Daily Yellowstone journal., 1889-05-24
AN OLD HUNTERS STORY.
why the Gray bearded stranger Hated
the sight Of a Wolf skin.

ut >tEht oi u won shiu'
He was along in years, rs | saw by
his iron gray beard, and | saw upon
his goods that his name was Cross.
He was a tall man, and his build
showed that he was a a OF great
muscular power. He examined the
wolf skin for a moment, then threw it
from him, muttering a deep curse, the
meaning of which / did not under.
stand. ! privately asked my friend
what il meant.
Abr said he, ''he has a sad story
to tell"
My neighbor, who had only come as
a guide, went home in the afternoon,
and Us Mr.. Cross was somewhat ia.
tigued by the journey from the set
| Element, we did not leave the camp
that day. was very anxious 10 hear
Mr.. C.'s story, and after supper we sat
around the lire for some time, telling
about the moose and the various
things that had happened during our
few days stay at the head of Bog river,
which was the name Of the locality
where we were stopping. After my
friend and | had exhausted all our
tales, not forgetting that awful nights
watching at the camp door, we asked
MIR. Cross TO tell us something of his
hunting exploits.
II have but one story" he replied,
that will much interest you. but | do
not often tell it," and saw a tear
glistening in his eye.
told him we would be pleased TO
hear his story, but did not wish for
him to call anything 10 remembrance
that would cause him grief. He re
piled: The wound has been healed
these many years, though often now
il seems TO bleed afresh; but my story
now | will tell.
Il was born in the northern part Of
Vermont. My father was a farmer,
and as | was the only child, my ia
Their gave me the homestead. He died
quite young and the care of the farm
devolved OH me. My mother soon
became lame and unable to do the
work, aud | resolved to marry. Dear
Louisa, a farmers daughter who
lived but a few miles away, was the
one TO whom | gave my heart and
hand, and, indeed, she was worthy of
the love of any man. My mother soon
after died. and we laid her beside her
husband in the churchyard.
Two children were born TO us,
Tommy and Louisa. We watched
over them in their infancy, and loved
them dearly. Tommy was z, and
Louie, as we called her, was 5. School
was TO commence the next Monday,
and as they had never been 10 school,
we made arrangements 10 send them.
The schoolhouse was about one-half
a mile off, beyond a piece of woods.
| went with them the lirst and second
day, and met them at night, as they
were afraid TO go through the woods
alone; but the third day Tommy said,
Papa need not go with us any more,
we a go alone ] granted their
wish, and soon saw them disappear,
going toward the schoolhouse, swing
ing their little dirnerpails.
They had been gone but a few
minutes. ] had taken up my AK, and
was about commencing to cut some
wood. heard i:ttle Tommy scream T:
% dear, papa . dear, papa burst
upon my ears; and at the same mo
ment | heard little Lulie call mamma.
mammal! II is needless TO say that i
rushed to their rescue, tightly grasp
ing my AK. In minute | saw two
wolves tearing my dear Children 70
pieces. With an ~unearthly yell, ]
rushed upon them. One left my child
and sprung upon me; he lay dead the
next instant | sprang upon the other
that was tearing the flesh from the
cheek of my little girl; but he ran
swiftly away. Poor little Lulie was
dead; little Tommy raised his torn
and bloody hand, and family said:
o papa, | wish you come forel II
was his last words; in q few moments
he breathed his last | took my dear
ones in my arms, and carried them TO
my house. Ny wife was at the barn.
Hay them on the bed; my wife soon
came i'm. She looked upon her chill
dren, uttered a fearful wall Of sorrow,
and fell almost ~lifeless upon the tloorl
The shock was too much for her, and
indeed, more than many mothers
could have stood, and within one
month she died "A raving maniac. She
sleepsin Vermont beside herdear babes
she loved 50 we'll" When he had fin
ished his story there was not dry eye
in the camp, and for some time not a
word was spoken. But the evening
was far spent, and We soon retired TO
our beds To dream over the events of
the day. Thomas A. Crabtree in Lew
iston Journal.