can get away with it. Whites will do the same, I notice, in war
times. We stole every inch of land we got from the Injun but we
didn't get it without a fight, and Uncle Sam will remember him a
long time.

"The whites have always held the edge. The first were Spaniards with
steel bow-guns and with clothes made by a blacksmith. Mister Injun met
him with wooden bows an' stone-pointed arrows, and paint wasn't much
protection against a bow-gun that would drive an iron bolt through a
steel plate. The only chance an Injun had to get a Spaniard was when
he's in bathing, an' beaches were only used them days to land boats on,
and folks didn't bathe often it wasn't considered healthy, and I imagine
the white man's camp was a little stronger than a wolf den if the wind's
right. It's no trick for Mr. Injun to locate the camp, but what's the
good? His stone arrow heads only bust on this iron shell the white man
wears. When the white man gets the gun, an Injun gets one too but he
ain't got no powder he's always a few jumps behind, but by doing some
careful sneakin' he gets enough scalps to trim his leggin's. Then there
are so many whites that's baldheaded that it's hardly worth the Injun's
while takin' chances, for when he's got so he can load a flintlock gun
in twenty minutes, the paleface shows up with a britch-loader. When he
gets a britch-loader, the white man's got a repeater.

"If you're out looking for a man with a repeater and you are packin' a
missile stuffer and you got powder that's wet, naturally you're careful.
The man with a repeater and belt full of cartridges calls the feller
with a single shot a coward. Of course, this makes a bush-whacker out of
an Injun.

"I believe if the white man had the same weapons as his red brothers,
Uncle Sam wouldn't own only part of this country yet and we wouldn't
need any game law. I think the white man is the smartest man in the
world but he's no braver than others. He's the smartest, he's proved
that. He's the only man in the world that plays golf to keep himself in
shape-other colors keep the extry leaf-lard off with a pick and shovel.
The old-time Injun didn't pack much fat. He didn't work, but he was busy
finding meat and dodgin' enemies. Civilization don't agree with him he
ain't got room. A few more generations an' there won't be a full-blood
American left."



WHISKEY


Whiskey has been blamed for lots it didn't do. It's a brave-maker.
All men know it. If you want to know a man, get him drunk
and he'll tip his hand. If I like a man when I'm sober, I kin
hardly keep from kissing him when I'm drunk. This goes both ways.
If I don't like a man when I'm sober, I don't want him in the
same town when I'm drunk.

Remember, I ain't saying that booze is good for men, but it
boils what's in him to the top. A man that beats his wife when
he's drunk ain't a good man when he's sober. I've knowed drunks
that would come home to mama loaded down with flowers, candy, and
everything that they thought their wife would like. Other men
that wouldn't take a drink never brought home nothing but laundry
soap. The man that comes home drunk and licks his wife wouldn't
fight a chickadee when he's sober. The drunk that brings home
presents knows he's wrong and is sorry. He wants to square
himself. The man that licks his wife ain't sorry for nobody but
himself, and the only way to make him real sorry is to beat him
near to death.

There's a difference in whiskey some's worse than others. Me
and a friend drops into a booze parlor on the Canadian line. The
man that runs this place is a friend of ours. I ain't mentioning
no names but his front name's Dick. He's an old-time cowpuncher.
He's bought a lot of booze in his day but right now he's selling
it.

When me and my friend name our drink we notice there's about
ten men in this joint. Their actions tells us they've been using
some of Dick's goods, but there ain't no loud talk. They are all
paired off, talking low like they're at a funeral. I get curious
and ask Dick if these gents are pallbearers that's spreading
sorrow on his joint.

"No," says Dick, looking wise. "This ain't no cow-town no
more. It's one of the coming farmer-cities of this country, and
the sellers of all this rich land don't want nothing that'll
scare away farmers, and I'm here to please the folks. Most of
these tillers of the soil come from prohibition states where men
do their drinkin' alone in the cellar. When you drink that way,
it don't cost so much. The old-timer that you knew was generally
on the square. When he got drunk he wanted everybody to know it
and they did, if they were in the same town. Folks to-day ain't
been able to sweep all this old stuff out but, like some old
bachelors I know, they've swept the dirt under the bed, and what
you don't see don't look bad.

"The gent that sold me this brand of booze told me there
ain't a cross word in a barrel of it, and he told the truth. All
these gents you see in here are pleasant without the noise. This
bunch, if they stay to the finish, will whisper themselves to
sleep. This booze would be safe for a burglar. I call it," says
Dick, "whisperin' booze."

But as I said before, there's different kinds. I knowed a
old Injun trader on the Missouri River that sold another kind.
Back in the '80s the cowmen of Judith country was throwing their
cattle north of the river. This old trader had a place on the
river right where we crossed the cattle. All summer we were
swimming herds.

I never knowed what made an Injun so crazy when he drunk
till I tried this booze. I always was water shy and this old
stream has got many a man, but with a few drinks of this trade
whiskey the Missouri looked like a creek and we spur off in it
with no fear. It was sure a brave-maker, and if a man had enough
of this booze you couldn't drown him. You could even shoot a man
through the brain or heart and he wouldn't die till he sobered
up.

When Injuns got their hides full of this they were bad and
dangerous. I used to think this was because an Injun was a wild
man, but at this place where we crossed the herds there's about
ten lodges of Assiniboines, and we all get drunk together. The
squaws, when we started, got mighty busy caching guns and knives.
In an hour we're all, Injuns and whites, so disagreeable that a
shepherd dog couldn't have got along with us. Some wise
cowpuncher had persuaded all the cowpunchers to leave their guns
in camp. This wise man could see ahead an' knowed things was
going to be messy. Without guns either cowpunchers or Injuns are
harmless they can't do nothing but pull hair. Of course the
Injun, wearing his locks long, gets the worst of it. We were so
disagreeable that the Injuns had to move camp.

It used to be agin the law to sell an Injun whiskey, but the
law has made Injuns out of all of us now. Most new booze is worse
than trade whiskey. Whiskey made all men brave. If nobody got
drunk the East Coast would be awful crowded by this time. Maybe
the leaders of the exploring party didn't drink, but the men that
went with them did. It's a safe bet there wasn't a man in
Columbus' crew that knowed what a maple-nut sundae was.

In the old times, when the world had lots of wild countries and some
brave explorer wanted men to go up agin danger and maybe starvation, he
don't go to the fireside of home lovers; he finds the toughest street in
a town where there's music, booze, and lots of fighters he ain't lookin'
for pets. When he steps in this joint, he walks to the bar and asks them
all up. He don't bar nobody, not even the bartender. He starts with
making a good feller of himself. This sport don't ask nobody who he is,
but while he's buyin' drinks he's telling about others that has gone to
these countries and come back with gold in every pocket, an' it ain't
long till all have signed up and joined. If there's any danger of them
weakening, he keeps them drunk. There's been many a man that got drunk
in St. Louis, and when he comes to out of this debauch he's hundreds of
miles up the Missouri, on a line dragging a boat loaded with trade goods
for the Injun country. If he turns back he's liable to bump into war
parties, so he stays. This game is played on sailor, woods and river
men. Cowpunchers were of the same kind of goods all careless, homeless,
hard-drinking men.

Fur traders were the first and real adventurers. They went
to countries unknown every track they made was dangerous. On
every side were unseen savages. Such people as Colter, Bridger,
and men of their stamp, these fellers were not out for gold or
great wealth they asked for little but life and adventure. They
had no dreams of palaces. Few of them ever returned. The
gold-hunter who came later loved the mountains for the gold he found
in them, and some when they got it returned to the city, where
they spent it and died in comfort. But most trappers kissed good-bye
to civilization and their birthplace took an Injun woman, and
finished, nobody knowed how or where.

The cowboy was the last of this kind, and he's mighty near
extinct. He came from everywhere farms, big cities, and some of
them from colleges. Most of them drank when they could get it.

As I said before, they're all Injuns now since the Volstead
law. Just the other day I'm talking to a friend. Says he, "It's
funny how crazy an Injun is for whiskey. A few days ago I'm
riding along I got a quart of booze in my saddle pocket. I meet
an Injun. He sees what I got, and offers me the hoss he's riding
for the quart. To a man that wants a saddle hoss, this one is
worth a hundred dollars. I paid six for this moonshine."

"Did you make the trade?" says I.

"Hell, no!" says he. "It's all the booze I got!"



WHEN PETE SETS A SPEED MARK


"Sizin' Pete Van up from looks," says Rawhide Rawlins, "you'd
never pick him for speed, an' I, myself, never see Pete make a
quick move without a hoss under him. If Pete's entered in a
footrace most folks would play him with a copper, but Bill
Skelton claims Pete's the swiftest animal he ever see, barrin'
nothin'. At that Bill says he never saw Pete show speed but once,
an' that's back in about '78.

"They're in the Musselshell country, an' one mornin' they're
out after meat. They ain't traveled far till they sight dust. In
them days this means Injuns or buffalo. This makes 'em cautious,
'cause they ain't anxious to bump into no red brothers with a
bunch of stolen hosses. When Injuns are traveling with this kind
of goods it ain't safe to detain 'em, an' Pete an' Bill both are
too genteel to horn in where they ain't welcome, 'specially if
it's a big party. Of course, if it's a small bunch they'd be
pleased to relieve them by the help of their rifles.

"They start cayotin' around the hills till they sight long
strings of brown grass-eaters buffalo. This herd ain't disturbed
none just travelin'. This means meat an' plenty of it, so gettin'
the wind right, they approach.

"The country's rough, an' by holdin' the coulees they're
within a hundred yards before they're noticed. It's an old bull
that tips their hand; this old boy kinks his tail and jumps
stiff-legged. This starts the whole bunch runnin', but it ain't a
minute till Pete and Bill's among 'em.

"Pete singles out a cow an' Bill does the same. Pete's so
busy emptyin' his Henry into this cow that he forgets all about
his saddle. He's ridin' an old-fashioned center-fire. His hoss is
young an' shad-bellied, an' with a loose cinch the saddle's
workin' back. The first thing Pete knows he's ridin' the cayuse's
rump. This hoss ain't broke to ride double an' objects to anybody
sittin' on the hind seat, so he sinks his head an' unloads Pete
right in front of a cow.

"Bill, who's downed his meat, looks up just in time to see
Pete land, and he 'lights runnin'. Bill says the cow only once
scratches the grease on Pete's pants. From then on it's Pete's
race. It looks like the cow was standin' still."

"Anybody that knows anything about buffaloes knows that cows
can run. Pete don't only beat the cow, but runs by his own hoss,
which by this time is leavin' the country.

"Pete's so scared,' says Bill, 'that I damn near run my own
hoss down, tryin' to turn him back.'"



BILL'S SHELBY HOTEL


"They tell me," says Rawhide Rawlins, "that Bill's goin' to build
a fine hotel for tourists up on Flathead Lake, not far from where
his ranch is. I stayed with him a time or two when he's runnin'
that big hotel in Great Falls, an' he sure savvies makin' folks
comfortable.

"You wouldn't ever figger that Bill would be runnin' one of
these fine modern hotels if you'd knowed him when I first run
onto him twenty-five years ago. It's hard to recognize Bill in
them good clothes, with a white collar an' a diamond as big as a
Mexican bean in his tie, if you wasn't told it was the same man.

"Bill was born near Des Moines, Iowa, and as a boy was
knowed as the champion lightweight corn shucker of Hog Bristle
County. But when he gets to manhood he takes a dislike to work,
an' after hoardin' his wages of three dollars a month for eight
years, he just naturally steps underneath a freight train one
mornin' with his bankroll an' takes a seat on the rods. He gives
one lingerin' look at the old homestead and tells the brakeman he
can turn her loose.

"Bill finds a pleasant travelin' companion in a noted
tourist, Brakebeam Ben, who kindly divides his conversation an'
whatever little things he has on him. Some of these last makes
lively company for Bill, who finds travelin' pleasant an' makes
lots of stops at points of interest along the line. He gets
acquainted with several men who wear stars an' brass buttons.
They all take a kindly interest in Bill, an' after insistin' on
his spendin' a few days with them, show him the railroad tracks
out of town and wish him a pleasant journey.

"A year or so later Bill arrives in McCartyville, a town
that in them days was about as quiet an' peaceful as Russia is
to-day. McCartyville consists of a graveyard an' one or two ghost
cabins now, but then it's a construction camp for the Great
Northern, an' there ain't a tougher one on earth, even in them
times. The most prosperous business men in McCartyville was the
undertakers. They kept two shifts at work all the time, an' every
mornin' they'd call at the hotel an' saloons to carry out the
victims of the night before. No one asked no questions.

"When Bill steps off the train there he has an Iowa thirst,
an' he's just as welcome as his remainin' two dollars an' a half,
which is good for just ten drinks. To this prohibition-raised boy
this is a real novelty, for where he comes from, no one drinks
without hidin' in the cellar. Bill tells me that the lives of a
lot of his friends there is just one long game of hide-and-seek.
In them days an Iowan could drink more in one swaller than the
average westerner can in three hours, so Bill's called on
frequent by the barkeep to slow up, as they can only make just so
much liquor every twenty-four hours.

"It's here Bill gets his trainin' in hotel-runnin', from
washin' dishes to dealin' biscuits through the smoke that hangs
heavy around the dinin' room. At the end of three days he's told
by the marshal to climb the hill an' back-track as far as he
likes. Bill said that they didn't like no peaceful disposed
citizens there, but I never heard no one else accuse him of this
weakness he claims.

"A few days later he lands in Shelby, where the citizens are
surprised and delighted to see him separate himself from the
rods. He's covered with dust an' resembles part of the runnin'
gear. In this way he was able to hide out from the brakies. When
he asks for a room with a bath it's too much for the clerk, who
has a nervous temperament an' has spent the previous evenin'
drinkin' Shelby lemonade, an' he shoots Bill's hat off. This
drink I mention was popular among the Shelbyites of that day.
It's a mixture of alkali water, alcohol, tobacco juice an' a dash
of strychnine the last to keep the heart goin'.

"This outburst of the clerk don't scare Bill none, as he's
been permanently cured of gunshyness at McCartyville. As the
clerk lowers his gun, Bill warps a couplin' pin just under where
the gent's hat rests. The hat's ruined, but the clerk comes to
three days later to find Bill's got his job. This is where Bill
breaks into the hotel business. A week later in a game of stud
poker he wins the hotel. I never believe the story whispered
around by some of the citizens that it's a cold deck that did it.

"Bill's chef's one of the most rapid cooks known in the
West. He hangs up a bet of a hundred dollars that with the use of
a can-opener, he can feed more cowpunchers an' sheepherders than
any other cook west of the Mississippi. There's never no
complaint about the meat, either, for this cook's as good with a
gun as he is with a can-opener. In fact, no one ever claims he
ain't a good cook after takin' one look at him.

"Shelby's changed a lot since them days. In the old times
the residents there include a lot of humorists who have a habit
of stoppin' trains an' entertainin' the passengers. Most of these
last is from the East, an' they seemed to be serious-minded, with
little fun in their make-up. The Shelby folks get so jokey with
one theatrical troupe that stops there that many of these actors
will turn pale to-day at the mention of the place. At last Jim
Hill gets on the fight an' threatens to build around by way of
Gold Butte an' cut out Shelby, preferrin' to climb the Sweetgrass
Hills to runnin' his trains through this jolly bunch.

"This hotel of Bill's was one of the few places I've seen
that's got flies both winter an' summer. During the cold months
they come from all over the Northwest to winter with Bill, an'
hive in the kitchen an' dinin' room. Bill claims they're
intelligent insects, as they'll spend several hours a day in warm
weather frolickin' around the hog pens, but when he rings the
triangle for meals they start in a cloud for the dinin' room. For
a home-like, congenial place for a fly to live, you couldn't beat
Bill's hotel.

"Bill's run several hotels since this, an' as he's kept on
goin' up in the business, this new one he's goin' to tackle on
the lake will probably top 'em all, but it's doubtful if he'll be
able to furnish as much excitement for his guests as the old
place at Shelby used to provide for the boarders."



DAD LANE'S BUFFALO YARN


Talk had drifted into the days of the buffalo. "I run onto a head
yesterday that the bone hunters must have overlooked," said Long
Wilson. "It's kinda hid away under the rimrock on Lone Injun.
'Twas an old bull, with the horns gnawed down to the nubs by
trade-rats an' there's a little wool on the forehead, bleached
an' faded till it's almost white. 'Tain't long ago the country
was covered with these relics, but since the bone hunters cleaned
up you seldom see one. Down on the Missouri I've seen bunches of
skeletons, runnin' from ten to sixty. You generally find 'em
under a knoll or raise in the country, an' by scoutin' around a
little you might find in a waller or behind a greasewood a pile
of long, bottleneck shells. These are Sharp's ca'tridges, an' in
number they'd count a few over the skulls. These skin hunters
didn't waste much lead; they had killin' down to a fineness,
goin' at it in a business way. They hunted afoot, an' most of 'em
used glasses. When Mister Skin Hunter leaves camp he's loaded
down with ammunition, an' packin' a gun that looks an' weighs
like a crowbar. He prowls along the high country till he sights
the herd; then gettin' the wind right he keeps the coulees till
he sights the range, an' it don't have to be close, 'cause these
old Sharp's pack lead a thousand yards. First he picks out a cow
on the edge of the bunch, an' pullin' down on her he breaks her
back. Of course she starts draggin' her hindquarters an' makin'
all kinds of buffalo noise. Quicker than you'd bat your eye, her
neighbors 're 'round her wantin' to know what's the matter.

"Buffalo 're like any other cow-brute; kill one, an'they
don't notice it much or 're liable to quit the country; cripple
one an' start the blood, an' it's pretty near a cinch they'll
hang 'round. The hide hunters know this trick an' most of 'em use
it. When the herd gets to millin', he goes to work pourin' lead
into 'em as fast as he can work the lever on his breech-block.
Whenever one tries to break out of the mill, there's a ball goes
bustin' through its lungs, causin' it to belch blood, an'
strangle, an' it ain't long till they quit tryin' to get away an'
stand an' take their medicine. Then this cold-blooded proposition
in the waller settles down to business, droppin' one at a time
an' easin' up now an' agin to cool his gun, but never for long
till he sees through the smoke the ground covered with still,
brown spots. Then layin' down his hot weapon he straightens up
an' signals the skinners that's comin' up behind. They've located
him by the talk of his Sharp's.

"This is what hunters called 'gettin' a stand'; there's
nothin' taken off the animal but the hide an' sometimes the
tongue. The rest goes to the wolves. These hide hunters 're the
gentlemen that cleaned up the buffalo, an' since the bone
gatherers come there ain't nothin' left to show that there ever
was any. I've seen a few buffalo myself, but the big herds was
gettin' pretty seldom when I hit the country. I guess you've all
heard them yarns about how they used to stop the boats on the
Missouri, an' how wagon-trains would have to corral for days,
lettin' a herd pass. The strongest yarn I ever heard of this kind
was told by an old feller up on High River Springs. He's a Hudson
Bay man, an's tellin' about comin' south from Edmonton with a Red
River cart-train. They're just north of the Big Bow when they run
into a herd; as near as he can figure there's a couple of
million. It's spring an' the calves 're so plentiful they have to
stop every little ways an' pry 'em from between the spokes; they
keep blockin' the wheels."

"Buffalo?" says old Dad Lane. "I was here when they're thick
as hair on a dog, but it's surprisin' how quick one of these big
herds could quit a country. You'd travel for days in sight of
'em, an' wake up some mornin' an' it'd look like they'd
disappeared from the face of the earth; you'd ride for ten days
without seein' hide or hair of 'em. Whether they walked or run I
never knowed, but from looks you'd swear they'd flew. This sudden
disappearin' of buffalo comes pretty near causin' me to cash in
once.

"It's back in '62. There's me, Jack Welch, Murphy, an' a
feller called Whisky Brown, builds a tradin' post up near Writin'
Stone. We're short of goods an' somebody's got to go to Benton;
so me an' Joe Burke, an interpreter, knowin' the country,
volunteers to make the trip. This Burke's a full-blooded Piegan,
but bein' raised by a white man he's tuk his name. He's knowed
amongst his people as 'Bad Meat.' Our outfit's made up of eight
pack-ponies an' two Red River carts. We're drivin' these vehicles
jerkneck, that is the trail pony's tied to the lead cart so one
man can handle both. I'm teamster; the Injun's got the pack-train.
The first couple of days it's smooth sailin'. It's August,
the weather's fine, an' we're never out o' sight o' buffalo, so
meat's always handy."

"The second mornin' when we're quittin' the blankets I
notice the sun down on the skyline, lookin' like a red-hot stove
lid, an' my nostrils fill with the smell of burnt grass, tellin'
me the range is afire somewhere south of us. 'Tain't an hour till
the sky's smoked up so the sun's hid, an' we've lost our
timepiece an' compass. But it don't worry me none; I can see the
Injun joggin' along ahead; all the smoke in hell couldn't lose
him. There's one place where an Injun holds the edge on a white
man day or night you can't lose him.

"I remember askin' Bad Meat how it was that an Injun never
loses his way. He tells me when a white man travels he looks one
way, always straight ahead. Passin' a butte, he only sees one
side of it, never lookin' back; so of course he don't savvy that
butte on his return. The Injun looks all ways an' sees all sides
of everythin'. There's somethin' in this, but that ain't all
there is to it. Of course an Injun ain't got eyes for nothin',
but it ain't all seein', 'cause I've been with savages nights so
black that bats stayed to home; but it don't bother Mister Injun.
He travels without hesitatin', like it's broad day. I don't know
how he does it an' I doubt if the Injun can tell himself. These
people 're only part human an' this is where the animal crops
out.

"Well, we keep workin' along south through the smoke. Once
in a while I can see a string o' buffalo, dim through the smoke
like shadows. Sometimes they get right up on us before sightin'
our outfit. Then swervin' from their course they go lopin' off
an' 're soon lost from sight. Towards evenin' Bad Meat downs a
young cow an' while we're takin' the back-meat he advises takin'
the hams; but I say 'What's the use? It's only that much extra
packin', an' we'll get meat to-morrow.'

"'All the buffalo we see to-day is travelin',' says he.
'Maybe-so no meat to-morrow.'

"Since he spoke of it I notice that they are all travelin',
an' not so slow either, but I've seen buffalo lope an' trot goin'
to or leavin' water, an' didn't think nothin' of it. But takin'
Bad Meat's hunch, we take the hams.

"Bout noon the next day we strike the burnt country. As far
as you can see she's black, with now an' then a smoulderin'
buffalo chip that still holds the fire. It's a sorry sight; a few
hours ago this country wore grass that'd whip a hoss on the
knees, an' buffalo fed by thousands. Now she's lifeless, smoked
an' charred till she looks like hell with the folks moved out.
It's the same all day black, without a livin' critter in sight.
The outlook's bad for the cayuses, but towards evenin' we strike
a creek that Bad Meat calls 'Wild Dog,' an' a little patch of
grass the fire's gone 'round. The Injun's not for stoppin' except
to eat a bite an' water the hosses; then push on into the night
away from the fire. Injun-like, he's been houndin' the ground all
day an' finds some tracks. He tells me he's seen the moccasin
marks, as near as he can guess, of about eight men, an' there
ain't no pony sign among 'em; they're all afoot. An' when the sun
shows red like a bloody warshield, he says, it's 'bad medicine.'

"This savage superstition about the sun sounds foolish to
me, an' I tell him it's the smoke causes it. 'Yes,' says he, 'but
who built the fire? We're still in the country of the Piegans; do
they burn their own grass?'

"Of course these tracks look bad, 'cause when you see Injuns
walkin' in a country it's a cinch they ain't friendly. Walkin'
makes all people dangerous. War parties generally travel this way
an' by the time they, or anybody else, have walked a hundred
miles or so they ain't to be trusted amongst hosses. Me an' Bad
Meat talks it over an' decides by puttin' out the fire it'll be
safe enough.

"Our hosses 're all good to stay, an' barrin' two we hobble
an' our herd-hoss on a picket rope, they're all loose. It's been
a tiresome day, an' I no more'n hit the blankets till I'm
asleep.'

"Along in the night sometime I'm awakened by a report of
guns. It kind o' dazes me at first; then a ball spats agin a
wheel spoke just above my head, an' I ain't slow changin' my
bed-ground. Mister Injun had an idee where I'm sleepin' an' is
feelin' for me with his gun. He's doin' good guessin' in the
darkness an' comes within a foot of findin' me. I'm awake plenty
now an' hear the hosses runnin'. By the way the noise is leavin'
me I know they're pushin' the country behind 'em mighty rapid. I
tell you, boys, it's tough layin' there listenin' to all you got
leavin' you, but there ain't nothin' to do. In that country we're
as good as blind men. It's the darkest night I ever see, an' the
burnt ground don't help it none. I'm so damn mad I blaze away in
the dark once at the noise an' think I hear a hoss bawl like he's
hit, but I guess it's my imagination, for there's nothin' to show
for it in the mornin'. I'm cussin' an' goin' on when I hear Bad
Meat kind o' chucklin'. He calls to me from his blankets. 'I
knowed it,' says he.

"If you knowed,' says I, 'you're a little late breakin' the
news. What's the cause of you holdin' out all this knowledge?'
An' I cussed him up a batch. I'm in the wrong all right, but
ain't in no humor to own up to it 'specially to an Injun.

"As I said before, we're helpless, but there ain't nothin'
to do but wait for day. When it's light I'm surprised at Bad
Meat's appearance. Up till now he's wearin' white man's clothes,
but this mornin' he's back to the clout, skin leggin's, an'
shirt. His foretop's wrapped in otterskin an' from his hair to
just below his eyes he's smeared with ochre. The rest of his face
is black, with green stripes. He notices my surprise an' tells me
it ain't good medicine for an Indian to die with white men's
clothes. I ask him what's his reason for thinkin' about cashin'
in. 'That war-party,' says he, 'is mighty successful in gettin'
them hosses, but all Injuns love to get some little token to take
back to their folks, such as hair.' This kind o' worries me; I
ain't anxious to furnish no savages locks to trim leggin's with,
an' I think Bad Meat feels the same way, 'cause he says it'll be
a good idea to travel nights from here on, an' I second the
motion.

"Bad Meat calls the turn when he says these Injuns ain't
satisfied, for while we're eatin' breakfast there's a band of 'em
looms up on a ridge. It's the same party that makes the night
visit; I recognize the hosses. While we're lookin' 'em over, one
buck slides from his pony, an' restin' his gun on his cross-sticks
takes a crack at us. There's a little curl o' dust out on
the prairie shows me that his old smooth-bore won't pack lead
near that distance, but the way he's pintin' his weapon tells me
it ain't no friendly salute, so me an' Bad Meat takes out the
prairie. We don't no more'n reach the brush till they're all down
off the ridge, yelpin' like a band o' coyotes. Bad Meat starts
singin' his war-ditty. On hearin' his gun bark I look off on the
prairie; there lays one still Injun. There's a loose pony lopin'
off with nothin' on but a war-bridle. It's a good shot for an
Injun, but Bad Meat's over average.

"This good shootin' don't seem to pacify these savages, an'
the way they start pilin' lead in our direction makes us hug the
brush; we don't leave it till dark. Barrin' a bundle o' robes Bad
Meat grabs when we're quittin' the camp it's a Mexican stand-off,
which means gettin' away alive. Of course we got our guns, but
we're grubless, an' for three days we don't swaller nothin' more
stimulatin' than water. The fourth mornin' we're out o' the burnt
country. It's gettin' pretty light an' we're thinkin' about
campin' when we see four old bulls about a mile off. The
country's level as a table an' the chances of gettin' near enough
for a shot looks slim. The Injun says he knows a way, an'
unrollin' the robes he comes up with a couple o' wolf-skins. He
tells me his granddad used to play wolf an' fool the buffalo.
When we get our disguises tied on we find a shallow coulee
that'll save a lot of crawlin'. On reachin' the raise we drop to
all fours an' start playin' wolf. The Injun's a little ahead an'
when he tops the draw I notice him pull a wisp o' grass an' toss
it up. There's so little wind it's hard to tell the direction,
but the grass falls just back of his shoulder. Bad Meat signs
'good,' an' we start crawlin'. I'm so hungry I feel like a wolf
all right, but for looks I'm no good; my suit's too small an' I
keep thinkin' that any buffalo that wouldn't tumble to me must be
nearsighted or a damn fool. It's different with Bad Meat. A
little way off in the grass he's actin' wolf mighty natural.
Injun-like, he knows the animal an's got that side-wheelin' gait
of the loafer wolf down fine.

"We ain't gone far when the nearest bull raises his head an'
lifts nose, but the wind's wrong an' he don't find nothin'; so
after lookin' us over, he goes grazin'. I'm within twenty-five
yards when I pick out my bull. They're all old boys that's been
whipped out of the main herd, but goin' on looks I draw down on
the youngest. I'm half hid in the buckbrush an' he's standin'
broadside. His heart's what I aim for, but bein' weak an' trembly
from hunger I notice the sight wavin' when I pull the trigger,
an' when I look under the smoke there stands the bull with his
head up, an' tail kinked. There's a red blotch on his side, but
it's too high an' fur back. The bull stands a few seconds
lookin'. He can't see me 'cause I'm layin' flat as a snake; it's
the damn smoke hangin' over me that tips my hand. I'm tryin' hard
to re-load when he comes for me, snortin' an' gruntin'. When I
raise to run, the wolf-skin slips down an' hobbles me, an' the
next thing I know I'm amongst his horns.

"Lucky for me I get between 'em, an' grabbin' a horn in each
hand I'm hangin' for all there's in me, while the bull's doin'
his best to break my holt. But bein' shot through the lungs he's
weak an' slowly bleedin' to death. I'm playin' my strength agin
his'n when I hear the bark of Bad Meat's gun. The bull goes over,
an' the fight's mine. Maybe you think that old Injun don't look
good standin' there with his old muzzle-loader."

"Barrin' bein' covered with blood an' the bark peeled off me
in places where Mister Bull drags me, I'm all right. This
bull-meat's pretty strong an' tough, but it's fillin' an' takes
us to Benton."



BAB'S SKEES


"Old Babcock," says Rawhide, "could tell yarns that's scary. We're
talking about skees when Bab springs this one.

"Me and Gumboot Williams are camped on Swimmin' Women,' says
Bab. 'We was set afoot by the Crows. It's back in '76 we'd saved
our hair and we're hidin'. The snow comes early that fall we're
away up on the Swimmin' Women. There's lots of game, but we're
huggin' camp close we're afraid of war parties, but a little
later when we know Injuns have quit prowlin', we get bold. We're
right comfortable, but we're running low on meat.

"It's hard travelin', the snow's so deep. I don't know
nothin' about makin' snowshoes so I decide it's easier to build
skees, and hew a pair out of lodgepole pine. I try 'em out around
camp. I can't make much time, but I keep on top of the snow. It's
hard climbing till I wrap them with a strip of buffalo robe,
makin' a kind of rough lock. So, one morning, I starts climbing
the south side of the Snowies. I'm keepin' to the open country,
avoidin' timber. 'Tain't long till I jump five blacktail but
don't get a shot.

"About noon I'm pretty high, and stop to get my wind while
I'm viewing the country. It's so clear I can see the Musselshell,
'way south. Suddenly I see about two miles below me, a band of
about twenty elk some of them is laying down. I'm packing a
forty-four Henry, so after throwing a shell in the barrel, I slip
my rough locks and start, an' it ain't a minute till I know I've
lost control. I'm riding a cyclone with the bridle off, or
somebody's kicked the lid off and I'm coming like a bat out of
hell. I can smell the smoke of my skees. They're sure warming up
when I hit astride of a dead lodgepole. It looks like this would
stop me, but don't ever think it. She busts at the root, bends
over, and when I shoot off the end she's trimmed as slick as a
fish-pole there ain't a limb on her. I must have split about
fifty of these when these elk hear the noise. They're leaving
their beds when I come hurling off the end of a lodgepole and
light straddle of the biggest bull there. I stay with him till he
wipes me off with his horns. I land this time sittin' on my
skees. I've still got my Henry and I'm fightin' mad. While I'm
passin' this bunch they look like they're backing up. I throw
down a big cow and break her shoulders. I'm still traveling south
but ain't got time to skin my killin'. After trimming several
hundred more acres of lodgepoles, the country levels and I slow
down and finally quit. From my belt down I'm dressed like a
Savage, but I'm warm both ways from the middle; I'm plumb
feverish. I'm still wearing a belt, and lucky I've got my rough
locks. It's easy back tracking of course, there are long
distances there ain't no tracks, but while I'm in the air I'm
cutting swaths in the timber that looks like a landslide. When I
get to the cow, I take the tongue and loins. I don't reach camp
till dark.

"I think,' says Bab, shaking out his pipe, 'that Injun webs
is the best if you ain't in a hurry.'"




MANY TRAILS
===========



NIGHT HERD


This yarn, a friend of mine tells I ain't givin' his name 'cause
he's married, and married men don't like history too near home,
but I will say he's a cowpuncher and his folks on his mother's
side wore moccasins. He tells me he's holding beef for the TL out
of Big Sandy. Him and another cowpuncher is on night guard. I'll
call this puncher "Big Man."

"We're holdin' about fifteen hundred out of Big Sandy," says
Big. "We ain't more than two miles from town, expecting to load.
Where we've got 'em bedded, you can see the lights of town, and
once in a while I can hear singin' and music. It's a fine night.
They've been on good grass all day and they're laying good, so
good my pardner says to me, 'Big, if you want to go to town for a
while, I'll hold 'em all right.' Says I, 'I won't be gone long,
then you can take your turn.'

"It ain't long after till my hoss is at the rack, and I've
joined the joymakers. They're sure whooping her up, singin', and
I get a little of that conversation fluid in me. I'm singin' so
good I wonder why some concert hail in Butte don't hire me. The
bartender is busy as a beaver the piano player's singin' 'Always
Take Mother's Advice; She Knows What Is Best for Her Boy.' And,
of course, we're all doin' that. I've heard that song where a
rattlesnake would be ashamed to meet his mother. But whiskey is
the juice of beautiful sentiment.

"A little while before I become unconscious, I'm shaking
hands with a feller that I knowed for years but never knowed he
had a twin brother. The last I remember, I'm crawling my horse at
the rack. Then the light goes out. When I wake up I'm cold as a
dead snake, and I'm laying on my belly in the middle of the herd.
I'm feared to move 'cause many of this bunch are out of the
brakes an' are wild as buffalo and they're mighty touchy. If I'd
get up, this bunch would beat me to it, and when they've passed
over, my friends would scrape me up with a hoe.

"I can't tell what time it is. It's cloudy and I can't find
the dipper. There's one old spotted boy that I recognize he's a
Seventy-nine steer. A few of them are standing. One I see is
wanderin' around grazin', but they're mighty quiet. I'm gettin'
colder every minute. I'm wantin' to smoke, but I dassn't. I put
my head on my arm and doze a little. 'Tain't long. The next time
I take a look it's breaking day. And where do you think I am?"
says Big Man.

"In the middle of the herd," says I.

"In the middle of the herd? In the middle of hell," says he.
"I'm laying in the center of the town dump. The steers that I
been looking at are nothing but stoves, tables, boxes; all the
discard of Sandy is there. The few that's standin' are tables.
That spotted Seventy-nine steer that I know so well is a big
goods box. Them spots is white paper. The one I see movin' around
is my hoss. He's the only live thing in sight. I got a taste in
my mouth like I had supper with a coyote. I ain't quite dead, but
I wish I was. From where I am I can see Big Sandy, and from the
looks it's as near dead as I am."



CURLEY'S FRIEND


The yarn I'm about to spring was told to me a long time ago.
There's a bunch talking about Injuns, when a feller I'm calling
Curley cuts in. "I ain't no Injun lover," says he, "but I'm
willin' to give any man a square shake.

"Once I'm runnin' a feed and livery stable at Black Butte.
About ten mile out I got a hay camp with a crew of men putting up
hay; there's no fences in this country, so I got a hoss herder.
This herder is a Bannock Injun; he can't talk much white man, but
all the hosses seem to savvy Bannock. I'm feedin' him and his
squaw and their bead-eyed boy who's old enough to day herd, and
his dad takes 'em nights.

"The old man tells me his name in Bannock, which I don't
savvy; but his woman tells it in English talk, that ain't quite
as lame as her man's, that it means in my tongue 'Sorry Dog.' So
as Sorry Dog, he's on the pay roll. Besides me feedin' him and
his family, Sorry Dog's getting $25 a month. This Injun's
civilized enough so he wears a hat with the top cut out, but he
bars pants; he still wears a clout, leggin's, and blanket like
the rest of his folks, besides a shirt I give him that spring.
It's a boiled one with a stiff busim which is some soiled. This
completes his garb.

"Sorry Dog has a lodge set up where him and his folks is
living. The white hands that works for me camps separate in
square tents. This Injun has got my work teams throwed in with
the town herd which gives him about a hundred head he's herding.
As I said before, Sorry Dog can't talk much English but he's got
some language hosses seem to savvy, and as he knows just a little
more than a hoss they get along fine.

"One evening I ride out to my hay camp. It's a little before
sundown I notice a strange Injun in front of Sorry Dog's lodge
when I step off my hoss. This Injun walks up holding out his
hand. We shake. He's the same as all other red brothers to me but
I notice he sizes me up plenty. His pock-marked face is smeared
with vermillion, he's wearing a green blanket wrapped to his
snaky eyes, an' holding an old Spencer in the crook of his left
arm, an' I notice he's shy two fingers on that hand. I savvy,
maybe he's lost some folks it might be one of his women, maybe
it's a son, 'cause Injuns like to show their sorrow is on the
square an' sometimes hacks off their fingers. It's like white
folks tying strings on their fingers so they'll remember what
they went after. But when you chop one off you shore won't
forget you'll be sorry for a long time. I see lots of Injuns
trimmed this way, so he's no different than others of his kind.

"I guess he camps with his friends all night, but when I'm
saddling my hoss next morning I notice he's missing in Sorry
Dog's camp. He don't even stay to breakfast. It ain't more than
breaking day when I'm saddling, and I notice that Sorry Dog's
woman is still building bannocks. I ask where this stranger is.
She don't look up from her cooking but says 'He go.' 'Gone
where?' says I. 'Lost River,' says she. This river is easy a
hundred miles from my hay camp. 'What's he doing here?' says I.
'Come see you,' says she. 'What for see me?' says I. 'Say you
good man. Say you not let other man kill his woman.'

"It's three years since what this squaw's talking about
happens. It's like this: Me and three other fellers are drifting
north from Nevada. We've got ten hosses there's two that's green
bronks, and we're having trouble holdin' 'em. They're bunch
quitters. We hobble most of the hosses every night but nearly
every morning we're out these two, and we comb the country
hunting the quitters we've hobbled every known way, but they've
got so they can travel better with hobbles than they kin without.
But by the time we're in Idaho the bunch're so trail-worn they
stay anywhere, and we're turning 'em all loose but these two
bronks.

"One night we're camped in a beaver meadow with grass up to
their knees. We've camped there a couple of days, givin' this
leg-weary bunch a chance to rest, but we've still got those
quitters staked by a front foot to the willows.

"As I said, the feed's good, an' by changing 'em once in a
while they're doing fine. We ain't seen anybody white or red
since we left Salt Lake, but the second night in this good camp
about two o'clock we're wakened an' setting up in our blankets.
It's a noise that every man that has lived in this country
knows it's the hoofs of running hosses, and a holler that no
human can make but Injuns. This yell will scare a bunch of tired
work bulls off the bed-ground.

"Well, we're afoot and there's no use getting up, so we just
lay there and talk it over. I've just heard the last hoof beats,
when out from the dark I hear a hoss whinner close to camp. 'We
ain't afoot,' says Kelly who's sleeping with me. 'That's one of
them bunch quitters.'

"Sure enough, when light comes, there they are. If you've
got a hoss that will pull a pin, if you'll just tie your stake
rope to one of his front feet and the other end to a green
willow, pretty well up so as to give it spring, it's a safe bet
you'll have a hoss in the morning, as he can't break his rope or
pull the willow, an' there's too much spring to hurt him. If
these Injuns had of known that, they'd have slipped in an' cut
the ropes, but they overlooked a bet and I guess they thought
they had 'em all.

"Well, it ain't long till me and Jim Baker that ain't his
name but that's what I'm calling him in this yarn are trailin'
these hoss thieves. Jim is sure warlike he's one man that likes
to kill. I've knowed men that would kill if they had cause, but
this Jim kills for the love of killing. It all crops out on him
on this war trip of ours.

"These hoss thieves ain't hard to follow. We've kept our
stock all shod and we know we're on the right track, but we're
slow sometimes. We lose the trail and pick it up again. It's dark
when we locate their camp. It looks like a small hunting
party they ain't even got a lodge. We can't see nothing but a
brush wickey-up and we can't tell how many there are. Baker's for
opening the ball right away, but I talk him into waiting till
daylight.

"These Injuns don't think they're followed they think we're
plumb afoot, and are careless. This ain't no regular war party,
'cause I see a woman pass between me and the firelight once in a
while, and war parties don't often have shes among 'em. I whisper
this to Baker an' he says they're all alike to him, an' I knowed
by the growl in his voice what he means. He's itchin' to kill.
'When I'm killin' lice, I don't play no favors,' says he.

"We're laying in the brush in sight of the camp. These
Injuns are laughin' and talkin', but I ain't able to make out
their number. It's about midnight when I doze off. The bark of a
gun wakens me, and there stands Baker with his gun still smoking.
It's moonlight and I can see this camp plain, an' there's an
Injun laying still right in front of the brush wickey-up. I ain't
more than looked till Baker's gun speaks and there's another one
down. They're all running for a patch of brush, but when Baker
kills his second Injun, I see they're only three women left. They
see they can't make it to this shelter an' the three turns
towards us with their hands up, calling for mercy, but this don't
soften Baker none. He downs one while her hands are up, an'
before I can stop him he's got another bead on 'em, when I get to
him and kick the gun out of his hand just as his cartridge busts.
His shot goes wild he's squatted, using his knee as a rest,
making his shots dead sure, when I kick his gun. I'm warlike
myself an' I kick fur enough back to get his hand with my heel.
The look he gives me don't show no sweetness. He's using a needle
gun, an' he reaches for it again, at the same time tellin' me a
few things he thinks about me. I stand for all this, but when his
hand goes for another cartridge then I block his game and tell
him if he makes another break I'll blow a hole in him that these
squaws can walk through. He takes one look at me and he knows my
Henry has a full magazine. I make him drop his cartridge belt and
walk away from it.

"One of these squaws is young, the other old an' wrinkled. I
tell the young one in signs to take my hoss and round up all the
hosses. Both these women are so scared the white shows under
their paint, but they savvy I'm their friend an' it ain't long
till she's got all the hosses in. These Injun hosses with those
they stole from us makes about twenty head. All ours are there. I
give three to the women and tell them to light out. They pack
some grub on their extra hoss, the old woman shakes hands with
me, and they make their get-away.

"Baker is standing there all the time cussin' me, and the
things he's calling me ain't nice to listen to. But I got his
cartridge belt, and with his empty gun he's harmless as a pet
rabbit. Well, when we get to camp that night Baker ain't quite so
frothy. The rest of the boys sees all these hosses, and when I
tell them why I'm wearing Baker's belt they all take sides with
me. They don't mind killing Injuns, but when I tell them about
them squaws coming with their hands up, this softens 'em and
they're all my way, so Baker don't get his belt back until
several days later he rides up to me and shakes hands and says he
is wrong. Then I give him ammunition but with the understanding
that if he makes one crooked break we'll all turn on him, so he
stays square.

"We all winter in Virginia City, but we're split up me and
Murphy's batchin' together. I see Baker once in a while he's
pleasant enough, but I ain't forgot the looks given me when I
kicked the gun out of his hand, and I never feel safe with my
back to him.

"One night Baker's playin' the bank and quarrels with
another feller. This feller was quicker than Baker, which was the
end of the killin'est man I ever knowed, and to tell the truth I
don't miss Baker none and feel a whole lot easier. I'd near
forgot about him when Sorry Dog's woman tells me why this strange
Injun comes so far to see me.

"A year after this happens I'm on my way back to Black Butte
from this same ranch. I ain't more than started, when I bump into
a band of twenty-five of the most disagreeable-looking Injuns I
ever see. The minnit they sight me they pull their ponies down to
a walk an' start peelin' their guns. They're about a hundred
yards off when they all stop, and one of them starts talking in
his own tongue, which I don't savvy. Finally he comes to me
alone. He's stripped to the waist and painted yeller and green
and he looks nastier than a Healy Monster. When he rides up close
he tells me in sign he's my friend. There's nothing about him
that looks like friendship and I watched for some crooked move,
when I get a flash of his left hand. It's shy two fingers. This
makes me look closer and I notice pockmarks under his paint, and
then he tells me he knows me; that I'm his woman's friend; that
all his people like me; that my heart is strong; that there's no
man among the Bannocks that would harm me.

"The only weapon I got is an old cap-and-ball Colt's. If I
didn't waste no lead this might get six, but there's anyhow
twenty-five. So, when this savage tells me all Bannocks are my
friends, he shook hands again and again and told me to go, and I
took his word for it."

"Next day the whites are all coming into Black Butte,
telling about the Bannock outbreak. Them Injuns done a lot of
killing before they stopped a little ways from where they met me.
They killed four whites.

"I heard that all good Injuns were dead ones. If that's
true, I'm damn glad the one I met that day was still a bad one."



WHEN MIX WENT TO SCHOOL


"School days, school days, dear old Golden Rule days that's the
song I've heer'd 'em sing," says Rawhide Rawlins, "an' it may be
all right now, but there was nothin' dear about school days when
I got my learnin'. As near as I can remember them he-schoolmarms
we had was made of the same material as a bronco-buster. Anyway
the one I went to in Missouri had every kid whip-broke. He'd call
a name an' pick up a hickory, an' the owner of the name would
come tremblin' to the desk.

"Charlie Mix maybe some of you knowed him that used to run
the stage station at Stanford, tells me about his school days,
an' it sure sounds natural. As near as I can remember, he's
foaled back in the hills in New York state. There's a bunch of
long, ganglin' kids in this neck of the woods that's mostly the
offspring of old-time lumber jacks that's drifted down in that
country, an' nobody has to tell you that this breed will fight a
buzz-saw an' give it three turns the start.

"These old grangers bring in all kinds of teachers for this
school, but none of 'em can stay the week out. The last one the
kids trim is pretty game an' is over average as a rough-an'-tumble
fighter, but his age is agin him. He's tall an' heavy in
the shoulders like a work bull, an' he wears long moss on his
chin which he's sure proud of, but it turns out it don't help him
none to win a battle. Two or three of these Reubens would be easy
for him, but when they start doublin' up on him about ten strong,
one or two hangin' in his whiskers, another couple ham-stringin'
him and the rest swingin' on him with slates, it makes him dizzy.
Eye-gougin' an' bitin' ain't barred either, an' this wisdom-bringer
has got the same chance of winnin' as a grasshopper that
hops into an anthill. He comes to the school in a spring buggy
with a high-strung span of roadsters, but he leaves in a light
spring wagon, layin' on a goosehair bedtick, with several old
ladies bathin' his wounds. The team is a quiet pair of plow
animals, an' the driver is told to move along slow an' avoid all
bumps.

"It looks like a life vacation to the boys, but the old
folks think different. They don't 'low to have their lovin'
offspring grow up into no ignorant heathen. So one night these
old maws an' paws pull a kind of medicine smoke, an' two of the
oldest braves is detailed to go to the big camp, work the herd
an' cut out a corral boss for these kids. They go down to New
York City, an' after perusin' aroun' they locate a prize-fighter
that's out of work. They question him, an' findin' he can read
an' write an' knows the multiplication table, they hire him.

"Next morning, Mix tells me, teacher shows up an' the boys are all there
itchin' to tear into him. But Mix says there's somethin' about this
teacher's looks that makes him superstitious. Of course he don't say
nothin' not wantin' to show yaller but somehow he's got a hunch that
somethin's goin' to happen.

"This gent's head is smaller than's usual in humans. There
don't seem to be much space above his eyes, an' his smile, which
is meant to be pleasant, is scary. There's a low place where his
nose ought to be, an' he could look through a keyhole with both
eyes at once. His neck's enough larger than his head so that he
could back out of his shirt without unbuttoning his collar. From
here down he's built all ways for scrappin', an' when he's
standin' at rest his front feet hang about even with his knees.
All this Mix takes in at a glance.

"When the school room quiets down the new teacher pulls a
nice little talk. 'Boys,' says he, 'I ain't huntin' for trouble,
but it's been whispered around that this bunch is fighty, an' I'm
here to tell you as a gentleman that if there's any battle
pulled, you boys is goin' to take second money.'

"The last word ain't left his mouth till one of the big kids
blats at him.

"'Come here,' says he, kind of pleasant, to the kid that did
it. The kid starts, but the whole bunch is with him.

"The teacher don't move nor turn a hair, but he kind of
shuffles his feet like he's rubbin' the rosin. The first kid that
reaches him, he side steps an' puts him to sleep with a left
hook. The next one he shoots up under a desk with an upper-cut,
and the kid lays there snorin'. They begin goin' down so fast Mix
can't count 'em, but the last he remembers he sees the big dipper
an' the north star, an' a comet cuts a hole through the moon.
When he comes to, it looks like the battle of Bull Run, an'
teacher is bendin' over, pourin' water on him from a bucket. He
can hear what few girl scholars there is outside cryin'.

"When he gets through bringin' his scholars back to life,
teacher tells the boys to get their song books an' line up.

"'Now,' says he, 'turn to page 40 an' we will sing that
beautiful little song:'

"'Every Monday mornin' we are glad to go to school,
For we love our lovin' teacher an' obey his kindly rule.'

"'He makes us sing that every mornin',' says Mix, 'an' we was
sure broke gentle.'"



MORMON MURPHY'S CONFIDENCE


The line camp was jammed to her fifteen by twenty-foot log walls. It was
winter, and the storm had driven many homeless punchers to shelter. Both
bunks were loaded with loungers, and as cow-people never sit down when
there is a chance to lie down, the blankets on the floor in their
tarpaulin covers held their share of cigarette-smoking forms. Talk
drifted from one subject to another riding, roping, and general range
chat, finally falling to the proper and handy way to carry a rifle.

"I used ter pack my gun in a sling," said old Dad Lane, the
wolfer. "They ain't used these days, since men's got ter usin'
scabbards an' hangin' 'em under their legs. Them old-fashioned
slings was used by all prairie and mountain men. If you never
seed one, they was made of buckskin or sometimes boot leather,
cut in what I'd call a long circle with a hole in each end that
lipped over the saddle horn. The gun stuck through acrost in
front of ye. In them same times men used gun-covers made of skin
or blanket. As I said before, I used one of them slings till I
near got caught with my hobbles on; since then I like my weapon
loose an' handy. I'll tell you how the play comes up.

"It's back in '78, the same year that Joseph's at war agin
the whites. Me an' Mormon Murphy's comin' up from Buford,
follerin' the Missouri, trappin' the streams an' headin' toward
Benton. This Murphy ain't no real Mormon. He's what we'd call a
jack-Mormon; that is, he'd wintered down with Brigham an' played
Mormon awhile. He's the best natured man I ever knowed, always
wearin' a smile an' lookin' at the bright side of things. We'd
wood-hawked, hunted an' trapped together for maybe four years,
an' I never heered 'im kick on nothin'. He claims when a man's
got his health he's got no licence to bellyache. Murphy's
good-hearted till he's foolish, an' so honest he thinks everybody else
is on the square. He says if you treat folks right, nobody'll
bother you. It's a nice system to play, but I arger it won't do
to gamble on. There is men that'll tell ye when ye've tipped yer
hole-card, but they're long rides apart. This same confidence in
humans is what gets Mormon killed off.

"Well, as I said before, we're trappin' along an' takin' it
easy. In them days all a man needs is a shootin'-iron an' a sack
of salt to live. There's nothin' to worry us. We're in the Gros
Ventres' country, but they ain't hoss-tile, an' we're never out
o' sight o' meat the country's lousy with game.

"One mornin' we're joggin' along at a good gait. It's late
in the fall, an' ye know cool weather makes hosses travel up
good, when ol' Blue, one of the pack-hosses, throws up his head
an' straightens his ears like he sees something, an' when a hoss
does this, ye can tap yerself, he ain't lyin'. So I go to
watchin' the country ahead where he's lookin'.

"Sure enough, pretty soon there's a rider looms up out of a
draw 'bout half a mile off. It's an Injun I can tell by the way
he swings his quirt an' is diggin' his heels in his pony's belly
at every step. There's a skift of snow on the country an' he
shows up plain agin the white. When he gits clost enough he
throws up his hand an' signs he's a friend. Then I notice he's
left-handed anyhow, he's packin' his gun that-a-way. It's in a
skin cover stuck through his belt, Injun fashion, with the stock
to the left, but what looks crooked to me after sizin' him up is
that his quirt hangs on his right wrist.

"With hand-talk I ask him what he is; he signs back 'Gros
Ventre.' This Injun looks like any other savage; he's wearin' a
white blanket capote with blue leggin's of the same goods. From
the copper rim-fire cattridges in his belt, I guess his weapon's
a Henry. Now what makes me think he's lyin' is his pony. He's
ridin' a good-lookin' but leg-weary Appalusy, an', as I know,
these hosses ain't bred by no Indians east o' the Rockies.
'Course all Injuns is good hoss-thieves an' there's plenty o'
chance he got him that-away, but the Umatilla camp's a long way
off, an' these peculiar spotted ponies comes from either there or
Nez Perce stock.

"Well, he rides up, an' instead o' comin' to my right an'
facin' me, he goes roun' one o' the pack-hosses an' comes
quarterin' behind me to the left, his hoss pintin' the same as
mine, an' holdin' out his hand says, 'How!' with one o' them
wooden smiles. Ye know ye can't tell what an Injun's got for a
hole-card by readin' his countenance; winner or loser he looks
the same. I shuk my head someway I don't like this maneuver; I
don't know what his game is, but ain't takin' no chances."

"He looks at me like his feelin's is hurt, swings around
behind my hoss an' goes to Murphy the same way. Then I'm
suspicious an' hollers to Murphy:

"Don't shake hands with that savage,' says I.

"What are ye afeard of?' says he, holdin' out his hand an'
smilin' good-natured. 'He won't hurt nobody.' Them's the last
words Mormon ever speaks.

"It's the quickest trick I ever seed turned; when they grip
hands, that damn snake pulls Murphy toward him, at the same time
kickin' the Mormon's hoss in the belly. Naturally the animal
lunges forward, makin' Murphy as helpless as a man with no arms.
Like a flash the Injun's left hand goes under his gun-cover to
the trigger. There's a crack, an' the smell of burnt leather an'
cloth."

"Murphy ain't hit the ground before that Injun quits his
hoss, an' when he lands he lands singin'. I savvy what that
means it's his death song, an' I'm workin' like a beaver to
loosen my gun from that damn sling. Maybe it ain't a second, but
it seems to me like an hour before it's loose an' I'm playin' an
accompaniment to his little ditty. This solo don't last long till
I got him as quiet as he made the Mormon.

"When the Injun first rides up, he figgers on downin' me
fust. He's a mind reader an' the smilin' Mormon looks easy.
Seein' his game blocked, he takes a gamblin' chance. He'd a-got
me, too, but the lever on his Henry gets foul of the fringe on
the cover, an' I got him on a limb.

"Yes, I planted my pard, all right, but as I ain't got
nothin' to dig a grave with bigger 'n a skinnin'-knife, I wraps
him in his blanket an' packs him down to a washout an' caves a
bank on him. When I takes a last look at him, he seems to be
smilin' like he forgives everybody. I tell ye, fellers, I don't
know when I cried, it's been a long time ago, an' I didn't shed
no tears then, but I damn nigh choked to death at that funeral.

"I've helped plant a whole lot of men one time an' another
in my career, but this is the only time I did it single-handed
an' lonesome. It's just me an' the hosses, but I'll tell ye I'm
damn glad to have them. When ye ain't got humans ve'll find
animals good company.

"No, there ain't no prayers said; I ain't used none since I
was weaned, an' I've forgot the little one my mammy learnt me.
But, I figure it out this way, there ain't no use an old coyote
like me makin' a squarin' talk for a man as good as Mormon
Murphy. So I stand for a minut with my head bowed like whites do
at funerals. It's the best I can do for him. Then I go to the
hosses a-standin' there with their heads down like they're
helpin' out as mourners, especially Murphy's with the empty
saddle an' the gun still in the sling, pulled away off to one
side where the helpless Mormon makes his last grab.

"I don't scalp the Injun not that I wouldn't like to, but I
ain't got time to gather no souvenirs an' I'm afeared to hang
around, 'cause Injuns ain't lonesome animals; they band up, an'
it's safe bettin' when we see one there's more near by. If I'd
a-tuk a head and tail robe off'n him, I'd a-peeled him to his
dewclaws, but as it is I'm nervous an' hurried, an' all I got's
his hoss an' gun an' four pair of new moccasins I found under his
belt.

"Guess this Injun's a Nez Perce, all right, because a short
time after the killin' of Murphy there's a bull-train jumped an'
burned on the Cow Creek, an' it ain't long till Joseph surrenders
to Miles over on the Snake."



LEPLEY'S BEAR


Old Man Lepley tells me one time about a bear he was near enough
to shake hands with but they don't get acquainted. He's been
living on hog side till he's near starved. So, one day he saddled
up and starts prowling for something fresh. There's lots of
black-tail in the country but they have been hunted till they are
shy, so after riding a while without seeing nothing he thinks
he'll have better luck afoot. So, the first park he hits, he
stakes his hoss. It's an old beaver meadow with bluejoint to his
cayuse's knees, and about the center (like it's put there for
him) is a dead cottonwood snag handy to stake his hoss to.

"After leaving the park he ain't gone a quarter of a mile
till he notices the taller branches of a chokecherry bush
movin'.There's no wind, and Lepley knows that bush don't move
without something pushing it, so naturally he's curious. 'Tain't
long till he heap savvys. It's a big silvertip and he's sure busy
berrying. There's lots of meat here, and bear grease is better
than any boughten lard. So, Lepley pulls down on him, aimin' for
his heart. Mr. Bear bites where the ball hits. It makes Old
Silver damn disagreeable he starts bawlin' and comin'.

"As I said before, there ain't no wind. It's the smoke from
his gun hovering over Lepley that tips it off where he's hiding.
He's packing a Sharp's carbine an' he ain't got time to reload,
so he turns this bear hunt into a foot race. It's a good one, but
it looks like the man'll take second money. When he reaches the
park his hoss has grazed to the near end. Lepley don't stop to
bridle, but leaps for the saddle.

"About this time the hoss sees what's hurrying the rider.
One look's enough. In two jumps, he's giving the best he's got.
Suddenly something happens. Lepley can't tell whether it's an
earthquake or a cyclone, but everything went from under him, and
he's sailin' off; but he's flying low, and uses his face for a
rough lock, and stops agin some bushes. When he wakes up he don't
hear harps nor smell smoke. It ain't till then he remembers he
don't untie his rope. The snag snapped off, and his hoss is
tryin' to drag it out of the country, and Mr. Bear, by the sound
of breaking brush, is hunting a new range and it won't be
anywhere near where they met. When his hoss stops on the end of
the rope, that old snag snaps and all her branches scatter over
the park. I guess Mr. Bear thinks the hoss has turned on him.
Maybe some of them big limbs bounced on him and he thinks the
hoss has friends and they're throwing clubs at him. Anyhow, Mr.
Bear gives the fight to Lepley and the hoss."

"Lepley says that for months he has to walk that old hoss a
hundred yards before he can spur him into a lope, and that you
could stake him on a hairpin and he'd stay."



HOW LOUSE CREEK WAS NAMED


"Ain't you ever heard how Louse Creek got its name?" inquires
Rawhide Rawlins. "Well, I ain't no historian, but I happen to
savvy this incident. The feller that christens it ain't like a
lot of old-timers that consider it an honor to have streams an'
towns named after 'em. His first name's Pete, and he still lives
in the Judith, but I ain't goin' no further exceptin' to say he's
a large, dark-complected feller, he's mighty friendly with Pat
O'Hara, and his hangout is the town of Geyser.

"When I knowed him first he's a cowpuncher. From looks you'd say he
didn't have nothin' under his hat but hair, but what he knows about cows
is a gift. Right now he's got a nice little bunch rangin' in the
foothills. There's a lot of talk about the way he gets his start you can
believe it or not, suit yourself but I think it's his winnin' way among
cows. He could come damn near talkin' a cow out of her calf. Some say
they've seen calves follerin' his saddle hoss across the prairie. One
old cowman says he's seen that, alright, but lookin' through glasses,
there's a rope between the calf and Pete's saddle horn.

"But goin' back to the namin' of Louse Creek, it's one
spring roundup, back in the early '80s. We're out on circle, an'
me an' Pete's ridin' together. Mine's a center-fire saddle, and I
drop back to straighten the blanket an' set it. I ain't but a few
minutes behind him, but the next I see of Pete is on the bank of
this creek, which didn't have no name then. He's off his hoss an'
has stripped his shirt off. With one boulder on the ground an'
another about the same size in his hand, he's poundin' the seams
of the shirt. He's so busy he don't hear me when I ride up, and
he's cussin' and swearin' to himself. I hear him mutter, 'I'm
damned if this don't get some of the big ones!'

"Well, from this day on, this stream is known as Louse
Creek."



JOHNNY REFORMS LANDUSKY


"Over in Lewistown there's a gent livin' that's one of the leadin'
citizens. I ain't tippin' his hand by mentionin' no names, but if I'd
ever told what I know about him he'd be makin' hair bridles to-day,"
said Rawhide Rawlins. "We'll call him Johnny an' let it go at that."

"A hoss-wrangler by perfession, he has a natural gift for
cookin' an' a keen affection for a Dutch oven, but in them crude
days his qualities as a chef ain't appreciated by his rough,
uncouth comrades in Yogo Gulch, where when I first knowed him
he's leadin' a happy, care-free life, watchin' the miners
strugglin' to wrest gold from the unyieldin' rocks. I remember
one finicky proposition in the camp that objects to Johnny's pet
rats livin' in the flour sack.

"Johnny's got such a good opinion of his own cookin' he
hangs up a standin' bet that he can outcook any man in Montana,
barrin' Dirty Mike, a chef of the Sour Dough School, who's got a
sensitive disposition and is impulsive with a gun. One record
Johnny points to is a vinegar pie he bakes at Yogo. It seems that
while the pie's in the oven, a prospector, Bedrock Jim, with whom
he's bachin', puts some giant powder in with the pie to thaw it
out. The powder, likely becomin' jealous of the pie, cuts loose
and scatters the cabin for miles up and down the gulch. They find
one stove lid on Lost Fork, and the pan the pie's in is missin',
but there where the cabin once stood is Vinegar, himself, without
even a scar.

"Bein' discouraged in his light cookin', an' never workin' as long as he
can get anything else to do, Johnny begins figgerin' out a soft way of
makin' a livin'. His pious disposition inclines him toward missionary
work, finally, and he picks out the Little Rockies as the most promisin'
district to begin reformin'. He starts a revival there that's a cross
between Mormonism an' a Sioux ghost dance, but this brand's too tough
for even the citizens of this section.

"In them days Landusky is the principal town in the Little
Rockies, an' it's a sociable camp, life there bein' far from
monotonous. The leadin' industries is saloons an' gamblin'
houses, with a fair sprinklin' of dance halls. For noise an'
smoke there wasn't nothin' ever seen like it before the big fight
in Europe starts. Little lead's wasted, as the shootin's
remarkably accurate an' almost anybody serves as a target.

"The mayor, Jew Jake, has lost one hind leg in a argument
with a sheriff, and he uses a Winchester for a crutch. Funerals
in Landusky is held at night under a white flag, so that business
ain't interrupted in the daytime.

"It's towards this peaceful village that Johnny rides one
day on a hoss that he's borrowed from a rancher who isn't in when
he calls. Johnny don't know he's near a town till he hears it a
few miles away. Spurrin' his hoss along he suddenly busts into
sight of the place, which reminds him of a chromo of Gettysburg
he once seen. But Johnny's game, an' mutterin' somethin' that
might have been a short prayer, he passes through the firin'
line, bein' shy only his hat and a cigarette he was smokin' when
he arrives.

"Either the excitement or somethin' he takes for it puts him
into a kind of trance for a few days, an' when he comes to he's
laid out on a poker table with his head hangin' off. He takes
readily to the life of the place, an' picks as his partner Dum
Dum Bill, who's got the reputation of bein' a quiet, scholarly
man with a lovable character, always shootin' to kill to save
unnecessary pain an' sufferin'. Dum Dum's made a hobby of
changin' brands on hosses, an' he's done much to discourage
gamblin' by makin' it hard, if not impossible, for other players
in a game he's sittin' in to win. His end's a sad ore. Bein'
caught by a war party of Missourians who's had bad luck with
their hoss herds, he's strung up to a corral crossbar. As he
hasn't got enough weight below his head to break his neck, his
end's hastened by tuckin' an anvil into the seat of his pants.

"Johnny, after throwin' in with Dum Dum Bill, does a lot of
good as a reformer. It's due to him that the custom of shootin'
at unarmed strangers is barred, an' a bounty a little less than
they paid for a wolf is placed on a number of citizens. As he's
in with the reformers, Johnny's name ain't on this list. The
bounty claimer has to show both ears of his victims but scalpin'
is frowned on as uncivilized."

"Johnny's in much demand for preachin' funeral sermons, but
sometimes he ain't got much tact. At one buryin' where the
deceased's been killed in a gun battle, Johnny takes as his text,
'When Fools Go Forth to Fight.' The relatives of the corpse get
hostile and Johnny has to spend the next three weeks in a
stockade he's built around his house for an emergency like this.
After a while he's elected mayor, but as he ain't over-good with
a forty-five, he don't take the job.

"Some forms of killin' was barred in Landusky, an' when Johnny makes a
puddin' for a Thanksgivin' dinner that kills three guests and disables
several more, he has to make a quick get-away. He beats a posse to the
railroad by a dozen jumps and swings under the rods of a freight train
that's passin'.

"I never took no stock in the rumors that was scattered
about Johnny afterward joinin' the Curry gang. The Kid once tells
me he'd give five hundred dollars for the name of the man that
starts this libel against his hold-up outfit."



SAFETY FIRST! BUT WHERE IS IT?


"Safety first! is the big holler to-day," says Rawhide Rawlins,
"but how do you know when and where you're safe? These days it's
hard to find. A rocking chair looks gentle, but when an
earthquake comes along it's no safer nor as safe as a locoed
bronk. A bronk might get you in the clear. I never heard of a
salmon from fresh water hurting anybody, but out of a can he's
often d