The Worthington advance. [volume] (Worthington, Minn.) 1874-1908, 1888-11-22
FAIR PAPITA'S LEAP.
Pursued by a Bear She Takes a
Last Chance for Lite.

l. ~
Last Chance for Life.
Bruin 10 Killed by q Mountain Lion, the
Lion Is Shot by . Gallant Hunter,
aud Paplta Bobs Up ssrencly
From Below.
The Silver City (Mont.) correspond
ent of the Cincinnati Enquirer sends
the following remarkable tale:
These mountains are as rich In ad-
ventures as they are in quartz-rock and
big powders, he writes. Once in awhile
one of the first is heard of beyond it's
Immediate participants, just as the
quartz now and then shows up silver
vein to the persistentinquisitive miner.
Some of these have been duly chroni-
cled, but not the tenth part of those
which have happened, even within
easy reportorial reach, have been
heard of by me. A few days ago Hank
Slicer, an old hunter, who fought the
Indians long before he came up into
the mountains ten years ago, dropped
into our little mining camp, casually,
as it were. The old man is garrulous,
after he has taken On about a half a
dozen three-finger doses of Bourbon,
and he told half a dozen beautifully
tinted stories of lite in the mountains.
That is, the stories were rose-colored
"a man with strong imagination and
slight prejudice against Hank might
say they were ''lurid." All of them
were highly entertaining. Fortunately
he had collateral evidence of the truth
of some of them, though no one ever
disputed any statement by Hank Slicer
unless Hank was either asleep or out
of sight and tolerably certain not to re-
turn for some time. One of his stories
I shall give. It's pity it can not be
given verbatim and with all the orna-
ments of adjective and expletive, gest-
ure and facial contortion with which
it was duly embellished by the old
man. But to do so would require a
special font of type with several new
characters. Stripped of all DISCUSSES
the story is about as follows:
Slicer has spent the summer camped
on q spur of the mountains, thirty or
forty miles from here, known as Big
Tree Mountain. This spur is Il wide
one, and has many lovely little valleys
and charming hooks. Its chief charm
in old Hanks eyes, however, was the
fact that its valleys and glens are the
chosen feeding ground of the deer, and
that its many pellucid streams are
chock-full of the finest trout. With
Hank was an old Indian, half-breed,
who, OF course, took along his squaw
and her membranes, a rather bright,
copper-colored girl of fourteen or ff-
teen, three or four smaller fry, their
number, ages and sex being quite i'm
material. "Running Antelope" was
his tribal name, though Hank always
called him ''Half-breed JIM when re-
ferring to him in mixed society of
which the latter was not part. The
two had known each other and camped
together of and on for score or more
of years. This summer they must have
had particularly royal and hilarious
time, with the squaw to do their cook
ing. the kids to do the chores, venison
steaks running free and thick in their
outdoor pantry, and trout fairly crowd
ing around every hook that " as thrown
into the streams. Such state of
affairs means beatitude itself to an
Indian family and an old Rocky Noun
tain hunter, and that it was enjoyed
goes without saying.
One day, just about the time of OR
warmest weather here, when the black
berries in the scattered brier patches
we're luxul'iantly ripe, old Hank had
lazily strolled out with his gun and
dog, ready for any thing which might
cross his path. Nothing showed up.
however-the day was an exceedingly
sultry one in August-and the old man
had turned his face toward camp. and
was within two miles of it, when he
came out upon q little opening on a
southern exposure that was fairly well
set in blackberry bushes, now bending
under loads of ripe berries. They were
tempting, and the old fellow leisurely
browsed along the edge of the patch
for some distance, picking only the
biggest and ripest berries as he went.
His dog had finally made lazy excur-
sion little further down the hill tc
the right, nosing about in perfunctory
way and keeping half an eye on his
master as he slowly moved along.
The day was as calm as Sabbath in
Eden; the heat was just enough to be
relaxing; the air was soft and resinous
and sluluber-provoking. The old man
moved slower and more and more felt
an inclination to lie dow-y and take a
nap. He cast glance ahead and saw
that at the further side of the brier
patch was a yawning canyon, perhaps
five hundred feet deep, that scanned the
mountain side for long distance. OF
course he must retrace his steps. He
turned to do so. But the invitation OF
nature to take q siesta was almost ire.
sistible. He had just picked out nice
spot in which to surrender-a bit Of
thick green moss under the shade of a
tree and at the side of big bowlder-
when he was startled into the keenest
life and the utmost activity by a scream.
Enthusiastically from female throat, and
pitched at q keynote of the utmost ter.
ror. He turned toward the further side
of the patch. There he saw the bushes
In state OF violent agitation at two
points. a slight figure in flight and a big
! black one in hot pursuit, while the
screams kept up. and mingled with
them were funny, short, sharp little
4slps end. : queer sub-cellar bass ejacu