PICKING OUT A TRAIL ALONG A SLIDING, CRUMBLING BANK

OT often is it given most of us to take the trail Indian fashionwith the men who have matched their wits against keen-

scented, quick-eyed, swift-footed animals all their lives. The In-dian does not hunt as does the white man, but no one can say thathe does not give the game a chance. If anyone thinks otherwise, lethim read Mr. Oskison's description of the region in which thesered men hunt and note the steadfast persistence with which thetrail was followed over all sorts of country. To add to the piquancyof the situation the principal figure in the party was a full-bloodedApache who was a stranger to his own people and their lives andlanguage.

R. M O N T E Z U M A sentme a letter from Chicagofull of the most alluringphrases about Arizona—aletter I can heartily rec-ommend to promoters as

a model to arouse the interest of thesophisticated. Hear some of the doctor'scandied words :

" W e shall go to the Fort McDowell[65]

WITH APACHE DEER-HUNTERSIN ARIZONA

By JOHN OSKISON

ILLUSTRATED WITH PHOTOGRAPHS

N

Agency, where we will see the MohaveApaches—the real primitive Indians ofthe West. They will entertain us wherewe shall have a chance to fish, swim, andlive out of doors. They will providehorses for us on a great hunt and sight-seeing trip among the most picturesquescenery of Arizona. One week or tendays, the Indians will show us how tohunt and show us where battles were

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HAYES COMING IN FROM THE HUNT

fought between them and Pima scoutsand soldiers forty years ago. . . . Everystep of the way we will be guided bythe Indians, all of them related to me."

You may not know that the doctor is afull-blooded Apache, who was capturedwhen a small boy and sold by his Pimacaptors to a white man; that this whiteman educated him; and that the doctoris one of the top-notch physicians ofChicago. Take my word for it, the doc-tor has learned how to prescribe for city-wearied folks!

Four of us (the first to arrive) gath-ered in Phoenix, the nearest and mostconvenient railroad town, three days be-fore the hunting season opened. Andnext morning down from McDowell,thirty miles away, came the delegationof Apaches who were to act as our shop-ping guides when we started to outfitand be our hosts at McDowell—Char-ley, George, and Richard Dickens, andYuma Frank, the chief. Charley hadbrought his two boys and his wife; some-where Richard had picked up twofriends, and out of the void sprang otherwelcoming Apaches who should havebeen at home under the sheltering wingof the agent. It was a brave party of four-teen Indians and four white men; andwe entertained Phoenix by our marching

and countermarching that first day, untilthe evening's moving picture show wasover and the Indians went back to theirwagons in a feed yard to sleep the sleepof the well-fed and princely entertained.

Another day we waited in Phoenixfor three others of our party, while theIndians hitched up and hauled every-thing we had bought out to the littlestore Charley Dickens keeps on the Mc-Dowell reservation.

While buying supplies we asked Char-ley Dickens "How many Indians aregoing on the hunt with u s ? " And Char-ley, looking dreamily out of the windowof the lawyer's office in which we hadgathered to make out our list of thingsneeded, studied a moment and replied:

"I think it will be twelve, le's see—itwill be me an' Richard an' George, an'Yuma Frank, an' Mike Burns, an' Cap'nJim, an' Johnson, an' George Black, an'John Black, an' Jose, an' Frank Look,an' my brother-in-law, an' Tom Seama,an' Frank Richards, a n ' — — "

"Charley!" interrupted Hayes, whowas keeping tally with a pencil, "you'venamed fourteen already—how manymore?"

"Oh, I guess fifteen, then, altogether,"said Charley, abandoning his roll-call.And so we provided supplies for fifteenIndians and eight white men. One ofthe Phoenix newspapers said that wewere to take the whole McDowell tribeinto the hills on a great hunt—270 men,women and children—and when we readthat paper we laughed scornfully. Inour minds, we were to be a quiet, busi-nesslike little party.

Dr. Montezuma had told us that therewas to be a dance the night before westarted for the hills—an old-time Apachedance of welcome. And when darknesscame on the day the pioneer four ar-rived at McDowell, and we had finishedsupper, a great fire was lighted in themiddle of the dancing ground. I believethat every member of the tribe cameto the dance—the last to arrive being theIndian policeman and his wife, the po-liceman driving the agent's car, with theagent sitting beside him, and his wifein the back seat with the wife of theagent.

Then all night long, to the rhythm of

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THAT MORNING'S RIDE TOOK US THROUGH LUXURIANT GROWTHS OF MESQUITE

68

a beaten drum and the voices of youngmen singing a galloping, stirring chant,the Apaches danced. They danced theirsimple, primitive dance—two women,facing one way, on either side of oneman who faced the other way, steppingrhythmically backwards and forwards.And at the end of each song, a warwhoop from the young singers sitting onlogs in the firelight.

Now and then Yuma Frank, the chief,would employ the time between dancesto talk to the groups of Indians gath-ered about the fire. All night the drum-ming and the dancing went on—un-weariedly, the women, advancing incouples, circled the fire at the beginningof each dance to tap a singer on the back—their signal that he was to be theirpartner. For it is the Apache womanwho is head of the family, who choosesher man, who builds the shelter in whichthey shall live, and who leads in all socialmatters.

Heavy-bodied, straight-backed, theirthick black hair hanging straight down

over their ears and neck, the womenwore their brightest shawls, their full-est skirts (cut to the heel), and theirsoftest moccasins. And those who weretoo old to dance, or who were burdenedwith the care of small children, campedin the edge of the firelight, wrapped (itseemed to me inadequately) in quilts andblankets against the biting chill of theOctober night. Slender, wide-hatted,and full of a sort of shy gaiety, the menwandered in and out of the firelight.Except those who sang, they stuck closeto their seats on the logs.

Until ten o'clock we four visitors satup to watch the dance. Then thePreacher Man—who has been a staunchBaptist for seventy-two years—remark-ing that he couldn't see much in thatkind of dance—went to crawl into theblankets he had spread under a brusharbor built by Charley Dickens close tohis store. Then "Gibby," the sybarite,put on his tourist cap and sank heavilyupon his mattressed cot. But "Monty"and I watched until after midnight, untilafter the roosters down at the camps ofsome of the Indians had crowed and be-come quiet again, before we gave up thevigil. And every time a dance endedand the singers gave their shrill whoop,I woke. And my brain throbbed withthe memory of the drum beats and thestirring rhythm of the young men's songs.

At daybreak, the Indians began toleave—wagons rattling away over thehard, dry roads, horsemen flashing amongthe mesquite trees, and those women wholived nearby footing it silently over thecrest of the little mesa, their babies car-ried on their backs.

McCutcheon and Brice had been de-layed again—Morgan and Hayes hadstayed in Phoenix to bring them out. Atnoon they came, and they brought Grind-staf, also of Phoenix, with them. Wewere ready to start.

There were nine of us, instead of eight—we must have another horse for"Grindy." Then it was discovered thatthe gray horse and the small mule pro-vided as pack animals could not carry theloads—of grub and bedding—piled upbeside the store. The Indians ques-tioned "Gibby" courteously about his

THE LITTLEST BURRO HAD NEVER BEENPACKED BEFORE

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cot and mattress—and "Gibby" declaredthat he couldn't do without them. They"hefted" the suitcase Brice had added tothe pile and looked inquiringly at itsowner; Brice, too, stood pat. I thinkthat if they had laid hands first on Mc-Cutcheon's war bag, he would havestarted a lightening; campaign—I neversaw a man on a camping trip more sub-missive and adaptable than John Mc-Cutcheon. But——

"Well , we get two more burros," saidCharley Dickens, and brother Richardspurred away toward a field to roundthem up.

That littlest burro had never beenpacked before—we watched the processwith the simple enjoyment you see ex-pressed on the faces of the audience whenthe naughty boy pulls a chair from undergrandma; at the end, the littlest burrowas quite buried under a mountain ofbed rolls, resigned to follow his elderbrother who staggered under the weightof the cot, the suitcase, and McCutch-eon's war bag.

Before we started, the camera fiendshad to have their chance. We lined up—nine visiting hunters, and—fifteen In-dian hunters? Fifteen?—we counted'em—and there were twenty-seven!

"Say, Charley," began Hayes, but therest of us wouldn't let him say it. Themore the merrier—besides we couldn'thave driven a single one of the twenty-seven back if we'd tried!

"Well , I'll be darned!" said Hayes.He was thinking of the grub. But heneedn't have worried on that score—be-hind the saddles of an even dozen ofthose Indians were tied grub sacks andcooking utensils. They meant to be withus, though they could not be of us ; andwe recalled what the Phoenix newspapersaid with abated laughter.

It was nearly four o'clock when wegot away from Charley's store. We in-sisted upon the Preacher Man taking thelead on his gentle, flea-bitten roan. Heis a little man, seventy-two years old,with graying chin whiskers, a smooth-shaven upper lip, a bald head, and thespirit of eternal youth gleaming in hiseyes. He wore a straw hat—the kindyou see bathers at the beach wearing toprevent sunburn; and he had turned up

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the brim in front. With a long strawin his mouth, a fierce red bandannaaround his neck, elastics to hold up thesleeves of his flowing gray shirt, his vestflapping as he rode, the Preacher Manbecame the needed precipitate to bringall of us—visitors who had never met be-fore, and Indians who were shy—into aquick comradeship.

"Don Quixote!" shouted "Gibby,"and Morgan added:

"Follow the tracks of the stout Rosin-ante!"

It was quite dark and there was athreat of rain in the sky as we came toour first camp on the night of Octoberfirst. Half a dozen of the Indians, andall of the pack animals, had got there be-fore us, for we had stopped often toshoot quail and adjust saddles. Andblazing up beside a great log, illumina-ting the silver leaves of a giant cotton-wood, was a roaring fire. The fireshowed us the exquisite beauty of thescene—an oval of packed river sand asbig as a basket-ball field, shut in by thickwillows. We unsaddled and unpacked;the Indians cooked supper; and we ar-

MC CUTCHEON READY FOR THE FIELD

WITH APACHE DEER-HUNTERS IN ARIZONA

70

ranged our beds in a great circle aboutthe edge of the oval clearing.

As we ate, the big wind began to blow,and there was thunder—in the fire'sglow the tall cottonwood swayed andrattled like a million voices chattering.Out of the gloom, which began wherethe willows grew thick, our horses stucktheir heads—only the littlest burro hadbeen left untied, for there was no graz-ing, and we meant to make an early startnext morning.

John McCutcheon produced a box ofcigars from his war bag—and Morganled a procession past his sleeping placeproffering the brand of friendship thatwon't rub off. Brice had cigarettes, andhe passed them among the twenty-sevenIndians. Twenty-seven of them ac-cepted, saving their bags of Bull Durham

and packages of brown papers (a part ofour supplies) against a time of greaterneed.

The rain drove us under our blanketsand tarps; and it was past midnight be-fore the clouds blew away and a greatround moon sailed into view. I beganto complain about an elbow I had inad-vertently thrust into a pool of waterwhich seemed to be slowly freezing. Iwas interrupted by McCutcheon, lyingclose at my right, who spoke in a small,tired voice as he dried his hair with atowel:

"Good Heavens, he complains abouta wet elbow! Did you hear him,Brice?" Brice answered:

"I 'm wet and sore and wide awake—Inever learned to sleep in the bath tub!"

After that "Monty" joined sleepily in

THREE OF THE CRACK HUNTERS OF THE EXPEDITION

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ADJUSTING THE PACKS AT CHARLEY DICKENS' STORE

the post mortem; Morgan, who had keptquite dry on his cot, said a heartlessthing, and the Preacher Man reprovedhim in a tone which roused a sudden ex-plosion of mirth from Richard Dickens,lying on the other side of the fire fromme. After that, the other Apaches, whohad lain quiet in their water-soakedblankets, began a fusillade of good-na-tured comment. One of them rose topile wood on the fire; and presently therest were squatting on the sand, theirbacks to the blare, rolling cigarettesand chattering like a kindergarten."Grindy" sat up, lit his pipe, and wantedto know what excuse "Gibby" had forsleeping and snoring on such a fine nightof moonshine.

So we waked "Gibby." A great vol-ume of meaningless swear words wasflung at us as "Gibby" fell out of hiscomfortable cot to reach for a shoe.But Morgan had forstalled that move,

and "Gibby" had to promise to be goodbefore Morgan would restore his foot-gear. McCutcheon requested "Gibby"to tell us all about his ascent of MountArarat the summer before. "Gibby" isa far-traveler, and likes to tell aboutwhat he has seen. Richard Dickens ex-ploded again—that mirthful Apache hasthe quickest reaction of any joke-lover Iknow.

Long before daybreak we had break-fasted ; our blankets were nearly dry bythe time to pack up, for we held thembefore the blaze while the Indians cookedbreakfast. One of my blankets was nota blanket, but a stuffed comforter cov-ered with thin, cheap print stuff of awonderful design. A great corner ofthat comforter had got wet and made aperfect "transfer" of its design on a spareshirt I was cherishing in my bed roll.Morgan begged me to give that shirt tothe Preacher Man; he assured me that

[71]

THE INDIANS FORMED IN SMALL GROUPS, EACH BUILDING ITS OWN FIRE

WHERE WE STRUCK IT, THE VERDE IS A BROAD, RACING STREAM, ALMOST CLEAR

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"MONTY" AND THE PREACHER MAN

Rosinante wouldn't shy at it, and arguedthat Don Quixote ought to be morebrightly attired. Richard Dickens lis-tened to Morgan with commendable in-tentness, but he couldn't quite get thepoint; pushing ahead to show thePreacher Man the trail up a spur of therocky hills, Richard managed to conveythe impression that it wasn't fair to in-dulge in jokes he couldn't understand.

That morning's ride took us up andup in the hills west of the Verde River,through luxuriant growths of cactus,over great stretches of cinder-brown lavarock, along a dim trail which dipped androse with frightful suddenness, until, twohours after noon, we came to a corraland an unexpected spring.

It was on this trail that we becameacquainted with the "strawberry" cactus—a thick-stemmed hush from two to fivefeet in height which bears clusters ofsilver-colored halls, nearly as big as ten-nis balls, set thickly with inch-and-a-halfsteel-hard spikes, barbed.

Whenever a horse touched one ofthose brilliant balls, it seemed to springaway from the cluster with a glad cry ofrelief, and sink its barbs deep in the flesh;

and then we had to get down, hold oursquirming horse with one hand and brushthe "strawberry" off with a stout stickheld in the other. After brushing off theterrible thing, we had to pick out, oneby one, the deeply imbedded barbs it hadleft behind. If it were put up to me tocontrive a purgatory for my enemies, Ishould send them fill on a thousand-yearjourney through the land of the "straw-berry" cactus.

Richard Dickens was our guide;Yuma Frank and another Apache werepiloting the gray horse and the excellentbrown mule ahead of us ; and JohnBlack, Jose, "Sunny J i m , " and one otherwere prodding the two burros behind us.Somewhere, scattered over the hills, werethe rest of the twenty-seven, huntingdeer.

It was about twelve o'clock, and wehad dropped down into a pleasant stretchof fairly level ground, We had finallycome out of the region of the "straw-berry" cactus, and the rain, which hadcommenced again soon after we left camp,had ceased. Richard Dickens pointedtoward the top of a ridge two miles ormore away, and called our attention tothree figures on foot. He said that theywere his brother Charley, his brotherGeorge, and Frank Look. He showedus their horses, standing tied to somesmall trees.

"They got on trade of one deer," saidRichard. We watched them, tiny figuresamong the rocks, while we rode for halfa mile perhaps, and then we heard thesudden, sharp crack of a rifle. Its echocame back from a hill at our right, whi-ning and shrill. Then another crack of ahigh-powered gun, and another and an-other—the hills were full of sound.Richard saw the deer quartering downthe hillside, leaping the rocks and dodg-ing among the cactus like a gray ball oflight. He turned his horse and spurredto a point where he would get a s h o t -though a long one—as the deer camedown into the flat we had crossed. Andas he spurred, he drew his rifle from itssaddle scabbard ; he flung his reins to theground, dropped to one knee, and fired.

It was random firing, and Richardknew it. He stood up and began to yellto the group who were coming behind us

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with the two burros. Then the threeIndians on the hillside who had jumpedthe deer joined in the yelling; and we,standing stupidly beside our horses, riflesheld aimlessly, watched the deer climbthe very hill we had lately descendedwhile we thrilled at the wild, exultantyells of the Indians who were after it.None of us fired a shot!

Jus t at the crest of the hill, the deermet the Indians who were with the bur-ros; it swerved sharply, and exposed itsside to their fire. There were six orseven shots, then Richard shouted to usthat the buck had been killed. We racedback, most of us on foot, and found JohnBlack, Jose, "Sunny J im, " and Richardhard at work skinning. They said thatJohn Black had killed the deer; andwhen the meat was parceled out, Johntook the skin for his own.

Before the skinners had finished, andwhile the rest of us were getting backto our horses, more shots were fired byCharley and George Dickens and FrankLook; another deer came rocketing downfrom the hillside; there was anotherfusillade from the hunters gatheredabout the slain deer; but that seconddeer got away without a scratch. TheApaches are not good rifle shots.

At the spring, under the corral, wedismounted. It was two o'clock, and wewere so hungry that we could have eatensaddle leather; some of us, too, were sotired and sleepy that we appealed toCharley Dickens to camp there for thenight. But Charley watched the fainttrickle of water from the spring for amoment, and shook his head. Therewould not be water enough for thehorses. The best we could do was tounsaddle for an hour and eat. Freshvenison, Dutch oven bread, made with-out baking powder (the young man wehad sent back for the forgotten bakingpowder had not yet caught up to us),and strong coffee—then some cannedpeaches. It was a delectable feast! But"Gibby" wanted pie—he asked RichardDickens, very earnestly, why there wasno pie. For a moment Richard wasapologetic, then he laughed.

"I think you don't want pie, Gibson,"said Richard accusingly, as he smiled upfrom his dishwashing.

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We saddled our horses again, rodeover another rocky ridge, and then struckinto a sandy wash, now bone-dry, whichled us in an hour and a half to the VerdeRiver. Then we were glad, indeed,that we had not camped overnight at thespring.

Where we struck it, the Verde is abroad, racing stream, almost clear; itruns between high cliffs set far back; andbetween the cliffs and the river spreadborders of willows and narrow orchardsof mesquite. Under the lee of one ofthe rocky bluffs we made our camp, anduntil sunset we swam and fished. TheIndians started target shooting, pickingout the short, barrel-shaped cacti grow-ing in the rocks across the river to punc-ture with their shots; and for half anhour the river canyon rang with thesound of firing.

Again that night there was rain. Itswept upon us in a fury of thunder andlightning; but we all slept soundly, in-different to the occasional rivulets whichfound their way under the rubber blank-ets and the tarps we were learning toarrange properly. In the morning, afterbreakfast, we rolled up our beds, still

HEAVY-BODIED, STRAIGHT-BACKED,THEIR THICK, BLACK HAIR HANG-

ING STRAIGHT DOWN

WITH APACHE DEER-HUNTERS IN ARIZONA

AT INTERVALS THE CAMERA FIENDS HAD TO HAVE THEIR CHANCE

wet, saddled our shivering horses, andstarted on a six hours' march to our per-manent camp. Until we left the Verde,two miles away, the rain followed anddrenched us; but when we mounted upa zig-zag trail from the river canyon toa tongue of rocky land running back formiles and miles to where the Four Peaksrose blue and wooded, the sky cleared asif by magic. Quail called in the mes-quite far to the right of our trail; thesun came out warm; most of us had gotover the worst of our saddle soreness;and we followed the tracks of thePreacher Man and his sturdy Rosinantewith actual gaiety.

That day we began to get some ideaof the true character of the horses werode. They were not horses, but moun-tain goats! Along trails two hand-breadths wide those ponies would trot,while we, gazing down across the rocksand cactus falling dizzily to the bottomof a gulch some hundreds of feet below,would hang desperately to our saddlehorns. We were scared half to death,but afraid to show our fear.

All of the rocks in the world musthave been piled up on the hills of Ari-zona at one time, and those titans whowere given the task of scattering themamong other states and countries gottired long before their work was clone.I believe that a corner of a huge boulder

sticks out of every square foot of surfacein all of the country we hunted over;and I know that if you ride or walk amile you or your horse must kick andslide over ten thousand small stones.

All over that country, too, the pricklypear, the palo verde, the cat's claw (adeliciously green and delicate lookingbush with the most hellish stickers on itthat I have ever felt), the ironwood, themesquite, and an infinite variety of cactistruggle for footing in the scant loam ofthe hillsides. Underneath these spinygrowths, the succulent mountain grassgrows; and it is to crop this grass thatthe deer leave the high mountains aroundthe Four Peaks when the autumn comes.

Just when it began to be plain to allof us first-time visitors that nowhere eastof the Verde lies a single square yard oflevel country, our horses scrambled outof a sandy wash to the top of a tinyplateau. Mesquite trees dotted it, like afarmer's back-yard orchard, and it wastramped bare by cattle. Beyond theplateau, a few yards up the wash, poolsof clear spring water shone in the sun-light.

Charley Dickens smiled a relievedsmile when he saw us all (I mean, ofcourse, the nine visitors) assembled underthe shade of the mesquite thicket. Itwas to be our permanent camp—"Monty" told us so as soon as he saw

[76]

IT WAS TWO O'CLOCK AND WE WERE SO HUNGRY THAT WE COULD HAVE EATENSADDLE LEATHER

George Dickens begin to scoop a hole inthe moist sand convenient to the fireJose promptly built.

That day we had ridden ahead of allthe pack animals, but when we came toour camping place we supposed that theywere following close behind. So we satdown to wait for the grub with all thesweet patience of harried, famishedwolves. One by one, the Indians driftedin from their detours across the hills,and they formed in small groups, eachbuilding its own fire. From their saddlepacks they began to dig pieces of venison,almost black from its quick drying of aday, and stores of mesquite bean meal."Monty" wandered among them, pick-ing up a thick hunk of meat and a bowlof meal. He came back to us, his round,dark face shining with triumph.

Plastering his slice of venison on abed of live coals, "Monty" began to tellus how good the mesquite meal was. Iasked for a taste and "Monty" offereda generous spoonful. Before I could getit al l out of my mouth, I had made upmy mind that I didn't like it. I wasn'tin doubt about that at all. Mesquitebean meal (made from the dried beanthat grows on the mesquite trees, groundby hand, and mixed with water) has allof the repulsiveness of taste—and some-thing of the same sicky sweetness—of a

Chinese dish I once tasted in a restau-rant of New York's Chinatown."Monty" assured me that the Apachescould live on this meal for weeks at atime and never lose strength.

As he turned his piece of venison onthe coals, stooping heavily to do the trickwith his fingers, "Monty" told us abouthis own boyhood among these hills, abouthow the old-time Apaches lived whollyon deer meat and the products of thetrees and plants growing in the moun-tains and along the rivers.

"Monty" is a wonderful word-painterof the impressionist (I'm not sure thathe's not of the futurist) school. Welistened to his poetic improvisations con-cerning the old care-free life of his peo-ple until we began to believe that civili-zation is a horrid mistake. But when"Monty" had finished his broiled veni-son and his bowl of meal, he sought theshade of a mesquite, lay down and drewhis hat over his eyes, and let us under-stand that he meant to get some rest.

It was nearly three o'clock—and wehad waited for the pack animals for twohours. Released from the spell of"Monty's" oratory, we turned savagequestions upon Charley Dickens; andCharley walked down the wash fiftyyards to listen for the coming of thepack mules. Morgan then appealed to

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Richard to go and find them and saveus from starvation. Morgan was lowenough to remind Richard, at this time,of the pair of eighteen-dollar chaps hehad given him. So Richard caught hishorse and rode away. Ten minutes laterhe came back accompanied by MikeBurns, Yuma Frank, and the four packanimals. Richard was laughing.

"What's the joke, Dick?" asked "Gib-by." "Did those fellows slop to makesome pie?"

"Naw!" and Richard broke out laugh-ing again. Then Mike Burns, who isa graduate of a Kansas normal school,told us in forceful English how he hadaccidentally come upon the four packanimals in the bottom of a gulch withtheir feet sticking up in the air. And anhour later, when George Black and theother two young men who had been incharge of the pack train came into campwith a deer, we understood,

Across the wash the Preacher Mandiscovered a cave, the bottom of whichwas just big enough to hold his blankets,spread out, and which offered a naturalshelf for the disposal of the contents ofthe handbag he had carried slung fromhis saddle horn.

Before we crawled into our blanketsthat night, two other deer were broughtto camp—Johnson and Frank Richardshad killed them. Somewhere back in thehills, each of those wiry, keen-eyedApaches had come upon fresh deer tracks,had tied his horse, had followed on footuntil the chance to shoot arrived, hadskinned the deer, had carried it back tohis horse, and had come silently intocamp to eat supper and go to bed.

But that night we would not have itso—we gathered round the three whohad killed—Johnson, George Black, andFrank Richards—to beg for details.Just where were the tracks found ? Howlong was the deer followed ? How manyshots were fired? How far from theirhorses were they when the deer waskilled? Charley Dickens was our inter-preter; and at first he smiled tolerantlywhen we asked a question. But presentlyhe and the hunters became actually inter-ested in recalling the incidents. Not bywhat they said through Charley Dickensdid the successful hunters stir us, but

there was something in the droop of theirtired bodies and the gleam of their eyeswhich gave us to understand that hunt-ing over those hills, following a deer un-til you get him, is a thrilling experience.

"Three deer to-day—by golly, that'sgood!" I think that was my classic com-ment; and from what the others said Ijudged that they were equally elated andincoherent over the good luck of thehunters.

"Who wants to go out with the hunt-ers in the morning?" "Monty" inquiredbefore we dropped to sleep.

"If I thought I could keep up I'd liketo try it," answered McCutcheon. "Howabout you, Brice?"

"I'd like to try it," said Brice."Count me in, 'Monty,' " I urged.

But to all of us I know that "if" voicedby McCutcheon loomed large. Comingto camp, we had followed a trail longused by the Indians and the cowboyswhen they rode into the hil ls ; we haddismounted at times to lead our horsesdown and up grades that had not troub-led the Indian riders in the least; andthe walking we had done had shown usthe awfulness of the going. Still, wethree said that we'd like to try to fol-low the hunters.

As for Morgan, "Gibby," "Grindy,""Monty," Hayes, and the Preacher Man,the answer was "no." Only Hayes ven-tured to excuse himself—he had oncestrained his heart climbing, and he mustbe careful not to do it again, I amsorry, now, that: we did not urge thePreacher Man to go out, for I'm surethat he would have got us out of ourblankets in time.

As it was, we became dimly awareof sounds in the camp while it was stilldark. The firelight flickered in ourfaces, and we heard the rattle of tinplates and voices subdued. It was cold,with the still cold of a frosthound worldwrapped in darkness; and we were verycomfortable under our blankets!

With dawn came courage to crawl outand stagger down to one of the poolsin the sandy wash to bathe faces andhands. Beside the fire we found ourbreakfast cooked and waiting for us;but every Indian had gone.

(To be continued)

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