It was always interesting to me when I could get Pete's theories and his
brand of philosophy on almost any subject and it was my intention that
night at supper to lead up to the apparition I had seen on the cliffs
that day. With a substantial supper tucked away I was in a better frame
of mind to realize that the illusion I had seen was not uncommon in
mountain districts. I recalled that I had read of, and seen pictures of,
a particular illusion of this nature that is often present in the Hartz
Mountains in Germany and I knew full well that the setting sun, the mist
and the atmospheric condition had all contributed to throwing a greatly
enlarged shadow of the real Wild Hunter onto the screen made by the mist
very much as today a motion picture increases the size of the small film
image when it is thrown on the movie screen.
I intended to get Big Pete's idea on the subject but I never did for I
was not adroit enough to steer the conversation in that direction, for
Big Pete seized my first statement and made it a subject for a veritable
lecture.
"There was a smashing lot of those trout up there, Pete. Bet I could
have brought home all I could have carried if I had been a game hog," I
said, as I stirred the fire with a stick and set the coffee pot nearer
the flames to warm a second cup.
"You see, tenderfut, it's like this," he said, "when a man goes out to
kill a deer for the fun of blood-spilling or to get th' poor critter's
head to hang in his shack, he's nothing more than a wolf or butcher;
hain't half as good a man as the one who never shot a deer, but goes
back home and lies about it. The liar hain't harmed nothin' with his
lies. His fairy stories don't hurt game an' they be interesting to the
tenderfuts in the States. The real sportsman is the pot-hunter. Yes,
that's jist what I mean, a pot-hunter--he's out 'cause the camp kettle
is empty, and it's up agin him to fill it or starve. Now then, this
fellow is not after blood; nor trophies, nor is he hunting for the
market. It's self-preservation with him, that's what it is. He's an
animal along with the rest of 'em and he knows he's got jest as much a
right to live as tha' have and no more! He's hustling for his living
along with the bunch, forcing it from savage nature, and I tell you boy,
there is no greater physical pleasure in life than holding old Mother
Nature up and just saying to her, 'You've got a living for me, ole' gal,
and I'm going to get it.'
"Such talk pleases the old lady, makes her your friend 'cause she likes
your spunk, and because of it she'll give you the wind of a grey wolf,
the step of the panther, the strength of the buffalo and the courage of
a lion. She is always generous with her favorites. Ah! lad, she kin make
your blood dance in your veins, make fire flash from your eyes and give
you the steady nerve necessary to face a she-grizzly when she is
fightin' for her cubs."
"Why? 'cause you see, you are a grizzly yourself when the camp kettle is
empty!" And Big Pete relapsed into silence, turned his attention to his
tin platter, examining it carefully, and then with a piece of dough-god,
carefully wiped the platter clean and contentedly munched the savory
bit.
The reason, that being locked into Big Pete's park in the mountains
struck me as being very serious, was because I realized that although
the park was extensive it was completely surrounded by a practically
unsurmountable barrier of rugged cliffs and mountains negotiable, as far
as I knew, not even by the sure-footed mountain sheep and goats which we
could occasionally see on the cliffs from the valley floor, but never
saw in the park itself. I questioned Big Pete and found that he did not
know of a trail up the cliffs.
"Though," he said, "there must be some sort of a one for that tha' Wild
Hunter gits in an' out and brings his wolf pack along too. He knows a
trail all right an' ef he knows it why it's up to us to find it, too."
"Maybe we can trail him," I suggested.
"Trail him! Me? With that wolf pack clingin' to his heels? Not while I'm
alive!"
That was the last that was said about trailing the Wild Hunter for some
time to come, but meanwhile we built a more or less open faced permanent
camp and Big Pete initiated me into mysteries of real woodcraft, for it
was up to us now to live on the land, so to speak.
Although hard usage had made havoc with my tailormade clothes, neither
time nor the elements seemed to affect the personal appearance of my big
companion; his buckskin suit was apparently as clean and fresh as it was
on the day I first met him. There was no magic in this. Big Pete knew
how to clamber all day through a windfall without leaving the greater
part of his clothes on the branches, a feat few hunters and no
tenderfoot have yet been able to accomplish.
As I have already said, Pete was a dude, but he was what might be called
a self-perpetuating dude, who never ran to seed no matter how long he
might be separated from the city tailor shops, for Pete was his own
tailor, barber and valet, and the wilderness supplied the material for
his costume.
In the camp he was as busy as an old housewife, and occupied his leisure
time mending, stitching and darning. Many a morning my own toilet
consisted of a face wash at the spring, but my guide seldom failed to
spend as much time prinking as if he expected distinguished visitors!
Instead of "Tenderfoot," Big Pete now called me "Le-loo," which I
understand is Chinook for wolf and I took so much pride in my promotion
that I would not have changed clothes with the Prince of Wales; I
gloried in my wild, unkempt appearance!
Nevertheless, Big Pete announced that he was the Hy-as-ty-ee (big boss)
and he forthwith declared that my costume was unsuitable for the
approaching cold weather. There was no disputing that Big Pete was
Hy-as-ty-ee and I agreed to wear whatever clothes he should make for me,
and can say with no fear of dispute that if that ancient chump, Robinson
Crusoe, had had a Big Pete for a partner in place of a man Friday, he
would have never made himself his outlandish goatskin clothes and a
clumsy umbrella.
From a cache in the rocks Pete brought forth a miscellaneous lot of
trappers' stores, bone needles made from the splints of deer's legs,
elk's teeth with holes bored through them, and odds and ends of all
kinds.
Among his stuff was a supply of salt-petre and alum, and this was
evidently the material for which he was searching for he at once
preceeded to make a mixture of two parts salt-petre to one of alum and
applied the pulverized compound to the fleshy side of the skins, then
doubling the raw side of the hides together he rolled them closely and
placed the hides in a cool place where they were allowed to remain for
several days; when at length unrolled, the skins were still moist.
"Just right, by Gosh," he exclaimed, as he took a dull knife and
carefully removed all particles of fat or flesh which here and there
adhered to the hide. After this was done to his satisfaction we both
took hold and rubbed, and mauled and worked the skins with our hands
until the hides were as soft and as pliable as flannel. Thus was the
material for my winter clothing prepared.
It took four whole deer-skins to furnish stuff for my buckskin shirt
with the beautiful long fringes at the seams; but the whole garment was
cut, sewed and finished in a day's time. It was sewed with thread made
of sinew.
When it came to making the coat and trousers Big Pete spent a long time
in solemn thought before he was ready to begin work on these garments;
at length he looked up with a broad smile and cried:
"See here, Le-loo, I have taken a fancy to them 'ere tenderfut pants o'
your'n. Off with 'em now an' I'll jist cut out the new ones from the old
uns." In vain I pleaded with him to make my trousers like his own; he
would not listen to me, he insisted upon having my ragged but stylish
knickerbockers to use as a pattern.