Chapter XXXII: Part II (7)

If on such a night, with some fair companion at your side, you are not moved to an appreciation of the beautiful in nature, then there is no romance in your composition. If at such a time you cannot throw off the petty cares and trials of the busy world, then, my friend, you are past cure. How the jingle of a sleigh-bell will recall memories of former drives! What visions will loom up of glorious nights, with a charming companion carefully wrapped up in warm and cozy robes! How easily did the sleigh slip along behind the pair of Canadian ponies, or how gayly that chestnut or bay would step out without requiring all the attention of the driver; for when eyes are sparkling in the moonlight, and cheeks glowing ruddy in the crisp and frosty air, it is remarkable what a tendency sleigh robes have to require one’s constant attention! Under such circumstances a horse that does not require all your care is a treasure, for you have plenty of occupation for your left arm keeping the sleigh robes in their proper place, you know. Ah! those glorious sleigh rides around Mount Royal. What can be compared to them, and what an auxiliary they have been to that little god Cupid, many and many a time!

Let poets idly dream and sing
The beauty of the windy spring,
And in green fields go Maying:
Better by far is a winter night,
When snow lies deep and hard and white,
And the stars look down with twinkling light
On Nan and me out sleighing.

The moonlight makes a fairer day--
The restless horses seem to say,
“Oh, why are you delaying?”
They spurn the ground with flying feet,
The sleigh-bells tinkle clear and sweet--
Life has never a joy to beat
Nannie’s and mine out sleighing!

My love then nestles near my arm,
Among the furs so soft and warm,
And I, my heart obeying,
Bend down to see her beaming eyes,
Bend down to catch her loving sighs,
And oh! the time too swiftly flies,
When Nannie and I are sleighing!

_Montreal Star._

Sleigh parties to many of the neighboring villages around Montreal have long been a fashionable recreation. Large sleighs, that will hold thirty or forty each, convey the party to some village hotel, and there, in the ballroom, which is invariably a part of the establishment, a merry and pleasant time is spent.

In the larger cities of Canada there have existed for many years driving clubs. These possess a greater or less degree of organization, and are in operation only during the winter months. Montreal, Quebec, Halifax and Kingston have all had their “tandem clubs.” Montreal and Quebec have probably older organizations than the others. Since they all were garrison towns, during the occupancy of the Imperial troops the officers of the various regiments were among the chief factors in keeping alive these clubs. Quebec’s Tandem Club is said to have been in existence at a time which the memory of the oldest inhabitant reacheth not. One of its oldest presidents is still living, and years ago drove four thoroughbreds of his own breeding. A number of Quebec’s well-known and wealthy merchants have been presidents of the club, and with Lord Alexander Russell and the Earl of Caledon have frequently driven four-in-hand around the streets of the ancient capital. The value, it is said, of some of their magnificent outfits--sleighs, horses and robes--often exceeded $5,000. In the days of the military, the club usually consisted of five or six four-in-hands and thirty to forty tandems, besides pairs and singles. This old club has never entirely lapsed, and consists at present of the officers of the battery of artillery which garrisons the Citadel, and the wealthier shipping and lumber merchants.

The Montreal Tandem Club, as a distinct organization for the pastime of sleighing, was formed many years ago, during the occupancy of the Imperial troops. In those days it was a most fashionable and aristocratic assemblage, and usually mustered twice a week, Wednesdays and Saturdays. It was an inspiriting sight to watch the long stream of handsome equipages as they followed in line. Among those who handled the ribbons with skill and dexterity were the old, gray-haired hero of Kars, Lieutenant-General Sir Fenwick Williams, whose deep love of sport endeared him to the Canadian youth; Sir James Lindsay; Sir W. Windham, who earned the distinction of being the first to enter the famous Russian Redan in the Crimean war; Lord Paulet (the handsome guardsman); Lords Dunmore and Elphinstone; Major Penn, Colonel Bell, and many others whose names we cannot at present recall. Two should, however, not be forgotten--two whose names have since become well known the world over--Colonel Wolseley, now General Lord Wolseley, and Lieutenant Butler of the 60th Rifles, now General Sir Redvers Butler. Pleasant days they were, and as the long line of four-in-hands, unicorns, tandems and pairs filed past, filled with the happy and smiling faces of the Canadian belles and gallant officers, many of the latter little thought that in after-years, far from Canadian snows, they would find soldiers’ graves, and “sleep the sleep that knows no waking” in lands where such a thing as a snowflake was never dreamed of.

After the withdrawal of the British troops, the Tandem Club for a few years had a feeble existence; but in January, 1882, principally through the exertions of some of the older members of the Montreal Hunt Club, it was reorganized. Mr. Joseph Hickson, the general manager of the Grand Trunk Railway was elected president, while in 1883 Mr. Andrew Allan, of the well-known Canadian Steamship Company, was the president--Mr. Joseph Hickson being again elected to the office in 1884. Every Saturday, at two o’clock, the club meets on Dominion Square, opposite the Windsor Hotel. A gay and pleasing sight it is to watch the smart “turn-outs” as they circle round the square before making a start for the selected destination. A favorite resort is Peloguin’s Hotel, at Sault-au-Recollect village, about seven miles from the city, on a northern branch of the Ottawa River. A six-mile trip eastward along the banks of the St. Lawrence, brings one to Longue Pointe, while westward a favorite road leads through the suburb of Côte St. Antoine, past the “Blue Bonnets,” to Lachine, about nine miles distant. Other favorite drives are to “The Kennels,” the headquarters of the Hunt Club, or round the winding, zigzag road to the park at the summit of picturesque Mt. Royal. The time spent at the rendezvous is usually about an hour, just enough for some light refreshments and perhaps a dance or two. Should the weather prove somewhat stormy and the sleighing heavy, a drive around town is the order of the day.

The Saturday meet always draws a crowd of citizens to watch and admire the handsome sleighs and horses. The cavalcade is steadily augmented by the new arrivals until the signal for starting is sounded from the coaching-horn of the leading four-in-hand. The four-in-hands always take the lead, followed by the unicorns, which rank next. Next come one or two randoms, and then follow a long line of tandems, then the pairs, the rear being brought up by another tandem, which acts as whipper-in.

Since the introduction of the Montreal winter carnivals, the sleigh parade, or “Carnival Drive,” has been one of the week’s events each year, and is a sight worth seeing. These drives are a commingling of all sorts and conditions of men, wealth and affluence in the private equipages of the wealthy merchants and members of the Tandem Club, and rural comfort and simplicity in the humble but substantial outfit of the _habitant_. The athletic clubs turn out _en masse_ in huge sleighs of various shapes and designs, holding fifty to sixty uniformed members, and drawn by eight, six, and four horses. There are double and single sleighs, carioles, box-sleighs, light cutters, family sleighs, _habitant_ sleighs, skeletons, sulkies, “haysleds,” Russian sleighs, and nondescripts on runners impossible to classify, but all lending their aid to make up a spectacle.

Besides the fashionable Tandem Club, Montreal has other driving associations. The contractors, who in most large cities are well off, have a driving club, and visit the neighboring villages during each winter. The Hackmen’s Association have turned out sleighs by the hundred at the carnival drives, and their costly and handsome outfits have been the admiration of all, many of the master carters having sleighs that equal in style and finish those of the wealthy merchants.

ACROSS WYOMING ON HORSEBACK.

BY LEWIS P. ROBIE.

During a recent winter it became necessary for me to leave Cheyenne for Buffalo, Johnson County, in the northern part of the Territory. I could reach Buffalo either by rail to Rock Creek on the Union Pacific, thence by stage or team 250 miles, or by riding direct across country. The latter route would be the least expensive, but older and more experienced men advised me not to ride, particularly at that time of the year. Severe blizzards were common in April, much rain had fallen, and as I should have to cross many streams, which of course would be swollen by the rain, it would be a hazardous journey. Besides, the country to be traversed was entirely without towns or settlements, and the distances were long between ranches and places of shelter. I thought of the possibility of my horse falling lame, or of my losing him altogether, or of being taken sick myself or disabled in some way; and since I was only a “tenderfoot,” such a journey was, in my opinion, as well as that of others, quite an undertaking.

The first thing was to get a good horse, and I purchased a dark mouse-colored one, eight years old, tough, and full of life, at the same time kind and affectionate. I named him “Terry,” and he cost me $75.00, with saddle, halter and bridle complete. I purchased a pair of boots, leather _chaperajos_, broad-brimmed sombrero, blue flannel shirt, revolver and cartridges, and attached to my saddle an overcoat and “slicker,” a fur cap and mittens, and bought a good map of Wyoming and a pocket compass. Thus equipped, I bade farewell to my friends in Cheyenne, and on the morning of April 3 started on my eventful trip across the frontier.

The Magic City was soon far in the distance, as my horse covered the ground with a pacing gait, peculiar to him. About five miles out I climbed a high range, to take my last look at the city, and then descended to the rolling plains beyond. A strong head wind sprang up and retarded my progress considerably, so that it was not until after twelve o’clock that I struck a ranch nine miles away, where I put up for dinner. After enjoying a hearty meal, I re-saddled and continued my journey on the stage road for about four miles, when I turned to the left and followed a cattle trail to Pole Creek.

The morning had dawned pleasantly, but now the weather looked very dubious, and I could see a storm coming up toward the mountains, which were almost hidden from view. It was almost four ~P.M.~ before I reached Dyer’s sheep camp, on Pole Creek, about twenty miles from Cheyenne. The storm and wind seemed to grow worse, and it was dark, just as the rain came down in torrents, when I reached Lowe’s ranch, on Horse Creek; and well it was that I did, for as night came on I could hardly see two feet ahead of me. In crossing the creek Terry stumbled and fell on his knees, but I pulled through all right, though considerably wetted. Just as the cowboys were making the round-up I rode into camp and was cordially received. Supper over, pipes were lighted, and I played my flute for a while, but, being very tired after my hard ride in such inclement weather, I soon turned in on a rough bunk of blankets and fell asleep.

My route now lay east for a few miles along the creek, and I rode along lighthearted in the glorious morning. At Goodwin’s ranch I turned north, on the stage road, and by noon reached Bard’s, at Little Bear Springs. About six miles farther on I overtook a camp of freighters, and had a pleasant talk with a few old-timers, all of whom thought my trip would be rough, and told me that they would hesitate before taking such a journey themselves. The scenery had varied little. From day to day I crossed rolling plains, with thousands of cattle, sheep and horses quietly grazing, with numerous antelopes and prairie dogs in sight, and occasionally elk and black-tailed deer. Toward the west were the Laramie Range of the Rocky Mountains, with their snow-white peaks glistening in the sun.

Time flew by, and for ten miles I rode in silence until I came in view of a lone sheep-herder with his flock. Being interested in the details of a sheep-herder’s life, I went over to where he was seated on a ledge. He was dressed in rough, cowboy’s garb, his head bowed between his knees as if he were in deep thought, smoking a pipe. As his back was turned toward me he did not see me coming, and I rode up to him and said: “A pleasant afternoon, sir!” He started, but regained his composure in a second, and without taking his pipe from his mouth, grunted a simple “yes,” not even troubling to look up. “Your sheep are in good condition,” I continued. He raised his head suddenly, gave me a wild, murderous look, but answered not a word. Concluding he did not wish to be questioned, I proceeded on my journey. At Chugwater, on inquiring about this strange fellow, I heard that many years ago he lived in New England, was of good family, very well to do, and exceptionally well educated and intelligent. He fell in love with a girl, who jilted him, and he never could get over it, but left his home, came West and started to herd sheep, living alone and shunning all society.

Toward sundown I ran into a prairie-dog town, where hundreds of these little animals were running hither and thither, in and out of their holes, and filling the air with their clatter and squealing. It was now close to six o’clock, the sun was almost out of sight, and I was as nearly as I could judge seven miles from the Chug. Terry, however, was as impatient for his supper as I was, and at my “Get up, old boy!” he started into a gallop, which he steadily kept up till the bridge was reached. It was just seven o’clock as I rode up to the post-office at Chugwater--twenty-nine miles that day, and sixty of my trip ended.

This was one of the most important places on my route, containing a post-office, stage station, a ranch hotel, a general store, and the stock ranches of the Swan Land and Cattle Company, one of the largest organizations of its kind in the world, operating 250,000 head of cattle, and having three millions capital. It is also a lay-over for the stages of the Cheyenne, Fort Laramie and Black Hills Company. There was quite a gathering of ranchmen and others, on their way south to the annual meeting of the Stock Association at Cheyenne, a very important event to the cattle owners of Wyoming.

In the morning I arose early, with the intention of reaching by noon a ranch called Hunton’s on the map. I found myself, however, so stiff in the limbs, not being thoroughly used to the new saddle and the action of the horse, that I concluded to allow Terry a run in the corral and rest till the afternoon before starting.

I passed the morning in looking into the workings of a model cattle ranch, preparatory to the spring round-up, and was particularly interested and amused in watching the men break some bronchos to the saddle. The life of one of these “broncho busters,” as they are called, requires much nerve and daring. Not unfrequently they are badly hurt by the kicking and struggles of these fiery beasts.

I had left the Chug scarcely more than three miles behind me, when, on turning a bend in the trail, I came suddenly on a band of a dozen or more antelopes, quietly grazing a short distance to my left. If I had had a rifle I might have distinguished myself, but I could only pop away at them with my six-shooter, much to the disgust of Terry, who kicked and bucked till I was nearly thrown. Between four and five o’clock, I reached Richard’s Creek, with four miles ahead of me to Hunton’s, where I intended to spend the night. As I approached the creek, I was overtaken by a brown, sunburnt individual, who, after we had exchanged “Hows,” invited me to spend the night at his camp half a mile down the creek. He was one of six who were on their way south to Colorado for the purpose of gathering up three hundred ponies for the round-ups in Northern Wyoming.

After enjoying a rough but palatable supper of frying-pan bread, bear meat and coffee, we lit our pipes, and with stories of frontier life, Indian raids and adventures, interspersed with music on the violin, flute and harmonica, the evening passed pleasantly. One has to put up with anything in this country, and when I had to roll myself up in blankets and sleep on the ground, it was not unexpected. I should probably have slept well if, toward morning, I had not been awakened by a rain and wind storm, which came up so suddenly that my coverings were blown away, and I was well drenched before I could find shelter under the camp wagon. It was soon over, however, and the morning broke clear and pleasant.

Soon after breakfast I started north, while the campers pulled out in the opposite direction for Colorado. Terry felt lively from his run on the plains, and I was at the ranch in less than an hour. There were now before me twenty miles to the Laramie River, and then sixty miles of very hard traveling over the foot-hills and mountains to Fort Fetterman on the North Platte, where the worst part of the trip would be over. All the afternoon, till the sun had nearly set, did I travel over the monotonous plains without seeing a sign of human life. About half-past five I heard a shot from my right, and, hastening over the hill, saw a hunter fire again at an antelope which was among a small “bunch” of cattle. Unless forced by want of water, or decoyed, these timorous creatures seldom allow hunters to approach so near; but this unfortunate in some way had got among the cattle, which were not afraid of the hunter, and so it quietly stood its ground till the first shot was fired, when it was too late to escape. The man proved to be the owner of a ranch on the river that I was bound for. I dismounted and helped him place the antelope, a fine young one, on his horse. Then, leading our horses, we started for the ranch, three miles away, anticipating with sharpened appetites the treat of fresh antelope for supper.

In the evening I was attracted by a camp-fire across the river, and thinking I might get more information as to trails, ranches, etc., I crossed the river on the logs. It proved to be a freighting outfit bound for Cheyenne direct from Buffalo. They spoke of my probably having a very hard pull to Fetterman, and thence I would be apt to get lost and turned about, unless I stuck to the stage road, and they advised me not to try to strike cow ranches, as I had planned. On recrossing the river I thought that I could get over as before, on the logs, but I missed my footing, made a misstep, and fell in. As I sank down into the cold water of the river, I thought before I could get out “my name would be Dennis;” but I grasped the logs for dear life, and, crawling and struggling, reached the shore wet as a drowned rat.

The next morning I was none the worse for my accident, or for being obliged to sleep in wet clothing. I here made a trade with my saddle, getting one lighter and cheaper, that would answer my purpose and save my horse, as the former one weighed forty pounds, being a regular cow saddle.

The morning dawned very threatening, and as I rode into the hills it began to snow. I reached Horseshoe Creek late in the evening, making twenty-eight miles that day in the face of a severe snow-storm. Early the next morning I started for Lebonte Creek, twenty-two miles away, thinking to reach there by noon, and Fetterman, twenty-two miles farther, that night. But, as I got farther into the foot-hills, I found it would be impossible through the snow, which in places was very deep, so that if I got through it in two days I would be lucky.

For some ten miles I rode, admiring the magnificent view of the Rocky Mountains, now plainly visible, with their snow-white peaks apparently touching the clouds, when, on dismounting to walk up a long and steep hill, I heard a clatter of hoofs behind, and on looking down the hillside, was astonished to see one of the gentler sex coming in my direction. All sorts of conjectures as to who she might be crossed my mind, and I thought of stories, read long since, of “Calamity Jane,” “Fearless Kate, the Female Highwayman,” etc., but I was again surprised, as she approached, to find one of apparent refinement and culture. I was thinking just how and what to say, when she bade me a pleasant “Good-morning, sir! Rather cool”--presumably referring to the weather, not to myself. I soon found use of my powers of speech, and we chatted away at a great rate. The young lady was returning from a visit to her nearest neighbors twenty miles down the creek, and lived at a ranch which I hoped to make by noon. The remaining twelve miles did not seem half so long as the first ten.

At Lebonte her father made it exceptionally pleasant. I concluded not to attempt to make the fort that day, but to accept their kind invitation to remain till morning. In the evening, seated before the open fire, we had a long and interesting conversation. This “Rose of the Mountain” lives twenty miles from the post-office and nearest neighbors, and she and her younger brother and sister have their ponies and nature in its grandeur for their society. I made a trade with one of her brothers, and for my watch obtained a fine Winchester rifle.

During the night a storm came up, and in the morning I was confronted by a regular Wyoming blizzard. I put on overcoat and slicker, crossed the creek, and pushed into the mountains. After less than five miles, I almost wished I had remained at the ranch till the storm was over. A very high wind, accompanied by a driving, drifting snow, retarded my progress, so I could hardly make three miles an hour. As I got into the mountains, the storm increased in violence, and it grew colder. I could hardly see the trail, and but for the government telegraph-poles connecting Fort Russell with the north, which I had used as a guide so far, I should surely have been lost. At Wagon Hound and Bed Tick Creek I was obliged to make a crossing, where, had the water been a foot deeper, I should never have been able to get over. As it was, poor Terry almost gave up, the water was so cold and deep, and at Bed Tick I had to go three miles east to find a place where I dared to enter the icy water. A great part of the way I had to walk, fighting against wind and snow, till late in the afternoon, when, utterly exhausted and chilled, I dragged weak and tired Terry into Fort Fetterman, twenty-two miles that day, and one hundred and seventy miles of my journey ended.

Fort Fetterman is situated on a high plateau, at the base of which the North Platte River winds its course for miles and miles, as far as the eye can reach, through the finest grazing country in the world, giving a view more extensive and grand than at any other point on my route. The storm cleared toward sundown, and during the night the characteristic Chinook wind of Wyoming came up--a dry wind, which blew away and absorbed nearly all the snow. When I awoke the next morning and looked out upon the vast expanse of plains and mountains, I was astonished to find hardly a trace of the storm, except in isolated places high up in the foot-hills.

Fort Fetterman used to be a Government fort, but has been abandoned for several years. It now contains two ranch hotels, several cow ranches, a post-office, Government telegraph office, half a dozen saloons and a general store, and is the largest place between Cheyenne and Buffalo. It has the reputation of being the hardest point in the Territories, being the rendezvous of all the cowboys in Central Wyoming. I kept very quiet, and with the exception of a few disagreeable solicitations to drink from some of them, I was not molested. I was a little concerned, but not at all shaken in my purpose, by authentic reports from the telegraph office, which connects with Fort McKinney, near Buffalo, of serious disturbances among the Crow Indians, who had left their reservation in Montana, and were only waiting for grass to make war on the settlers in Johnson County. I concluded, however, if they were to make a break, I would be as safe under the protection of the troops as I would be here, where a tenderfoot was never known heretofore to live more than ten days.

A true story is told of a young man who was stationed here as a telegraph operator. He belonged to the class designated dudes, whom the cowboys love less than any other breed of tenderfeet. He was much pleased with the country and life in the Far West, but he was not satisfied with simply seeing the boys ride on horseback into saloons and shoot the lights out, common everyday fights, and an occasional lynching bee. He sighed for Indians and gore. He wanted to “spread himself” fighting the wary redskin. Finally the cowboys thought they would see if there was as much stuff in him as he bragged, so half a dozen or more dressed themselves up as Indians, with paint, feathers and tomahawks, and hid in a secluded place not far from town. In the meantime our hero was informed that some Indians had been seen a few miles up the river, and he was invited, if he wanted some sport, to join in and add his great fighting ability to help the rest. So they all started, but had hardly got out a mile or so when the secreted pseudo-Indians commenced yelling and firing in the air. The would-be Indian fighter, thinking they were an advanced guard of a host of others, turned and fled with his hair on end, and did not stop till the telegraph office was reached. He immediately wired to the Governor at Cheyenne, “Dispatch troops at once; two thousand Indians are on us,” and then hurried out to warn all to arm themselves for their lives. The postmaster, whose office was in the same room as the telegraph, directly sent another message: “Don’t deliver telegram just sent,” and the return of the cowboys soon gave the trick away. They gave the St. Louis tenderfoot no peace whatever. The territorial papers got hold of the story, and one morning he packed his grip and silently boarded the south-bound stage for parts unknown.

Early on April 9 I crossed the North Platte River. At noon I reached Sage Creek, and after resting an hour or so, left the stage road and struck a trail to my right, leading, as I was told, to Andrew’s cow ranch, on South Fork Cheyenne River, fourteen miles distant. I could see by my map a ranch in that direction, so I felt perfectly safe in venturing away from the telegraph poles, which had been my faithful and silent guides hitherto.

I was now leaving the mountains and approaching the sage-brush plains, a most monotonous and dreary-looking country. For miles I plodded along, alternately riding and walking, without seeing any sign of human life, or anything to break the monotony of the sage-brush. About half-past six, as I approached the river, I ran into a barbed-wire fence, which, when followed up for a mile or so, led me to the door of the ranch, where I dismounted and camped for the night.

I left the ranch in fine spirits. I had gone perhaps four miles when two men overtook me, passed, then turned and came back, scrutinizing me and my outfit as they came. As they drew up, one said: “Where did you get that horse?” Was it a case of mind-reading, or a mere freak, that led me to match his impertinence by saying, “Stole him.” “Yes,” he replied, “we know you did,” drawing out at the same time a warrant for the arrest of a horse-thief. My bill of sale for the horse and other papers sufficed, however, to prove that I was not the thief, and Terry carried the proof of his identity in a brand under the saddle, though answering strangely well in other respects to the description of the missing horse. They apologized for their mistake, and bidding me good-day turned toward the hills in the hope of capturing the real thief. I felt much relieved as they disappeared, for a horse-thief once caught in Wyoming stands but little chance for his life.

After dinner at Warner’s, I turned to the left across the plains, towards the stage road again, not seeing any stop for me nearer than the Wyoming stage station at Antelope Springs. On the ranges adjacent to Bear Creek and Stinking Water I came across many carcasses and bones of dead Texan cattle, which had been unable to pull through the severe winter, and as I turned north on the stage road I saw a lone buffalo.

The sun had disappeared behind a lofty range of the Rockies as I pulled up at the ranch at Antelope Springs, with only ninety miles ahead of me to Buffalo. After supper the stock-tender suddenly asked for my rifle, and almost within a second fired down the creek, where we found that he had killed an enormous gray wolf. He then bought my rifle for $15.00. I was told here that sixteen miles to the northwest I could find a cow-camp, which would not make my journey more than five miles longer, and would save an expensive stop on the stage road. I could see no ranch designated on the map in that direction, but supposed that it was a new outfit. So, the next morning I turned to the left, and followed a very narrow and almost indistinct trail till late in the afternoon, making fully twenty-five miles, without seeing any sign whatever of a human habitation, when, upon looking ahead of me at the sun, now near the horizon, I found that I was traveling due west instead of going northwest, as I should have gone. The trail had been growing much more indistinct for the last hour, so much so that it was with great difficulty I could distinguish it at all. Near by was a high bluff, which I ascended, and from which I had an extended view in all directions--north, south, east and west, as far as my eyes could reach. Not a sign of human life met my gaze. A few cattle in the foot-hills, that was all.

Lost!

I thought it could not be more than twenty-five miles northeast to the stage road, but was afraid that poor Terry would not be able to make it with ten miles more to the ranch. Besides, as darkness came on, I might get lost and turned about worse than ever. The best and only course for me was to camp out all night and wait till morning.

Acting on this decision, I descended into a ravine, beside a small stream, which I found by looking at the map was probably a “dry” fork of the Powder River, so called because during the summer months the water dries up. Now, however, it was quite a creek, from whose cold, clear water both Terry and I gathered much refreshment. Dry cottonwood timber lay about in considerable quantity, and I soon had a fire. I had been advised, if night should overtake me, to picket my horse near what grass he could reach, with a chance of his being devoured by wild beasts, rather than to let him run on the plains with a greater chance of his getting away. The old frontier saying is, “It is better to count bones than tracks.” I had about thirty feet of rope, with which I securely fastened Terry to a scrub pine not far from the fire, where he could partially satisfy himself with the bunch and buffalo grass that abounds in the foot-hills. I piled on the wood for a big, rousing fire, for as the night came on it grew very cold, though fortunately it was clear.

The night continued to grow cold, and I found it impossible to get any sleep with my simple coverings of overcoat and slicker. Finally I built two fires, and lying between them at length managed to get warm, and was just falling into a gentle sleep when my ears were greeted with the unearthly yelp of the coyote, or timber-wolf, which soon grew louder and nearer, till apparently I was surrounded by hundreds of them. I started up in alarm, drawing my revolver, and assumed a position of defense, for I momentarily expected they would close in on me. But my being awake, and the light of the fire, kept them at a safe distance, though the yells and cries were kept up till late in the night. To add to my misfortune, poor Terry, frightened at the uproar, broke his fastenings and decamped. I was not supremely happy at the serenade, but when I saw my faithful horse disappear in the darkness, my heart sank within me. Even if I should live through the night, how could I get out and reach food and shelter without Terry? I hoped, however, that I might find him the next morning, as he had grown to be very affectionate of late, so much so that he would eat out of my hand and follow me at my bidding. Knowing that my only safety was in keeping a bright fire steadily burning, I piled on the wood, plenty of which was fortunately near at hand. Toward daybreak the wolves began to disperse, and I breathed a sigh of relief as I heard their distant yelps, thanking God that danger from that source was now over.

As soon as the daylight enabled me to distinguish objects, my thoughts were bent on finding Terry. I had hardly left the camp-fire when he made his appearance through the timber, running directly towards me, neighing, whinnying, and apparently much pleased to find me safe.

I saddled, and, breakfastless, struck out northeast by the compass, knowing that if I kept on in that direction I was bound to reach the road. I pushed ahead as fast as possible, but my progress was necessarily very slow, as my route lay through frozen mud, fallen timber and gulches. Suddenly the horse stopped at a sandy place. I urged him with whip and spur. He would not budge an inch. I jumped off and tried to lead him over, but he would only pull back. I remounted to see what he would do, and much to my surprise he went round and crossed where the water was nearly three feet deep. “There must be something the matter with the sand,” I said to myself. To satisfy my curiosity, I rode back on the opposite side, and as the gray tinge of the breaking day lighted up the surroundings, I was astonished to discover, a few feet ahead of me, the horns of a cow sticking out of the sand. It instantly flashed across me why the horse refused to cross.

Late in the afternoon I arrived at Seventeen-mile Ranch, horse and rider hungry, sleepy, and utterly exhausted. As soon as I lay down on a rude bunk I fell into a sleep from which I did not awake till early the next morning, with a little headache, but in other respects feeling first-rate. I found that the boys at Antelope Springs bulldozed me into leaving the road, as there was no cow-camp for a hundred miles in the direction I had taken.

I had now seventeen miles to Powder River, and fifty from there to Buffalo, with a stage station between at Crazy Woman Creek. I had proceeded about two miles when I was overtaken by two cowboys racing. Terry, plodding along at his usual gait, braced up as he heard them coming, and started into a dead run so suddenly that I was almost upset. He was bound not to be left behind, and surprised me by his spirit after such a hard trip. Away we went for a mile or so, neck and neck, till the cowboys turned to the left for their ranch down the river. The incident gave me encouragement to think that Terry was all right for getting there anyway.

About four o’clock I reached the post-office at Powder River, the scene of a noted Indian massacre a few years ago. Here I was overjoyed to find letters from Cheyenne and home, the first I had received since starting on my trip. The postmaster informed me that I could strike a camp eighteen miles northwest that would save me enough distance to make Buffalo at the end of the next day, but I had had experience enough in trying to strike cow-camps, and concluded to stick to the road, even if it did take me a day longer. So, very early the next morning I started on the road, in a drenching rain, for Crazy Woman, thirty-three miles.

This was the most disagreeable day I had had during the whole trip, and a very lonely ride. I saw nothing but a water-hole at Nine-mile Gulch. The ranch here consists of only a bar-room divided by a curtain from a room used for sleeping, cooking and eating, with the stables and corral beyond. I had just entered the bar-room when I was accosted by, “Here, stranger, come and have something. Turn out some more whiskey, Bill!” I felt now I had come to what I had expected all along the line, an invitation to drink, where to refuse would be to risk death; but I was going to fight it out as long as I could. I replied, “Boys, you must excuse me; I don’t drink.”

“What’s that? Don’t drink? You ---- tenderfoot! I never had anybody refuse to drink with me yet, and, I tell yer, you do what I say--you drink!” drawing his revolver and pointing it at me.

“Well, I’ll take some light drink,” I said, knowing they had nothing but whiskey, “but I won’t drink that stuff.”

“What do you take us for? We don’t have any ---- dude drinks here. You do as I tell yer--_drink whiskey_!”

I went over to the bar, took up the glass, and was about to drink, when a thought occurred to me. I turned to the owner of the place, who was turning out the drinks, and said:

“Now, sir, I come here a stranger. I propose to attend to my own business, and when I leave pay my bills and go on my way. The reason I don’t want to drink is that the liquor will make me crazy. If I take one glass I shall want five, and I shall not be responsible for what I do. I appeal to you to see I get fair play. I’ll take a cigar with the boys, but I would rather not drink.” To which the cowboy who had insisted on my drinking replied:

“That’s all right, stranger. If you don’t want to drink, you needn’t. Here, have a cigar. Give him a whole box, Bill; I’ll pay for it.”

I humored them for awhile, but preferring Terry’s dumb society to the noise and disturbance of the drunken cowboys, I soon joined him.

The storm cleared during the night and the morning broke very pleasant. The “cow-punchers” had pulled out late at night for their ranch, and congratulating myself that I was free from them, and had but twenty miles more, I ate a hearty breakfast, and started for my last ride. I was getting now into more of a farming country, where crops of oats and wheat are very successfully raised by irrigation. The Big Horn Mountains were plainly visible to the northwest, and together with the foot-hills, which were covered with a green carpet of spring grass, looked very fine. At ten o’clock I rode into Buffalo, heartily congratulating myself upon the happy termination of a long and perilous journey.

WINTER SHOOTING IN SOUTH CAROLINA.

BY C. W. BOYD.

Notwithstanding boasted advancement in civilization, the love of camp-life, with its unrestrained freedom and absence of care, is strong in many a bosom, though the demands of duty and calls of interest may lead one to suppress it. In my opinion, at any rate, there is nothing so thoroughly enjoyable as to throw off the trammels of conventionality and do as one pleases, without fear of restriction or comment.

When, therefore, towards the latter part of February, after a winter spent in town, without a chance to pull a trigger, my friend C---- proposed a “camp-hunt” up the country, I was not slow to join him. I was living at the time in the northwestern part of South Carolina, a famous country for quail, though persistent hunting and the clearing of heavy tracts of timber have made other game scarce. Having settled our destination--a spot locally known as “Indian Camp,” on Fair Forest River--and engaged the services of a teamster, with his two-horse wagon, we set to work to make up our outfit.

This, although it may seem a simple matter to the uninitiated, requires some experience, in order to know just what is necessary. I must own that, although not without some knowledge in the matter, I never went on a trip of the kind without forgetting something that I afterwards needed. In the first place, we took a tent, a cot apiece, blanket, a couple of camp-stools, water-bucket, cups, and cooking utensils. The staples of our commissariat (a very important department) were bacon, flour, lard, coffee, sugar, a few dozen lemons, and last, but not least, a little brown jug, which C---- _insisted_ on taking, saying it would come in handy for carrying water when emptied of its original contents. These things, with sundries too numerous to mention, and our guns and cartridges, completed our outfit. We took two dogs, a pointer and a setter, each thoroughly trained.

As we had determined to go in style, the next point was to find a cook. We were soon overwhelmed with applications, and the only trouble was to make a good selection. We finally decided to take Barney, a somewhat dark mulatto of gigantic proportions, a genuine Southern negro, with thick lips, broad, good-humored face, and somewhat of a character in his way. His accomplishments were considerable. From heeling a gamecock to turning the jack in “old sledge” his skill was unrivaled among his colored brethren. Not an event of importance took place in local sporting circles of which Barney did not know, and of which he was not _magna pars_, as Virgil puts it. Add to this that he was a first-rate cook, and in social intercourse constantly inclined to risibility, with a never-failing flow of conversation, and no one, I think, can disapprove of our choice.

We arrived at Indian Camp late in the afternoon, and immediately set about making ourselves comfortable for the night, sending away our conveyance with instructions to return for us in a week. We pitched our tent at the foot of a steep, wooded bluff, a few feet from a spring, whose cold waters sprang from a cleft in the rock. We soon had a fire of dry branches crackling and blazing in front, with a goodly oak, felled for the purpose, to serve as a back-log. After a hearty supper and a glass of usquebaugh, we enjoyed a pipe and talked over our plans for the morrow, and then retired, to dream of slaughtered quail and turkey until daylight.

With the first dawn we were up, soused our hands and faces in a somewhat greasy tin-pan (it had been mixed up with the side of bacon coming up in the wagon), and were soon discussing breakfast. A heavy mist hung over us, shutting out from sight the tall cottonwoods on the banks of the river, and the outlines of the hills beyond. This, however, rapidly rolled away as the sun rose, leaving the landscape clear and the weather just cool enough to be bracing. We decided to employ our first day with quail, crossing the river, or, as it is more generally called, creek, being about twenty yards wide, and hunting the hillsides, where, as the weather had been very rainy lately, we knew we would find most of the coveys. As the bottoms were in a very miry condition, I put on a pair of rubber boots, but most sincerely did I afterwards repent it, as, when I was tramping over the stony hillsides, after the sun became warm, they were almost unendurable.

We “crossed the river on a hickory log,” as the song says, and forcing a way through a dense jungle of vines and canes at least twenty feet in height, were just emerging on the other side, when, whir! whir! whir! came the sharp and well-remembered whistle of retreating wings. We dashed out into the edge of a field of young wheat, just in time to see the last brown wing settling in the distance, and our dogs, which had preceded us, rising from a dead point. The covey had been lying so close to the edge of the canebrake that we walked right into them, not knowing that our dogs had pointed. There is no use crying over spilt milk, as the country people say, and so we started in pursuit.

We had not gone half across the field when we saw my setter, that in the meantime had half circled it, drop on the border of a patch of brown straw, on the other side. We hurried across, but, on approaching, were surprised to see the dog creep several yards forward, indicating, of course, that the birds were moving, and consequently that we had found a new covey, for after being once flushed and scattered the birds always lie close. We moved forward cautiously, and, in my own case at least, somewhat nervously, for it was my first shot of the season. Suddenly--it always comes suddenly--the shock of rushing wings, and bang, bang, bang!--bang! the three first reports almost simultaneous. On searching the ground we succeeded in finding only one bird, much to our chagrin, as we supposed we had made three shots without result. This, however, was not the case, as while hunting in the direction the flushed birds had taken, through a thicket of scrub-pine, we came out into a new clearing, where some boys were burning brush, and there found two more birds where they had dropped stone dead, several hundred yards from where they had been shot. While hunting here we had the same experience many times; in fact, I have never elsewhere seen quail that were so hard to kill. We tramped all day, finding birds in abundance, and towards evening had a fine bag, although the country was very unfavorable for shooting, being extremely hilly, with numerous thickets of scrub-pine, in which the birds would seek shelter after being flushed. These were so dense that it was hard to get a glimpse of the bird as he whistled away.

On my arrival in camp I found my feet badly blistered by the rubber boots, and determined to eschew them in future for any except wading purposes. However, after bathing my feet in cold water and whiskey I began to feel comfortable, and did ample justice to a supper of smothered quail, etc.

While we were cleaning our guns, an old negro named Ralph, with two half-grown boys, made his appearance, and we derived considerable amusement from their quaint notions and ready credulity. Even the old man had probably never been a dozen miles from his native cabin in his life. For a “dram” and some pieces of silver money they brought us eggs and very tolerable butter, promising a fresh supply on the morrow. In camp one is never troubled with sleeplessness, and we were soon snoozing away comfortably under our canvas roof, dogs and all, except when it became necessary to replenish the log-fire, which we had built in front of the tent-opening to keep off the dampness.

Next day, about four in the afternoon, being tired of tramping, I determined “to take a stand” in the heavy timber near the banks of the river, for any sort of game that might chance to appear. I took a seat at the butt of a huge fallen poplar, with a maple swamp on one hand, its swelling crimson buds already showing signs of spring, and a canebrake on the other. It was almost too early in the afternoon for anything in the game line to be stirring. But the forest was grand, solitary and primeval. To the mind, however, accustomed to commune with nature, there was nothing of loneliness, for innumerable voices of the wood cried out, and the spirit of life was busy in the wilderness, and its unrestrained freedom seemed to lift and stimulate the soul like old wine. Here was a splendid field for an ornithologist. Rare birds of many species flitted about from tree to tree, or rested in the cool shade. Conspicuous above all for brilliancy of plumage, and also the noise they make in the world, were the many species of woodpeckers, from the white-and-black Indian hen, as large as a spring chicken, to the minute sapsucker no larger than a man’s thumb. These kept up an incessant hammering and boring that resounded throughout the forest like the noise of a gigantic workshop. Here and there, on the highest branches of decayed trees, lazy turkey-buzzards sat, stretching at intervals their huge wings with a slumberous effort towards the afternoon sun, while high in the air a pair of “rabbit” hawks, disturbed from their perch, circled with shrill cries.

Presently I heard the sharp bark of a squirrel, and a little fellow, with his tail over his back, jumped over the ground for a neighboring tree. I let him alone, for I knew, if undisturbed, he would be presently followed by others; the old cautious fellows letting the young and more rash bloods go first from the holes, from which, if the coast seem clear, they follow. In a few minutes the woods appeared full of them, chattering away, and jumping from tree to tree, eating the young buds with such gusto that it seemed almost a sin to disturb them. A sportsman or a hungry man, however, is not apt to indulge in sentiment, and the hills were soon reverberating with the reports of my breech-loader. C---- soon came to the spot to find out what all the racket was about, and we managed to bag about twelve before the others, frightened by the noise, regained their dens. Then we gave the birds another turn, which lasted until we could not see to shoot, and returned to camp.

Near the tent stood a small haw-tree, on whose branches we strung up our game so as to be convenient for use. By the end of the week it was pretty well loaded. But it did not remain so for long. On Saturday night a party of friends from town came up to visit us, and game and other provisions disappeared with astonishing rapidity.

We made a merry party that night gathered around the camp-fire, and song, story and jest followed each other in rapid succession. With our supply of lemons a huge bowl of punch was brewed.