CHAPTER XX.
E 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.