G A Z I N E - Desert Magazine of the Southwest

Here's a Death valley story
almost fantastic enough to have
come from the lips of that lovable
old liar, Hard Rock Shorty.
But Shorty did not invent this
yarn. It is a true experience from
the notebook of Laurence M.
Huey, curator of birds and mammals
at the Museum of Natural
History in San Diego.
By LAURENCE M. HUEY
7 / EARS ago, I spent the greater part
(J of one spring collecting natural
y history specimens in Death valley,
California. This was before good roads
and hotels had opened this region to
tourists.
It was a desolate and lonely area. The
salt impregnated floor of the valley lies
far below sea level and is absolutely sterile.
The only place occupied by humans
at that time was a farm then known as
Furnace Creek ranch. It was owned and
occupied by the Pacific Coast Borax company
and was used to raise beef and vegetables
for miners who worked in the
borax mines in the eastern hills near Ryan.
An open ditch brought water from several
large springs in the hills above the
ranch to irrigate the fields. Along this
water course several Indian families, of
Shoshone origin I believe, were camped
for the winter. They pitched ragged tents
and supplemented these with brush wickiups.
In one of these Indian families was an
8-year-old boy whom the whites had
given the name of Willie. I first met
Willie when he came with his father to
watch me prepare bird specimens. They
both sat on their heels just within the
shadow of the awning under which I was
working.
I tried to converse with them, but only
the father would talk and his answers to
my questions were short. He volunteered
no information. I was impressed with
the alertness of the little fellow. His
bright eyes took in everything. Occasionally
he would point to the specimens and
speak to his father in a hoarse whisper,
all the time watching me to see if I understood
what he was saying. The only
word he said directly to me that afternoon
was "thanks" for a large piece of
sugar candy.
A few days later I saw Willie leave his
camp with a bow and some arrows. He
was heading for the mesquites which grew
in the drainage area below the fields.
An hour or two later he returned with
three or four birds each skewered by a
wooden pointed arrow. I called to him
so I could examine his kill and was surprised
to find that he had shot an Eastern
Flicker, a record bird for Death valley. I
offered him a dime for the specimen. He
accepted without a word of response, but
his eyes showed plainly that the bargain
was a good one from his viewpoint.
During the time I remained in the vicinity
of Furnace Creek ranch I bought
several good specimens from Willie, all
of them killed with his bow and arrows.
His hunting skill, however, was not
limited to the bow and arrow. He had a
decrepit single shot .22 rifle. It really
was an antique. I never understood how
Willie posed for this picture after
much coaxing and the proffer of two
large pieces of sugar candy.
he made the thing work, but Willie knew
how.
Early one morning he passed my camp
with the old weapon in his hand.
"Going hunting?" I asked.
He replied with a nod of his head.
"Let's see your gun."
He handed me the rattle-trap rifle, and
I took it gingerly.
22 The DESERT MAGAZINE