Black Beaver, the Trapper

Part 1

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Transcriber's Note

The punctuation and spelling from the original text have been faithfully preserved. Only obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

BLACK BEAVER THE TRAPPER

The Only Book Ever Written by a Trapper

TWENTY-TWO YEARS WITH BLACK BEAVER

LEWIS AND CLARK A HUNDRED YEARS LATER

FROM THE AMAZON TO THE MACKENZIE RIVERS

COPYRIGHTED BY GEO. EDWARD LEWIS.

YEAR 1911.

THE AUTHOR'S EXCUSE.

I am both sorry and glad to inform my readers--that I can neither read nor write.

It would seem absurd for a blind man to study the stars, Or for a deaf man to study music; so it might seem to you absurd for a man who cannot write to write a book. But I have an excuse for writing these events. The President of Mexico; and the Governor of Alaska together with several hundreds between, equally as popular have urged me to write my history. I am sorry I cannot write this with my own fingers but I have a substitute in my old back-woods chum--The Kidd. Who by the way--neither writes very flourishing, because he like myself has done the most of his writing with his six-shooter; because you know this a more expressive way of talking and a more impressive way of writing. I have a brother who is a real educated gentleman, he tried to dissuade me from publishing my history because I think he is afraid he will be outshone by literary merit. I have no ambition to outshine him, nor William Shakespere nor any other erudite. I have a very limited vocabulary, and since swearing and smoking are not allowed in print, I shall have to loose the biggest half of that. I shall omit foreign language, I could assault you with Mex--or Siwash but I fear you could not survive the battery. So I shall confine myself to simple speech, such as I have used in all lands. From Gotch my bronco to Arctic my dog. It has served me since I was six summers old It served me amid the bells of Peru and then afar amid the Agate Eyed squaws of The Kuskokwim; and this ought to be a good excuse.--Yours truly

J.C. LEWIS.

INTRODUCTORY.

I have undertaken the arduous task of rewriting that which was never written. My charge was "fix it up but do not change it." These words were hurled at me one morning at four o'clock in the month of April, as my big brother boarded the Overland Limited bound for the Iditarod Alaska. He had in that far-away region five-hundred skins in cache which he had taken from the backs of the costiliest animals that ran in northland world. In various parts of Alaska Black Beaver had treasures which he was now intent upon gathering to fit up an outfit to be known as "The Arctic Alaskan Educational Exhibition" Perhaps no other man in this country can tell such amusing and beneficial stories about travels, fatigue and furs As the Author of this book. This was the creative force which suggested the organization of this party. Black Beaver has traveled as no other man ever traveled in Alaska, four times in as many years he crossed the entire country by dog-team in a diagonal way from Dawson to Point Barrow and from Gnome to The mouth of the Mackinzie river. Being able to speak several indian dialects, he was able converse with Siwash, Mucklock, Malimouth and other types getting the most valuable kind of information. You have never read a book written by a trapper. Usually some smooth gent makes up a romance and puts them in other mouths--but this is not true of this book. It is a true experience of the life and labors of the Author. Respectfully submitted Sept 1911.

GEO. EDWARD LEWIS.

BLACK BEAVER THE TRAPPER.

At the age of four years I began to pick up arms against small birds and animals. At the age of five I began to trap around my father's corn-shocks. When I reached my sixth year my father bought me a dog and he was my constant companion for many years. At the age of five years I began to make Bows and arrows, and cross guns, likewise sling shots. My first experience was with by bros, George and Lee in killing a woodchuck. And from this time my adventures began to multiply. All kinds of small animals fell before my accurate aim.

My adventursome father had crossed the great plains as early as 1846. He was thrilled to the core with the bold and desperate experiences of the wild western world. On his way he met and formed the acquaintance Of several of the noted trappers and explorers, as well as the acquaintance of the most daring and dangerous savages that ever rode the arena of the Great American Desert.

My chief joy from in fancy was to have my father tell me his dangerous travels and exploits in the early west. I was continually begging my older brother to read about Kit Carson Daniel Boone and other pioneers. At the age of seven years I took a notion that I wanted a gun. Bows and arrows, cross-bows sling-shots knives and hatchets were too tame for me. I sought an occasion when my father was away, to get from my mother the needed information, how to load and discharge a gun. One day when all were away I stole my fathers gun. It was a double barreled muzzle loader, one barrel shot and the other rifle. I had quite an experience--I saw a partridge just as I entered the woods budding in the top of an old birch tree. I leveled the gun up against an old ash tree and fired I had never before fired a gun, I held it rather loosely aginst my shoulder and the recoil lamed my arm and bloodeyed my pug noose. But this was soon forgotten when I saw I had plugged my meat. In haste I began to load to prepare for another bird--I seized The patch put mr ball on the patch took mr ramrod and rammed home the ball alas! just as I was pounding her home I remembered I had forgotten something quite necessary in loading a gun--it was the powder. I was in a terrorable fix then--I first thought I would hasten home put up the gun and let father get out of the fix the best he could. But after taking a second thought I concluded that I would not be a whit behind the Father of his country--but while I had stolen I could not tell a lie--so I repeated the reckless boy's adage--Scolding don't hurt you whipping don't last long killing they dare not"--After considering the whole predicament--I concluded that I rather have a flogging than deny my pluck and luck by killing my game. So I related to father my deed; he simply laughed and took the gun in the back yard pricked some fine powder in the tube--put on a cap and shot the ball out slick and easy. The winter of my sixth year I had planed on trapping small fur bearing game--but my parents had planned on me going to school. So they bought me some books and the first of October I was drilled off to school. I soon got into trouble at school and the third day traded off my books for an old gun. the next day I started for school as usual, but after I was over the hill I turned from the path of duty and education for the adventurous path of hunting and trapping. I would go to the place I had hidden my gun the night before and go into the woods and spend the day returning as school let out. I worked this for about three weeks without being discovered. I had an older brother who suspected me and finally he found me in the woods, took my gun from me and broke it around a tree--he did this because the gun was unsafe it was all tied up with wire and strings to bind the barrel to the stock--my first gun was a bloomer.

The following fall I killed my first coon. My brother Lee who is two years older than myself and I were shooting at a mark in the wood-shed one rainy fall day, and lo and behold to our surprise a coon came walking in on us--instantly we flew at the fellow, I, with an ax he with a club--the coon lasted about two seconds--the yells and disturbance brought my father and brother to the scene, I was declaring that I had killed it and my Brother Lee was making the same statements both of us were talking at the limit of lung power--when my brother who was older discovered that there was a ribbon around the coons neck and a gold ring attached showing us this he said "this is a pet coon." At once we reversed our arguments each declaring that we did not kill the coon.

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