There is a story written about Tracker and how he used to track mud into the house and enjoyed doing it and that that was the way he got his name.  Well his ma may have called him Tracker before he became a mountain man, but here is the true story.

After his ma tossed him on his head in the snow, old Tracker gathered his possibles, dusted the white stuff off his beard and headed into the wilds of the Raft River Range.

We was all there—Wapiti Dung, No Grimace, Cherry, Softball, Four Hooves–even had a few squaws and papooses stomping around.  It was our annual meat gathering hunt.  All are involved one way or another.

“Bout the time old “Ora” (that’s the name we node him by before this trip) got to the mountain meeting spot it was getting dark.  He had met up with a few savages on the way.  Almost didn’t make it.  Said they was all around us—we’d have to be careful at daybreak—keep our heads low and make our shots count.

As the night progressed we had a couple of jug passin’s, chewed on some of the last pieces of jerky in the camp, told tales of past hurrahs and what we had to do next day.  Someone mentioned it seemed odd old Ora didn’t have much of a hat.  Fact was it had a face much like that of a bear, but a bear with no hair and sort of pink—odd looking thing—anyway that’s another story.

Next day came after a chilly night on the mountain.  We woke to find a good 6 inches of new snow.  “Should make it real easy to see those savages huh Ora”?  said No Grimace.  “You bet, and good for seein’ and trackn’ these here mule deer too”, belched old Ora (had too much bubbly the night before, loses his manners you know).

It was a sight to see when day light allowed us to view the scene and all the savages scattered about.  We were surrounded, but they were friendly and allowed us to continue our hunt.  It seems they were hunting meat as well.

As the day progressed, I could see from a spot high on the hill, a nice muley buck run right past our camp.  My wife, Sherry, who was in camp grabbed her rifle and took pursuit.  She came back after about half an hour—no shot and no deer.

I worked my way down through the boulders and dangers of the Raft River Range Mountains back to camp.  “Where did the deer go”?  I asked to Sherry.  “Down in that draw there, it had been wounded by one of them savages—Ora is following it”.  She said.

I gathered up a stump and sat by the warm fire—I’d taken a chill back up on the ridge.  If I recollect right I had a “cold one” as well (had gotten myself a powerful dry working my way back).

Others in our party had come back dragging deer and braggin when we heard a shot down in the draw where Ora had gone.  We all listened for a whoop and a holler, but none came.  In about the length of time it takes to pour powder and ram a patched ball down the barrel, another shot rang out.  Still no whoop or holler.  Then another shot—“Boy, old Ora sure is makin’ meat down there ain’t he boys”?  I said.  Sherry spoke up and said, “Probably fillin’ all our tags, old Ora never misses”.

Bout the time darkness overtook us, here came Ora ridin’ in, a nice 3-point muley strapped on.  “How many more you got down in the draw Ora”? asked Softball.  “None”, he said and told us this story.

“Picked up on a blood trail down the draw about 300 yards.  Sherry had given up on it.  Figured it to be just a flesh would, wasn’t bleeding much.  Well, I took up the task, just no sense having wounded game runnin’ about.  That old buck jumped from rock to rock.  He knew if he left tracks in the snow he’d be found.  Before each jump he would lick the blood from his wound.  By doing that he wouldn’t leave much of a trail.  I followed the scruff marks on the rocks knowin’ it was him makin’ ‘em.  His only mistake was out of his control.  The birds in the trees would fly out when the noise of hooves against the rocks would scare them.  I noted his position and travel direction by the birds flying out and got ahead of him.  Yup, there he was right where I figured.  My old gun came up, sights settled on his neck and I pulled the old trigger.  “POP” went the cap, then “BOOM”—hang fire!  I said to myself—dummy–that’ll teach you to clean your gun after each day’s hunt.

I quickly loaded and watched as the muley made tracks.  He stopped about 100 yards out and down the trail.  I could see a clear opening in the trees and a good view of his shoulder.  Again the sights settled and I squoozze the trigger.  This time “BOOM”, and when the smoke cleared the buck was gone!  Did I miss?  Couldn’t have, I never miss.  I reloaded and approached cautiously the spot I last saw him.  By golly, I see right there laying on the ground next to his tracks my round ball, still as perfect as when I loaded it.  Guess the deer was barely out of range.  Maybe I spilled some of my powder, ain’t real sure.

Now I got excited, it was getting dark and I didn’t know for sure which way the buck went.  I found a tiny piece of bark in the snow next to a rock.  This rock had some moss smeared slightly on it.  I reckon the old buck got real smart, figured out the bird situation, so he clamped tree moss between the cloves of his hooves to soften the noise and headed out from rock to rock.  Pretty smart I figured, but my keen senses picked up on the small piece of tree bark.  His nice wide antlers hit the tree when the moss caused him to slip ever so slightly.  That old buck figured I never would find him now and in his relaxed state of mind only went 200 yards and stopped.  I carefully snuck up to within 10 yards and let the old 50 cal. Do its thing.  Plumbed him”!

“Wow!  What a story”!  Wapiti Dung said.  “After that trickery and your expert seein’ I think we ought to give you a new mountain man name.  How about ‘short shot’ or ‘lacks powder’”?  “Maybe ‘three shots’”! spoke up Softball.  “Nope”, said Four Hooves, “I think ‘Tracker’”.

And from that day forward wherever Mountain Men meet he has carried the name “Tracker”, no matter what his mom says!

Bears Butt

Jan-Feb 1988