Early in September of 1890, we were in camp in the northern part of
Colorado, an easy day's ride from the Wyoming line. Our party, eight in
all, consisted of myself, three friends, three packers, and a cook. We
had been out nearly a month, and after the first week our success had
been good. We were taking life very easily--hunting a little, fishing
now and then, and doing a great deal of healthy "lying round camp."
Game was very plentiful. There were black-tail and elk all around us.
The antelope, than whom the ammunition manufacturer has no truer friend,
were within easy reach. One of the party had bagged two bears, and a
packer had found a dead one, whose fore-paws and ears were sufficiently
preserved to be worth a $10 bounty to the finder.
The outfit with two exceptions was content. Our cook, having
surreptitiously drunk all the whisky, was struggling with an increasing
thirst provoked by an empty demi-john. My cup of happiness, unlike the
cook's, had never been emptied, but it was far from full. I had not shot
an elk. They were all round us, and had been for a fortnight. I had
hunted them alone and in company. I had had many chances at young bulls,
but had hitherto held my hand, waiting in vain for a good head. We had
plenty of meat--a condition of things forbidding useless slaughter.
Spike bulls and cows were therefore sacred, and seemed to know it, for
they gave me every chance to take advantage of their youthful
inexperience or sex. Twice I had stumbled on a large band in timber. I
had heard the musical challenges of the young bulls answered by the
patriarch, with his squealing whistle ending in a deep grunt of
conscious superiority. The young bulls were provokingly plentiful--but
the patriarchs always invisible. Of course every other member of the
outfit saw the "biggest bull yet" whenever I happened to be absent. Each
of my three friends had a good head or two to his score, and their
accounts were closed. Our time was nearly up, and I began to despair of
getting what I wanted. For two days I sulked in my tent, and then one
morning Robert Bruce's historic spider fell into my lap from the
tent-pole, and I arose and went forth for a last try.
Our camp was by a stream in an aspen grove, on the edge of one of those
open spaces which, be they large or small, are known in Colorado as
parks. Behind us to the south lay heavily timbered ridges, alternating
with little valleys full of shade-trees, long, sweet grass, and pleasant
brooks. There, I thought, was as good a place as any in which to find
the "faultless monster that the world ne'er saw," and thither I
accordingly went.
It was about noon when I started, and my intention was to work away to
the south, and then hunt back to camp toward evening. I know that there
are those who say that if you want to kill game you must get up early.
They are perfectly right, and I agree with them entirely. But there are
others who maintain with equal truth that toward sundown is the best
time. One time is as good as the other, and inasmuch as an empty belly
and the dark before the dawn are bitter things to me, and to be avoided
if possible, I prefer the evening shooting. So, fortified with a good
night's rest, and a breakfast calculated to last me till the morrow, I
set forth alone and on foot.
In hunting, as in most cases where real work is to be done, one is best
alone. Two people are apt to talk just at the wrong time. And even if
you do not talk at all, four feet make--of necessity--more noise than
two, and two bodies are easier seen than one. I left my horse behind,
because I did not wish to burden myself with an extra responsibility. A
horse can be a dreadful nuisance. You may want to go where he cannot,
and so you must either leave him tied up somewhere, or else suit your
way to his. Again, you lose valuable time in dismounting and tying up,
before stalking or shooting your game. And both time and temper suffer
when you can't find the place where you left your horse. Some men have
the true woodsman's instinct, and never get lost or turned round. These
are fortunate beings, and worthy of respectful admiration. But woe to
him who, unendowed by nature with their gifts, seeks to imitate them.
For my part I have always had quite enough to do to keep my head and
feet agreed as to the direction of camp. Any extra strain, such as the
necessity of looking for a mislaid horse, is sure to cause a
disagreement between the members, and so bring on a catastrophe.
I had been out several hours. It was getting on toward evening, and I
was well on my way home. There was no lack of elk in the neighborhood,
for my more fortunate friends had proved that they were easy to find. I
could see that bands had roved that very morning over the country
through which my path lay. I could see where some great bull had
thrashed the young sapling with his horns till the tender bark was
stripped off, or hung in long, wet ribbons from the wounded tree. And in
the pools where the big fellows had wallowed, the mud had scarce
settled. In places the grass was trampled and littered as if by a bunch
of cattle. The "sign" was plentiful and fresh. Still I heard no whistle,
nor saw a living thing, save now and then when a big-eyed black-tail doe
would gaze at me with mild wonder until she got my wind, and then away
she would bounce through the timber, followed by her startled fawn.
But the shadows were getting longer and the air cooler; the sun was
going rapidly down hill. I knew that now was the time when the elk were
sure to be moving down out of the timber for their evening feed in the
open glades. I was making my way quietly along a little stream, whose
timbered banks afforded good cover, and at the same time a view of the
small parks running up to the wooded ridges on either side. Suddenly my
heart went to my throat, and I dropped in my tracks. There--to the left
and within a few yards of me--was a cow coming down through the timber
to drink. Close behind her was another cow, and then a young spike bull.
I lay still and breathless, praying to all the gods that the band, which
I felt sure was behind, might pass my hiding-place. There would surely
be a big bull or two among them, and at that distance if I missed--. I
was already thinking whether the neck or the shoulder was the best
chance. The cow bent her head to the water, and began to drink. Her two
companions paused on the brink. Nothing else showed. The cow raised her
dripping muzzle. I was so near that I could hear the drops tinkle as
they fell back into the stream. And then a puff of wind, soft as a sigh,
fanned my cheek, and with a snort and a bound the two cows and their
youthful escort vanished back into the wood. They had got my wind, for
see me they could not, and no log could have lain more still.
Then arose a mighty trampling on the other side of the stream. The trio
had evidently rejoined the band, startling them by their sudden retreat.
I crept across the stream, and crawled through the thicket to spy out
the land beyond. A thick, low clump of trees thrust itself like a
venomous green tongue out into the open park which stretched away in
front of me to the right and left. Beyond the park was a heavily wooded
ridge, whither I felt sure the band had gone. But no--not all! Further
on, at the extreme end of the green tongue of timber, in full view and
broadside on, stood a young bull. He was evidently the last of the herd.
He stood gazing about him as if he wondered what had startled the
others, and why they had left him so unceremoniously. What a picture he
made, as he stood outlined against the green hillside, turning his
lordly head slowly from side to side with watchful eye and spreading
nostril! I had seen plenty as good as he, and had held my hand. But then
it might be my last chance. He was only a ten-pointer. But I had gone
home so often empty handed, and he was only seventy or eighty yards
away. Instinctively my rifle went to my shoulder, my finger pressed the
trigger, the elk plunged forward and fell on his knees. As he struggled
to rise, I shot him again. And then--what are mere words to describe
what I felt! On my left, beyond the accursed green tongue, went with a
rush a great band of cows and calves. And in their very midst rolled the
great-grandfather of all the elk in the State of Colorado,--a perfect
monster! His back was as broad and as yellow as the Tiber in spring. His
horns were as thick as a strong man's arm, and spread like the branches
of an oak. Across the park and up the hill he went, his wives and
children thronging round him so close that I could not shoot for fear
of doing useless harm. Up and over the ridge and into the timber he
went, and I saw him no more. It was all over in a moment; then I
remembered the young bull I had shot, and went and sat down by him. I
expressed my profound regret for what had occurred, and explained how it
had all happened. His grandpapa should have shown himself a moment
sooner, or at least should have had the decency to separate himself from
the ladies when running away. And then, having performed the necessary
rites, I left him where he lay, and started for camp to get a packer and
a horse.
My way lay over the very ridge the elk had crossed in their flight.
Thinking that I might get another chance at the big fellow, I went
carefully along, keeping a sharp lookout ahead. For about an hour I kept
on through the woods. It was getting dark fast, but I was very near
home, and could see the great park on the edge of which our camp lay. As
I walked, I could hear from time to time the whistling of bulls on all
sides; some far off, and some seemingly quite near at hand. In crossing
a large open patch of burnt timber, I was stopped by a very loud
whistle close in front; and, on creeping up, saw on the far edge of the
clearing three bulls standing. They were between me and camp, and not
two hundred yards away. They seemed to hear or see me, but stood
perfectly still, probably mistaking me in the dusk for one of their
number. One was a big fellow, I could see, as he stood out against the
sky. What horns he had! The failing light made him seem gigantic. I
crawled on till within easy range, and still he never moved. He was
standing breast on, apparently watching me. Aiming for where his great
shaggy throat joined his broad breast I fired. The rifle blazed out in
the dusk; the elk gave a bound, and turned his quarter toward me; the
other two dashed off into the woods. Again I fired; this time for his
shoulder. The flash of the rifle half blinded me for an instant, but I
could see that he was down. I started for him at a run. Up he got, and
went lurching heavily down hill toward camp. I was now quite close to
him, and fired once more. Again he fell, but, the slope aiding him, he
struggled up and went stumbling along. There was no need of another
shot. He was nearly spent, and my only thought was to get him as near
camp as possible. Forgetting all about the danger of going too near a
wounded elk, I was close at his quarter, hurling sticks and stones at
him to drive him home, as one would an ox. The hill was steep; my second
shot had broken his shoulder; he pitched rather than walked down the
slope; and finally fell forward in a heap and breathed his last.
He was not the monster I had lost, but he was a grand big one; as big as
any we had killed on that trip. I had what I wanted at last, and having
marked well the spot where he lay, I heaved a sigh of satisfaction and
started for camp.
In half an hour I was stowing away a well-earned supper, and fighting my
battle over again for the benefit of all who chose to listen. About nine
o'clock I went back with two packers and a horse to where my prize lay
stiff and cold. By the light of a roaring fire we cut him up, and then,
loading the horse with what we wanted, we left the remainder for the
bears and coyotes, and betook ourselves to camp.
Two days later I had the melancholy satisfaction of assisting at the
decapitation of the monster who had escaped me. I devoutly believe it
was the same elk, and though of course I cannot swear to his identity,
yet I am sure he must have been a full brother to old Yellow Back. My
friend had stalked and shot him while superintending the luncheons,
siestas and gambols of his numerous family. When I saw him I groaned in
spirit, and congratulated the lucky sportsman. We took only his head,
for he was too much married by far to be good eating. His mighty body
was left as a _memento mori_ to the valiant bull who succeeded him in
the affections of his widows and offspring.
_Winthrop Chanler._
Old Times in the Black Hills.
In the spring of '75 I found myself one of a party of six occupying a
rude but strongly fortified stockade on French Creek, in the Black
Hills, almost under the shadow of Calamity Peak, and not far from where
Custer City was afterward built.
I had left Denver the previous fall, quite a tenderfoot, and, like Lord
Lovel of milk-white steed fame, wanting "strange countries for to see,"
I determined to join a party that I heard was outfitting at Cheyenne to
go into the Black Hills upon a hunting and prospecting tour, under the
guidance of old California Joe, one of the most noted scouts and hunters
in the West. At this time the presence of gold in the Black Hills was
hardly known, and the country; being an Indian reservation, had not even
been explored by white men, or surveyed by the government. The plans of
the party in question suited my ideas exactly, and I soon found myself
on the back of a "cayuse," followed by a good stout packhorse, equipped
for a journey of several months, _en route_ to Cheyenne, probably one
hundred miles due north. After two days of hard riding I reached
Cheyenne, and found that the party had started two days before,
intending to cross the Platte River at Fort Laramie, another hundred
miles north. Undaunted, I pushed on without delay, not even stopping to
take a shot at any of the numerous bands of antelope that continually
crossed my path. I reached the post the second day, only to learn from a
"bull-whacker"--I dared not disclose my purpose to the officers--that
the party I was looking for had been turned back by the troops as
trespassers on Indian territory, and were supposed to have gone in the
direction of Fort Fetterman. Though somewhat disheartened, I lost no
time in following them, and soon rode into their camp, after dark, in a
blinding snow-storm.
My welcome was anything but cordial. They regarded my story that I, a
tenderfoot, had ridden through from Denver in four days to join them as
suspicious, and believed, as I afterward ascertained, that I had been
sent out from the post to spy upon their movements. As I rode into camp
I noticed they were just finishing supper. During the argument that
followed my arrival and proposition to join them, I observed a large,
powerfully built man, dressed in buckskin, seated apart from the rest.
He was eating the meat from a section of ribs he had scraped out from
among the coals and ashes. He took no part in the conversation until, in
answer to a question, I stated that I was a Kentuckian. At this he rose
and settled the matter by saying that if I was a Kentuckian he would
vouch for my honesty of purpose, and that I would stand fire in the
scrimmages that we were certain to have with the Sioux. This was
California Joe, who for years had been chief of scouts with General
Custer. He afterward informed me that he was from near Danville,
Kentucky, that his name was Mose Milner, and that he had gone West in
the forties. I mention this from the fact that I have since read an
account referring to him as one of the most noted characters in the
West, whose life was surrounded by mystery, as he always refused to tell
his real name or whence he came.
After waiting a couple of days for the river to fall, we forded just
above the junction of the Laramie and the Platte. I came very near
losing my packhorse and entire outfit, one horse being drowned in the
treacherous quicksands in spite of our strenuous efforts to rescue him.
At the end of a two weeks' journey through the best game country I ever
hunted in, we entered the Black Hills proper, through Red Canyon, the
place where the Metz party and many prospectors _en route_ to the new
Eldorado were afterward killed by the Indians. Old Joe had several
opportunities to verify his good opinion of my ability to stand fire, as
we were attacked by roving bands of Sioux at Alkali Springs, Hat Creek,
and Red Canyon. Our first action was to erect a couple of log cabins and
surround them with a strong stockade, with a bastion at each corner. We
spent the entire winter here, feeling secure of our ability to stand off
any bands of Indians that might attempt to dislodge us. We were utterly
oblivious of the fact that the Indians had reported our presence, and
that the government had sent out troops from both Red Cloud and Spotted
Tail agencies to bring us in; one command, under Lieutenant Mix,
returning after several weeks' unsuccessful search with a large
percentage of the men suffering from frozen extremities.
In the early part of the winter game was plentiful; it was a perfect
hunter's paradise, it being necessary only to sit in the stockade gate
and shoot deer coming down to water. We frequently had eight or ten
carcasses swung to our corner-poles, and did not deign to eat other than
the choice pieces, throwing the remainder over the stockade walls to
attract wolves at night. These we shot for their pelts. In the early
spring the Indians coming in for "tepee" poles burned the country for
miles around us, and quite a little jaunt became necessary to find game.
We generally took turn about at supplying the table with meat, and it
eventually proved anything but a sinecure.
On one such hunt I met with a rather curious misadventure. It being my
turn to replenish the larder, which, by the way, had for several weeks
contained absolutely nothing but meat,--not even coffee,--I placed a
rawhide hackamore and a pack on "Coffee," an extra bronco I had bought,
filled my pouch with a good supply of jerked bear-meat, and calling two
of the dogs,--Kentuck, a greyhound, and Maida, a deerhound,--I struck
out just as the sun was peeping over the hills. I decided to go to the
foot-hills in the direction of Buffalo Gap, in the hope of finding
antelope in some of the valleys. Noon found me near Point of Rocks and
still tramping, "Coffee" trailing leisurely along, at times dropping
entirely out of sight while looking for unburned grass, then whinnying
and scampering after me full tilt, like a boy just out from school. I
had seen several deer and a couple of sheep, but none within range.
Here I came upon some cottontail rabbits, the first and only ones I ever
saw in that part of the country. They were not frightened by my
presence, evidently never having been disturbed by man. I tried a shot
at one very near me, and as I was using 107 grains of powder, entirely
overshot him. Although the smoke of the gun reached him, he did not
budge an inch; a second shot literally scattered him to the winds. The
dogs, returning at this point, quickly despatched several.
Leaving "Coffee" in the valley, I decided to give up antelope and take
my chances on deer and sheep on the mountain-side. When about winded
from my exertions, I dropped upon a fallen pine, somewhat disgusted with
my ill luck. Presently I heard the distinct bark of a deer very close to
me. Peering cautiously from behind a huge granite boulder that
obstructed my view ahead, my heart beat faster in an incipient
buck-fever, for not sixty yards from me, on a small plateau, stood a big
buck, while at his feet lay a doe. His head was slightly turned toward
me, his nostrils were quivering and distended, and he looked as if
prepared to bound away. He was evidently alarmed by the noise of the
dogs I had left in the canyon, which were now making their way up the
steep sides of the mountain. He seemed utterly oblivious of my presence;
and there was a look of proud defiance in his eye that gave him a most
noble, majestic appearance as he stood impatiently striking the hard
ground with his fore foot. I had long been anxious to kill two deer with
one shot, a feat I had twice seen accomplished by others, so I paused a
minute with rifle at full cock, hoping the doe would arise alongside of
him. I had not long to wait; his note of warning aroused her, and she
jumped to her feet.
Taking a quick aim just back of his shoulder, I fired. As soon as the
smoke cleared from in front of my eyes, I saw him still standing erect;
he shook his antlers, paused a moment, then rearing to his full height
he pitched forward upon his head, apparently stone dead. Forgetting in
the excitement of the moment to take a second shot at the doe, which was
now bounding off seemingly uninjured, I ran exultingly forward to the
buck, dropping my rifle on the edge of the plateau as I reached for my
hunting-knife to cut his throat. To my amazement he bounded to his feet
and made straight at me, meeting my advance with a charge as sudden as
it was unexpected. His onslaught was irresistible, and striking me
squarely, he sent me whirling heels over head, fortunately landing me
near my rifle, for in reaching for my knife I discovered it was missing.
Scrambling to my feet, I arose with my rifle in my hand, and not a
minute too soon, for the now thoroughly enraged buck was upon me, with
eyes gleaming like coals of fire. I clubbed my gun and struck at his
lowered head, hitting the bur of his antlers; and the rifle flew out of
my hands, broken in two at the grip. I grasped him by the antlers, and
the tussle we then had would have been an interesting and thrilling one
to a spectator. I myself would have much preferred the role of spectator
to that of participant, but unfortunately I had no choice in the matter.
The dogs, now coming up, fortunately divided his attention. Kentuck
promptly seized him by the ear and hung on bravely, notwithstanding the
sharp hoofs of the buck were cutting him frightfully at each stroke of
his deadly fore feet; Maida, in the mean time, was unable to secure a
hold that would assist us. In my efforts to hold his head down I slipped
and fell, and buck, dogs, and myself mingled in a confused heap. As I
fell I lost my hold on the antlers and scrambled for my mutilated rifle;
but before I found whether it could be used or not, the buck lunged
forward, falling with Kentuck beneath him. It was his last effort; he
was dead. Completely winded from my continued and violent exertions in
the light air,--being almost up to timber-line,--I sank upon the ground,
and could not refrain from smiling at the forlorn appearance we
presented.
Blowing like porpoises, their tongues lolling out, covered with blood
from their own and the buck's wounds, the dogs lay extended at full
length. An examination revealed that Kentuck's mouth was split almost to
his ears, and there was a hole in his abdomen from which his entrails
protruded, besides several minor cuts. Maida was more bloody than hurt,
having lost several patches of skin, and hair enough to pad a saddle. As
for myself, my antelope-skin shirt and overalls were ripped and bloody,
one sole was torn from my heavy hunting-boots, elbows and knees were
skinned by the sharp ledges of slate and loose quartz scattered about,
and I had a badly cut lip and several loose teeth. I considered my
greatest injury the damage to my rifle. It was one that I had made to
order by Freund, of Denver, being a 45-caliber, heavy octagon barrel,
Springfield needle-gun movement, with set triggers and curled maple
pistol-grip stock. I considered this the best all-round sporting-rifle
I had ever owned. I was three hundred miles from a gunsmith, virtually
unarmed, and carrying my life in my hand.
An examination of the dead buck proved him indeed a grand specimen. He
had eight points to each antler, and their condition and his numerous
scars proved conclusively that he had ever been willing to defend his
title as monarch of the woods. I never would have believed that any deer
could attain so large a size, and though I have hunted them from Arizona
to Montana, I have never seen his equal either as to size or condition.
This fact determined me to carry him into camp whole; in fact, I had no
other alternative, being without a knife. I found the task of cutting
his throat with sharp pieces of slate a tedious one indeed, and I had a
terrible time getting the carcass on "Coffee," who, although the best
packhorse I ever saw, had never overcome his horror of a dead animal,
and did not even relish the rabbits I had strapped on him at noon. It
may seem a simple thing, but I found loading that buck without
assistance one of the hardest tasks I ever undertook, and more than
once was on the point of giving it up. However, my desire to
substantiate my claim of having bagged the largest deer of any of the
party sharpened my wits. Snubbing "Coffee's" nose up tight against a
tree growing at the base of a ledge on to which I had succeeded in
dragging and rolling the carcass, I blindfolded him with my
hunting-shirt, and then managed to roll the buck on the pack from the
ledge.
By the time this was accomplished, the sun was sinking behind the
mountain. Returning slowly to the valley, no course was left me but to
camp for the night, for I was at least fifteen miles from the stockade.
I may have been a fit subject for the Society for the Prevention of
Cruelty to Animals, but "Coffee" spent that night in the embrace of a
"diamond hitch," holding the buck securely on his back. After making a
hearty supper off the bear-meat, and dressing the wounds of the
dogs,--which, by the way, healed rapidly, considering their terrible
nature and the fact that I had nothing but bear's-grease to dress them
with,--I hobbled "Coffee," and, being thoroughly exhausted, rolled
myself up in a buffalo-robe, and was soon fast asleep: only to be
awakened in a few hours by the nasty yelping of the wretched coyotes.
Though there were probably less than a half-dozen of them, it sounded as
though the whole canine race was present. I did not dare make a fire
large enough to run them off. When I had finally come to the conclusion
that the best thing I could do was to grin and bear it, the shrill cry
of a mountain-lion aroused the dogs and also put to flight the coyotes,
and I spent the remainder of the night in comparative peace and
quietness.
Kentuck's cold nose coming in contact with my neck, in his efforts to
share my robe, aroused me about daylight; and, not waiting for an
extensive toilet and dainty breakfast, I broke camp and set out for
home. Ten o'clock found me crossing Slate Creek, a few miles from the
stockade. Looking down the creek, I saw a doe feeding at the mouth of a
small gulch several hundred yards away, and quickly led "Coffee" and the
dogs out of sight, with the intention of stalking her, forgetting at the
moment the condition of my rifle. Just then I saw her start, look down
the creek, toss her tail up, and dart into the bushes. Wondering what
could have so startled her, I cautiously crept from out the coulee by
which I was approaching her, and to my surprise saw, a couple of hundred
yards still further down the creek, an Indian on foot. He crossed
fearlessly, almost carelessly, and walked up on to a high point of
ground jutting out into the valley or creek bottom he had just crossed.
After a swift glance up and down the creek he turned, parted the bushes
in front of him, and disappeared. I readily recognized him even at that
distance as an Ogallala Sioux. After waiting probably ten minutes to
assure myself there were no others with him, knowing it was seldom if
ever they are seen alone on foot, I proceeded down the creek, intending
to learn if he was heading in the direction of the stockade.
When just at the identical spot where I had last seen the Indian, an
unearthly screech sounded in the chaparral a few feet in front of me,
followed instantly by the bang of a gun, and I felt a blow on my side
which nearly turned me around. What thoughts chased themselves through
my excited imagination as I felt that terrible bullet plowing its way
through my vitals will never be told. Then, as visions of the whole
Sioux tribe dancing around my scalpless body vanished, I realized the
truth. A disturbed sand-hill crane, that had alighted there during my
detour, had screeched almost in my ear, and my stockless rifle, which I
was carrying at full cock, had been discharged, nearly fracturing my
ribs by the recoil. I felt truly thankful that California Joe was not
present, for if my hair did not actually stand on end, I certainly had
all the sensations of this once experienced never to be forgotten
feeling.
With a sigh of relief I went back to "Coffee" and the dogs, and after
cinching up the former until he looked like a wasp, and arranging the
compress on Kentuck, I struck out for French Creek at a trot that
hustled both the crippled dogs and overloaded "Coffee" to keep up with.
Upon coming down into French Creek valley, about two miles above the
stockade, another and greater surprise awaited me; for there I found
encamped a party of prospectors, arrived from Fort Fetterman. As I had
not for months set eyes upon any white man except my own immediate
party, this was a treat as pleasant as it was unexpected. The fact that
"Coffee" boldly deserted me here did not deter me from staying
to dinner, especially when I saw they had both coffee and
flapjacks,--delicacies that I had not reveled in for some weeks past.
After spending an hour with them, I started down the creek, leaving poor
Kentuck thoroughly exhausted from loss of blood, and unable to walk
another step. To the astonishment of the boys, I walked into the
stockade with a piece of bacon swinging in one hand and a sack of flour
on my back. I doubt if they would have been more surprised had I walked
in with General Grant and Queen Victoria on either arm.
"Coffee" had made a bee-line for home, anxious to be relieved of a load
he had carried continuously for almost twenty-four hours. As I was so
long in following him, they were beginning to feel alarmed at the
continued absence of "Blue Grass,"--a name given me by Joe, and one that
clung to me throughout my stay in the Black Hills.
That night we went up to the new camp and sat around a blazing log-heap,
listening to the news from "the States" until long after midnight.
Kentuck we swung in a blanket, taking turn about carrying him home, and
it was many weeks before he was again in condition to accompany me on a
hunt.
_Roger D. Williams._