Evening Republican, Volume 20, Number 63, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 14 March 1916 — PROVED HIS METAL [ARTICLE]

PROVED HIS METAL

"mule ~'nymvEir~7roNsiDEßAßLYHE r I ER THAN HE LOOKED? Stampeded by Bear, He Guided Team With Remarkable Skill Until Unavoidable Accident Finished Run, but He Killed Bruin. George Haskins was long-legged, red-headed, long-armed, thin. freckled and mild. He had the voice of a bass TlddlA and The manners of a bashful boy of thirteen. He stood three inches above six feet, and weighed 137 pounds. Under an immense Mexican hat his face looked like a turkey’s egg in a clothes basket. His thin waist was encircled with a belt four inches wide, embellished with brass studs. His arms stuck far out of his sleeves, and his trousers didnot reach his shoe tops. But there was something appealing about him, and his eves were very steady and dependable. the trail between the mining camp and the railway station, 12 miles away and 4,000 feet lower. He drove well, his mules were perfectly kept, and he soon won their confidence. He had an unexpected sense of humor, too, and was popular about the camp in spite of his unpromising looks. One day George asked the boss to lend him his revolver. He had seen several snakes and a bear, and had no weapon. The boss let him have it, and within two—weeks—George—badthree rattlesnakes’ skins and a three prong buck head on the stable wall. About three weeks after he began carrying the gun a man rode into camp and asked whether we knew that a freight wagon-had gone off lhe grade three miles down the trail. He said the truck turned squarely out to the left and went down a slide that he was sure no team could keep its feet on, and .had gone out of sight among the pines below. , . Seven of us started off at once. “No man on earth can ride a wagon down there and keep on it,” said Pete Simpson, as he looked at the steep incline down which the wagon tracks plunged; “but that long-legged galoot has done it, and I can ride a mule where he can ride a wagon, so here goes!” He plunged off, and the rest followed. The chaparral brush was several feet high; it whipped the riders’ faces, tore their sleeves and trousers. and tangled the animals’ feet until they stumbled again and again. At the foot of the pitch the men found that the wagon had made a quick turn to the left to avoid a bowlder, then another to the right to dodge a tree, and had entered the pines on the dead run. How any driver could have kept his head after that pitch over a 45-degree patch of rough chaparral and be in shape to guide four frantic mules was beyond understanding. Only a little farther they found George and the mules. Their harnesses were broken and hanging in strips, but not a mule was badly hurt. The wagon lay on its side against a big pine, and its contents were scattered all over the ground. George was sitting up against a log with his right arm and leg broken, but his voice was cheerful as he said, “Hello!” When the boys had roughly set the broken limbs, George told them what had happened. He had met a big bear in the trail, and the brute charged the leaders out of pure meanness. The mules whirled, short and jumped over the bank, and the wheelers followed. George pulled the revolver and took a snap shot as he went past the bear, and then dropped the gun to put his strength on the lines. He had kept the mules straight until the last turn in the pines, and then the mules headed for a space too narrow for the wagon. He tried to turn them, and the wagon went over and threw him against a tree.'■ . Pete Simpson vowed that he would follow the bear for the next six months if necessary to get him, and after they got George back to camp Petebegan to prepare for a bear hunt that very night. He telegraphed to his brother, 40 miles away, to come and bring his pair of hounds. The brother came in with the night freight, and by daylight the hounds were sniffing the tracks of the bear. For two miles up and over the worst peaks and ridges they led the hunters. ' Then the dogs began to bay down in a dark, heavily wooded canyon at the right. .The men scrambled down into the canyon and crawled over rocks and logs to where they could ,aeethe dogs. They were baying j dead bear. That hurried shot as the wagon tore after the mules down that precipitous slide had gone home, and the bear had gone into the canyon to bleed to death internally. He was old and very large.—Youth’s Companion.