Written by
E. L. Pyle,
Bigtrails, Wyo.
In the “Hole-in-the-wall” Country.
Several years ago we received a letter from one of mother’s brothers, O. E. Hoback, (then a blacksmith in a small western town) describing a hunting trip in the Big Horn Mountains in Wyoming. It has so interested every one who has read it that we think others should have the chance of enjoying it. He wrote:
“I will just spin you a little yarn about my last hunting trip. Mr. A. L. F—- (Fly), Mr. Henry W———, and Mr. John McK——— and myself left here on Sunday, October 14th. We had a team and light wagon to haul our light camp outfit and ‘grub’, and John and I had saddle horses.
“Just as we were starting out, one of my customers came in with his pet team to be shod. He would not let the man I left in charge of the shop shoe them; so I stayed and shod them myself, and then caught up with the rest of the party at the E. K. Britte fifteen miles from here. Before getting away, however, I was held up by several people here and especially instructed by every one of them to bring them a piece of venison or antelope meat, but I told all of them that if I brought in one deer and got the pictures I was after I would be satisfied. At last I made my escape and in due time overtook my chums.
“We had a pleasant but uneventful day’s travel, and camped that night in the Red Valley, thirty-five miles north of here. Before sunrise next morning (Monday) we were on our way again. We passed the old Hole in the Wall ranch at 10:45 a.m., and I took a snap at the outfit as they crossed the creek near the old cabin. We then turned to the left and began the long climb up the mountain to our proposed camp on the head waters of Poker Creek. Mr. F—- (Fly) was acting big chief of our party, and soon after we began the ascent of the hills he turned the team and wagon over to John and Henry. Mounting the other saddle horse, he asked me to bring the Kodak (a new one I had Mr. Kimbal send out) and accompany him; which of course I did.
“We hunted the country pretty thoroughly from there to the head of Poker Creek but had no luck. We reached our camp ground about three o’clock in the afternoon, and by four o’clock had every thing in good shape and the horses hobbled and turned out for the night. We then took our rifles and scattered out to try to kill something for camp meat. Al and John went down the creek and Henry and I took the other route.
“We found fresh deer sign and in the head of a big ravine about one and one half miles from camp I found the fresh track of four deer very close to us. Henry, who had never hunted the black tail beer before, could not understand how I could be so sure and rather insisted on taking a course of his own. So I just got up on a little point where I could watch the head of the basin where I was sure the deer would be found. Sure enough, I had hardly taken I saw them come trotting out from among the pines at a place about two hundred and fifty yards from me. I waited until they stopped to take a look at Henry, who was at least four hundred yards below them making a fine large racket as he forced his way threw the brush, and having no idea where the deer were. Then I picked out a plump little fellow that looked good to me and drawing a bead on his shoulders I fired, killing him in his tracts. Henry came tearing up the ravine and got two shots at the others as they went over the hill, but we found no blood on the tracts.
“We dressed the little fellow I had downed and Henry carried my gum while I packed the deer to camp. I was determined to bring in first meat, and I sure did.
To be continued… the best is yet to come!
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These stories are great and it’s even better that they are true.