AN EPISODE IN PHOTOGRAPHY.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XV, Issue XXI, 23 November 1895, Page 634

AN EPISODE IN PHOTOGRAPHY.

The camera is now recognized as such almost everywhere, but mine once caused me some uneasy moments in a locality where I had not expected it to be known as an appliance for picture taking. It was in the little village of Chosky in the Indian Territory, a place that is neither quiet nor peaceful, as evidenced by the fact that during my stay of ten days in its neighbourhood three citizens were shot in its streets. I had ridden in from camp with my camera slung over my shoulder, and in violation of the law of the to-vn, had a revolver on my hip and a rifle in mv hand as I walked to the end of one street to get a view of the village. The frequent shooting scrapes at that time had demanded a remedy, even in that country of lawlessness, and the strict observance of a statute prohibiting the carrving of deadly weapons was the result. I knew of the law and its enforcement, and knew that although a tenderfoot stranger there was risk of arrest at the muzzle of a Winchester. Such a state of affairs tended to cause me some anxiety, but I took several pictures and with the mail in my pocket started back to my horse. All at once I caught the sound of hoof-beats rapidly approaching from behind me. Horses do not run at large in Chosky, and this, coupled with the fact that the sound showed the horse to be coming at a hard, steady run in the well beaten part of the road, made it reasonably certain that he had a rider upon his back. A moment’s reflection assured me of the further fact that men in the Indian nation do not ride at full speed unless there is reason for it, and the reason in this case seemed to be that he was coming after me. It struck me that I was in an awkward position. My companions were in camp ten miles away. The nearest railroad or telegraph was distant a day’s ride. A glance to the rear might be taken as a hostile demonstration in a country where they shoot first and investigate afterward. The safest course seemed to be to plod toward my horse without showing any interest in what was happening behind me. The hoof-beats sounded clearer and louder ; the horse was coming on at racing pace. I wildly wondered whether he would speak first or shoot. He was now so near that the creaking of saddle leather could be heard as the animal gathered itself for each stride. The next leap would take him past me or onto me. Then suddenly there was a sliding sound and a rattling of pebbles and bits of sun-dried earth as the horse threw itself back on its haunches, stopping short with stiffened fore-legs as cow-ponies do, and the pleasant voice of cowboy Tony Dawson—who had ridden a hard mile for a word with the stranger, and who never knew the state of mind in which he found him—said as he glanced at my camera. ‘ Well, you’r out sketchin’ this mornin’—what’s the matter with takin’ me ?’