THE START FOR NORTH PARK
It was just gray dawn next morning when Jack awoke and tumbled out of
bed. As he passed the corral on his way down to the bunk house, he saw
Hugh moving about among the horses, and entering, found that the pack
animals were all saddled.
"Hello, son!" said Hugh, "I'm glad to see you stirring. We want to get
our loads out, so that as soon as we've eaten breakfast we can pack up
and go. You better roll up that bed of yours and bring it down here
and put it with mine over there against the fence, and then we want to
bring down the grub and the mess kit, and make up our packs."
For a little time both were busy journeying to and fro between the
house and the corral, carrying down loads of food, the small mess kit
packed in a soap box, the ax, the hatchet, the Dutch oven, packages of
ammunition, and their guns. Hugh showed Jack how to lash together the
six pieces which made up the two uprights and the ridge pole of their
small tent, and then with a number of pieces of canvas and some lengths
of rope, Hugh began to make up the packs for the pack animals.
"While I'm working at this, son," he said, "do you go up and put the
saddles on the riding horses. Don't cinch them up, but just draw the
latigos tight enough to hold the saddles in place, and have the bridles
handy; and, by the way, you'd better get that coil of half-inch rope
that's in the storeroom. We'll take all that along, for we may need
picket ropes before we get back. Ropes are something that are awful
easy lost on a trip."
Jack got the rope, which he threw down with the other things over which
Hugh was working, and then went up and saddled Pawnee and Hugh's black.
He watered both horses, and then tied them in their stalls and left
them munching their hay.
When he returned to the corral, Hugh had apparently finished his work,
but while they had three pack horses, there were only two loads piled
up. Jack looked about for a third, and Hugh noticing this, said, "You
see, son, we've got so little to pack that we may as well put it all on
two horses and let the third one go without a load. You see, when we
buy our grub at Laramie, we can stick a good part of it on him, and put
more on the other horses as well. As it is now, neither of the loaded
horses will have had more than half what he ought to carry."
The call to breakfast came about this time, and after the meal was over
all hands went down to the corral and stood around while Hugh and Jack
packed their horses. A few moments later they had mounted, turned their
pack train loose, and after shaking hands all around and saying good-by
to Mr. Sturgis, they started down the valley. For some miles the ride
was a familiar one to Jack, for he had passed over it a number of times
on his hunting trips and on his way to the Powell ranch. He had nothing
special to do except to keep the pack animals close up to Hugh and to
prevent them from turning off and trying to return to the ranch. This
they kept doing for the first few miles, and at last Jack quite lost
patience with them and began to ride fast after them, chasing them
back at a gallop so that at times they ran ahead of Hugh. After he had
been doing this some little time, Hugh stopped and motioned to him
to come up to him. When Jack had done so, Hugh said, "If I were you,
son, I'd be more quiet with the horses. The more you run them, the
harder they'll be to manage, and you're liable to wear out the horse
you're riding if you keep charging up and down in this way. You can
always handle a horse easier if you do it quietly than if you lose your
temper. You know we've talked about that two or three times before, and
I've told you that your way of getting mad at a horse did not go."
Jack felt quite penitent when Hugh spoke to him in this way, and
answered: "I know you are right, Hugh; I do get mad at these miserable
horses. They seem to have no sense at all, and keep trying to turn
around and go back."
"Well, now," said Hugh, "I'll tell you. You say they have no sense.
Perhaps they don't understand what we're trying to do and where we are
trying to go. I'll go over there and sit down and smoke, and while I'm
doing that it might be a good idea for you take each one of the horses
off by itself and tell it where we are going to, and why we are going,
and why he must not go back."
For a moment Jack felt rather silly, and then he burst out laughing and
said, "Hugh, you are the queerest chap I ever saw. I never met anybody
that could make a fellow see so plainly what a fool he was making of
himself. It's pretty silly to get angry at these horses because they
don't want to leave their range; how could they be expected to know
anything about going in one direction or another? I will try to keep my
temper better, and handle the horses with better judgment."
"Do so," said Hugh. "But now, I tell you what we can do. Suppose you
lead for a while if you feel like it, and I'll follow and drive the
horses. All you've got to do is to keep straight ahead down the valley,
and along toward night we'll come to the mouth of the Muddy and camp
there."
"No, sir!" said Jack. "You go ahead and lead; there's where you belong,
and I'll follow and drive the horses; it will give me a lesson in
patience, and that is something that I need. You and the Indians we
have hunted with have taught me to be patient in hunting, but I have
not learned to be patient with horses."
"All right," said Hugh, "I'll go ahead, or I'll come behind, just
whichever you please; but if I'm to go ahead, you drive the horses with
good sense."
"I'll try," said Jack, and from that time on the horses, very largely
owing to the way in which they were treated, went along much better.
There was little that was interesting on the road for the greater part
of the day. On either side of the stream stretched the wide sage plain
of silvery green. Beyond this plain, to the right, rose the tall naked
hills, almost blood red, while to the left, as far off, was a yellow,
chalky bluff. Among the red hills Jack had several times been hunting
deer and elk, and just beyond the chalky bluff was Bate's Hole, where
Jack had killed his first mule deer.
It was but a little after noon when Hugh stopped his horse, and when
Jack had come close to him, said, "Son, there are some antelope over
this next hill, and we need fresh meat; why not slip off your horse and
go up to the top of the next hill and see if you can find a buck that
you can kill."
"All right," said Jack. He jumped from the saddle, threw down the
reins and started for the crest of the ridge beyond. As he slowly and
carefully advanced, he saw, not far ahead of him, a pair of small
horns, which he knew must belong to a yearling buck antelope, and
dropping on his knees, he crept forward until close to the ridge; then
slowly raising his head, he saw but a short distance from him a fine
young buck antelope looking across the valley and standing broadside
on. Jack raised his gun and fired, and the antelope fell, while a half
dozen others not seen before rushed into view from behind the hill and
scampered off into the plain. The one that Jack had shot struggled to
his feet and stood with lowered head, facing in the direction in which
its comrades had gone. Jack threw his rifle to his shoulder again,
intending to shoot once more, but the antelope looked as if it were
badly wounded, and he did not think that it could run far. Turning
about, he signaled Hugh to come on, saw him ride over to Pawnee, grasp
the bridle reins and start towards him. Then Jack slowly walked over
the crest and up to the antelope. There was, of course, a possibility
that the animal might run, and Jack cocked his rifle and held it at
a "ready," but the antelope, shot through the lungs, was breathing
heavily and was in no condition to run away. Still, it kept its feet,
and Jack was doubtful as to how to handle it. He certainly did not care
to go in front of it and take it by the horns, and he did not like to
put down his gun and attempt to stab it with his butcher knife. Finally
he put down the gun close by the antelope, and stepped up behind it
with drawn butcher knife, caught its hind leg and tried to hamstring
it. It was not until then that he realized something of the strength
of even so small an animal as this. It kicked and struggled, and Jack,
while he managed to keep his hold of the leg, was shaken and twisted
about in a way that greatly astonished him. He dared not let go, for
fear the antelope would run away, but he had no idea as to how long
the struggle would last. However, after a minute or two, which seemed
to him like a very long time, the antelope's efforts grew weaker, and
finally it fell over on its side. By the time Hugh had come up with the
horses, Jack had cut the little buck's throat.
"What was the matter?" said Hugh. "You seemed to be having quite an
active time down here."
"Active time!" said Jack, "I should say so! I had no idea that an
animal as small as this antelope could shake me up as he did. I made a
poor shot, for I hit him too high up, and from the way he breathed, I
think I just cut the upper part of his lungs. I shall have to practice
shooting if I am going to help keep the camp supplied with meat this
summer."
"Oh, don't you bother about practicing," Hugh said. "Two or three
shots will get you back into your old way again, but that's a regular
green-horn trick to shoot too high. It seems to me that mighty few
people know how low the life lies in any animal. I keep telling you
where to shoot at in an antelope, and you must remember it."
"Of course you do, Hugh," said Jack; "I know that well enough. I try to
shoot at that little curl of hair; that's what I aimed at, but you see
I drew my sight too coarse."
"Well," said Hugh, "just a little shooting is what you need, and you'll
get plenty of that in a very short time now."
Hugh got off his horse, and they began to skin the antelope, which was
a very short operation. The hide strips off an antelope very easily,
just as the hide strips off a deer. Jack noticed that on his side Hugh
kept turning under the edge of the skin, so that the hair side was
always next to the ground or else turned well under the edge. Jack,
on the other hand, simply laid the hide on his side on the ground,
and twisted and pulled it about; sometimes the flesh sides would come
together, and some of the antelope hair rubbed off on the body.
Hugh said to him, "You might as well learn to skin an antelope right,
son. You know the hair smells quite strong, and if you let the hair
touch the meat, the meat gets this smell and tastes of it. Lots of
people don't like that taste, and so I always make it a point to keep
the hair from touching the skin. You see how I'm working it on my
side, always keeping the flesh side to the body."
"I see," said Jack, "and now that you have told me, I see why you do
it. Of course I've tasted the flavor of the antelope hide in the meat,
and I don't like it a bit, myself. I will remember that after this in
skinning. Are there other animals, the meat of which is affected by the
touching of the hide?"
"Well," said Hugh, "the meat of the tame sheep gets an awful strong
taste if the wool is allowed to rub against it, and sometimes I think
the meat of the wild sheep gets the same taste; anyhow, it's just as
well to keep the hair side of the hide away from the meat of the animal
it belongs to. At best the hides of these animals are full of dirt and
dust, and there is a common prejudice against making that sort of thing
your food. We have to eat a lot of it, of course, but at the same time
we don't want to eat any more than we have got to. You take the hide
of a deer or an elk or a buffalo, just after you have stripped it off,
rub your hand down the outside of it, and see what a lot of dirt you
will get on your hand. Of course, the Indians don't think much about a
little thing like that, and perhaps the average plainsman don't, but
I've noticed a few times how very dirty these hides are, and it seems
to me worth while to be as clean as we can with the skinning."
The antelope being lifted off the hide, its body was rested now for a
moment on the top of a sage bush, while Hugh went to his saddle and
from one of the strings behind it untied a cotton sack. The antelope
was quickly quartered and the pieces packed in this sack, which was
lashed on the unloaded horse, and they went on.
Camp was made that night some miles above where the Muddy runs into the
Medicine Bow River. There was no timber, but the grass was good, and
there was plenty of sage brush and some dry willow bushes, so that
they had fuel enough to cook their meals. By the time the horses were
picketed and the coffee was boiling, it was dark.
The day had been warm and bright, and as the night was clear, they
decided that it was not necessary to put up the tent. After supper they
sat by the fire, Jack questioning Hugh about the country they were
going to.
"You have talked to me a good deal about the Northern countries, but
I don't know that you have ever said anything about the Parks of
Colorado, and I don't know just what they are. Of course, we will see
them before long, but I should like to have some idea of the country
before we reach it."
"Well," said Hugh, "I can tell you pretty clearly what these Parks are
like. They are just big basins of open country lying between ranges of
high mountains. In some places they are fifteen or twenty miles across
and twice as long as they are wide, and the mountains on either side
are very high--not like the mountains back of the ranch, but running
away up above timber line. There are no people in North Park, though
I believe within the last two or three years some folks have begun to
drive cattle in there for the summer; but in Middle Park and South
Park, which are nearer Denver, there are some settlements. In North
Park and in Middle Park there is lots of game--in fact, I reckon it's
one the greatest game countries there is left now. You will find elk,
deer, antelope, sheep, and maybe a few buffalo, but no moose, and no
white goats. If you imagine a big plain like the Basin we have just
come over, with high mountains all around it, you will have a pretty
good idea of North Park.
"There's a wagon road from Laramie into the Park--a good wagon road,
but after you pass Pinkham's you won't see any settlers until you get
over the divide into Middle Park. The North Platte heads in North Park,
and, of course, there are no fish in that. Then you ride over a low
divide and strike one of the heads of Grand River, and there, even up
in the shallow water in a small brook you can catch lots of trout."
"Why is it, Hugh, that there are no trout in the Platte River?"
"I reckon a thousand people have asked that question, and nobody has
ever been able to answer it, so far as I know. We all just know that
there are no trout in the stream, but why it is, nobody can tell.
Neither in the Platte River nor in any stream that runs into it, so far
as I know, are there any trout, and it does seem queer."[1]
[1] In recent years the North Platte River has been stocked with trout.
"Why, yes, Hugh, that does seem queer; but where do the trout come from
that are in the other Rocky Mountain streams? I know that they are not
the same kind of trout that we have back East. Those have red spots,
and these have black ones."
"You just can't prove it by me," said Hugh; "but I've always believed
that they came from the other side of the mountain, over the range.
How they got over to this side, I do not know, but I reckon that there
are ways for fish to move about and get scattered over the country,
that maybe you and I don't know anything about. There's one place up
north of here where there's a little spring right on the crest of the
mountain, from which the water flows both ways. That is to say, it
flows down into the Yellowstone on one side and into the Snake River
on the other, and so from this same spring water goes to the Atlantic
Ocean and to the Pacific Ocean. Now, of course, it might be possible
for a trout from the west side of the range to push his way up a
western stream until he got into this little spring, and then he might
push his way down the stream, which runs east, and where one fish went
another might follow; and so that stream might get stocked. It may be
that in times past there have been a number of places like that where a
fish could climb over the range. Mind, I don't say that is the way that
it happened, but it seems to me it might have been that way."
"That's mighty interesting, Hugh," said Jack; "I never heard of that
place before. What do they call it?"
"Why," said Hugh, "they have a good name for it, they call it 'Two
Ocean Spring.' Long ago I heard of it from mountain men a great many
times, and I have been there once or twice. It's in the right high
mountains just east of that Yellowstone Park that we came down through
two years ago. They call the two little creeks that run out from it,
Atlantic Creek and Pacific Creek, and these seem to me to be very good
names for them, too. I heard that not very long ago a government outfit
crossed over there and made a map of the country."
"Jerusalem!" said Jack; "that's one of the places I'd like to go to."
"Well," said Hugh, "you're likely to see just as pretty places as that
in these mountains this summer. The little pool up there, that these
two streams run out of, is just like any other little shallow lake on
top of a divide, and there isn't any wonderful scenery there. It's a
good game country, though not any better, I think, than what we came
through when we made that trip with Joe two years ago; but it is a
pretty country to travel through; open parks and quaking aspen groves
and high peaks of mountains sticking up every little while. Oh, yes,
it's a real nice country."
"Well," said Jack, "I would like to go there, but dear me! what a lot
of country there is out here, and how much time it would take to visit
all of it!"
"That's so," said Hugh, "there's a right smart of country that I have
never seen, and I have been out here a pretty considerable time."
For a little while both sat silently looking into the fire, and
listening to the sharp barks and the shrill wailings of a coyote
perched on a hill not far from them. The noise made seemed to Jack to
be enough for a half dozen animals, and yet he suspected that very
likely it was all made by one. At last he spoke to Hugh about it, and
said, "How many of those coyotes do you think there are yelling out
there, Hugh?"
"Well, I don't know," said Hugh; "there must be at least one; he makes
plenty of noise, doesn't he?"
"I should think so," said Jack. "I thought there must be at least half
a dozen."
"No, I don't think so," said Hugh; "if there were more than one, you
would be apt to distinguish their voices, and there would be barking
at different times. Instead of that, if you will listen to this fellow
you'll hear him bark and then howl and stop, and then bark again. I
reckon he's hungry, and is trying to call up a partner, and to-morrow
morning they will go hunting together and try to kill a rabbit or two,
or maybe pull down an antelope. They are queer beasts."
"Yes," said Jack, "and mighty cunning, I expect."
"Lord, yes," said Hugh, "they are cunning enough. A fox is a fool to
one of those coyotes."