Cascades

20. Chapter 20

We were out at daylight the next morning and hunted all day with fair success. Johnston and Billy jumped a bunch of five mule-deer, a buck, two does, and two fawns. Johnston fired fourteen shots at them before they got out of the country, and killed the two does. In speaking of it afterward Billy said he was just taking a good aim at the old buck's eye when Johnston's gun cracked the first time, and of course the buck ran, so he did not get a shot.

"But why didn't you shoot at him running?" I inquired.

"Because I can't hit a jumpin' deer," he replied, frankly, "and I hate like thunder to miss."

I spent the day about a mile from camp on top of Blue Grouse Mountain, a prominent landmark of the country. A heavy fog hung about the mountain and over the surrounding country until about three o'clock in the afternoon, when it lifted and disclosed a view of surpassing loveliness. Away to the west and southwest there was a level tract of swampy, heavily timbered country about thirty miles long and ten miles wide. I looked down on the tops of the trees composing this vast forest, and they appeared at this distance not unlike a vast field of half-grown green grain. Beyond this tract to the west a chain of hills wound in serpentine curves from north to south, their parks and bits of prairie gleaming in the sun like well-made farms. To the north lay Loon Lake nestling among the pine-clad hills, its placid bosom sparkling in the setting sun like a sheet of silver. Farther to the north and northeast were two other lakes of equal size and beauty, while far distant in the east were several large bodies of prairie separated by strips of pine and fir. I longed for my camera, but on account of the unfavorable outlook of the morning, I had not brought the instrument.

ONE OF JOHNSTON'S PRIZES

The following morning promised no better, for the fog hung like a pall over the whole country; but I took the little detective with me, hoping the mist would lift as before; in this, however, I was disappointed. I staid on the mountain from early morning till half-past three, and there being then no prospect of a change went down. Just as I reached the base I saw a rift in the clouds, and supposing the long-wished change in the weather was about to take place, I turned and began the weary climb, but again the fog settled down, and I was at last compelled to return to camp without the coveted views. I made several exposures during the day on crooked, deformed, wind-twisted trees on the top of the mountain, which, strange to say, came out good. The fog was so dense at the time that one could not see fifty yards. I used a small stop and gave each plate from five to twenty seconds, and found, when developed, that none of them were over exposed, while those given the shorter time were under exposed. That day's hunting resulted in three more deer, and as we then had all the meat our team could take out up the steep hills near camp, we decided to start for home the next morning. While seated around our blazing log fire in the old cabin that night, Mr. Johnston entertained us with some interesting reminiscences of his extensive experience in the West. He has been a "broncho buster," a stock ranchman, and a cow-boy by turns, and a recital of his varied experiences in these several lines would fill a big book. Among others, he told us that he once lived in a portion of California where the ranchmen raised a great many hogs, but allowed them to range at will in the hills and mountains from the time they were littered until old enough and large enough for market; that in this time they became as wild as deer and as savage as peccaries, so that the only way they could ever be reclaimed and marketed was to catch them with large, powerful dogs, trained to the work. Their feet were then securely tied with strong thongs, and they were muzzled and packed into market or to the ranches, as their owners desired, on horses or mules.

ARE YOU LOOKING FOR US?

Johnston had a pair of these dogs, and used to assist his neighbors in rounding up their wild hogs. In one case, he and several other men went with an old German ranchman away up into the mountains to bring out a drove of these pine-skinners, many of whom had scarcely seen a human being since they were pigs, and at sight of the party the hogs stampeded of course, and ran like so many deer. The dogs were turned loose, took up a trail, and soon had a vicious critter by the ears, when the packers came up, muzzled and tied it securely. The dogs were then turned loose again, and another hog was rounded up in the same way. These two were hung onto a pack-animal with their backs down, their feet lashed together over the pack-saddle, and their long, sharp snouts pointing toward the horse's head. They were duly cinched, and the horse turned loose to join the train. This operation was repeated until the whole herd was corralled and swung into place on the horses, and the squealing, groaning, and snorting of the terrified brutes was almost deafening. One pair of hogs were loaded on a little mule which had never been accustomed to this work, and, as the men were all engaged in handling the other animals, the old ranchman said he would lead this mule down the mountain himself. Johnston and his partner cinched the hogs on in good shape, while the Dutchman hung to the mule.

A BUCKING MULE

As they were giving the ropes the final pull, Johnston gave his chum a wink, and they both slipped out their knives, cut the muzzles off the porkers when the old man was looking the other way, and told him to go ahead. He started down the trail towing the little mule, which did not relish its load in the least, by the halter. The hogs were struggling to free themselves, and, as the thongs began to cut into their legs, they got mad and began to bite the mule.

Then there was trouble; stiff-legged bucking set in, and mule and hogs were churned up and down, and changed ends so rapidly that for a few minutes it was hard to tell which of the three animals was on the outside, the inside, the topside, or the bottom-side. The poor little mule was frantic with rage and fright, and what a mule can not and will not do under such circumstances, to get rid of a load can not be done by any four-footed beast. He pawed the air, kicked, and brayed, jumped backward, forward, and sidewise, and twisted himself into every imaginable shape. The old Dutchman was as badly stampeded as the mule; he shouted, yanked, and swore in Dutch, English, and Spanish; he yelled to the men above to come and help him, but they were so convulsed and doubled up with laughter that they could not have helped him if they would.

Finally, the mule got away from the old man and went tearing down into the cañon; he overtook and passed the balance of the pack-train, stampeded them almost beyond control of the packers, and knocked the poor hogs against trees and brush until they were almost dead. He ran nearly six miles, and being unable to get rid of his pack, fell exhausted and lay there until the men came up and took charge of him. The old man accused Johnston of cutting the muzzles off the hogs, but he and his partner both denied it, said they certainly must have slipped off, and they finally convinced him that that was the way the trouble came about.

THE BUCKER AND THE BUSTER

This, with sundry other recitals of an equally interesting nature, caused the evening to pass pleasantly, and at a late hour we turned into our bunks. We were up and moving long before daylight the next morning, and as soon as we could see the trail hooked up the team and attempted to go, but, alas for our hopes of an early start, one of the horses refused to pull at the very outset--in short, he balked and no mule ever balked worse. Johnston plied the buckskin until the horse refused to stand it any longer and began to rear and to throw himself on the tongue, back in the harness, etc. Johnston got off the wagon, went to the animal's head and tried to lead it, but the brute would not be led any more than it would be driven, and commenced rearing and striking at its master as if trying to kill him. This aroused the ire of the ranchman and he picked up a piece of a board, about four inches wide and three feet long, and fanned the vicious critter right vigorously. I took a hand in the game, at Johnston's request, and warmed the cayuse's latter half to the best of my ability with a green hemlock gad. He bucked and backed, reared and ranted, pawed, pitched, plunged and pranced, charged, cavorted and kicked, until it seemed that he would surely make shreds of the harness and kindling wood of the wagon; but the whole outfit staid with him, including Johnston and myself.

We wore out his powers of endurance if not his hide, and he finally got down to business, took the load up the hill and home to the ranch, without manifesting any further inclination to strike. We reached the ranch about nine o'clock at night, and the next day Johnston drove me into Spokane Falls, where, in due time, I caught the train for home.

VIEW IN THE SPOKANE VALLEY

Spokane Falls is a growing, pushing town, and the falls of the Spokane river, from which the town takes its name, afford one of the most beautiful and interesting sights on the line of the Northern Pacific road. There are over a dozen distinct falls within a half a mile, one of which is over sixty feet in perpendicular height. Several of these falls are split into various channels by small islands or pillars of basaltic rock. At one place, where two of these channels unite in a common plunge into a small pool, the water is thrown up in a beautiful, shell-like cone of white foam, to a height of nearly six feet. It is estimated by competent engineers that the river at this point furnishes a water-power equal in the aggregate to that of the Mississippi at St. Anthony's Falls. Every passenger over this route should certainly stop off and spend a few hours viewing the falls of the Spokane river.