CHAPTER IX
It was always interesting to me when I could get Pete's theories and hisbrand of philosophy on almost any subject and it was my intention thatnight at supper to lead up to the apparition I had seen on the cliffsthat day. With a substantial supper tucked away I was in a better frameof mind to realize that the illusion I had seen was not uncommon inmountain districts. I recalled that I had read of, and seen pictures of,a particular illusion of this nature that is often present in the HartzMountains in Germany and I knew full well that the setting sun, the mistand the atmospheric condition had all contributed to throwing a greatlyenlarged shadow of the real Wild Hunter onto the screen made by the mistvery much as today a motion picture increases the size of the small filmimage when it is thrown on the movie screen.
I intended to get Big Pete's idea on the subject but I never did for Iwas not adroit enough to steer the conversation in that direction, forBig Pete seized my first statement and made it a subject for a veritablelecture.
"There was a smashing lot of those trout up there, Pete. Bet I couldhave brought home all I could have carried if I had been a game hog," Isaid, as I stirred the fire with a stick and set the coffee pot nearerthe flames to warm a second cup.
"You see, tenderfut, it's like this," he said, "when a man goes out tokill a deer for the fun of blood-spilling or to get th' poor critter'shead to hang in his shack, he's nothing more than a wolf or butcher;hain't half as good a man as the one who never shot a deer, but goesback home and lies about it. The liar hain't harmed nothin' with hislies. His fairy stories don't hurt game an' they be interesting to thetenderfuts in the States. The real sportsman is the pot-hunter. Yes,that's jist what I mean, a pot-hunter--he's out 'cause the camp kettleis empty, and it's up agin him to fill it or starve. Now then, thisfellow is not after blood; nor trophies, nor is he hunting for themarket. It's self-preservation with him, that's what it is. He's ananimal along with the rest of 'em and he knows he's got jest as much aright to live as tha' have and no more! He's hustling for his livingalong with the bunch, forcing it from savage nature, and I tell you boy,there is no greater physical pleasure in life than holding old MotherNature up and just saying to her, 'You've got a living for me, ole' gal,and I'm going to get it.'
"Such talk pleases the old lady, makes her your friend 'cause she likesyour spunk, and because of it she'll give you the wind of a grey wolf,the step of the panther, the strength of the buffalo and the courage ofa lion. She is always generous with her favorites. Ah! lad, she kin makeyour blood dance in your veins, make fire flash from your eyes and giveyou the steady nerve necessary to face a she-grizzly when she isfightin' for her cubs."
"Why? 'cause you see, you are a grizzly yourself when the camp kettle isempty!" And Big Pete relapsed into silence, turned his attention to histin platter, examining it carefully, and then with a piece of dough-god,carefully wiped the platter clean and contentedly munched the savorybit.
The reason, that being locked into Big Pete's park in the mountainsstruck me as being very serious, was because I realized that althoughthe park was extensive it was completely surrounded by a practicallyunsurmountable barrier of rugged cliffs and mountains negotiable, as faras I knew, not even by the sure-footed mountain sheep and goats which wecould occasionally see on the cliffs from the valley floor, but neversaw in the park itself. I questioned Big Pete and found that he did notknow of a trail up the cliffs.
"Though," he said, "there must be some sort of a one for that tha' WildHunter gits in an' out and brings his wolf pack along too. He knows atrail all right an' ef he knows it why it's up to us to find it, too."
"Maybe we can trail him," I suggested.
"Trail him! Me? With that wolf pack clingin' to his heels? Not while I'malive!"
That was the last that was said about trailing the Wild Hunter for sometime to come, but meanwhile we built a more or less open faced permanentcamp and Big Pete initiated me into mysteries of real woodcraft, for itwas up to us now to live on the land, so to speak.
Although hard usage had made havoc with my tailormade clothes, neithertime nor the elements seemed to affect the personal appearance of my bigcompanion; his buckskin suit was apparently as clean and fresh as it wason the day I first met him. There was no magic in this. Big Pete knewhow to clamber all day through a windfall without leaving the greaterpart of his clothes on the branches, a feat few hunters and notenderfoot have yet been able to accomplish.
As I have already said, Pete was a dude, but he was what might be calleda self-perpetuating dude, who never ran to seed no matter how long hemight be separated from the city tailor shops, for Pete was his owntailor, barber and valet, and the wilderness supplied the material forhis costume.
In the camp he was as busy as an old housewife, and occupied his leisuretime mending, stitching and darning. Many a morning my own toiletconsisted of a face wash at the spring, but my guide seldom failed tospend as much time prinking as if he expected distinguished visitors!
Instead of "Tenderfoot," Big Pete now called me "Le-loo," which Iunderstand is Chinook for wolf and I took so much pride in my promotionthat I would not have changed clothes with the Prince of Wales; Igloried in my wild, unkempt appearance!
Nevertheless, Big Pete announced that he was the Hy-as-ty-ee (big boss)and he forthwith declared that my costume was unsuitable for theapproaching cold weather. There was no disputing that Big Pete wasHy-as-ty-ee and I agreed to wear whatever clothes he should make for me,and can say with no fear of dispute that if that ancient chump, RobinsonCrusoe, had had a Big Pete for a partner in place of a man Friday, hewould have never made himself his outlandish goatskin clothes and aclumsy umbrella.
From a cache in the rocks Pete brought forth a miscellaneous lot oftrappers' stores, bone needles made from the splints of deer's legs,elk's teeth with holes bored through them, and odds and ends of allkinds.
Among his stuff was a supply of salt-petre and alum, and this wasevidently the material for which he was searching for he at oncepreceeded to make a mixture of two parts salt-petre to one of alum andapplied the pulverized compound to the fleshy side of the skins, thendoubling the raw side of the hides together he rolled them closely andplaced the hides in a cool place where they were allowed to remain forseveral days; when at length unrolled, the skins were still moist.
"Just right, by Gosh," he exclaimed, as he took a dull knife andcarefully removed all particles of fat or flesh which here and thereadhered to the hide. After this was done to his satisfaction we bothtook hold and rubbed, and mauled and worked the skins with our handsuntil the hides were as soft and as pliable as flannel. Thus was thematerial for my winter clothing prepared.
It took four whole deer-skins to furnish stuff for my buckskin shirtwith the beautiful long fringes at the seams; but the whole garment wascut, sewed and finished in a day's time. It was sewed with thread madeof sinew.
When it came to making the coat and trousers Big Pete spent a long timein solemn thought before he was ready to begin work on these garments;at length he looked up with a broad smile and cried:
"See here, Le-loo, I have taken a fancy to them 'ere tenderfut pants o'your'n. Off with 'em now an' I'll jist cut out the new ones from the olduns." In vain I pleaded with him to make my trousers like his own; hewould not listen to me, he insisted upon having my ragged but stylishknickerbockers to use as a pattern.