Read Ebook: Harper's Round Table February 23 1897 by Various

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, with ever-increasing anxiety, the return of those who had thus left them. Then their leader and his companion rode wearily back into the valley. They were haggard, covered almost beyond recognition with the dust of desert sands, and utterly exhausted, while their steeds were ready to drop with thirst and fatigue.

Mortimer Chalmers's first words announced the failure of his search, for as he entered camp he asked, "Has the boy come back?" Upon being answered in the negative, a look of utter despair settled over the man's face, though he turned away to hide it from the pitying gaze of his men.

From his companion it was learned that when, on the preceding day, they had emerged from the ravine, they found themselves on a vast plain of shifting sands, void of vegetation and dotted with great fortresslike mesas or lofty bluffs of the most vivid and varied coloring. In the distance they had descried a rider whom they believed to be Todd, but though they fired their rifles and waved sombreros to attract his attention, he failed either to see them or took no notice of their signals, and a few seconds later disappeared behind a distant butte. Hastening to that point, they found and followed his trail until it was lost in the wind-blown sands. Even then they kept on in the same general direction, firing their rifles at short intervals, until darkness compelled a halt. During the long cheerless night, without fire or food, and comforted by only a few mouthfuls of water from their canteens, they still fired occasional shots, but without receiving any answer.

At daybreak they were again in the saddle and moving in a great sweeping arc that embraced many miles of the terrible desert, back toward the river. Until reaching it they had hoped against hope that the missing lad might in some way have been led back to the point from which he had started. Now, however, there was no doubt that he was indeed lost in that fearful wilderness of sand and towering rocks.

This was the opinion of the whole party; but though it was fully shared by Mortimer Chalmers, he was off again before daylight of the following morning, accompanied by five of his most experienced men. These were to explore the desert by twos in different directions, as far as their strength and that of their animals would allow them to penetrate, though on no account were they to remain from camp longer than two days.

This expedition was as fruitless as the first, and when on the second evening the six searchers returned to camp empty-handed there was no longer a doubt but that poor Todd, lost and bewildered, had wandered beyond recovery, and met his death amid the horrors of the Painted Desert.

Although there was no longer any hope that he would ever again be seen alive, the party remained encamped at that place another day before moving on, and scouts were kept constantly posted along the edge of the plateau, whence they could command a great sweep of the interior country in case any tidings of the lost one should be miraculously wafted in that direction.

Even when the sad little camp was finally broken and the expedition resumed its melancholy march down the valley of the muddy river, these same scouts followed the edge of the bluffs, though often being obliged to make long and fatiguing detours to head precipitous ca?ons.

In this manner the party had proceeded but a few miles when Mortimer Chalmers, who, alone with his grief and self-accusing reflections, rode in advance, was seen to suddenly clap spurs to his horse and dash off down the valley. He had discovered a riderless pony grazing on the coarse herbage of the bottom, and was filled with a momentary hope that by some means his dearly loved brother might after all have found his way back to the river.

When the others overtook him they at once recognized the animal which was cropping the tough grasses with starving avidity as the broncho that had borne Todd Chalmers from their sight six days before. Its belly was bloated with water, of which it had evidently drunk a prodigious quantity, but it was otherwise gaunt from hunger. It still wore a broken bridle, and the saddle was found at no great distance away. To this were still attached the rifle, now broken, the roll of blankets, soiled and torn, and the empty canteen, that had belonged to the poor lad, of whose fate they brought melancholy tidings. A fragment of picket-rope still remained attached to the pony's neck, but its frayed end, worn with long dragging through sand and over rocks, showed that the animal must have traversed many miles of desert since the time when last he bore his young master.

The broncho's trail was discovered and followed to the distant brow of the bluffs, but beyond that it had been obliterated by wind-swept sands, and offered no further clew.

As no one of the party would ever care to use that broken saddle, and as it was all that was left to them of the merry lad who was lost, they buried it where they found it, with all its accoutrements. When they turned silently from the little mound of earth that covered it, all felt with Mortimer Chalmers as though they were leaving the grave of his light-hearted, hot-headed, affectionate, and impetuous young brother.

And now let us see what had really become of the lad whom his recent comrades mourned so sincerely, and who we left sometime since gazing anxiously at the gaudily decked monuments of the Painted Desert.

When in his thoughtless race after the coveted prize of a black-tailed deer, Todd emerged from the ravine that led to the plateau, and gained a wide range of vision, he was sorely disappointed to see the animals he was pursuing skimming across the sands more than a mile away and approaching a tall mesa, behind which he knew they would in another moment disappear. He was about to give over the chase with a sigh of disappointment, when, to his surprise, one of the fleeing deer seemed to fall, though it almost immediately regained its feet and followed after its companions.

"Hurrah!" shouted Todd, again urging his pony to the chase. "One of them is wounded, and I'll have it yet. Mort will forgive me when I bring fresh venison into camp."

Just before reaching a rocky buttress of the mesa the lad heard shots behind him and, with a backward glance, saw two horsemen in hot pursuit. One of them he knew to be his brother, and both of them were waving to him to come back.

"I won't go without something to show for my hunt if I can help it," muttered the boy to himself, as he dashed around a corner of the rocky wall, and also disappeared from view. He had hoped to find his wounded deer there, but neither it nor the others were in sight, though he could still distinguish their tracks. Following these, he was led through a narrow and crooked valley that finally divided into several branches. The deer had taken one of these that led sharply to the right amid a confused mass of rocks.

"They are making a circuit back toward the river," thought the young hunter, "and that suits me exactly, for I shall be able to reach it and regain camp without being caught by Mort like a naughty child. That I couldn't stand, and I would rather stay out all night than submit to anything so humiliating."

With the waning day the sky became overcast, and a strong wind, blowing in gusts, so shifted the desert sands, piling them into ridges and whirling their eddies, that when the boy finally determined to retrace his own trail he found, to his dismay, that even a few paces behind him it had wholly disappeared. At this discovery the terrible knowledge that he was lost came into his mind like a flash, and for a full minute he sat stunned and motionless.

Then he pulled himself together, laughed huskily, and said aloud: "Don't lose your head, old man. Keep cool. Camp right where you are until daylight, and then climb the highest point you can find. From it you will surely be able to get your bearings, for the river can't be more than a mile away."

BEAR-HUNTING.

BY CASPAR WHITNEY.

Bear-hunting varies according to the kind of bear you are hunting. If black bear, it is rather tame sport, but if it is grizzly, cinnamon, or silver-tip, as the several species of the grizzly are called, then it becomes big-game hunting indeed, and is sport for only the most experienced.

Grizzly-bear hunting is not boys' play. It is men's work, and only for the most experienced at that; no boy should be permitted to go grizzly-bear hunting, either alone or in the company of other boys, or even in the company of most men who claim to be sportsmen.

No boy of mine should ever go after a grizzly unless he was accompanied by a hunter whose nerves had been tried by "Old Ephraim," and whose experience was undoubted. The grizzly is such an uncertain beast in his temperament, and is so ferocious and so dangerous when once his ugly temper is aroused, that it is not safe to take any liberties with him, and it is certainly not safe for boys to take any chances about venturing into his country. For this reason I do not think boys ought to go bear-hunting, even for the black, in localities frequented by the grizzly. As a rule, grizzly and black bear do not live in the same localities, although in some parts of the Rocky Mountains, in Colorado and New Mexico, I have killed both within twenty-five miles of each other.

If, having your father's permission to hunt grizzly, you set out with an experienced sportsman, the latter will advise you as to your rifle. There are many different opinions on this rifle question. I have always used a .45-90-300 or a .45-110-340, preferably the latter. The dangerous feature of grizzly-hunting is the bear's wonderful vitality. If you were certain, absolutely, of putting a ball through his brain every time you fired at him, there would be no need of such concern as to your rifle, for a much smaller calibre would answer the purpose equally as well as the larger; but rarely are you in a position to put a ball into his brain, even if you are a sufficiently expert shot to do so. You may fire at 75, 100, or 150 yards--you will more often see him at the shorter distance than at the longer--but the chances of your dropping him in his tracks are not good. Occasionally you may do so, but not often. Now this is the danger. When you put that bit of lead into the grizzly, no matter how thoroughly it may do its work, most frequently "Old Ephraim" is going to make a bee-line for you; and, what is more disquieting, he is likely to sustain life long enough to reach you, unless meanwhile you stop him. I know of a case where a grizzly was shot through the heart twice at close range, and yet got to the hunter and fearfully injured him before the bear fell dead.

The best time to hunt bear is in the spring, when they have just come out of their winter's holes, in which they have been sleeping away the coldest months. They are then very hungry, and constantly on the move, and to be seen in the open more than at any other season of the year. This is the time, too, when their fur is long and silky, and of very much better quality than later, for very soon after coming out of their holes the fur becomes thinner and coarser. It is at this time of the year that the bear is a meat-eater; and, in fact, he is almost any kind of an eater, being so ravenous as to take what he can. If in the neighborhood of a ranch, he will prey on the live-stock, particularly on pigs and chickens. A few months later, when summer comes on, he goes up from the foot-hills into the high mountain plateaus, where he lives on vegetable matter, grasses, and weeds, and becomes a very diligent seeker after beetles, and all the insect life that lives under stones and logs. The true time of plenty for bear, and certainly when you are most likely to get a shot at him, is in the last of the summer, during the berry season. This is when you must hunt for him on the sloping sides of the hills that are covered with berry bushes, and frequently they are so absorbed in devouring the luscious fruit as to be rather easy of approach, although do not get the idea it is too easy; a bear is never easy to approach, and approach is only a small part of the game. Later on in the autumn he again goes up on the high plateaus, where game is plenty, and again becomes a meat-eater. When the winter sets in, and the heavy snows come, he seeks a cavernous hole in the hill-side, or some natural cave in the mountains, among rocks, where he remains sleeping until spring.

It is very difficult to still hunt bear; in fact, it is the experience of most hunters that bear have been more frequently come upon unexpectedly when out hunting for other game. You will probably have to make many trips before you see signs or before you get sight of a bear, and yet again you are apt to go out and stumble on to one. It takes the most careful hunting, because a bear, once aware of your presence in his vicinity, is very difficult to approach; he is certain to secure a position from which he can view an approaching enemy. And when you are looking for bear be very careful how you go through brush. It is not often a bear will charge you without your molesting him, unless it happens to be a female who has cubs near by. But nevertheless, as I have said, the grizzly is so uncertain in his temperament that he is just as apt to charge you as not to do so; and, at any rate, it is best not to run any chances, and therefore advisable to be very careful in going through heavy brush or any place in which he might be lurking. Bear-hunting is not popular with the average man who goes out with a rifle, because reward is so long delayed; it takes lots of time and plenty of patience and experience and skill to get your bear, and it is not every hunter who has this combination.

Bear are baited, but I have never cared very much for that sort of sport. It seems to me that to lay behind a stump awaiting the approach of your victim to the bait you have put out to lure him takes all the hunting out of it. You are simply there to kill, and all the pleasure of pitting your woodcraft and skill against the animal is entirely lost.

See that your rifle is clean and in good working order, and be very chary how you follow a wounded grizzly into cover. It is an old dodge of "Ephraim's," when he does not attack openly, to slink into cover and lie in wait for the hunter who rushes in after him in the thought that he is retreating. Go slow; and do not do any hurried shooting. You should not hunt grizzly unless you are a good shot; and being so, take careful aim before you press the trigger. A painfully wounded grizzly is a dangerous beast.

ARTIN THE KURD.

BY G. B. BURGIN.

"I am not afraid of you," said the Rev. William P. Marsh. "You know very well that I am an American missionary and that you dare not touch me."

Before Oglou the son of Kizzil could reply, the Rev. William P. Marsh took a small Bible from his pocket. "The subject of my discourse," he remarked, tucking a horse-blanket over his feet to keep off the cold, and comfortably resting his back against the side of the mountain--"the subject of my discourse this evening will be on the sinfulness of taking what does not belong to us. I shall be enabled to put more vigor into my remarks from the fact that you have robbed me of all my money, have likewise stolen my horse and saddle-bags. As I came to this country just to look after your miserable souls, it's pretty mean of you. However, we will now consider the subject in its primary aspects; thence we will touch upon original sin; and after that I propose to present for your prayerful consideration the subject of Kurdish sin, which seems to be a pretty big variety in itself."

He deliberately turned over the leaves of his well-thumbed Bible in search of an appropriate text for these two ruffians who had waylaid and robbed him within five miles of Kharput. Karin the son of Artog looked irresolutely at Oglou the son of Kizzil.

"It would be simpler to cut this missionary pig's throat," he suggested, stroking his long mustache. "Perhaps the Vali would be only too glad to get rid of him."

"I should like to; I have not killed any one for a week," rejoined Oglou the son of Kizzil, with much fervor. "But--" He hesitated.

The missionary did not understand Kurdish, and spoke in Armenian. "It would be more becoming," he remarked, "for you to sit down and listen to me without interruption. You may never have such another chance."

The quick eyes of Karin the son of Artog caught a glimmer of arms in the plain below them. All around the mountain pass was flecked with snow. "Proclaimed by all the trumpets of the sky," fresh masses began to fall. Their own village was a good many miles away. This mad hodga would continue to preach until he talked them to death. The Turkish zaptiehs, winding slowly up from the plain below, might ask inconvenient questions and appropriate all the plunder.

"After all, it is only four liras," suggested Oglou the son of Kizzil. "If we cut his throat, the zaptiehs will come after us, and our horses are done up. Better tell him we repent and give him back the money."

"When Allah, the All Great, has given us this money," sententiously said Karin the son of Artog, "it is showing ourselves thankless to throw it aside. But--perhaps it is as well. We can always catch him again when there aren't any zaptiehs about. Let us repent and get away before we are caught by these sons of burnt mothers, the zaptiehs."

Hence it was the Rev. William P. Marsh felt that his efforts at conversion had been suddenly blessed. "Maybe I was a bit hard on you," he said, affably, as the two Kurds helped him into the saddle. "If ever you show yourselves in Kharput, just come and see me and let me know how you're getting on. I don't want either of you to backslide after this act of grace, for I know how badly you must feel at giving back this money. I could see just now that nothing but the fear of the Lord prevented you from cutting my throat. If that stops you from cutting your neighbors' throats in your usual hasty fashion, you'll be very glad you tried to rob me by the way, and were brought to repentance. Now here's this Bible of mine, beautifully printed in Armenian. Maybe some one could read it to you when you feel inclined to go out and plunder your neighbors after the fashion of these parts. If you like to have it just say so, and I'll make you a present of it."

"Some day we will bring it back to you, Effendi," obsequiously said Karin the son of Artog, as the two picturesque-looking villains helped the infirm old missionary into the saddle. "Where is your house?"

Karin the son of Artog and Oglou the son of Kizzil watched the receding old man with a grin. "Four liras!" said the one. "Four liras!" echoed the other. "Now for the zaptiehs." The two cronies turned in the direction of the approaching force, but it was not to be seen.

"They've turned off, and are not coming up the mountain at all," mournfully suggested Karin the son of Artog.

"Oh, if we had only known, sons of dead asses that we are!" wrathfully replied Oglou the son of Kizzil.

"We would have cut his throat and kept the money," they added, simultaneously.

But the good old missionary jogged up the steep incline to Kharput, feeling that he had not lived in vain, and that the mission report for that year of grace, 1880, would contain the first authentic instance of the sudden conversion to Christianity of two Kurd desperadoes.

"Allah is with him" , said Karin the son of Artog, leaping on his wiry pony and digging his shovel-shaped stirrups into its hairy sides.

"We must have been mad too," suggested Oglou the son of Kizzil, as he galloped down the mountain-side after his friend, "to give him back four liras when I would have cut his throat for a medjidieh!"

A few days later Karin the son of Artog had a slight difference of opinion with Oglou the son of Kizzil. No one knew how the quarrel originated, but it ended in Karin the son of Artog drawing an extremely sharp and crooked sword and rushing upon Oglou the son of Kizzil with the indecorous observation that he would slice out his liver. Although Karin the son of Artog was theoretically acquainted with the position of the human liver he had no practical knowledge of the fact, and, consequently, made a vicious thrust at his old friend's heart. Fortunately for Oglou the son of Kizzil, the point of the sword caught in the cover of the old missionary's Bible, and whilst Karin the son of Artog futilely endeavored to get it out again, Oglou the son of Kizzil, with the neat and effective back-stroke which was his one vanity, cut off the head of Karin the son of Artog. Oglou the son of Kizzil had placed the Bible over his heart as an amulet; hence, this providential instance of its powers more than ever convinced him of its utility as a charm to ward off misfortune. However this may have been, it could not protect the son of Kizzil from the somewhat inopportune attentions of his late friend's clan. The relations, with that blind haste which generally distinguishes the actions of relatives, promptly assumed that Oglou the son of Kizzil had been the aggressor, and demanded "blood-money." Here again arose another difference of opinion. Oglou the son of Kizzil, whilst willing to testify to the admirable qualities of his late friend Karin the son of Artog, felt inclined to rate those qualities at a lower market value than seemed becoming to the dead man's friends. Three liras and a pony seemed to Oglou the son of Kizzil an adequate tribute to the virtues of the defunct warrior. He was willing, as a concession to sentiment, to throw in a praying-carpet with the pony, but was not prepared to do more. As a tribute to old friendship, however, he would marry the widow and take over the household. To this ultimatum the widow, through the medium of a white-haired old chief, her father, replied that Oglou the son of Kizzil had insulted her by supposing that she could ever have married a man whose "blood-money" would scarcely suffice for the funeral expenses, and that it would be well, in view of the circumstances, for Oglou the son of Kizzil to put his house in order and bid farewell to a world which he had too long disgraced by his presence.

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