with sage-brush, which emits a strong, pungent odor that is delicious.
The alkali dust arises in clouds, and chokes one, as one proceeds,
but that is not the only difficulty, for—strange as it may seem—the
mosquito breeds by the millions in the irrigating ditches, and had it
not been for the thick gauntlet gloves and netting attached to our
sombreros, we would have been fairly eaten alive by the black swarms
which followed us in clouds.
Every now and again—afar off on the prairie—we would see a whirling
cloud of moving alkali dust.
“Wild horses running to water,” said one of the cowboys. “That’s the
way they always go, on the dead gallop.”
Occasionally we came near enough to see some of them and they were
lean, gaunt and rangy creatures, which had escaped from the ranches,
had run off to the prairie and had found pleasure in the free and
untrammelled life of the plains. They would snort, as we approached,
throw their heads high in the air, and then—turning around—would be
off like the wind.
As we rode along, hot, dusty, and thirsty, I heard about Jerry Lane.
“This here Lane,” said Jack (a lean, little cowboy) “is a Noo Yorker.
He came out here three years ago, sayin’ that life was too tame for him
back East, an’ he wanted to be right in the Rocky Mountains, where the
wolves, bears, and antelope could be seen, just th’ same as in th’ time
of Kit Carson an’ Bill Bent. Some says that he’s a millionaire. Some
says that he isn’t. Leastways he has about all th’ money one needs in
this here country, an’ they tell me his cabin in th’ Rockies is full of
th’ best kind of rifles, of steel traps, books, an’ all that’s nice.”
“HE FOUND LIFE TOO TAME FOR HIM BACK EAST.”
This sentence stuck in my mind and I knew—in a moment—what kind of a
youth was Jerry Lane. He had the same spirit as the old explorers. He
possessed the imagination of a Lewis or a Clarke; a Champlain, or a
La Salle. To him the spirit of the wilderness was all absorbing, and,
shaking off the trammels of civilization, he loved to live out his
days amidst the towering mountains, which, even then, stretched before
us, jutting high from the sage-brush plateau. I immediately felt a
sympathetic interest for Jerry Lane.
To cross into the valley of Jackson’s Hole requires one’s utmost
exertions, for one must climb up the Teton Pass in order to get over
the mountains which surround this paradise of fish and game. For a man
and a horse to pass up and across is easy work, but we were unfortunate
enough to have a wagon with us. As we neared the bottom of the trail,
which led almost perpendicularly up in the air, we saw a broken vehicle
of a pioneer.
“The Top of Teton Pass, or Bust,” some one had written on a board and
placed upon the battered spokes.
It had “Busted.”
Now climbing, pushing, blowing, we yoked four horses to our wagon and
gradually worked it to the summit of the Pass. It was July, but snow
was on the ridges, and the air was like Labrador as it swept across the
hemlock-covered mountains. When once on top of the Pass, what a view!
We gazed down into a peaceful little vale with log houses and thatched
roofs, fields of green grass with stacks of yellow hay, and bluish gray
rivers curving gracefully across the plain. Hereford cattle, with their
brown bodies and white faces, grazed contentedly upon the wide sweep
of natural grass, and the barking of dogs sounded indistinctly from the
barnyard of a new-made home.
Down we pushed into the valley, then onward, across the Snake River
at Moeners’ Ferry, and then to the Buffalo Fork of the Grosventre.
Antelope began to appear upon the plain and danced about us like yellow
and white rubber balls. Two of the cowboys dismounted and fired at
them, resting their rifles upon their knees. They could not duplicate
the marksmanship of Kit Carson or Buffalo Bill. Not an antelope was
even wounded.
We camped in a beautiful spot near the Grosventre River, and, just as
we were lighting the fire for supper, a cry went up from some one:
“Elk! Elk!”
I was busy pouring some coffee, and, looking up, saw a cowboy pointing
to a high bank opposite our camp. Sure enough, there stood a noble bull
elk, his spreading antlers standing out on either side, giving him a
calm and majestic appearance. He was gazing curiously at the animated
scene below.
Why is it that the average man’s first instinct when he sees a wild
animal is to kill it? I was satisfied with watching this magnificent
child of the forest, but not so with the rest of the party. Three of
them ran immediately to get their rifles and a fusillade of bullets
soon whistled in the direction of the big elk. He turned, galloped off
into the timber, and left the cowboys to bemoan their lack of ability
with the shooting-iron.
“By gracious,” said one, “I can’t hit a barn door at fifty yards!”
The elk was but one of the many which ranged the Jackson Hole country
and whose deep trails could be seen on every hand. Their bleaching
antlers, which they had shed, were also upon many a hill, and
frequently we would pass a rancher’s cabin, where a fence would have
been constructed of the white twisted horns of the old bulls. I knew
that we would soon see a quantity of elk, and we did.
Not many evenings later, as we were again boiling our coffee for
dinner, the most unearthly scream that I have ever heard echoed from
the canyon just to our right. It was answered by another, and—if I can
make you believe it—the sound was as if a woman were being strangled.
“Mountain lion screeching,” said Jack, with a grim smile. “Awful noise,
ain’t it?”
I confessed that it was.
“Makes me always feel skeery. Kind uv makes th’ gooseflesh creep up my
back. Heard ’em a thousand times but always frightens me.”
The cowboy drew closer to the fire and I noticed that he was shivering.
The mountain lion is a great coward and is afraid to attack a human
being. Unless cornered and extremely hungry, he will not fight. He
has—in spite of this—the most unearthly scream, which would make
one believe that he was one of the fiercest and most bloodthirsty of
beasts. Welling up upon the clear night air—in the very heart of the
wilderness—it is enough to freeze one’s blood to hear their wailings.
It takes strong nerves to listen to their gruesome noise without
shaking.
I heard the lions again about a week later, when I and a cowboy called
Jim, were making our way up the side of a beautiful little tributary to
the Grosventre. We were following a deep-rutted elk trail which led up
the edge of a mountain to and from their summer feeding grounds, upon
one of the higher plateaus. There was a log cabin nestling at the foot
of the opposite hill—used by one of the game wardens—and, in the rear
of this, a deep bank of hemlocks clothed the side of the cliff. Here
the lions were concealed, and, seeing us riding in the open, shrieked
out their defiance at the trespassers upon their demesne.
Although a startling and nerve-racking sound, we kept upon our way, and
I confess that I looked to the shells in my rifle—fearing that one
of the screechers might consider us excellent bait for their dinner.
Soon we had advanced far up the canyon and then the lions ceased their
caterwauling.
We were now in the heart of gameland. The tracks of bear were
extraordinarily thick, and every now and again we would come to fresh
sign, not an hour old. Once I reached a stream through which a big
grizzly must have just passed, for the water was still muddy, and the
print of his feet could easily be seen in the soft bank. In spite of
their apparent numbers we could not even catch a glimpse of one of
them, and, although I was constantly hoping to meet with a specimen
of these monsters of the glen, I was never to catch even a fleeting
glimpse of one.
Not so with the rest of the party. Not a week later one of the cowboys
rode into camp with a wild yelping, and there—behind him—were two
of his companions, lugging in the body of a brown bear. He was a
little fellow and his fur was all rubbed away in places, where he had
scratched himself against the rocks. In spite of this he was good
eating and his haunches were enjoyed by most of the party. Personally,
I did not care for the meat and preferred canned tongue.
The elk trails were most abundant, and I knew that we would soon see
these brown deer, for we gradually moved up to the summit of the
Rockies, where were vast plateaus covered with millions of beautiful
flowers. These the noble animals lived upon in summer and slept among
them too, for I would often find round holes in the grass, where some
of them had bedded down a short time before. One evening two of the
horse-wranglers returned to camp with the haunch of a cow elk, and
stated—with much glee—that they had run upon a band of six, coming
through some fallen timber. Two had fallen before their rifles, and,
after cutting off enough for the use of our camp, they had placed the
bodies in a position that could be easily approached, at a later date,
when bear would undoubtedly be feeding upon the venison.
A week later we had a glorious view of a large herd of elk.
While traversing a high belt of timber my companion—a
surveyor—called out to me to hurry over and see something on the other
extremity of the ridge, upon which he had just taken his position.
When I reached his side I saw that he was looking in the direction of
a high plateau, upon which fully a thousand elk were feeding. No bulls
seemed to be there—they were all cows and calves—and were grazing
like a herd of cattle. The little calves were butting at each other and
frisking about in great glee, while their fond mammas watched them with
loving and tender glances of affection. It was a beautiful and moving
vista.
My companion had a field-glass, and we stood watching the changing
mass of elk for at least an hour. They apparently had no knowledge of
our presence, for the wind was blowing from them to us, so that no
strange “scent of the trespassing man” came to their keen nostrils.
There—in that beautiful mountain pasture—the baby elk were growing to
maturity,—while far below in the valley the settlers were gathering
the natural hay which usually fed them, for the use of their own cattle
during the long and cruel winter. There would be much suffering and
distress among the band, when they had left these mountain meadows for
the valley.
A week later we met the trapper and plainsman: Jerry Lane. I had
already come upon his cabin and had stopped there for luncheon, leaving
a neat piece of paper on the door to the effect that,—
“Pardner, we used your tin plates, spoons, knives, and one can of
potted tongue.”
High up in the hills the little log hut was situated near a stream of
icy water. It was about sixteen by twenty feet, the floor covered with
bear and wolf skins, and four rifles in the rack. Great steel traps
hung upon the walls outside, and antelope hides were tacked against it.
There were good books within: stories of hunting and adventure,—and
upon the floor—were numerous copies of the Sunday _New York Journal_.
Jerry Lane had lived well upon the summit of the Rockies.
I will never forget the view of the young trapper which came to me that
morning. All around were the towering Rockies: an occasional fleck
of snow upon the brown surface of the high cliffs; a gushing stream
over on the right; the sage-brush plateau stretched away on every
side, brown, bare, parched. A puff of dust first appeared in the far
distance, then two figures rode up on horseback. They drew nearer and
nearer. In front was the youthful personification of Buffalo Bill. It
was Jerry Lane.
He was riding a magnificent half-bred animal—a roan. His bridle and
saddle, as I remember—were silver mounted. A big pair of Mexican spurs
were on his heels. With a close-fitting suit of tawny buckskin, a wide
sombrero, cartridge-belt around the waist, and a long rifle hung neatly
under the left leg he was a perfect picture of a plainsman,—such a
picture as one sees in dime novels.
Behind him was an evil-looking customer, dressed in a slovenly manner,
and scowling beneath a rather battered-in slouch hat. His horse,
too, had nowhere near the breeding of the other. He frowned as he
approached: the other smiled.
“Hello!” said Jerry Lane. “Dusty, isn’t it?”
“You bet,” said I. “Where you bound?”
“Montana.”
“Hunting?”
“No, just taking life easy.”
That was all the conversation that we had. He waved his hat to me,
touched the spurs to his horse’s flanks, and was soon off down the
divide. For a long time I stood and gazed after the lithe figure:
young, beautiful, brimming over with health and exuberance,—the man
who had found New York too tame for his hot blood. Could you blame him?
Three days later a cow-puncher rode into our camp, threw his saddle on
the ground, hobbled his pony, and drew near the mess table.
“Too bad about Jerry, warn’t it?” said he, as he seated himself.
“Why, what’s the matter with him?” I asked.
“Shot.”
“W-h-a-a-t!”
“Yes, got into a row over the Montana line. They say it was accidental.
Some one dropped his six-shooter on the floor. It exploded. No more
Jerry Lane.”
* * * * *
That night I walked out to a lonely rock and gazed at the brilliant
stars. It was the true West, after all, the West that I had always read
about but had never seen until now. I thought of the sandy-haired,
blue-eyed sheriff who had gone to the Great Beyond. I thought of poor
Jerry Lane: that lithe, active figure in buckskins; that devil-may-care
manner; that fresh, pink-cheeked face. Yes, the West still held her
tragedies, and the low wail of a coyote far off on the plain sounded
ominously dreary, while the hand of death lay over the great wild
wastes of the rolling, sagebrush-covered prairie.
THE SONG OF THE MOOSE
_This the song which the trapper heard,_
_Heard in the gloom of the forest dark,_
_Heard while the embers snapped and snarled,_
_To the growl and glare of the glimmering spark._
_Heard while the lucivee cried from the pines,_
_And the ribboned splash of a startled loon,_
_Crystalled the rim of the lake, as it lay_
_Soft in the gleam of the hunter’s moon._
_This is the song of the moose._
Near the amber drip of the torrent’s rip,
Where the lean wolf howls at the blinding spray,
Where the sleeted pine is riven and rent,
By stress and strain of the mist-bank gray;
We struggled and fed through the reedling’s bed,
Where the sheldrake croons to her fledglings brown,
And the otter mewed to its hungry brood,
As the osprey peered from the hemlock’s crown.
Our moosling day was a rapturous play,
We browsed where the partridge drummed a song,
Where the brown bear hid in the tamarack,
Where the days were short and the nights were long.
We roamed ’neath the arch of the drowsy larch,
Where the beaver bred in the inky pool,
We splashed in the foam of the cataract,
In the frothing spume and the ripples cool.
We hid ’neath the pine of the Serpentine,
As the red fox barked to his sleek-fed mate;
We ate of the birch of the Restigouche,
Where the goldfinch whisper and undulate.
Oh, bright were the days, with surcease of care,
As we fed and grew from our clumsy birth;
While the woods were green with a shimmering sheen,
And the sun shone hot on the moss-grown earth.
Then came the prod from the fleet-flying squad,
As the gray goose sped to the Chesapeake;
The leaves grew sere at the slow, dying year,
And the salmon raced from their spawning creek.
Our mothers fled from our marsh-sunken bed,
We browsed no more on the soft lilies’ pad;
From the distant blue came the caribou,
Rank upon rank—and their temper was bad.
Their eyes were bad, as they fought for our feed,
When the air grew chill in the Northern blast,
And the white flakes fell from the sodden sky,
On the sleeted lakes, soon frozen hard fast.
Pure white was the cowl of the arctic owl,
And soft was his voice from the cedar deep;
As we ploughed our yard ’neath the mountain’s guard,
And marked our birch for the long winter’s keep.
Now, sharp came the clang, as the wood-axe rang,
“’Tis man,” said our kin, “you must wander afar
From the sound of his voice and reach of his arm,
For his song is death and his hand is war.”
The blue wisps curled from the lone logger’s hut,
Far down in the depths of the silent wood;
And shouts came loud from the boisterous crowd,
As they sapped the strength of the forest’s blood.
We were taught to fend, with a lunge and bend,
The spring of the lynx, with his snarling yelp;
We were shown to ride, with a single stride,
The charge of the wolf and his whining whelp.
We saw how to strip the birch with our lip,
And to trample the shoots with our fore-leg weight;
We learned how to tell a foe by the smell,
That law in the wood was the law of hate.
Another year, and the wide ridge was clear,
As the snow grew less, and the day grew long;
With a start of the sap we swung from our trap,
While the chickadee whispered his mating song;
And the robin came, with feathers of flame,
To carol a psalm from the budding spray,
While the chewink’s flute, like a minstrel’s lute,
Trilled clear in the balm of the softening day.
Oh, that life was good in the opening wood,
As our brothers’ horns turned velvet to bone,
We wandered at will over hummock and hill,
’Till we found out—alas—we were never alone.
Man found us there, in our deep, forest lair,
And plunge as we would in the thicket’s gloom,
We ran on his track and the sign of his pack,
As he close hunted us down to our doom.
There, oft in the dark, we trembled to hark
To his muffled call, by bank of the pond,
And to those who lacked in spirit of fear,
It was death to inquire, and death to respond.
Oft have we trod on the ranks of the slain,
As prostrate they lay near some crystal stream
Lured to their end by the low, soothing cry,
Mocking the mate of a love-longing dream.
To the whispering rest of the trackless West,
We travel to live where the range-land is clear,
Where wolf and bear keep their sheltering lair,
Where silence is deep and man is not near.
Few—few are there left from merciless war,
Waged on our ranks, now broken and gone,
Yet, struggle we must ’gainst slaughtering lust,
Our end is in view—race-driven, forlorn.
_This is the song which the trapper heard,_
_Heard in the gloom of the forest dark,_
_Heard of an ancient and vanishing race,_
_By the growl and glare of the glimmering spark._
_Heard of the mannish blood-lust and greed,_
_Of the withering waste in the rifle’s path,_
_Song of the steel-clad bullet’s speed,_
_This is the song of the moose._
[Illustration: “LURED TO THEIR END BY THE LOW, SOOTHING CRY.”]
RETROSPECT
NO longer moves the wagon train through clouds of rolling dust,
No longer speaks the musket, foul caked with yellow rust,
Wild days have passed; the yelping brave has vanished in the mists
of time,
Wild fights are o’er, the valiant scout has ceased to cheer the firing
line.
The brutish bison herds are gone—the lean coyote sneaks here and there,
Where once the pronghorn fed in peace, and shyly roamed the grizzly
bear.
The elk are dead—the puma, too, no longer shrieks his wailing cry,
Where trapper’s fires are blazing clear, and sharply light the
dark’ning sky.
From out the past, pale forms arise, the shapes of those who fought and
bled
On treeless plains of alkali, and bravely found a gory bed.
The ghostly shapes go riding past; scout, voyageur, and priest,
Chief, warrior, and squaw, who gathered at the trader’s feast.
No more their laughter echoes loud, no more their voices rise and fall,
By bed of stream, ’neath aspen’s bough, where clumsy Indian children
sprawl.
The chatter of the dance is hushed; the yells of warrior bands are gone,
As—gathering for the dance of death—they held high revelry ’till dawn.
We gaze upon the written page, we marvel that such tales are truth,
Of fighting fierce, of wrangling rude, of scalp-dance and the cries of
youth.
Then thankfully we tread the paths, which voyageur and trapper bold
Were wont to tread in olden times, when passions fierce were
uncontrolled.
Yes—blood was shed—yes—men were brave, who conquered and who won the
West,
Now there is love where once was strife—the scouts have reached their
Heavenly rest.
THE END.
BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE
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