We were out at daylight the next morning and hunted all day with fair
success. Johnston and Billy jumped a bunch of five mule-deer, a buck,
two does, and two fawns. Johnston fired fourteen shots at them before
they got out of the country, and killed the two does. In speaking of it
afterward Billy said he was just taking a good aim at the old buck's eye
when Johnston's gun cracked the first time, and of course the buck ran,
so he did not get a shot.
"But why didn't you shoot at him running?" I inquired.
"Because I can't hit a jumpin' deer," he replied, frankly, "and I hate
like thunder to miss."
I spent the day about a mile from camp on top of Blue Grouse Mountain, a
prominent landmark of the country. A heavy fog hung about the mountain
and over the surrounding country until about three o'clock in the
afternoon, when it lifted and disclosed a view of surpassing loveliness.
Away to the west and southwest there was a level tract of swampy,
heavily timbered country about thirty miles long and ten miles wide. I
looked down on the tops of the trees composing this vast forest, and
they appeared at this distance not unlike a vast field of half-grown
green grain. Beyond this tract to the west a chain of hills wound in
serpentine curves from north to south, their parks and bits of prairie
gleaming in the sun like well-made farms. To the north lay Loon Lake
nestling among the pine-clad hills, its placid bosom sparkling in the
setting sun like a sheet of silver. Farther to the north and northeast
were two other lakes of equal size and beauty, while far distant in the
east were several large bodies of prairie separated by strips of pine
and fir. I longed for my camera, but on account of the unfavorable
outlook of the morning, I had not brought the instrument.
[Illustration: ONE OF JOHNSTON'S PRIZES.]
The following morning promised no better, for the fog hung like a pall
over the whole country; but I took the little detective with me, hoping
the mist would lift as before; in this, however, I was disappointed. I
staid on the mountain from early morning till half-past three, and there
being then no prospect of a change went down. Just as I reached the base
I saw a rift in the clouds, and supposing the long-wished change in the
weather was about to take place, I turned and began the weary climb, but
again the fog settled down, and I was at last compelled to return to
camp without the coveted views. I made several exposures during the day
on crooked, deformed, wind-twisted trees on the top of the mountain,
which, strange to say, came out good. The fog was so dense at the time
that one could not see fifty yards. I used a small stop and gave each
plate from five to twenty seconds, and found, when developed, that none
of them were over exposed, while those given the shorter time were under
exposed. That day's hunting resulted in three more deer, and as we then
had all the meat our team could take out up the steep hills near camp,
we decided to start for home the next morning. While seated around our
blazing log fire in the old cabin that night, Mr. Johnston entertained
us with some interesting reminiscences of his extensive experience in
the West. He has been a "broncho buster," a stock ranchman, and a
cow-boy by turns, and a recital of his varied experiences in these
several lines would fill a big book. Among others, he told us that he
once lived in a portion of California where the ranchmen raised a great
many hogs, but allowed them to range at will in the hills and mountains
from the time they were littered until old enough and large enough for
market; that in this time they became as wild as deer and as savage as
peccaries, so that the only way they could ever be reclaimed and
marketed was to catch them with large, powerful dogs, trained to the
work. Their feet were then securely tied with strong thongs, and they
were muzzled and packed into market or to the ranches, as their owners
desired, on horses or mules.
[Illustration: ARE YOU LOOKING FOR US?]
Johnston had a pair of these dogs, and used to assist his neighbors in
rounding up their wild hogs. In one case, he and several other men went
with an old German ranchman away up into the mountains to bring out a
drove of these pine-skinners, many of whom had scarcely seen a human
being since they were pigs, and at sight of the party the hogs stampeded
of course, and ran like so many deer. The dogs were turned loose, took
up a trail, and soon had a vicious critter by the ears, when the packers
came up, muzzled and tied it securely. The dogs were then turned loose
again, and another hog was rounded up in the same way. These two were
hung onto a pack-animal with their backs down, their feet lashed
together over the pack-saddle, and their long, sharp snouts pointing
toward the horse's head. They were duly cinched, and the horse turned
loose to join the train. This operation was repeated until the whole
herd was corralled and swung into place on the horses, and the
squealing, groaning, and snorting of the terrified brutes was almost
deafening. One pair of hogs were loaded on a little mule which had
never been accustomed to this work, and, as the men were all engaged in
handling the other animals, the old ranchman said he would lead this
mule down the mountain himself. Johnston and his partner cinched the
hogs on in good shape, while the Dutchman hung to the mule.
[Illustration: A BUCKING MULE.]
As they were giving the ropes the final pull, Johnston gave his chum a
wink, and they both slipped out their knives, cut the muzzles off the
porkers when the old man was looking the other way, and told him to go
ahead. He started down the trail towing the little mule, which did not
relish its load in the least, by the halter. The hogs were struggling to
free themselves, and, as the thongs began to cut into their legs, they
got mad and began to bite the mule.
Then there was trouble; stiff-legged bucking set in, and mule and hogs
were churned up and down, and changed ends so rapidly that for a few
minutes it was hard to tell which of the three animals was on the
outside, the inside, the topside, or the bottom-side. The poor little
mule was frantic with rage and fright, and what a mule can not and will
not do under such circumstances, to get rid of a load can not be done by
any four-footed beast. He pawed the air, kicked, and brayed, jumped
backward, forward, and sidewise, and twisted himself into every
imaginable shape. The old Dutchman was as badly stampeded as the mule;
he shouted, yanked, and swore in Dutch, English, and Spanish; he yelled
to the men above to come and help him, but they were so convulsed and
doubled up with laughter that they could not have helped him if they
would.
Finally, the mule got away from the old man and went tearing down into
the canyon; he overtook and passed the balance of the pack-train,
stampeded them almost beyond control of the packers, and knocked the
poor hogs against trees and brush until they were almost dead. He ran
nearly six miles, and being unable to get rid of his pack, fell
exhausted and lay there until the men came up and took charge of him.
The old man accused Johnston of cutting the muzzles off the hogs, but he
and his partner both denied it, said they certainly must have slipped
off, and they finally convinced him that that was the way the trouble
came about.
[Illustration: THE BUCKER AND THE BUSTER.]
This, with sundry other recitals of an equally interesting nature,
caused the evening to pass pleasantly, and at a late hour we turned into
our bunks. We were up and moving long before daylight the next morning,
and as soon as we could see the trail hooked up the team and attempted
to go, but, alas for our hopes of an early start, one of the horses
refused to pull at the very outset--in short, he balked and no mule ever
balked worse. Johnston plied the buckskin until the horse refused to
stand it any longer and began to rear and to throw himself on the
tongue, back in the harness, etc. Johnston got off the wagon, went to
the animal's head and tried to lead it, but the brute would not be led
any more than it would be driven, and commenced rearing and striking at
its master as if trying to kill him. This aroused the ire of the
ranchman and he picked up a piece of a board, about four inches wide and
three feet long, and fanned the vicious critter right vigorously. I took
a hand in the game, at Johnston's request, and warmed the cayuse's
latter half to the best of my ability with a green hemlock gad. He
bucked and backed, reared and ranted, pawed, pitched, plunged and
pranced, charged, cavorted and kicked, until it seemed that he would
surely make shreds of the harness and kindling wood of the wagon; but
the whole outfit staid with him, including Johnston and myself.
We wore out his powers of endurance if not his hide, and he finally got
down to business, took the load up the hill and home to the ranch,
without manifesting any further inclination to strike. We reached the
ranch about nine o'clock at night, and the next day Johnston drove me
into Spokane Falls, where, in due time, I caught the train for home.
[Illustration: VIEW IN THE SPOKANE VALLEY.]
Spokane Falls is a growing, pushing town, and the falls of the Spokane
river, from which the town takes its name, afford one of the most
beautiful and interesting sights on the line of the Northern Pacific
road. There are over a dozen distinct falls within a half a mile, one of
which is over sixty feet in perpendicular height. Several of these falls
are split into various channels by small islands or pillars of basaltic
rock. At one place, where two of these channels unite in a common plunge
into a small pool, the water is thrown up in a beautiful, shell-like
cone of white foam, to a height of nearly six feet. It is estimated by
competent engineers that the river at this point furnishes a water-power
equal in the aggregate to that of the Mississippi at St. Anthony's
Falls. Every passenger over this route should certainly stop off and
spend a few hours viewing the falls of the Spokane river.