"Change of conditions, sir," he replied, as a mate to his captain.

"Only one more steep hill so far as I went. But we'll have to cut

through thickets and logs. From here on the road is all grown over.

About ten miles west we turn off the rim down a ridge."

That about the turning-off place was indeed good news. I thanked

Nielsen. And Doyle appeared immensely relieved. The packing and

carrying had begun to tell on us. Pups ingratiated himself into my

affections. He found out that he could coax meat and biscuit from me.

We had three axes and a hatchet; and these we did not pack in the

wagon. When Doyle finally got the teams started Lee and Nielsen and

R.C. and I went ahead to clear the road. Soon we were halted by

thickets of pines, some of which were six inches in diameter at the

base. The road had ceased to be rocky, and that, no doubt, was the

reason pine thickets had grown up on it, The wagon kept right at our

heels, and many times had to wait. We cut a way through thickets, tore

rotten logs to pieces, threw stumps aside, and moved windfalls. Brawny

Nielsen seemed ten men in one! What a swath he hacked with his big

axe! When I rested, which circumstance grew oftener and oftener, I had

to watch Nielsen with his magnificent swing of the axe, or with his

mighty heave on a log. Time and again he lifted tree trunks out of the

road. He sweat till he was wringing wet. Neither that day nor the next

would we have ever gotten far along that stretch of thicketed and

obstructed road had it not been for Nielsen.

At sunset we found ourselves at the summit of a long slowly ascending

hill, deeply forested. It took all the horses together to pull the

wagon to the top. Thus when we started down a steep curve, horses and

men both were tired. I was ahead riding beside Romer. Nielsen and R.C.

were next, and Lee had fallen in behind the wagon. As I turned the

sharp curve I saw not fifty feet below me a huge log obstructing the

road.

"Look out! Stop!" I yelled, looking back.

But I was too late. The horses could not hold back the heavily

laden wagon, and they broke into a gallop. I saw Doyle's face turn

white--heard him yell. Then I spurred my horse to the side. Romer was

slow or frightened. I screamed at him to get off the road. My heart

sank sick within me! Surely he would be run down. As his pony Rye

jumped out of the way the shoulder of the black horse, on the off

side, struck him a glancing blow. Then the big team hurdled the log,

the tongue struck with a crash, the wagon stopped with a lurch, and

Doyle was thrown from his seat.

Quick as a flash Nielsen was on the spot beside the team. The bay

horse was down. The black horse was trying to break away. Nielsen cut

and pulled the bay free of the harness, and Lee came tearing down to

grasp and hold the black.

Like a fool I ran around trying to help somehow, but I did not know

what to do. I smelled and then saw blood, which fact convinced me

of disaster. Only the black horse that had hurdled the log made

any effort to tear away. The other lay quiet. When finally it was

extricated we found that the horse had a bad cut in the breast made

by a snag on the log. We could find no damage done to the wagon. The

harness Nielsen had cut could be mended quickly. What a fortunate

outcome to what had seemed a very grave accident! I was thankful

indeed. But not soon would I forget sight of Romer in front of that

plunging wagon.

With the horses and a rope we hauled the log to one side of the road,

and hitching up again we proceeded on our way. Once I dropped back

and asked Doyle if he was all right. "Fine as a fiddle," he shouted.

"This's play to what we teamsters had in the early days." And verily

somehow I could see the truth of that. A mile farther on we made camp;

and all of us were hungry, weary, and quiet.

Doyle proved a remarkable example to us younger men. Next morning

he crawled out before any one else, and his call was cheery. I was

scarcely able to get out of my bed, but I was ashamed to lie there

an instant after I heard Doyle. Possibly my eyesight was dulled by

exhaustion when it caused me to see myself as a worn, unshaven,

wrinkled wretch. Romer-boy did not hop out with his usual alacrity.

R.C. had to roll over in his bed and get up on all fours.

We had scant rations for three more days. It behooved us to work and

waste not an hour. All morning, at the pace of a snail it seemed, we

chopped and lifted and hauled our way along that old Crook road. Not

since my trip down the Santa Rosa river in Mexico had I labored so

strenuously.

At noon we came to the turning-off junction, an old blazed road Doyle

had some vague knowledge of. "It must lead to Jones' ranch," Doyle

kept saying. "Anyway, we've got to take it." North was our direction.

And to our surprise, and exceeding gladness, the road down this ridge

proved to be a highway compared to what we had passed. In the open

forest we had to follow it altogether by the blazes on the trees. But

with all our eyes alert that was easy. The grade was down hill, so

that we traveled fast, covering four miles an hour. Occasionally a

log or thicket halted rapid progress. Toward the end of the afternoon

sheep and cattle trails joined the now well-defined road, and we knew

we were approaching a ranch. I walked, or rather limped the last mile,

for the very good reason that I could not longer bear the trot of

my horse. The forest grew more open, with smaller pines, and fewer

thickets. At sunset I came out upon the brow of a deep barren-looking

canyon, in the middle of which squatted some old ruined log-cabins.

Deserted! Alas for my visions of a cup of cold milk. For hours they

had haunted me. When Doyle saw the broken-down cabins and corrals he

yelled: "Boys, it's Jones' Ranch. I've been here. We're only three

miles from Long Valley and the main road!"

Elated we certainly were. And we rushed down the steep hill to look

for water. All our drinking water was gone, and the horses had not

slaked their thirst for two days. Separating we rode up and down the

canyon. R.C. and Romer found running water. Thereupon with immense

relief and joy we pitched camp near the cabins, forgetting our aches

and pains in the certainty of deliverance.

What a cold, dismal, bleak, stony, and lonesome place! We unpacked

only bedding, and our little store of food. And huddled around the

camp-fire we waited upon Doyle's cooking. The old pioneer talked while

he worked.

"Jones' ranch!--I knew Jones in the early days. And I've heard of him

lately. Thirty years ago he rode a prairie schooner down into this

canyon. He had his wife, a fine, strong girl, and he had a gun, an

axe, some chuck, a few horses and cattle, and not much else. He built

him that cabin there and began the real old pioneering of the early

days. He raised cattle. He freighted to the settlements twice a year.

In twenty-five years he had three strapping boys and a girl just as

strapping. And he had a fortune in cattle. Then he sold his stock and

left this ranch. He wanted to give his faithful wife and his children

some of the comforts and luxuries and advantages of civilization. The

war came. His sons did not wait for the draft. They entered the army.

I heard a story about Abe Jones, the old man's first boy. Abe was a

quiet sort of chap. When he got to the army training camp a sergeant

asked Abe if he could shoot. Abe said: 'Nope, not much.' So they gave

him a rifle and told him to shoot at the near target. Abe looked at

it sort of funny like and he picked out the farthest target at one

thousand yards. And he hit the bull's eye ten times straight running.

'Hey!' gasped the sergeant, 'you long, lanky galoot! You said you

couldn't shoot.' Abe sort of laughed. 'Reckon I was thinkin' about

what Dad called shootin'.'... Well, Abe and his brothers got to France

to the front. Abe was a sharpshooter. He was killed at Argonne. Both

his brothers were wounded. They're over there yet.... I met a man not

long ago who'd seen Jones recently. And the old pioneer said he and

his wife would like to be back home. And home to them means right

here--Jones' Ranch!"

Doyle's story affected me profoundly. What a theme for a novel! I

walked away from the camp-fire into the dark, lonely, melancholy

Arizona night. The ruined cabins, the broken-down corrals, the stone

fence, the wash where water ran at wet season--all had subtly changed

for me. Leaning in the doorway of the one-room cabin that had been

home for these Joneses I was stirred to my depths. Their spirits

abided in that lonely hut. At least I felt something there--something

strange, great, simple, inevitable, tragic as life itself. Yet what

could have been more beautiful, more splendid than the life of Jones,

and his wife, and daughter, and sons, especially Abe? Abe Jones! The

name haunted me. In one clear divining flash I saw the life of the

lad. I yearned with tremendous passion for the power to tell the

simplicity, the ruggedness, the pathos and the glory of his story.

The moan of wind in the pines seemed a requiem for the boy who had

prattled and romped and played under them, who had chopped and shot

and rode under them. Into his manhood had gone something of their

strength and nature.

We sought our beds early. The night down in that deep, open canyon was

the coldest we had experienced. I slept but little. At dawn all was

hoar-white with frost. It crackled under foot. The air had a stinging

bite. Yet how sweet, pure, cold to breathe!

Doyle's cheery: "Come and get it," was welcome call to breakfast. Lee

and Pups drove the horses into one of the old corrals. In an hour,

while the frost was yet hard and white, we were ready to start. Then

Doyle somewhat chilled our hopes: "Twenty years ago there was a bad

road out of here. Maybe one's been made since."

But one had not been made. And the old road had not been used for

years. Right at the outset we struck a long, steep, winding, rocky

road. We got stalled at the very foot of it. More toil! Unloading the

wagon we packed on our saddles the whole load more than a mile up this

last and crowning obstacle. Then it took all the horses together to

pull the empty wagon up to a level. By that time sunset had overtaken

us. Where had the hours gone? Nine hours to go one mile! But there had

to be an end to our agonies. By twilight we trotted down into Long

Valley, and crossed the main road to camp in a grove we remembered

well. We partook of a meagre supper, but we were happy. And bed that

night on a thick layer of soft pine needles, in a spot protected from

the cold wind, was immensely comfortable.

Lee woke the crowd next morning. "All rustle," he yelled. "Thirty-five

miles to Mormon Lake. Good road. We'll camp there to-night."

How strange that the eagerness to get home now could only be compared

to the wild desire for the woods a few weeks back! We made an early

start. The team horses knew that road. They knew they were now on the

way home. What difference that made! Jaded as they were they trotted

along with a briskness never seen before on that trip. It began to be

a job for us to keep up with Lee, who was on the wagon. Unless a rider

is accustomed to horseback almost all of the time a continuous trot on

a hard road will soon stove him up. My horse had an atrocious trot.

Time and again I had to fall behind to a walk and then lope ahead

to catch up. I welcomed the hills that necessitated Lee walking the

teams.

At noon we halted in a grassy grove for an hour's rest. That seemed

a precious hour, but to start again was painful. I noticed that

Romer-boy no longer rode out far in front, nor did he chase squirrels

with Pups. He sagged, twisted and turned, and lolled in his saddle.

Thereafter I tried to keep close to him. But that was not easy, for

he suspected me of seeing how tired he was, and kept away from me.

Thereafter I took to spying upon him from some distance behind. We

trotted and walked, trotted and walked the long miles. Arizona miles

were twice as long as ordinary properly measured miles. An event of

the afternoon was to meet some Mexican sheepherders, driving a flock

south. Nielsen got some fresh mutton from them. Toward sunset I caught

Romer hanging over his saddle. Then I rode up to him. "Son, are you

tired?" I asked. "Oh, Dad, I sure am, but I'm going to ride Rye to

Mormon Lake." I believed he would accomplish it. His saddle slipped,

letting him down. I saw him fall. When he made no effort to get up I

was frightened. Rye stood perfectly still over him. I leaped off and

ran to the lad. He had hit his head on a stone, drawing the blood, and

appeared to be stunned. I lifted him, holding him up, while somebody

got some water. We bathed his face and washed off the blood. Presently

he revived, and smiled at me, and staggered out of my hold.

"Helluva note that saddle slipped!" he complained. Manifestly he had

acquired some of Joe Isbel's strong language. Possibly he might have

acquired some other of the cowboy's traits, for he asked to have his

saddle straightened and to be put on his horse. I had misgivings, but

I could not resist him then. I lifted him upon Rye. Once more our

cavalcade got under way.

Sunset, twilight, night came as we trotted on and on. We faced a cold

wind. The forest was black, gloomy, full of shadows. Lee gave us all

we could do to keep up with him. At eight o'clock, two hours after

dark, we reached the southern end of Mormon Lake. A gale, cold as ice,

blew off the water from the north. Half a dozen huge pine trees stood

on the only level ground near at hand. "Nielsen, fire--pronto!" I

yelled. "Aye, sir," he shouted, in his deep voice. Then what with

hurry and bustle to get my bedding and packs, and to thresh my

tingling fingers, and press my frozen ears, I was selfishly busy a few

minutes before I thought of Romer.

Nielsen had started a fire, that blazed and roared with burning pine

needles. The blaze blew low, almost on a level with the ground, and a

stream of red sparks flew off into the woods. I was afraid of forest

fire. But what a welcome sight that golden flame! It lighted up a wide

space, showing the huge pines, gloom-encircled, and a pale glimmer of

the lake beyond. The fragrance of burning pine greeted my nostrils.

Dragging my bags I hurried toward the fire. Nielsen was building a

barricade of rocks to block the flying sparks. Suddenly I espied

Romer. He sat on a log close to the blaze. His position struck me as

singular, so I dropped my burdens and went to him. He had on a heavy

coat over sweater and under coat, which made him resemble a little old

man. His sombrero was slouched down sidewise, his gloved hands were

folded across his knees, his body sagged a little to one side, his

head drooped. He was asleep. I got around so I could see his face

in the firelight. Pale, weary, a little sad, very youthful and yet

determined! A bloody bruise showed over his temple. He had said he

would ride all the way to Mormon Lake and he had done it. Never, never

will that picture fade from my memory! Dear, brave, wild, little lad!

He had made for me a magnificent success of this fruitless hunting

trip. I hoped and prayed then that when he grew to man's estate, and

faced the long rides down the hard roads of life, he would meet them

and achieve them as he had the weary thirty-five Arizona miles from

Long Valley to Mormon Lake.

[Illustration: SKUNK, A FREQUENT AND RATHER DANGEROUS VISITOR IN CAMP]

[Illustration: ON THE RIM]

[Illustration: WHERE ELK, DEER, AND TURKEY DRINK]

Mutton tasted good that night around our camp-fire; and Romer ate a

generous portion. A ranger from the station near there visited us, and

two young ranchers, who told us that the influenza epidemic was waning.

This was news to be thankful for. Moreover, I hired the two ranchers to

hurry us by auto to Flagstaff on the morrow. So right there at Mormon

Lake ended our privations.

Under one of the huge pines I scraped up a pile of needles, made

Romer's bed in it, heated a blanket and wrapped him in it. Almost he

was asleep when he said: "Some ride, Dad--Good-night."

Later, beside him, I lay awake a while, watching the sparks fly, and

the shadows flit, feeling the cold wind on my face, listening to the

crackle of the fire and the roar of the gale.

IV

Eventually R.C. and Romer and I arrived in Los Angeles to find all

well with our people, which fact was indeed something to rejoice over.

Hardly had this 1918 trip ended before I began to plan for that of

1919. But I did not realize how much in earnest I was until I received

word that both Lee Doyle in Flagstaff and Nielsen in San Pedro were

very ill with influenza. Lee all but died, and Nielsen, afterward,

told me he would rather die than have the "flu" again. To my great

relief, however, they recovered.

From that time then it pleased me to begin to plan for my 1919 hunting

trip. I can never do anything reasonably. I always overdo everything.

But what happiness I derive from anticipation! When I am not working

I live in dreams, partly of the past, but mostly of the future. A man

should live only in the present.

I gave Lee instructions to go about in his own way buying teams,

saddle horses, and wagons. For Christmas I sent him a .35 Remington

rifle. Mr. Haught got instructions to add some new dogs to his pack. I

sent Edd also a .35 Remington, and made Nielsen presents of two guns.

In January Nielsen and I went to Picacho, on the lower Colorado river,

and then north to Death Valley. So that I kept in touch with these men

and did not allow their enthusiasm to wane. For myself and R.C. I had

the fun of ordering tents and woolen blankets, and everything that we

did not have on our 1918 trip. But owing to the war it was difficult

to obtain goods of any description. To make sure of getting a .30

Gov't Winchester I ordered from four different firms, including the

Winchester Co. None of them had such a rifle in stock, but all would

try to find one. The upshot of this deal was that, when after months I

despaired of getting any, they all sent me a rifle at the same time.

So I found myself with four, all the same caliber of course, but of

different style and finish. When I saw them and thought of the

Haughts I had to laugh. One was beautifully engraved, and inlaid with

gold--the most elaborate .30 Gov't the Winchester people had ever

built. Another was a walnut-stocked, shot-gun butted, fancy checkered

take-down. This one I presented to R.C. The third was a plain ordinary

rifle with solid frame. And the last was a carbine model, which I gave

to Nielsen.

During the summer at Avalon I used to take the solid frame rifle, and

climb the hills to practice on targets. At Clemente Island I used to

shoot at the ravens. I had a grudge against ravens there for picking

the eyes out of newly born lambs. At five hundred yards a raven was in

danger from me. I could make one jump at even a thousand yards. These

.30 Gov't 1906 rifles with 150-grain bullet are the most wonderful

shooting arms I ever tried. I became expert at inanimate targets.

From time to time I heard encouraging news from Lee about horses. Edd

wrote me about lion tracks in the snow, and lynx up cedar trees, and

gobblers four feet high, and that there was sure to be a good crop

of acorns, and therefore some bears. He told me about a big grizzly

cow-killer being chased and shot in Chevelon Canyon. News about

hounds, however, was slow in coming. Dogs were difficult to find.

At length Haught wrote me that he had secured two; and in this same

letter he said the boys were cutting trails down under the rim.

Everything pertaining to my cherished plans appeared to be turning

out well. But during this time I spent five months at hard work and

intense emotional strain, writing the longest novel I ever attempted;

and I over-taxed my endurance. By the middle of June, when I finished,

I was tired out. That would not have mattered if I had not hurt my

back in an eleven-hour fight with a giant broadbill swordfish. This

strain kept me from getting in my usual physical trim. I could not

climb the hills, or exert myself. Swimming hurt me more than anything.

So I had to be careful and wait until my back slowly got better. By

September it had improved, but not enough to make me feel any thrills

over horseback riding. It seemed to me that I would be compelled to

go ahead and actually work the pain out of my back, an ordeal through

which I had passed before, and surely dreaded.

During the summer I had purchased a famous chestnut sorrel horse named

Don Carlos. He was much in demand among the motion-picture companies

doing western plays; and was really too fine and splendid a horse to

be put to the risks common to the movies. I saw him first at Palm

Springs, down in southern California, where my book _Desert Gold_ was

being made into a motion-picture. Don would not have failed to strike

any one as being a wonderful horse. He was tremendously high and rangy

and powerful in build, yet graceful withal, a sleek, shiny chestnut

red in color, with fine legs, broad chest, and a magnificent head. I

rode him only once before I bought him, and that was before I hurt my

back. His stride was what one would expect from sight of him; his trot

seemed to tear me to pieces; his spirit was such that he wanted to

prance all the time. But in spite of his spirit he was a pet. And

how he could run! Nielsen took Don to Flagstaff by express. And when

Nielsen wrote me he said all of Flagstaff came down to the station to

see the famous Don Carlos. The car in which he had traveled was backed

alongside a platform. Don refused to step on the boards they placed

from platform to car. He did not trust them. Don's intelligence had

been sharpened by his experience with the movies. Nielsen tried to

lead, to coax, and to drive Don to step on the board walk. Don would

not go. But suddenly he snorted, and jumped the space clear, to plunge

and pound down upon the platform, scattering the crowd like quail.

The day before my departure from Los Angeles was almost as terrible an

ordeal as I anticipated would be my first day's ride on Don Carlos.

And this ordeal consisted of listening to Romer's passionate appeals

and importunities to let him go on the hunt. My only defence was that

he must not be taken from school. School forsooth! He was way ahead of

his class. If he got behind he could make it up. I talked and argued.

Once he lost his temper, a rare thing with him, and said he would run

away from school, ride on a freight train to Flagstaff, steal a horse

and track me to my camp. I could not say very much in reply to this

threat, because I remembered that I had made worse to my father, and

carried it out. I had to talk sense to Romer. Often we had spoken of

a wonderful hunt in Africa some day, when he was old enough; and I

happened upon a good argument. I said: "You'll miss a year out of

school then. It won't be so very long. Don't you think you ought to

stay in school faithfully now?" So in the end I got away from him,

victorious, though not wholly happy. The truth was I wanted him to go.

My Jap cook Takahashi met me in Flagstaff. He was a very short, very

broad, very muscular little fellow with a brown, strong face, more

pleasant than usually seen in Orientals. Secretly I had made sure that

in Takahashi I had discovered a treasure, but I was careful to conceal

this conviction from R.C., the Doyles, and Nielsen. They were glad to

see him with us, but they manifestly did not expect wonders.

How brief the span of a year! Here I was in Flagstaff again outfitting

for another hunt. It seemed incredible. It revived that old haunting

thought about the shortness of life. But in spite of that or perhaps

more because of it the pleasure was all the keener. In truth the only

drawback to this start was the absence of Romer, and my poor physical

condition. R.C. appeared to be in fine fettle.

But I was not well. In the mornings I could scarcely arise, and when

I did so I could hardly straighten myself. More than once I grew

doubtful of my strength to undertake such a hard trip. This doubt I

fought fiercely, for I knew that the right thing for me to do was

to go--to stand the pain and hardship--to toil along until my old

strength and elasticity returned. What an opportunity to try out my

favorite theory! For I believed that labor and pain were good for

mankind--that strenuous life in the open would cure any bodily ill.

On September fourteenth Edd and George drifted into Flagstaff to join

us, and their report of game and water and grass and acorns was so

favorable that I would have gone if I had been unable to ride on

anything but a wagon.

We got away on September fifteenth at two-thirty o'clock with such an

outfit as I had never had in all my many trips put together. We had a

string of saddle horses besides those the men rode. They were surely a

spirited bunch; and that first day it was indeed a job to keep them with

us. Out of sheer defiance with myself I started on Don Carlos. He was no

trouble, except that it took all my strength to hold him in. He tossed

his head, champed his bit, and pranced sideways along the streets of

Flagstaff, manifestly to show off his brand new black Mexican saddle,

with silver trappings and tapaderos. I was sure that he did not do that

to show me off. But Don liked to dance and prance along before a crowd,

a habit that he had acquired with the motion pictures.

Lee and Nielsen and George had their difficulties driving the free

horses. Takahashi rode a little buckskin Navajo mustang. An evidence of

how extremely short the Jap's legs were made itself plain in the fact

that stirrups could not be fixed so he could reach them with his feet.

When he used any support at all he stuck his feet through the straps

above the stirrups. How funny his squat, broad figure looked in a

saddle! Evidently he was not accustomed to horses. When I saw the

mustang roll the white of his eyes and glance back at Takahashi then I

knew something would happen sooner or later.

Nineteen miles on Don Carlos reduced me to a miserable aching specimen

of manhood. But what made me endure and go on and finish to camp was the

strange fact that the longer I rode the less my back pained. Other parts

of my anatomy, however, grew sorer as we progressed. Don Carlos pleased

me immensely, only I feared he was too much horse for me. A Mormon

friend of mine, an Indian trader, looked Don over in Flagstaff, and

pronounced him: "Shore one grand hoss!" This man had broken many wild

horses, and his compliment pleased me. All the same the nineteen miles

on Don hurt my vanity almost as much as my body.

We camped in a cedar pasture off the main road. This road was a new one

for us to take to our hunting grounds. I was too bunged up to help

Nielsen pitch our tent. In fact when I sat down I was anchored. Still I

could use my eyes, and that made life worth living. Sunset was a

gorgeous spectacle. The San Francisco Peaks were shrouded in purple

storm-clouds, and the west was all gold and silver, with low clouds

rimmed in red. This sunset ended in a great flare of dull magenta with a

background of purple.

That evening was the try-out of our new chuck-box and chef. I had

supplied the men with their own outfit and supplies, to do with as they

liked, an arrangement I found to be most satisfactory. Takahashi was to

take care of R.C. and me. In less than half an hour from the time the

Jap lighted a fire he served the best supper I ever had in camp

anywhere. R.C. lauded him to the skies. And I began to think I could

unburden myself of my conviction.

I did not awaken to the old zest and thrill of the open. Something was

wrong with me. The sunset, the camp-fire, the dark clear night with its

trains of stars, the distant yelp of coyotes--these seemed less to me

than what I had hoped for. My feelings were locked round my discomfort

and pain.

About noon next day we rode out of the cedars into the open desert--a

rolling, level land covered with fine grass, and yellow daisies, Indian

paint brush, and a golden flowering weed. This luxuriance attested to

the copious and recent rains. They had been a boon to dry Arizona. No

sage showed or greasewood, and very few rocks. The sun burned hot. I

gazed out at the desert, and the cloud pageant in the sky, trying hard

to forget myself, and to see what I knew was there for me. Rolling

columnar white and cream clouds, majestic and beautiful, formed storms

off on the horizon. Sunset on the open desert that afternoon was

singularly characteristic of Arizona--purple and gold and red, with long

lanes of blue between the colored cloud banks.

We made camp at Meteor Crater, one of the many wonders of this

wonderland. It was a huge hole in the earth over five hundred feet deep,

said to have been made by a meteor burying itself there. Seen from the

outside the slope was gradual up to the edges, which were scalloped and

irregular; on the inside the walls were precipitous. Our camp was on the

windy desert, a long sweeping range of grass, sloping down, dotted with

cattle, with buttes and mountains in the distance. Most of my sensations

of the day partook of the nature of woe.

September seventeenth bade fair to be my worst day--at least I did not

see how any other could ever be so bad. Glaring hot sun--reflected heat

from I the bare road--dust and sand and wind! Particularly hard on me

were what the Arizonians called dust-devils, whirlwinds of sand. On and

off I walked a good many miles, the latter of which I hobbled. Don

Carlos did not know what to make of this. He eyed me, and nosed me, and

tossed his head as if to say I was a strange rider for him. Like my

mustang, Night, he would not stand to be mounted. When I touched the

stirrup that was a signal to go. He had been trained to it. As he was

nearly seventeen hands high, and as I could not get my foot in the

stirrup from level ground, to mount him in my condition seemed little

less than terrible. I always held back out of sight when I attempted

this. Many times I failed. Once I fell flat and lay a moment in the

dust. Don Carlos looked down upon me in a way I imagined was

sympathetic. At least he bent his noble head and smelled at me. I

scrambled to my feet, led him round into a low place, and drawing a deep

breath, and nerving myself to endure the pain like a stab, I got into

the saddle again.

Two things sustained me in this ordeal, which was the crudest horseback

ride I ever had--first, the conviction that I could cure my ills by

enduring the agony of violent action, of hot sun, of hard bed; and

secondly, the knowledge that after it was all over the remembrance of

hardship and achievement would be singularly sweet. So it had been in

the case of the five days on the old Crook road in 1918, when extreme

worry and tremendous exertion had made the hours hideous. So it had been

with other arduous and poignant experiences. A poet said that the crown

of sorrow was in remembering happier times: I believed that there was a

great deal of happiness in remembering times of stress, of despair, of

extreme and hazardous effort. Anyway, without these two feelings in my

mind I would have given up riding Don Carlos that day, and have

abandoned the trip.

We covered twenty-two miles by sundown, a rather poor day's showing; and

camped on the bare flat desert, using water and wood we had packed with

us. The last thing I remembered, as my eyes closed heavily, was what a

blessing it was to rest and to sleep.

Next day we sheered off to the southward, heading toward Chevelon Butte,

a black cedared mountain, rising lone out of the desert, thirty miles

away. We crossed two streams bank full of water, a circumstance I never

before saw in Arizona. Everywhere too the grass was high. We climbed

gradually all day, everybody sunburned and weary, the horses settling

down to save themselves; and we camped high up on the desert plateau,

six thousand feet above sea level, where it was windy, cool, and

fragrant with sage and cedar. Except the first few, the hours of this

day each marked a little less torture for me; but at that I fell off

Don Carlos when we halted. And I was not able to do my share of the camp

work. R.C. was not as spry and chipper as I had seen him, a fact from

which I gathered infinite consolation. Misery loves company.

A storm threatened. All the west was purple under on-coming purple

clouds. At sight of this something strange and subtle, yet familiar,

revived in me. It made me feel a little more like the self I thought I

knew. So I watched the lightning flare and string along the horizon.

Some time in the night thunder awakened me. The imminence of a severe

storm forced us to roll out and look after the tent. What a pitch black

night! Down through the murky, weird blackness shot a wonderful zigzag

rope of lightning, blue-white, dazzling; and it disintegrated, leaving

segments of fire in the air. All this showed in a swift flash--then we

were absolutely blind. I could not see for several moments. It rained a

little. Only the edge of the storm touched us. Thunder rolled and boomed

along the battlements, deep and rumbling and detonating.

No dust or heat next morning! The desert floor appeared clean and damp,

with fresh gray sage and shining bunches of cedar. We climbed into the

high cedars, and then to the piñons, and then to the junipers and pines.

Climbing so out of desert to forestland was a gradual and accumulating

joy to me. What contrast in vegetation, in air, in color! Still the

forest consisted of small trees. Not until next day did we climb farther

to the deepening, darkening forest, and at last to the silver spruce.

That camp, the fifth night out, was beside a lake of surface water,

where we had our first big camp-fire.

September twenty-first and ten miles from Beaver Dam Canyon, where a

year before I had planned to meet Haught this day and date at noon! I

could make that appointment, saddle-sore and weary as I was, but I

doubted we could get the wagons there. The forest ground was soft. All

the little swales were full of water. How pleasant, how welcome, how

beautiful and lonely the wild forestland! We made advance slowly. It was

afternoon by the time we reached the rim road, and four o'clock when we

halted at the exact spot where we had left our wagon the year before.

Lee determined to drive the wagons down over the rocky benches into

Beaver Dam Canyon; and to that end he and the men began to cut pines,

drag logs, and roll stones.

R.C. and I rode down through the forest, crossing half a dozen swift

little streams of amber water, where a year before all had been dry as

tinder. We found Haught's camp in a grove of yellowing aspens. Haught

was there to meet us. He had not changed any more than the rugged pine

tree under which a year past we had made our agreement. He wore the same

blue shirt and the old black sombrero.

"Hello Haught," was my greeting, as I dismounted and pulled out my

watch. "I'm four hours and a quarter late. Sorry. I could have made it,

but didn't want to leave the wagons."

"Wal, wal, I shore am glad to see you," he replied, with a keen flash in

his hazel eyes and a smile on his craggy face. "I reckoned you'd make

it. How are you? Look sort of fagged."

"Just about all in, Haught," I replied, as we shook hands.

Then Copple appeared, swaggering out of the aspens. He was the man I met

in Payson and who so kindly had made me take his rifle. I had engaged

him also for this hunt. A brawny man he was, with powerful shoulders,

swarthy-skinned, and dark-eyed, looking indeed the Indian blood he

claimed.

"Wouldn't have recognized you anywhere's else," he said.

These keen-eyed outdoor men at a glance saw the havoc work and pain had

played with me. They were solicitous, and when I explained my condition

they made light of that, and showed relief that I was not ill. "Saw wood

an' rustle around," said Haught. And Copple said: "He needs venison an'

bear meat."

They rode back with us up to the wagons. Copple had been a freighter. He

picked out a way to drive down into the canyon. So rough and steep it

was that I did not believe driving down would be possible. But with axes

and pick and shovel, and a heaving of rocks, they worked a road that Lee

drove down. Some places were almost straight down. But the ground was

soft, hoofs and wheels sank deeply, and though one wagon lurched almost

over, and the heavily laden chuck-wagon almost hurdled the team, Lee

made the bad places without accident. Two hours after our arrival, such

was the labor of many strong hands, we reached our old camp ground. One

thing was certain, however, and that was we would never get back up the

way we came down.

Except for a luxuriance of grass and ferns, and two babbling streams of

water, our old camp ground had not changed. I sat down with mingled

emotions. How familiarly beautiful and lonely this canyon glade! The

great pines and spruces looked down upon me with a benediction. How

serene, passionless, strong they seemed! It was only men who changed in

brief time. The long year of worry and dread and toil and pain had

passed. It was nothing. On the soft, fragrant, pine-scented breeze came

a whispering of welcome from the forestland: "You are here again. Live

now--in the present."

Takahashi beamed upon me: "More better place to camp," he said,

grinning. Already the Jap had won my admiration and liking. His ability

excited my interest, and I wanted to know more about him. As to this

camp-site being a joy compared to the ones stretched back along the road

he was assuredly right. That night we did no more than eat and unroll

our beds. But next day there set in the pleasant tasks of unpacking,

putting up tents and flies, cutting spruce for thick, soft beds, and a

hundred odd jobs dear to every camper. Takahashi would not have any one

help him. He dug a wide space for fires, erected a stone windbreak, and

made two ovens out of baked mud, the like of which, and the cleverness

of which I had never seen. He was a whirlwind for work.

The matter of firewood always concerned Nielsen and me more than any

one. Nielsen was a Norwegian, raised as a boy to use a crosscut saw; and

as for me I was a connoisseur in camp-fires and a lover of them. Hence

we had brought a crosscut saw--a long one with two handles. I remembered

from the former year a huge dead pine that had towered bleached and

white at the edge of the glade. It stood there still. The storms and

blasts of another winter had not changed it in the least. It was five

feet thick at the base and solid. Nielsen chopped a notch in it on the

lower side, and then he and Edd began to saw into it on the other. I saw

the first tremor of the lofty top. Then soon it shivered all the way

down, gave forth a loud crack, swayed slowly, and fell majestically, to

strike with a thundering crash. Only the top of this pine broke in the

fall, but there were splinters and knots and branches enough to fill a

wagon. These we carried up to our camp-fire.

Then the boys sawed off half a dozen four-foot sections, which served

as fine, solid, flat tables for comfort around camp. The method of using

a crosscut saw was for two men to take a stand opposite one another,

with the log between. The handles of the saw stood upright. Each man

should pull easily and steadily toward himself, but should not push back

nor bear down. It looked a rhythmic, manly exercise, and not arduous.

But what an illusion! Nielsen and Copple were the only ones that day who

could saw wholly through the thick log without resting. Later Takahashi

turned out to be as good, if not better, than either of them, but we had

that, as well as many other wonderful facts, to learn about the Jap.

"Come on," said R.C. to me, invitingly. "You've been talking about this

crosscut saw game. I'll bet you find it harder than pulling on a

swordfish."

Pride goes before a fall! I knew that in my condition I could do little

with the saw, but I had to try. R.C. was still fresh when I had to rest.

Perhaps no one except myself realized the weakness of my back, but the

truth was a couple of dozen pulls on that saw almost made me collapse.

Wherefore I grew furious with myself and swore I would do it or die. I

sawed till I fell over--then I rested and went back at it. Half an hour

of this kind of exercise gave me a stab in my left side infinitely

sharper than the pain in my back. Also it made me wringing wet, hot as

fire, and as breathless as if I had run a mile up hill. That experience

determined me to stick to crosscut sawing every day. Next morning I

approached it with enthusiasm, yet with misgivings. I could not keep my

breath. Pain I could and did bear without letting on. But to have to

stop was humiliating. If I tried to keep up with the sturdy Haught boys,

or with the brawny Copple or the giant Nielsen, soon I would be

compelled to keel over. In the sawing through a four-foot section of log

I had to rest eight times. They all had a great deal of fun out of it,

and I pretended to be good natured, but to me who had always been so

vigorous and active and enduring it was not fun. It was tragic. But all

was not gloom for me. This very afternoon Nielsen, the giant, showed

that a stiff climb out of the canyon, at that eight thousand feet

altitude, completely floored him. Yet I accomplished that with

comparative ease. I could climb, which seemed proof that I was gaining.

A man becomes used to certain labors and exercises. I thought the

crosscut saw a wonderful tool to train a man, but it must require time.

It harked back to pioneer days when men were men. Nielsen said he had

lived among Mexican boys who sawed logs for nineteen cents apiece and

earned seven dollars a day. Copple said three minutes was good time to

saw a four-foot log in two pieces. So much for physical condition! As

for firewood, for which our crosscut saw was intended, pitch pine and

yellow pine and spruce were all odorous and inflammable woods, but they

did not make good firewood. Dead aspen was good; dead oak the best. It

burned to red hot coals with little smoke. As for camp-fires, any kind

of dry wood pleased, smoke or no smoke. In fact I loved the smell and

color of wood-smoke, in spite of the fact that it made my eyes smart.

By October first, which was the opening day of the hunting season, I had

labored at various exercises until I felt fit to pack a rifle through

the woods. R.C. and I went out alone on foot. Not by any means was the

day auspicious. The sun tried to show through a steely haze, making only

a pale shift of sunshine. And the air was rather chilly. Enthusiasm,

however, knew no deterrents. We walked a mile down Beaver Dam Canyon,

then climbed the western slope. As long as the sun shone I knew the

country fairly well, or rather my direction. We slipped along through

the silent woods, satisfied with everything. Presently the sun broke

through the clouds, and shone fitfully, making intervals of shadow, and

others of golden-green verdure.

Along an edge of one of the grassy parks we came across fresh deer

tracks. Several deer had run out of the woods just ahead of us,

evidently having winded us. One track was that of a big buck. We trailed

these tracks across the park, then made a detour in hopes of heading the

deer off, but failed. A huge, dark cloud scudded out of the west and let

down a shower of fine rain. We kept dry under a spreading spruce. The

forest then was gloomy and cool with only a faint moan of wind and

pattering of raindrops to break the silence. The cloud passed by, the

sun shone again, the forest glittered in its dress of diamonds. There

had been but little frost, so that aspen and maple thickets had not yet

taken on their cloth of gold and blaze of red. Most of the leaves were

still on the trees, making these thickets impossible to see into. We

hunted along the edges of these, and across the wide, open ridge from

canyon to canyon, and saw nothing but old tracks. Black and white clouds

rolled up and brought a squall. We took to another spruce tent for

shelter. After this squall the sky became obscured by a field of gray

cloud through which the sun shone dimly. This matter worried me. I was

aware of my direction then, but if I lost the sun I would soon be in

difficulties.

Gradually we worked back along the ridge toward camp, and headed several

ravines that ran and widened down into the big canyon. All at once R.C.

held up a warning finger. "Listen!" With abatement of breath I listened,

but heard nothing except the mournful sough of the pines. "Thought I

heard a whistle," he said. We went on, all eyes and ears.

R.C. and I flattered ourselves that together we made rather a good

hunting team. We were fairly well versed in woodcraft and could slip

along stealthily. I possessed an Indian sense of direction that had

never yet failed me. To be sure we had much to learn about deer

stalking. But I had never hunted with any man whose ears were as quick

as R.C.'s. A naturally keen hearing, and many years of still hunting,

accounted for this faculty. As for myself, the one gift of which I was

especially proud was my eyesight. Almost invariably I could see game in

the woods before any one who was with me. This had applied to all my

guides except Indians. And I believed that five summers on the Pacific,

searching the wide expanse of ocean for swordfish fins, had made my eyes

all the keener for the woods. R.C. and I played at a game in which he

tried to hear the movement of some forest denizen before I saw it. This

fun for us dated back to boyhood days.

Suddenly R.C. stopped short, with his head turning to one side, and his

body stiffening. "I heard that whistle again," he said. We stood

perfectly motionless for a long moment. Then from far off in the forest

I heard a high, clear, melodious, bugling note. How thrilling, how

lonely a sound!

"It's a bull-elk," I replied. Then we sat down upon a log and listened.

R.C. had heard that whistle in Colorado, but had not recognized it. Just

as the mournful howl of a wolf is the wildest, most haunting sound of

the wilderness, so is the bugle of the elk the noblest, most melodious

and thrilling. With tingling nerves and strained ears we listened. We

heard elk bugling in different directions, hard to locate. One bull

appeared to be low down, another high up, another working away. R.C. and

I decided to stalk them. The law prohibited the killing of elk, but that

was no reason why we might not trail them, and have the sport of seeing

them in their native haunts. So we stole softly through the woods,

halting now and then to listen, pleased to note that every whistle we

heard appeared to be closer.

At last, apparently only a deep thicketed ravine separated us from the

ridge upon which the elk were bugling. Here our stalk began to become

really exciting. We did not make any noise threading that wet thicket,

and we ascended the opposite slope very cautiously. What little wind

there was blew from the elk toward us, so they could not scent us. Once

up on the edge of the ridge we halted to listen. After a long time we

heard a far-away bugle, then another at least half a mile distant. Had

we miscalculated? R.C. was for working down the ridge and I was for

waiting there a few moments. So we sat down again. The forest was almost

silent now. Somewhere a squirrel was barking. The sun peeped out of the

pale clouds, lighted the glades, rimmed the pines in brightness. I

opened my lips to speak to R.C. when I was rendered mute by a piercing

whistle, high-pitched and sweet and melodiously prolonged. It made my

ears tingle and my blood dance. "Right close," whispered R.C. "Come on."

We began to steal through the forest, keeping behind trees and thickets,

peeping out, and making no more sound than shadows. The ground was damp,

facilitating our noiseless stalk. In this way we became separated by

about thirty steps, but we walked on and halted in unison. Passing

through a thicket of little pines we came into an open forest full of

glades. Keenly I peered everywhere, as I slipped from tree to tree.

Finally we stooped along for a space, and then, at a bugle blast so

close that it made me jump, I began to crawl. My objective point was a

fallen pine the trunk of which appeared high enough to conceal me. R.C.

kept working a little farther to the right. Once he beckoned me, but I

kept on. Still I saw him drop down to crawl. Our stalk was getting

toward its climax. My state was one of quivering intensity of thrill, of

excitement, of pleasure. Reaching my log I peeped over it. I saw a

cow-elk and a yearling calf trotting across a glade about a hundred

yards distant. Wanting R.C. to see them I looked his way, and pointed.

But he was pointing also and vehemently beckoning for me to join him. I

ran on all fours over to where he knelt. He whispered pantingly:

"Grandest sight--ever saw!" I peeped out.

In a glade not seventy-five yards away stood a magnificent bull elk,

looking back over his shoulder. His tawny hind-quarters, then his dark

brown, almost black shaggy shoulders and head, then his enormous spread

of antlers, like the top of a dead cedar--these in turn fascinated my

gaze. How graceful, stately, lordly!

R.C. stepped out from behind the pine in full view. I crawled out, took

a kneeling position, and drew a bead on the elk. I had the fun of

imagining I could have hit him anywhere. I did not really want to kill

him, yet what was the meaning of the sharp, hot gush of my blood, the

fiery thrill along my nerves, the feeling of unsatisfied wildness? The

bull eyed us for a second, then laid his forest of antlers back over his

shoulders, and with singularly swift, level stride, sped like a tawny

flash into the green forest.

R.C. and I began to chatter like boys, and to walk toward the glade,

without any particular object in mind, when my roving eye caught sight

of a moving brown and checkered patch low down on the ground, vanishing

behind a thicket. I called R.C. and ran. I got to where I could see

beyond the thicket. An immense flock of turkeys! I yelled. As I tried to

get a bead on a running turkey R.C. joined me. "Chase 'em!" he yelled.

So we dashed through the forest with the turkeys running ahead of us.

Never did they come out clear in the open. I halted to shoot, but just

as I was about to press the trigger, my moving target vanished. This

happened again. No use to shoot at random! I had a third fleeting

chance, but absolutely could not grasp it. Then the big flock of turkeys

eluded us in an impenetrable, brushy ravine.

"By George!" exclaimed R.C. "Can you beat that? They run like streaks. I

couldn't aim. These wild turkeys are great."

I echoed his sentiments. We prowled around for an hour trying to locate

this flock again, but all in vain. "Well," said R.C. finally, as he

wiped his perspiring face, "it's good to see some game anyhow.... Where

are we?"

It developed that our whereabouts was a mystery to me. The sun had

become completely obliterated, a fine rain was falling, the forest had

grown wet and dismal. We had gotten turned around. The matter did not

look serious, however, until we had wandered around for another hour

without finding anything familiar. Then we realized we were lost. This

sort of experience had happened to R.C. and me often; nevertheless we

did not relish it, especially the first day out. As usual on such

occasions R.C. argued with me about direction, and then left the

responsibility with me. I found an open spot, somewhat sheltered on one

side from the misty rain, and there I stationed myself to study trees

and sky and clouds for some clue to help me decide what was north or

west. After a while I had the good fortune to see a momentary

brightening through the clouds. I located the sun, and was pleased to

discover that the instinct of direction I had been subtly prompted to

take, would have helped me as much as the sun.

We faced east and walked fast, and I took note of trees ahead so that

we should not get off a straight line. At last we came to a deep canyon.

In the gray misty rain I could not be sure I recognized it. "Well,

R.C.," I said, "this may be our canyon, and it may not. But to make sure

we'll follow it up to the rim. Then we can locate camp." R.C. replied

with weary disdain. "All right, my redskin brother, lead me to camp. As

Loren says, I'm starved to death." Loren is my three-year-old boy, who

bids fair to be like his brother Romer. He has an enormous appetite and

before meal times he complains bitterly: "I'm starv-ved to death!" How

strange to remember him while I was lost in the forest!

When we had descended into the canyon rain was falling more heavily. We

were in for it. But I determined we would not be kept out all night. So

I struck forward with long stride.

In half an hour we came to where the canyon forked. I deliberated a

moment. Not one familiar landmark could I descry, from which fact I

decided we had better take to the left-hand fork. Grass and leaves

appeared almost as wet as running water. Soon we were soaked to the

skin. After two miles the canyon narrowed and thickened, so that

traveling grew more and more laborsome. It must have been four miles

from its mouth to where it headed up near the rim. Once out of it we

found ourselves on familiar ground, about five miles from camp.

Exhausted and wet and nearly frozen we reached camp just before dark. If

I had taken the right-hand fork of the canyon, which was really Beaver

Dam Canyon, we would have gotten back to camp in short order. R.C. said

to the boys: "Well, Doc dragged me nine miles out of our way." Everybody

but the Jap enjoyed my discomfiture. Takahashi said in his imperfect

English: "Go get on more better dry clothes. Soon hot supper. Maybe good

yes!"

V

It rained the following day, making a good excuse to stay in camp and

rest beside the little tent-stove. And the next morning I started out on

foot with Copple. We went down Beaver Dam Canyon intending to go up on

the ridge where R.C. and I had seen the flock of turkeys.

I considered Copple an addition to my long list of outdoor acquaintances

in the west, and believed him a worthy partner for Nielsen. Copple was

born near Oak Creek, some twenty miles south of Flagstaff, and was

one-fourth Indian. He had a good education. His whole life had been in

the open, which fact I did not need to be told. A cowboy when only a boy

he had also been sheepherder, miner, freighter, and everything

Arizonian. Eighteen years he had hunted game and prospected for gold in

Mexico. He had been a sailor and fireman on the Pacific, he had served

in the army in the Philippines. Altogether his had been an adventurous

life; and as Doyle had been a mine of memories for me so would Copple be

a mine of information. Such men have taught me the wonder, the violence,

the truth of the west.

Copple was inclined to be loquacious--a trait that ordinarily was rather

distasteful to me, but in his case would be an advantage. On our way

down the canyon not only did he give me an outline of the history of his

life, but he talked about how he had foretold the storm just ended. The

fresh diggings of gophers--little mounds of dirt thrown up--had

indicated the approach of the storm; so had the hooting of owls;

likewise the twittering of snowbirds at that season; also the feeding of

blackbirds near horses. Particularly a wind from the south meant storm.

From that he passed to a discussion of deer. During the light of the

moon deer feed at night; and in the day time they will lie in a thicket.

If a hunter came near the deer would lower their horns flat and remain

motionless, unless almost ridden over. In the dark of the moon deer feed

at early morning, lie down during the day, and feed again toward sunset,

always alert, trusting to nose more than eyes and ears.

Copple was so interesting that I must have passed the place where R.C.

and I had come down into the canyon; at any rate I missed it, and we

went on farther. Copple showed me old bear sign, an old wolf track, and

then fresh turkey tracks. The latter reminded me that we were out

hunting. I could carry a deadly rifle in my hands, yet dream dreams of

flower-decked Elysian fields. We climbed a wooded bench or low step of

the canyon slope, and though Copple and I were side by side I saw two

turkeys before he did. They were running swiftly up hill. I took a snap

shot at the lower one, but missed. My bullet struck low, upsetting him.

Both of them disappeared.

Then we climbed to the top of the ridge, and in scouting around along

the heavily timbered edges we came to a ravine deep enough to be classed

as a canyon. Here the forest was dark and still, with sunlight showing

down in rays and gleams. While hunting I always liked to sit down here

and there to listen and watch. Copple liked this too. So we sat down.

Opposite us the rocky edge of the other slope was about two hundred

yards. We listened to jays and squirrels. I made note of the significant

fact that as soon as we began to hunt Copple became silent.

Presently my roving eye caught sight of a moving object. It is movement

that always attracts my eye in the woods. I saw a plump, woolly beast

walk out upon the edge of the opposite slope and stand in the shade.

"Copple, is that a sheep?" I whispered, pointing. "Lion--no, big lynx,"

he replied. I aimed and shot just a little too swiftly. Judging by the

puff of dust my bullet barely missed the big cat. He leaped fully

fifteen feet. Copple fired, hitting right under his nose as he alighted.

That whirled him back. He bounced like a rubber ball. My second shot

went over him, and Copple's hit between his legs. Then with another

prodigious bound he disappeared in a thicket. "By golly! we missed him,"

declared Copple. "But you must have shaved him that first time. Biggest

lynx I ever saw."

We crossed the canyon and hunted for him, but without success. Then we

climbed an open grassy forest slope, up to a level ridge, and crossed

that to see down into a beautiful valley, with stately isolated pines,

and patches of aspens, and floor of luxuriant grass. A ravine led down

into this long park and the mouth of it held a thicket of small pines.

Just as we got half way out I saw bobbing black objects above the high

grass. I peered sharply. These objects were turkey heads. I got a shot

before Copple saw them. There was a bouncing, a whirring, a

thumping--and then turkeys appeared to be running every way.

Copple fired. "Turkey number one!" he called out. I missed a big gobbler

on the run. Copple shot again. "Turkey number two!" he called out. I

could not see what he had done, but of course I knew he had done

execution. It roused my ire as well as a desperate ambition. Turkeys

were running up hill everywhere. I aimed at this one, then at that.

Again I fired. Another miss! How that gobbler ran! He might just as well

have flown. Every turkey contrived to get a tree or bush between him and

me, just at the critical instant. In despair I tried to hold on the last

one, got a bead on it through my peep sight, moved it with him as we

moved, and holding tight, I fired. With a great flop and scattering of

bronze feathers he went down. I ran up the slope and secured him, a

fine gobbler of about fifteen pounds weight.

Upon my return to Copple I found he had collected his two turkeys, both

shot in the neck in the same place. He said: "If you hit them in the

body you spoil them for cooking. I used to hit all mine in the head. Let

me give you a hunch. Always pick out a turkey running straight away from

you or straight toward you. Never crossways. You can't hit them running

to the side."

Then he bluntly complimented me upon my eyesight. That at least was

consolation for my poor shooting. We rested there, and after a while

heard a turkey cluck. Copple had no turkey-caller, but he clucked

anyhow. We heard answers. The flock evidently was trying to get together

again, and some of them were approaching us. Copple continued to call.

Then I appreciated how fascinating R.C. had found this calling game.

Copple got answers from all around, growing closer. But presently the

answers ceased. "They're on to me," he whispered and did not call again.

At that moment a young gobbler ran swiftly down the slope and stopped to

peer around, his long neck stretching. It was not a very long shot, and

I, scorning to do less than Copple, tried to emulate him, and aimed at

the neck of the gobbler. All I got, however, was a few feathers. Like a

grouse he flew across the opening and was gone. We lingered there a

while, hoping to see or hear more of the flock, but did neither. Copple

tried to teach me how to tell the age of turkeys from their feet, a

lesson I did not think I would assimilate in one hunting season. He tied

their legs together and hung them over his shoulder, a net weight of

about fifty pounds.

All the way up that valley we saw elk tracks, and once from over the

ridge I heard a bugle. On our return toward camp we followed a rather

meandering course, over ridge and down dale, and through grassy parks

and stately forests, and along the slowly coloring maple-aspen thickets.

Copple claimed to hear deer running, but I did not. Many tired footsteps

I dragged along before we finally reached Beaver Dam Canyon. How welcome

the sight of camp! R.C. had ridden miles with Edd, and had seen one deer

that they said was still enjoying his freedom in the woods. Takahashi

hailed sight of the turkeys with: "That fine! That fine! Nice fat ones!"

But tired as I was that night I still had enthusiasm enough to visit

Haught's camp, and renew acquaintance with the hounds. Haught had not

been able to secure more than two new hounds, and these named Rock and

Buck were still unknown quantities.

Old Dan remembered me, and my heart warmed to the old gladiator. He was

a very big, large-boned hound, gray with age and wrinkled and lame, and

bleary-eyed. Dan was too old to be put on trails, or at least to be made

chase bear. He loved a camp-fire, and would almost sit in the flames.

This fact, and the way he would beg for a morsel to eat, had endeared

him to me.

Old Tom was somewhat smaller and leaner than Dan, yet resembled him

enough to deceive us at times. Tom was gray, too, and had crinkly ears,

and many other honorable battle-scars. Tom was not quite so friendly as

Dan; in fact he had more dignity. Still neither hound was ever

demonstrative except upon sight of his master. Haught told me that if

Dan and Tom saw him shoot at a deer they would chase it till they

dropped; accordingly he never shot at anything except bear and lion when

he had these hounds with him.

Sue was the best hound in the pack, as she still had, in spite of years

of service, a good deal of speed and fight left in her. She was a slim,

dark brown hound with fine and very long ears. Rock, one of the new

hounds from Kentucky, was white and black, and had remarkably large,

clear and beautiful eyes, almost human in expression. I could not

account for the fact that I suspected Rock was a deer chaser. Buck, the

other hound from Kentucky, was no longer young; he had a stump tail; his

color was a little yellow with dark spots, and he had a hang-dog head

and distrustful eye. I made certain that Buck had never had any friends,

for he did not understand kindness. Nor had he ever had enough to eat.

He stayed away from the rest of the pack and growled fiercely when a pup

came near him. I tried to make friends with him, but found that I would

not have an easy task.

Kaiser Bill was one of the pups, black in color, a long, lean,

hungry-looking dog, and crazy. He had not grown any in a year, either in

body or intelligence. I remembered how he would yelp just to hear

himself and run any kind of a trail--how he would be the first to quit

and come back. And if any one fired a gun near him he would run like a

scared deer.

To be fair to Kaiser Bill the other pups were not much better. Trailer

and Big Foot were young still, and about all they could do was to run

and howl.

If, however, they got off right on a bear trail, and no other trail

crossed it they would stick, and in fact lead the pack till' the bear

got away. Once Big Foot came whimpering into camp with porcupine quills

in his nose. Of all the whipped and funny pups!

Bobby was the dog I liked best. He was a curly black half-shepherd,

small in size; and he had a sharp, intelligent face, with the brightest

hazel eyes. His manner of wagging his tail seemed most comical yet

convincing. Bobby wagged only the nether end and that most emphatically.

He would stand up to me, holding out his forepaws, and beg. What an

appealing beggar he was! Bobby's value to Haught was not

inconsiderable. He was the only dog Haught ever had that would herd the

pigs. On a bear hunt Bobby lost his shepherd ways and his kindly

disposition, and yelped fiercely, and hung on a trail as long as any of

the pack. He had no fear of a bear, for which reason Haught did not like

to run him.

All told then we had a rather nondescript and poor pack of hounds; and

the fact discouraged me. I wanted to hunt the bad cinnamons and the

grizzly sheep-killers, with which this rim-rock country was infested. I

had nothing against the acorn-eating brown or black bears. And with this

pack of hounds I doubted that we could hold one of the vicious fighting

species. But there was now nothing to do but try. No one could tell. We

might kill a big grizzly. And the fact that the chances were against us

perhaps made for more determined effort. I regretted, however, that I

had not secured a pack of trained hounds somewhere.

Frost was late this fall. The acorns had hardly ripened, the leaves had

scarcely colored; and really good bear hunting seemed weeks off. A storm

and then a cold snap would help matters wonderfully, and for these we

hoped. Indeed the weather had not settled; hardly a day had been free of

clouds. But despite conditions we decided to start in bear hunting every

other day, feeling that at least we could train the pack, and get them

and ourselves in better shape for a favorable time when it arrived.

Accordingly next day we sallied forth for Horton Thicket, and I went

down with Edd and George. It was a fine day, sunny and windy at

intervals. The new trail the boys had made was boggy. From above Horton

Thicket looked dark, green, verdant, with scarcely any touch of autumn

colors; from below, once in it, all seemed a darker green, cool and

damp. Water lay in all low places. The creek roared bankfull of clear

water.

The new trail led up and down over dark red rich earth, through

thickets of jack-pine and maple, and then across long slopes of

manzanita and juniper, mescal and oak. Junipers were not fruitful this

year as they were last, only a few having clusters of lavender-colored

berries. The manzanita brush appeared exceptionally beautiful with its

vivid contrasts of crimson and green leaves, orange-colored berries, and

smooth, shiny bark of a chocolate red. The mescal consisted of round

patches of cactus with spear-shaped leaves, low on the ground, with a

long dead stalk standing or broken down. This stalk grows fresh every

spring, when it is laden with beautiful yellow blossoms. The honey from

the flowers of mescal and mesquite is the best to be obtained in this

country of innumerable bees.

Presently the hounds opened up on some kind of a trail and they worked

on it around under the ledges toward the next canyon, called See Canyon.

After a while the country grew so rough that fast riding was impossible;

the thickets tore and clutched at us until they finally stopped the

horses. We got off. Edd climbed to a ridge-top. "Pack gone way round,"

he called. "I'll walk. Take my horse back." I decided to let George take

my horse also, and I hurried to catch up with Edd.

Following that long-legged Arizonian on foot was almost as strenuous as

keeping him in sight on horseback. I managed it. We climbed steep slopes

and the farther we climbed the thicker grew the brush. Often we would

halt to listen for hounds, at which welcome intervals I endeavored to

catch my breath. We kept the hounds in hearing, which fact incited us to

renewed endeavors. At length we got into a belt of live-oak and

scrub-pine brush, almost as difficult to penetrate as manzanita, and

here we had to bend and crawl. Bear and deer tracks led everywhere.

Small stones and large stones had been lifted and displaced by bears

searching for grubs. These slopes were dry; we found no water at the

heads of ravines, yet the red earth was rich in bearded, tufted grass,

yellow daisies and purple asters, and a wan blue flower. We climbed and

climbed, until my back began to give me trouble. "Reckon we--bit off--a

big hunk," remarked Edd once, and I thought he referred to the endless

steep and brushy slopes. By and bye the hounds came back to us one by

one, all footsore and weary. Manifestly the bear had outrun them. Our

best prospect then was to climb on to the rim and strike across the

forest to camp.

I noticed that tired as I was I had less trouble to keep up with Edd.

His boots wore very slippery on grass and pine-needles, so that he might

have been trying to climb on ice. I had nails in my boots and they

caught hold. Hotter and wetter I grew until I had a burning sensation

all over. My legs and arms ached; the rifle weighed a ton; my feet

seemed to take hold of the ground and stick. We could not go straight up

owing to the nature of that jumble of broken cliffs and matted scrub

forests. For hours we toiled onward, upward, downward, and then upward.

Only through such experience could I have gained an adequate knowledge

of the roughness and vastness of this rim-rock country.

At last we arrived at the base of the gray leaning crags, and there, on

a long slide of weathered rock the hounds jumped a bear. I saw the dust

he raised, as he piled into the thicket below the slide. What a wild

clamor from the hounds! We got out on the rocky slope where we could see

and kept sharp eyes roving, but the bear went straight down hill.

Amazing indeed was it the way the hounds drew away from us. In a few

moments they were at the foot of the slopes, tearing back over the

course we had been so many hours in coming. Then we set out to get on

the rim, so as to follow along it, and keep track of the chase. Edd

distanced me on the rocks. I had to stop often. My breast labored and I

could scarcely breathe. I sweat so freely that my rifle stock was wet.

My hardest battle was in fighting a tendency to utter weariness and

disgust. My old poignant feelings about my physical condition returned

to vex me. As a matter of fact I had already that very day accomplished

a climb not at all easy for the Arizonian, and I should have been happy.

But I had not been used to a lame back. When I reached the rim I fell

there, and lay there a few moments, until I could get up. Then I

followed along after Edd whose yells to the hounds I heard, and overtook

him upon the point of a promontory. Far below the hounds were baying.

"They're chasin' him all right," declared Edd, grimly. "He's headin' for

low country. I think Sue stopped him once. But the rest of the pack are

behind."

I had never been on the point of this promontory. Grand indeed was the

panorama. Under me yawned a dark-green, smoky-canyoned, rippling basin

of timber and red rocks leading away to the mountain ranges of the Four

Peaks and Mazatzals. Westward, toward the yellowing sunset stood out

long escarpments for miles, and long sloping lines of black ridges,

leading down to the basin where there seemed to be a ripple of the

earth, a vast upset region of canyon and ridge, wild and lonely and

dark.

I did not get to see the sunset from that wonderful point, a matter I

regretted. We were far from camp, and Edd was not sure of a bee-line

during daylight, let alone after dark. Deep in the forest the sunset

gold and red burned on grass and leaf. The aspens took most of the

color. Swift-flying wisps of cloud turned pink, and low along the

western horizon of the forest the light seemed golden and blue.

I was almost exhausted, and by the time we reached camp, just at dark, I

was wholly exhausted. My voice had sunk to a whisper, a fact that

occasioned R.C. some concern until I could explain. Undoubtedly this was

the hardest day's work I had done since my lion hunting with Buffalo

Jones. It did not surprise me that next day I had to forget my crosscut

saw exercise.

Late that afternoon the hounds came straggling into camp, lame and

starved. Sue was the last one in, arriving at supper-time.

Another day found me still sore, but able to ride, and R.C. and I went

off into the woods in search of any kind of adventure. This day was

cloudy and threatening, with spells of sunshine. We saw two bull elk, a

cow and a calf. The bulls appeared remarkably agile for so heavy an

animal. Neither of these, however, were of such magnificent proportions

as the one R.C. and I had stalked the first day out. A few minutes later

we scared out three more cows and three yearlings. I dismounted just for

fun, and sighted my rifle at four of them. Next we came to a canyon

where beaver had cut aspen trees. These animals must have chisel-like

teeth. They left chippings somewhat similar to those cut by an axe.

Aspen bark was their winter food. In this particular spot we could not

find a dam or slide. When we rode down into Turkey Canyon, however, we

found a place where beavers had dammed the brook. Many aspens were fresh

cut, one at least two feet thick, and all the small branches had been

cut off and dragged to the water, where I could find no further trace of

them. The grass was matted down, and on the bare bits of ground showed

beaver tracks.

[Illustration: WHERE BEAR CROSS THE RIDGE FROM ONE CANYON TO ANOTHER]

[Illustration: CLIMBING OVER THE TOUGH MANZANITA]

Game appeared to be scarce. Haught had told us that deer, turkey and

bear had all gone to feed on the mast (fallen acorns); and if we could

locate the mast we would find the game. He said he had once seen a herd

of several hundred deer migrating from one section of country to

another. Apparently this was to find new feeding grounds.

[Illustration: BEAR IN SIGHT ACROSS CANYON]

While we were resting under a spruce I espied a white-breasted,

blue-headed, gray-backed little bird at work on a pine tree. He walked

head first down the bark, pecking here and there. I saw a moth or a

winged insect fly off the tree, and then another. Then I saw several

more fly away. The bird was feeding on winged insects that lived in the

bark. Some of them saw or heard him coming and escaped, but many of them

he caught. He went about this death-dealing business with a brisk and

cheerful manner. No doubt nature had developed him to help protect the

trees from bugs and worms and beetles.

Later that day, in an open grassy canyon, we came upon quite a large

bird, near the size of a pigeon, which I thought appeared to be a

species of jay or magpie. This bird had gray and black colors, a round

head, and a stout bill. At first I thought it was crippled, as it hopped

and fluttered about in the grass. I got down to catch it. Then I

discovered it was only tame. I could approach to within a foot of

reaching it. Once it perched upon a low snag, and peeped at me with

little bright dark eyes, very friendly, as if he liked my company. I sat

there within a few feet of him for quite a while. We resumed our ride.

Crossing a fresh buck track caused us to dismount, and tie our horses.

But that buck was too wary for us. We returned to camp as usual, empty

handed as far as game was concerned.

I forgot to say anything to Haught or Doyle about the black and gray

bird that had so interested me. Quite a coincidence was it then to see

another such bird and that one right in camp. He appeared to be as tame

as the other. He flew and hopped around camp in such a friendly manner

that I placed a piece of meat in a conspicuous place for him. Not long

was he in finding it. He alighted on it, and pecked and pulled at a

great rate. Doyle claimed it was a Clark crow, named after one of the

Lewis and Clark expedition. "It's a rare bird," said Doyle. "First one

I've seen in thirty years." As Doyle spent most of his time in the open

this statement seemed rather remarkable.

We had frost on two mornings, temperature as low as twenty-six degrees,

and then another change indicative of unsettled weather. It rained, and

sleeted, and then snowed, but the ground was too wet to hold the snow.

The wilderness began all at once, as if by magic, to take on autumn

colors. Then the forest became an enchanted region of white aspens,

golden-green aspens, purple spruces, dark green pines, maples a blaze of

vermilion, cerise, scarlet, magenta, rose--and slopes of dull red sumac.

These were the beginning of Indian summer days, the melancholy days,

with their color and silence and beauty and fragrance and mystery.

Hunting then became quite a dream for me, as if it called back to me dim

mystic days in the woods of some past weird world. One afternoon Copple,

R.C., and I went as far as the east side of Gentry Canyon and worked

down. Copple found fresh deer and turkey sign. We tied our horses, and

slipped back against the wind. R.C. took one side of a ridge, with

Copple and me on the other, and we worked down toward where we had seen

the sign. After half an hour of slow, stealthy glide through the forest

we sat down at the edge of a park, expecting R.C. to come along soon.

The white aspens were all bare, and oak leaves were rustling down. The

wind lulled a while, then softly roared in the pines. All at once both

of us heard a stick crack, and light steps of a walking deer on leaves.

Copple whispered: "Get ready to shoot." We waited, keen and tight,

expecting to see a deer walk out into the open. But none came. Leaving

our stand we slipped into the woods, careful not to make the slightest

sound. Such careful, slow steps were certainly not accountable for the

rapid beat of my heart. Something gray moved among the green and yellow

leaves. I halted, and held Copple back. Then not twenty paces away I

descried what I thought was a fawn. It glided toward us without the

slightest sound. Suddenly, half emerging from some maple saplings, it

saw us and seemed stricken to stone. Not ten steps from me! Soft gray

hue, slender graceful neck and body, sleek small head with long ears,

and great dark distended eyes, wilder than any wild eyes I had ever

beheld. I saw it quiver all over. I was quivering too, but with emotion.

Copple whispered: "Yearlin' buck. Shoot!"

His whisper, low as it was, made the deer leap like a gray flash. Also

it broke the spell for me. "Year old buck!" I exclaimed, quite loud.

"Thought he was a fawn. But I couldn't have shot----"

A crash of brush interrupted me. Thump of hoofs, crack of branches--then

a big buck deer bounded onward into the thicket. I got one snap shot at

his fleeting blurred image and missed him. We ran ahead, but to no

avail.

"Four-point buck," said Copple. "He must have been standin' behind that

brush."

"Did you see his horns?" I gasped, incredulously.

"Sure. But he was runnin' some. Let's go down this slope where he

jumped.... Now will you look at that! Here's where he started after you

shot."

A gentle slope, rather open, led down to the thicket where the buck had

vanished. We measured the first of his downhill jumps, and it amounted

to eighteen of my rather short steps. What a magnificent leap! It

reminded me of the story of Hart-leap Well.

As we retraced our steps R.C. met us, reporting that he had heard the

buck running, but could not see him. We scouted around together for an

hour, then R.C. and Copple started off on a wide detour, leaving me at a

stand in the hope they might drive some turkeys my way. I sat on a log

until almost sunset. All the pine tips turned gold and patches of gold

brightened the ground. Jays were squalling, gray squirrels were barking,

red squirrels were chattering, snowbirds were twittering, pine cones

were dropping, leaves were rustling. But there were no turkeys, and I

did not miss them. R.C. and Copple returned to tell me there were signs

of turkeys and deer all over the ridge. "We'll ride over here early

to-morrow," said Copple, "an' I'll bet my gun we pack some meat to

camp."

But the unsettled weather claimed the next day and the next, giving us

spells of rain and sleet, and periods of sunshine deceptive in their

promise. Camp, however, with our big camp-fire, and little tent-stoves,

and Takahashi, would have been delightful in almost any weather.

Takahashi was insulted, the boys told me, because I said he was born to

be a cook. It seemed the Jap looked down upon this culinary job.

"Cook--that woman joob!" he said, contemptuously.

As I became better acquainted with Takahashi I learned to think more of

the Japanese. I studied Takahashi very earnestly and I grew to like him.

The Orientals are mystics and hard to understand. But any one could see

that here was a Japanese who was a real man. I never saw him idle. He

resented being told what to do, and after my first offense in this

regard I never gave him another order. He was a wonderful cook. It

pleased his vanity to see how good an appetite I always had. When I

would hail him: "George, what you got to eat?" he would grin and reply:

"Aw, turkee!" Then I would let out a yell, for I never in my life tasted

anything so good as the roast wild turkey Takahashi served us. Or he

would say: "Pan-cakes--apple dumplings--rice puddings." No one but the

Japs know how to cook rice. I asked him how he cooked rice over an open

fire and he said: "I know how hot--when done." Takahashi must have

possessed an uncanny knowledge of the effects of heat. How swift, clean,

efficient and saving he was! He never wasted anything. In these days of

American prodigality a frugal cook like Takahashi was a revelation.

Seldom are the real producers of food ever wasters. Takahashi's ambition

was to be a rancher in California. I learned many things about him. In

summer he went to the Imperial Valley where he picked and packed

cantaloupes. He could stand the intense heat. He was an expert. He

commanded the highest wage. Then he was a raisin-picker, which for him

was another art. He had accumulated a little fortune and knew how to

save his money. He would have been a millionaire in Japan, but he

intended to live in the United States.

Takahashi had that best of traits--generosity. Whenever he made pie or

cake or doughnuts he always saved his share for me to have for my lunch

next day. No use to try to break him of this kindly habit! He was keen

too, and held in particular disfavor any one who picked out the best

portions of turkey or meat. "No like that," he would say; and I heartily

agreed with him. Life in the open brought out the little miserable

traits of human nature, of which no one was absolutely free.

I admired Takahashi's cooking, I admired the enormous pile of firewood

he always had chopped, I admired his generosity; but most of all I liked

his cheerfulness and good humor. He grew to be a joy to me. We had some

pop corn which we sometimes popped over the camp-fire. He was fond of it

and he said: "You eat all time--much pop corn--just so long you keep

mouth going all same like horse--you happy." We were troubled a good

deal by skunks. Now some skunks were not bad neighbors, but others were

disgusting and dangerous. The hog-nosed skunk, according to westerners,

very often had hydrophobia and would bite a sleeper. I knew of several

men dying of rabies from this bite. Copple said he had been awakened

twice at night by skunks biting the noses of his companions in camp.

Copple had to choke the skunks off. One of these men died. We were

really afraid of them. Doyle said one had visited him in his tent and he

had been forced to cover his head until he nearly smothered. Now

Takahashi slept in the tent with the store of supplies. One night a

skunk awakened him. In reporting this to me the Jap said: "See skunk all

black and white at tent door. I flash light. Skunk no 'fraid. He no run.

He act funny--then just walk off."

After that experience Takahashi set a box-trap for skunks. One morning

he said with a huge grin: "I catch skunk. Want you take picture for me

send my wife Sadayo."

So I got my camera, and being careful to take a safe position, as did

all the boys, I told Takahashi I was ready to photograph him and his

skunk. He got a pole that was too short to suit me, and he lifted up the

box-trap. A furry white and black cat appeared, with remarkably bushy

tail. What a beautiful little animal to bear such opprobrium! "All same

like cat," said Takahashi. "Kittee--kittee." It appeared that kitty was

not in the least afraid. On the contrary she surveyed the formidable Jap

with his pole, and her other enemies in a calm, dignified manner. Then

she turned away. Here I tried to photograph her and Takahashi together.

When she started off the Jap followed and poked her with the pole. "Take

'nother picture." But kitty suddenly whirled, with fur and tail erect, a

most surprising and brave and assured front, then ran at Takahashi. I

yelled: "Run George!" Pell-mell everybody fled from that beautiful

little beast. We were arrant cowards. But Takahashi grasped up another

and longer pole, and charged back at kitty. This time he chased her out

of camp. When he returned his face was a study: "Nashty thing! She make

awful stink! She no 'fraid a tall. Next time I kill her sure!"

The head of Gentry Canyon was about five miles from camp, and we reached

it the following morning while the frost was still white and sparkling.

We tied our horses. Copple said: "This is a deer day. I'll show you a

buck sure. Let's stick together an' walk easy."

So we made sure to work against the wind, which, however, was so light

as almost to be imperceptible, and stole along the dark ravine, taking

half a dozen steps or so at a time. How still the forest! When it was

like this I always felt as if I had discovered something new. The big

trees loomed stately and calm, stretching a rugged network of branches

over us. Fortunately no saucy squirrels or squalling jays appeared to be

abroad to warn game of our approach. Not only a tang, but a thrill,

seemed to come pervasively on the cool air. All the colors of autumn

were at their height, and gorgeous plots of maple thicket and sumac

burned against the brown and green. We slipped along, each of us strung

to be the first to hear or see some living creature of the wild. R.C.,

as might have been expected, halted us with a softly whispered:

"Listen." But neither Copple nor I heard what R.C. heard, and presently

we moved on as before. Presently again R.C. made us pause, with a like

result. Somehow the forest seemed unusually wild. It provoked a

tingling expectation. The pine-covered slope ahead of us, the thicketed

ridge to our left, the dark, widening ravine to our right, all seemed to

harbor listening, watching, soft-footed denizens of the wild. At length

we reached a level bench, beautifully forested, where the ridge ran down

in points to where the junction of several ravines formed the head of

Gentry Canyon.

How stealthily we stole on! Here Copple said was a place for deer to

graze. But the grass plots, golden with sunlight and white with frost

and black-barred by shadows of pines, showed no game.

Copple sat down on a log, and I took a seat beside him to the left. R.C.

stood just to my left. As I laid my rifle over my knees and opened my

lips to whisper I was suddenly struck mute. I saw R.C. stiffen, then

crouch a little. He leaned forward--his eyes had the look of a falcon.

Then I distinctly heard the soft crack of hoofs on stone and breaking of

tiny twigs. Quick as I whirled my head I still caught out of the tail of

my eye the jerk of R.C. as he threw up his rifle. I looked--I strained

my eyes--I flashed them along the rim of the ravine where R.C. had been

gazing. A gray form seemed to move into the field of my vision. That

instant it leaped, and R.C.'s rifle shocked me with its bursting crack.

I seemed stunned, so near was the report. But I saw the gray form pitch

headlong and I heard a solid thump.

"Buck, an' he's your meat!" called Copple, low and sharp. "Look for

another one."

No other deer appeared. R.C. ran toward the spot where the gray form had

plunged in a heap, and Copple and I followed. It was far enough to make

me pant for breath. We found R.C. beside a fine three-point buck that

had been shot square in the back of the head between and below the roots

of its antlers.

"Never knew what struck him!" exclaimed Copple, and he laid hold of the

deer and hauled it out of the edge of the thicket. "Fine an' fat.

Venison for camp, boys. One of you go after the horses an' the other

help me hang him up."

VI

I had been riding eastward of Beaver Dam Canyon with Haught, and we had

parted up on the ridge, he to go down a ravine leading to his camp, and

I to linger a while longer up there in the Indian-summer woods, so full

of gold and silence and fragrance on that October afternoon.

The trail gradually drew me onward and downward, and at length I came

out into a narrow open park lined by spruce trees. Suddenly Don Carlos

shot up his ears. I had not ridden him for days and he appeared more

than usually spirited. He saw or heard something. I held him in, and

after a moment I dismounted and drew my rifle. A crashing in brush

somewhere near at hand excited me. Peering all around I tried to locate

cause for the sound. Again my ear caught a violent swishing of brush

accompanied by a snapping of twigs. This time I cocked my rifle. Don

Carlos snorted. After another circling swift gaze it dawned upon me that

the sound came from overhead.

I looked into this tree and that, suddenly to have my gaze arrested by a

threshing commotion in the very top of a lofty spruce. I saw a dark form

moving against a background of blue sky. Instantly I thought it must be

a lynx and was about to raise my rifle when a voice as from the very

clouds utterly astounded me. I gasped in my astonishment. Was I

dreaming? But violent threshings and whacks from the tree-top absolutely

assured me that I was neither dreaming nor out of my head. "I get

you--whee!" shouted the voice. There was a man up in the swaying top of

that spruce and he was no other than Takahashi. For a moment I could not

find my voice. Then I shouted:

"Hey up there, George! What in the world are you doing? I came near

shooting you."

"Aw hullo!--I come down now," replied Takahashi.

I had seen both lynx and lion climb down out of a tree, but nothing

except a squirrel could ever have beaten Takahashi. The spruce was fully

one hundred and fifty feet high; and unless I made a great mistake the

Jap descended in two minutes. He grinned from ear to ear.

"I no see you--no hear," he said. "You take me for big cat?"

"Yes, George, and I might have shot you. What were you doing up there?"

Takahashi brushed the needles and bark from his clothes. "I go out with

little gun you give me. I hunt, no see squirrel. Go out no gun--see

squirrel. I chase him up tree--I climb high--awful high. No good.

Squirrel he too quick. He run right over me--get away."

Takahashi laughed with me. I believed he was laughing at what he

considered the surprising agility of the squirrel, while I was laughing

at him. Here was another manifestation of the Jap's simplicity and

capacity. If all Japanese were like Takahashi they were a wonderful

people. Men are men because they do things. The Persians were trained to

sweat freely at least once every day of their lives. It seemed to me

that if a man did not sweat every day, which was to say--labor hard--he

very surely was degenerating physically. I could learn a great deal from

George Takahashi. Right there I told him that my father had been a

famous squirrel hunter in his day. He had such remarkable eyesight that

he could espy the ear of a squirrel projecting above the highest limb

of a tall white oak. And he was such a splendid shot that he had often

"barked" squirrels, as was a noted practice of the old pioneer. I had to

explain to Takahashi that this practice consisted of shooting a bullet

to hit the bark right under the squirrel, and the concussion would so

stun it that it would fall as if dead.

"Aw my goodnish--your daddy more better shot than you!" ejaculated

Takahashi.

"Yes indeed he was," I replied, reflectively, as in a flash the

long-past boyhood days recurred in memory. Hunting days--playing days of

boyhood were the best of life. It seemed to me that one of the few

reasons I still had for clinging to hunting was this keen, thrilling

hark back to early days. Books first--then guns--then fishing poles--so

ran the list of material possessions dear to my heart as a lad.

That night was moonlight, cold, starry, with a silver sheen on the

spectral spruces. During the night there came a change; it rained--first

a drizzle, then a heavy downpour, and at five-thirty a roar of hail on

the tent. This music did not last long. At seven o'clock the thermometer

registered thirty-four degrees, but there was no frost. The morning was

somewhat cloudy or foggy, with promise of clearing.

We took the hounds over to See Canyon, and while Edd and Nielsen went

down with them, the rest of us waited above for developments. Scarcely

had they more than time enough to reach the gorge below when the pack

burst into full chorus. Haught led the way then around the rough rim for

better vantage points. I was mounted on one of the horses Lee had gotten

for me--a fine, spirited animal named Stockings. Probably he had been a

cavalry horse. He was a bay with white feet, well built and powerful,

though not over medium size. One splendid feature about him was that a

saddle appeared to fit him so snugly it never slipped. And another

feature, infinitely the most attractive to me, was his easy gait. His

trot and lope were so comfortable and swinging, like the motion of a

rocking-chair, that I could ride him all day with pleasure. But when it

came to chasing after hounds and bears along the rim Stockings gave me

trouble. Too eager, too spirited, he would not give me time to choose

the direction. He jumped ditches and gullies, plunged into bad jumbles

or rock, tried to hurdle logs too high for him, carried me under low

branches and through dense thickets, and in general showed he was

exceedingly willing to chase after the pack, but ignorant of rough

forest travel. Owing to this I fell behind, and got out of hearing of

both hounds and men, and eventually found myself lost somewhere on the

west side of See Canyon. To get out I had to turn my back to the sun,

travel west till I came to the rim above Horton Thicket, and from there

return to camp, arriving rather late in the afternoon.

All the men had returned, and all the hounds except Buck. I was rather

surprised and disturbed to find the Haughts in a high state of dudgeon.

Edd looked pale and angry. Upon questioning Nielsen I learned that the

hounds had at once struck a fresh bear track in See Canyon. Nielsen and

Edd had not followed far before they heard a hound yelping in pain. They

found Buck caught in a bear trap. The rest of the hounds came upon a

little bear cub, caught in another trap, and killed it. Nielsen said it

had evidently been a prisoner for some days, being very poor and

emaciated. Fresh tracks of the mother bear were proof that she had been

around trying to save it or minister to it. There were trappers in See

Canyon; and between bear hunters and trappers manifestly there was no

love lost. Edd said they had as much right to trap as we had to hunt,

but that was not the question. There had been opportunity to tell the

Haughts about the big number four bear traps set in See Canyon. But they

did not tell it. Edd had brought the dead cub back to our camp. It was a

pretty little bear cub, about six months old, with a soft silky brown

coat. No one had to look at it twice to see how it had suffered.

This matter of trapping wild animals is singularly hateful to me. Bad

enough is it to stalk deer to shoot them for their meat, but at least

this is a game where the deer have all the advantage. Bad indeed it may

be to chase bear with hounds, but that is a hard, dangerous method of

hunting which gives it some semblance of fairness. Most of my bear hunts

proved to me that I ran more risks than the bears. To set traps,

however, to hide big iron-springed, spike-toothed traps to catch and

clutch wild animals alive, and hold them till they died or starved or

gnawed off their feet, or until the trapper chose to come with his gun

or club to end the miserable business--what indeed shall I call that?

Cruel--base--cowardly!

It cannot be defended on moral grounds. But vast moneyed interests are

at stake. One of the greatest of American fortunes was built upon the

brutal, merciless trapping of wild animals for their furs. And in this

fall of 1919 the prices of fox, marten, beaver, raccoon, skunk, lynx,

muskrat, mink, otter, were higher by double than they had ever been.

Trappers were going to reap a rich harvest. Well, everybody must make a

living; but is this trapping business honest, is it manly? To my

knowledge trappers are hardened. Market fishermen are hardened, too, but

the public eat fish. They do not eat furs. Now in cold climates and

seasons furs are valuable to protect people who must battle with winter

winds and sleet and ice; and against their use by such I daresay there

is no justification for censure. But the vast number of furs go to deck

the persons of vain women. I appreciate the beautiful contrast of fair

skin against a background of sable fur, or silver fox, or rich, black,

velvety seal. But beautiful women would be just as beautiful, just as

warmly clothed in wool instead of fur. And infinitely better women! Not

long ago I met a young woman in one of New York's fashionable hotels,

and I remarked about the exquisite evening coat of fur she wore. She

said she loved furs. She certainly was handsome, and she appeared to be

refined, cultured, a girl of high class. And I said it was a pity women

did not know or care where furs came from. She seemed surprised. Then I

told her about the iron-jawed, spike-toothed traps hidden by the springs

or on the runways of game--about the fox or beaver or marten seeking its

food, training its young to fare for themselves--about the sudden

terrible clutch of the trap, and then the frantic fear, the instinctive

fury, the violent struggle--about the foot gnawed off by the beast that

was too fierce to die a captive--about the hours of agony, the horrible

thirst--the horrible days till death. And I concluded: "All because

women are luxurious and vain!" She shuddered underneath the beautiful

coat of furs, and seemed insulted.

Upon inquiry I learned from Nielsen that Buck was coming somewhere back

along the trail hopping along on three legs. I rode on down to my camp,

and procuring a bottle of iodine I walked back in the hope of doing Buck

a good turn. During my absence he had reached camp, and was lying under

an aspen, apart from the other hounds. Buck looked meaner and uglier and

more distrustful than ever. Evidently this injury to his leg was a trick

played upon him by his arch enemy man. I stood beside him, as he licked

the swollen, bloody leg, and talked to him, as kindly as I knew how. And

finally I sat down beside him. The trap-teeth had caught his right front

leg just above the first joint, and from the position of the teeth marks

and the way he moved his leg I had hopes that the bone was not broken.

Apparently the big teeth had gone through on each side of the bone. When

I tried gently to touch the swollen leg Buck growled ominously. He would

have bitten me. I patted his head with one hand, and watching my chance,

at length with the other I poured iodine over the open cuts. Then I kept

patting him and holding his head until the iodine had become absorbed.

Perhaps it was only my fancy, but it seemed that the ugly gleam in his

distrustful eyes had become sheepish, as if he was ashamed of something

he did not understand. That look more than ever determined me to try to

find some way to his affections.

A camp-fire council that night resulted in plans to take a pack outfit,

and ride west along the rim to a place Haught called Dude Creek. "Reckon

we'll shore smoke up some bars along Dude," said Haught. "Never was in

there but I jumped bars. Good deer an' turkey country, too."

Next day we rested the hounds, and got things into packing shape with

the intention of starting early the following morning. But it rained on

and off; and the day after that we could not find Haught's burros, and

not until the fourth morning could we start. It turned out that Buck did

not have a broken leg and had recovered surprisingly from the injury he

had received. Aloof as he held himself it appeared certain he did not

want to be left behind.

We rode all day along the old Crook road where the year before we had

encountered so many obstacles. I remembered most of the road, but how

strange it seemed to me, and what a proof of my mental condition on that

memorable trip, that I did not remember all. Usually forest or desert

ground I have traveled over I never forget. This ride, in the middle of

October, when all the colors of autumn vied with the sunlight to make

the forest a region of golden enchantment, was one of particular delight

to me. I had begun to work and wear out the pain in my back. Every night

I had suffered a little less and slept a little better, and every

morning I had less and less of a struggle to get up and straighten out.

Many a groan had I smothered. But now, when I got warmed up from riding

or walking or sawing wood, the pain left me altogether and I forgot it.

I had given myself heroic treatment, but my reward was in sight. My

theory that the outdoor life would cure almost any ill of body or mind

seemed to have earned another proof added to the long list.

At sunset we had covered about sixteen miles of rough road, and had

arrived at a point where we were to turn away from the rim, down into a

canyon named Barber Shop Canyon, where we were to camp.

[Illustration: Z.G.'S CINNAMON BEAR]

[Illustration: R.C.'S BIG BROWN BEAR]

Before turning aside I rode out to the rim for a look down at the

section of country we were to hunt. What a pleasure to recognize the

point from which Romer-boy had seen his first wild bear! It was a

wonderful section of rim-rock country. I appeared to be at the extreme

point of a vast ten-league promontory, rising high over the basin, where

the rim was cut into canyons as thick as teeth of a saw. They were

notched and v-shaped. Craggy russet-lichened cliffs, yellow and

gold-stained rocks, old crumbling ruins of pinnacles crowned by pine

thickets, ravines and gullies and canyons, choked with trees and brush

all green-gold, purple-red, scarlet-fire--these indeed were the heights

and depths, the wild, lonely ruggedness, the color and beauty of

Arizona land. There were long, steep slopes of oak thickets, where the

bears lived, long gray slides of weathered rocks, long slanting ridges

of pine, descending for miles out and down into the green basin, yet

always seeming to stand high above that rolling wilderness. The sun

stood crossed by thin clouds--a golden blaze in a golden sky--sinking to

meet a ragged horizon line of purple.

[Illustration: ANOTHER BEAR]

Here again was I confronted with the majesty and beauty of the earth,

and with another and more striking effect of this vast tilted rim of

mesa. I could see many miles to west and east. This rim was a huge wall

of splintered rock, a colossal cliff, towering so high above the black

basin below that ravines and canyons resembled ripples or dimples,

darker lines of shade. And on the other side from its very edge, where

the pine fringe began, it sloped gradually to the north, with heads of

canyons opening almost at the crest. I saw one ravine begin its start

not fifty feet from the rim.

Barber Shop Canyon had five heads, all running down like the fingers of

a hand, to form the main canyon, which was deep, narrow, forested by

giant pines. A round, level dell, watered by a murmuring brook, deep

down among the many slopes, was our camp ground, and never had I seen

one more desirable. The wind soughed in the lofty pine tops, but not a

breeze reached down to this sheltered nook. With sunset gold on the high

slopes our camp was shrouded in twilight shadows. R.C. and I stretched a

canvas fly over a rope from tree to tree, staked down the ends, and left

the sides open. Under this we unrolled our beds.

Night fell quickly down in that sequestered pit, and indeed it was black

night. A blazing camp-fire enhanced the circling gloom, and invested the

great brown pines with some weird aspect. The boys put up an old tent

for the hounds. Poor Buck was driven out of this shelter by his canine

rivals. I took pity upon him, and tied him at the foot of my bed. When

R.C. and I crawled into our blankets we discovered Buck snugly settled

between our beds, and wonderful to hear, he whined. "Well, Buck, old

dog, you keep the skunks away," said R.C. And Buck emitted some kind of

a queer sound, apparently meant to assure us that he would keep even a

lion away. From my bed I could see the tips of the black pines close to

the white stars. Before I dropped to sleep the night grew silent, except

for the faint moan of wind and low murmur of brook.

We crawled out early, keen to run from the cold wash in the brook to the

hot camp-fire. George and Edd had gone down the canyon after the horses,

which had been hobbled and turned loose. Lee had remained with his

father at Beaver Dam camp. For breakfast Takahashi had venison,

biscuits, griddle cakes with maple syrup, and hot cocoa. I certainly did

not begin on an empty stomach what augured to be a hard day. Buck hung

around me this morning, and I subdued my generous impulses long enough

to be convinced that he had undergone a subtle change. Then I fed him.

Old Dan and Old Tom were witnesses of this procedure, which they

regarded with extreme disfavor. And the pups tried to pick a fight with

Buck.

By eight o'clock we were riding up the colored slopes, through the still

forest, with the sweet, fragrant, frosty air nipping at our noses. A

mile from camp we reached a notch in the rim that led down to Dude

Creek, and here Edd and Nielsen descended with the hounds. The rest of

us rode out to a point there to await developments. The sun had already

flooded the basin with golden light; the east slopes of canyon and rim

were dark in shade. I sat on a mat of pine needles near the rim, and

looked, and cared not for passage of time.

But I was not permitted to be left to sensorial dreams. Right under us

the hounds opened up, filling the canyon full of bellowing echoes. They

worked down. Slopes below us narrowed to promontories and along these we

kept our gaze. Suddenly Haught gave a jump, and rose, thumping to his

horse. "Saw a bar," he yelled. "Just got a glimpse of him crossin' an

open ridge. Come on." We mounted and chased Haught over the roughest

kind of rocky ground, to overtake him at the next point on the rim.

"Ride along, you fellars," he said, "an' each pick out a stand. Keep

ahead of the dogs an' look sharp."

Then it was in short order that I found myself alone, Copple, R.C. and

George Haught having got ahead of me. I kept to the rim. The hounds

could be heard plainly and also the encouraging yells of Nielsen and

Edd. Apparently the chase was working along under me, in the direction I

was going. The baying of the pack, the scent of pine, the ring of

iron-shod hoofs on stone, the sense of wild, broken, vast country, the

golden void beneath and the purple-ranged horizon--all these brought

vividly and thrillingly to mind my hunting days with Buffalo Jones along

the north rim of the Grand Canyon. I felt a pang, both for the past, and

for my friend and teacher, this last of the old plainsmen who had died

recently. In his last letter to me, written with a death-stricken hand,

he had talked of another hunt, of more adventure, of his cherished hope

to possess an island in the north Pacific, there to propagate wild

animals--he had dreamed again the dream that could never come true. I

was riding with my face to the keen, sweet winds of the wild, and he was

gone. No joy in life is ever perfect. I wondered if any grief was ever

wholly hopeless.

I came at length to a section of rim where huge timbered steps reached

out and down. Dismounting I tied Stockings, and descended to the craggy

points below, where I clambered here and there, looking, listening. No

longer could I locate the hounds; now the baying sounded clear and

sharp, close at hand, and then hollow and faint, and far away. I crawled

under gnarled cedars, over jumbles of rock, around leaning crags, until

I got out to a point where I had such command of slopes and capes, where

the scene was so grand that I was both thrilled and awed. Somewhere

below me to my left were the hounds still baying. The lower reaches of

the rim consisted of ridges and gorges, benches and ravines, canyons and

promontories--a country so wild and broken that it seemed impossible for

hounds to travel it, let alone men. Above me, to my right, stuck out a

yellow point of rim, and beyond that I knew there jutted out another

point, and more and more points on toward the west. George was yelling

from one of them, and I thought I heard a faint reply from R.C. or

Copple. I believed for the present they were too far westward along the

rim, and so I devoted my attention to the slopes under me toward my

left. But once my gaze wandered around, and suddenly I espied a shiny

black object moving along a bare slope, far below. A bear! So thrilled

and excited was I that I did not wonder why this bear walked along so

leisurely and calmly. Assuredly he had not even heard the hounds. I

began to shoot, and in five rapid shots I spattered dust all over him.

Not until I had two more shots, one of which struck close, did he begin

to run. Then he got out of my sight. I yelled and yelled to those ahead

of me along the rim. Somebody answered, and next somebody began to

shoot. How I climbed and crawled and scuffled to get back to my horse!

Stockings answered to the spirit of the occasion. Like a deer he ran

around the rough rim, and I had to perform with the agility of a

contortionist to avoid dead snags of trees and green branches. When I

got to the point from which I had calculated George had done his

shooting I found no one. My yells brought no answers. But I heard a

horse cracking the rocks behind me. Then up from far below rang the

sharp spangs of rifles in quick action. Nielsen and Edd were shooting. I

counted seven shots. How the echoes rang from wall to wall, to die

hollow and faint in the deep canyons!

I galloped ahead to the next point, finding only the tracks of R.C.'s

boots. Everywhere I peered for the bear I had sighted, and at intervals

I yelled. For all the answer I got I might as well have been alone on

the windy rim of the world. My voice seemed lost in immensity. Then I

rode westward, then back eastward, and to and fro until both Stockings

and I were weary. At last I gave up, and took a good, long rest under a

pine on the rim. Not a shot, not a yell, not a sound but wind and the

squall of a jay disrupted the peace of that hour. I profited by this

lull in the excitement by more means than one, particularly in sight of

a flock of wild pigeons. They alighted in the tops of pines below me, so

that I could study them through my field glass. They were considerably

larger than doves, dull purple color on the back, light on the breast,

with ringed or barred neck. Haught had assured me that birds of this

description were indeed the famous wild pigeons, now almost extinct in

the United States. I remembered my father telling me he had seen flocks

that darkened the skies. These pigeons appeared to have swift flight.

Another feature of this rest along the rim was a sight just as beautiful

as that of the pigeons, though not so rare; and it was the flying of

clouds of colored autumn leaves on the wind.

The westering of the sun advised me that the hours had fled, and it was

high time for me to bestir myself toward camp. On my way back I found

Haught, his son George, Copple and R.C. waiting for Edd and Nielsen to

come up over the rim, and for me to return. They asked for my story.

Then I learned theirs. Haught had kept even with the hounds, but had

seen only the brown bear that had crossed the ridge early in the day.

Copple had worked far westward, to no avail. R.C. had been close to

George and me, had heard our bullets pat, yet had been unable to locate

any bear. To my surprise it turned out that George had shot at a brown

bear when I had supposed it was my black one. Whereupon Haught said:

"Reckon Edd an' Nielsen smoked up some other bear."

One by one the hounds climbed over the rim and wearily lay down beside

us. Down the long, grassy, cedared aisle I saw Edd and Nielsen plodding

up. At length they reached us wet and dusty and thirsty. When Edd got

his breath he said: "Right off we struck a hot trail. Bear with

eleven-inch track. He'd come down to drink last night. Hounds worked up

thet yeller oak thicket, an' somewhere Sue an' Rock jumped him out of

his bed. He run down, an' he made some racket. Took to the low slopes

an' hit up lively all the way down Dude, then crossed, climbed around

under thet bare point of rock. Here some of the hounds caught up with

him. We heard a pup yelp, an' after a while Kaiser Bill come sneakin'

back. It was awful thick down in the canyon so we climbed the east side

high enough to see. An' we were workin' down when the pack bayed the

bear round thet bare point. It was up an' across from us. Nielsen an' I

climbed on a rock. There was an open rock-slide where we thought the

bear would show. It was five hundred yards. We ought to have gone across

an' got a stand higher up. Well, pretty soon we saw him come paddlin'

out of the brush--a big grizzly, almost black, with a frosty back. He

was a silvertip all right. Niels an' I began to shoot. An' thet bear

began to hump himself. He was mad, too. His fur stood up like a ruffle

on his neck. Niels got four shots an' I got three. Reckon one of us

stung him a little. Lordy, how he run! An' his last jump off the slide

was a header into the brush. He crossed the canyon, an' climbed thet

high east slope of Dude, goin' over the pass where father killed the big

cinnamon three years ago. The hounds stuck to his trail. It took us an

hour or more to climb up to thet pass. Broad bear trail goes over. We

heard the hounds 'way down in the canyon on the other side. Niels an' I

worked along the ridge, down an' around, an' back to Dude Creek. I kept

callin' the hounds till they all came back. They couldn't catch him. He

sure was a jack-rabbit for runnin'. Reckon thet's all.... Now who was

smokin' shells up on the rim?"

When all was told and talked over Haught said: "Wal, you can just bet we

put up two brown bears an' one black bear, an' thet old Jasper of a

silvertip."

How hungry and thirsty and tired I was when we got back to camp! The day

had been singularly rich in exciting thrills and sensorial perceptions.

I called to the Jap: "I'm starv-ved to death!" And Takahashi, who had

many times heard my little boy Loren yell that, grinned all over his

dusky face. "Aw, lots good things pretty soon!"

After supper we lounged around a cheerful, crackling camp-fire. The

blaze roared in the breeze, the red embers glowed white and opal, the

smoke swooped down and curled away into the night shadows. Old Dan, as

usual, tried to sit in the fire, and had to be rescued. Buck came to me

where I sat with my back to a pine, my feet to the warmth. He was lame

to-night, having run all day on that injured leg. The other dogs lay

scattered around in range of the heat. Natural indeed was it then, in

such an environment, after talking over the auspicious start of our hunt

at Dude Creek, that we should drift to the telling of stories.

Sensing this drift I opened the hour of reminiscence and told some of my

experiences in the jungle of southern Mexico. Copple immediately topped

my stories by more wonderful and hair-raising ones about his own

adventures in northern Mexico. These stirred Nielsen to talk about the

Seri Indians, and their cannibalistic traits; and from these he drifted

to the Yuma Indians. Speaking of their remarkable stature and strength

he finally got to the subject of giants of brawn and bone in Norway.

One young Norwegian was eight feet tall and broad in proportion. His

employer was a captain of a fishing boat. One time, on the way to their

home port, a quarrel arose about money due the young giant, and in his

anger he heaved the anchor overboard. That of course halted the boat,

and it stayed halted, because the captain and crew could not heave the

heavy anchor without the help of their brawny comrade. Finally the money

matter was adjusted, and the young giant heaved the anchor without

assistance. Nielsen went on to tell that this fisherman of such mighty

frame had a beautiful young wife whom he adored. She was not by any

means a small or frail girl--rather the contrary--but she appeared

diminutive beside her giant husband. One day he returned from a long

absence on the sea. When his wife, in her joy, ran into his arms, he

gave her such a tremendous hug that he crushed her chest, and she died.

In his grief the young husband went insane and did not survive her long.

Next Nielsen told a story about Norwegians sailing to the Arctic on a

scientific expedition. Just before the long polar night of darkness set

in there arose a necessity for the ship and crew to return to Norway.

Two men must be left in the Arctic to care for the supplies until the

ship came back. The captain called for volunteers. There were two young

men in the crew, and from childhood they had been playmates,

schoolmates, closer than brothers, and inseparable even in manhood. One

of these young men said to his friend: "I'll stay if you will." And the

other quickly agreed. After the ship sailed, and the land of the

midnight sun had become icy and black, one of these comrades fell ill,

and soon died. The living one placed the body in the room with the ship

supplies, where it froze stiff; and during all the long polar night of

solitude and ghastly gloom he lived next to this sepulchre that

contained his dead friend. When the ship returned the crew found the

living comrade an old man with hair as white as snow, and never in his

life afterward was he seen to smile.

These stories stirred my emotions like Doyle's tale about Jones' Ranch.

How wonderful, beautiful, terrible and tragical is human life! Again I

heard the still, sad music of humanity, the eternal beat and moan of the

waves upon a lonely shingle shore. Who would not be a teller of tales?

Copple followed Nielsen with a story about a prodigious feat of his

own--a story of incredible strength and endurance, which at first I took

to be a satire on Nielsen's remarkable narrative. But Copple seemed

deadly serious, and I began to see that he possessed a strange

simplicity of exaggeration. The boys thought Copple stretched the truth

a little, but I thought that he believed what he told.

Haught was a great teller of tales, and his first story of the evening

happened to be about his brother Bill. They had a long chase after a

bear and became separated. Bill was new at the game, and he was a

peculiar fellow anyhow. Much given to talking to himself! Haught finally

rode to the edge of a ridge and espied Bill under a pine in which the

hounds had treed a bear. Bill did not hear Haught's approach, and on the

moment he was stalking round the pine, swearing at the bear, which clung

to a branch about half way up. Then Haught discovered two more

full-grown bears up in the top of the pine, the presence of which Bill

had not the remotest suspicion. "Ahuh! you ole black Jasper!" Bill was

yelling. "I treed you an' in a minnit I'm agoin' to assassinate you.

Chased me about a hundred miles--! An' thought you'd fool me, didn't

you? Why, I've treed more bears than you ever saw--! You needn't look at

me like thet, 'cause I'm mad as a hornet. I'm agoin' to assassinate you

in a minnit an' skin your black har off, I am--"

"Bill," interrupted Haught, "what are you goin' to do about the other

two bears up in the top of the tree?"

Bill was amazed to hear and see his brother, and greatly astounded and

tremendously elated to discover the other two bears. He yelled and acted

as one demented. "Three black Jaspers! I've treed you all. An' I'm

agoin' to assassinate you all!"

"See here, Bill," said Haught, "before you begin that assassinatin' make

up your mind not to cripple any of them. You've got to shoot straight,

so they'll be dead when they fall. If they're only crippled, they'll

kill the hounds."

Bill was insulted at any suggestions as to his possible poor

marksmanship. But this happened to be his first experience with bears in

trees. He began to shoot and it took nine shots for him to dislodge the

bears. Worse than that they all tumbled out of the tree--apparently

unhurt. The hounds, of course, attacked them, and there arose a

terrible uproar. Haught had to run down to save his dogs. Bill was going

to shoot right into the melee, but Haught knocked the rifle up, and

forbid him to use it. Then Bill ran into the thick of the fray to beat

off the hounds. Haught became exceedingly busy himself, and finally

disposed of two of the bears. Then hearing angry bawls and terrific

yells he turned to see Bill climbing a tree with a big black bear

tearing the seat out of his pants. Haught disposed of this bear also.

Then he said: "Bill, I thought you was goin' to assassinate them." Bill

slid down out of the tree, very pale and disheveled. "By Golly, I'll

skin 'em anyhow!"

Haught had another brother named Henry, who had come to Arizona from

Texas, and had brought a half-hound with him. Henry offered to wager

this dog was the best bear chaser in the country. The general impression

Henry's hound gave was that he would not chase a rabbit. Finally Haught

took his brother Henry and some other men on a bear hunt. There were

wagers made as to the quality of Henry's half-hound. When at last

Haught's pack struck a hot scent, and were off with the men riding fast

behind, Henry's half-breed loped alongside his master, paying no

attention to the wild baying of the pack. He would look up at Henry as

if to say: "No hurry, boss. Wait a little. Then I'll show them!" He

loped along, wagging his tail, evidently enjoying this race with his

master. After a while the chase grew hotter. Then Henry's half-hound ran

ahead a little way, and came back to look up wisely, as if to say: "Not

time yet!" After a while, when the chase grew very hot indeed, Henry's

wonderful canine let out a wild yelp, darted ahead, overtook the pack

and took the lead in the chase, literally chewing the heels of the bear

till he treed. Haught and his friends lost all the wagers.

The most remarkable bears in this part of Arizona were what Haught

called blue bears, possibly some kind of a cross between brown and

black. This species was a long, slim, blue-furred bear with unusually

large teeth and very long claws. So different from ordinary bears that

it appeared another species. The blue bear could run like a greyhound,

and keep it up all day and all night. Its power of endurance was

incredible. In Haught's twenty years of hunting there he had seen a

number of blue bears and had killed two. Haught chased one all day with

young and fast hounds. He went to camp, but the hounds stuck to the

chase. Next day Haught followed the hounds and bear from Dude Creek over

into Verde Canyon, back to Dude Creek, and then back to Verde again.

Here Haught gave out, and was on his way home when he met the blue bear

padding along as lively as ever.

I never tired of listening to Haught. He had killed over a hundred

bears, many of them vicious grizzlies, and he had often escaped by a

breadth of a hair, but the killing stories were not the most interesting

to me. Haught had lived a singularly elemental life. He never knew what

to tell me, because I did not know what to ask for, so I just waited for

stories, experiences, woodcraft, natural history and the like, to come

when they would. Once he had owned an old bay horse named Moze. Under

any conditions of weather or country Moze could find his way back to

camp. Haught would let go the bridle, and Moze would stick up his ears,

look about him, and circle home. No matter if camp had been just where

Haught had last thrown a packsaddle!

When Haught first came to Arizona and began his hunting up over the rim

he used to get down in the cedar country, close to the desert. Here he

heard of a pure black antelope that was the leader of a herd of ordinary

color, which was a grayish white. The day came when Haught saw this

black antelope. It was a very large, beautiful stag, the most noble and

wild and sagacious animal Haught had ever seen. For years he tried to

stalk it and kill it, and so did other hunters. But no hunter ever got

even a shot at it. Finally this black antelope disappeared and was never

heard of again.