Three Rivers
Hudson~Mohawk~Schoharie
History From America's Most Famous Valleys

The Life and Adventures
of Nat Foster,
Trapper and Hunter of the Adirondacks
by A. L. Byron-Curtiss
Utica, N. Y.
Press of Thomas J. Griffiths,
131 Genesee Street, 1897

Chapter XI

Many of Foster's exploits, like a few recorded in the preceding chapter, occurred in the vicinity of his own home, while others occurred farther away, in the very heart of the Adirondacks. As deer and moose grew scarce near his home, he and his brothers would penetrate into other districts in the fall in quest of this game for their winter's supply of meat.

The following incident occurred while he and his brother Shubael were on a deer hunt in St. Lawrence county, and will serve to show the numberless perils to which he exposed himself in those days. The two hunters were making their way stealthily along the dense forests "sill hunting," when they came suddenly upon two noble bucks engaged in combat, probably trying titles to the territory.

To end this dispute and give his brother a chance to shoot some noble game, Foster told Shubael to "shoot the nigh deer." The lad obeyed; he fired and the nigh deer dropped.

"That's good; now shoot the other one," exclaimed his brother as he whipped out his knife and rushed forward to stick the fallen deer.

The other buck had bounded off as Shubael fired, but now stopped to witness, with the terrified Shubael, who forgot all about shooting again, a more novel engagement than the recent one. The fallen buck was not killed, but only stunned by the ball from Shubael's rifle striking it in the neck, near the spinal cord. As Foster ran up to cut its throat, the animal sprang to its feet and began to strike furiously at the hardy hunter with its powerful antlers. Quick as a flash, Foster placed the knife between his teeth and grasped the weapons of his foe. Then began a struggle for the mastery, more furious than the two bucks' engagement; one which for a time paralyzed, Shubael, charmed the uninjured buck, who remained a few rods away gazing upon the scene, and caused the squirrels and chipmunks to scurry to their holes in alarm at the unusual confusion. Foster maintained his grip upon the antlers of the deer while the animal thrashed him about among the trees and bushes in an alarming manner. The struggle was long and fierce. Foster not daring to let go his hold, nor even willing to give up until he had gained the mastery. Finally, as good luck would have it, he got the head of the deer wedged between two trees, against one of which a horn was broken, and the worried animal thrown down, when he quickly cut its throat with the knife he had kept firmly clutched between his teeth.

As the confusion ceased and quiet reigned again, the other buck made known the fact that he had been a silent spectator by leaping through the underbrush.

At this Foster, who had risen and was wiping the blood and dirt from his face, exclaimed to his brother, disgustedly, "I thought you'd shoot the other one! Geme the gun," and, snatching it from his brother's hand, he raised it, sighted a patch of the fleeing deer among the leaves of the forest, fired and brought it down.

The tussle between Foster and the wounded deer, I am told, lasted over ten minutes. The ground was trampled and the grass and bushes beaten down for rods around, and this tattered garments must have reminded him of certain engagements of his youth.

One time he had an amusing experience with a trapped bear and a very confident neighbor near his own home at Salisbury. A bear had been intruding upon some of his neighbors' farms and raising havoc in their corn fields. For some time it left Foster's farm and crops alone, which made the neighbors believe that the bear knew Foster's character as a hunter, and so avoided his property. Finally bruin invaded Foster's orchard and feasted upon half ripe sweet apples he obtained by climbing the trees and clambering about among the branches, doing considerable damage by breaking the limbs. Foster watched his orchard late into the night, for several evening, but the bear would not make his visits until he had given up the watch and gone to bed. Resolved upon other tactics, Foster set his his huge bear trap at the entrance of the orchard but a short distance from his barn. Now the neighbors, one and all, waited anxiously to see if "Uncle Nat" would succeed in ridding them of this troublesome intruder upon the town.

For several nights the bear avoided the trap, but continued his depredations in the orchard. At last, one morning Mrs. Foster who had gone to the farm yard to milk the cows, discovered bruin in the trap, and at once hastened to tell her husband, who was chopping wood at the house, He hurried in the house to procure his rifle. Just at this moment a neighbor arrived who was noted in the community for his brag and bluster. This man had repeatedly told how he would deal with the bear if only he had the opportunity. He was there now to inquire if the bear had been caught.

Upon being informed that the animal was at that very moment in the trap down by the orchard, he manifested the greatest glee, and at once asked Foster for the privilege of shooting once asked Foster for the privilege of shooting him. Now Foster had little faith in his neighbor's ability to execute any kind of a beast under any circumstances because of his timidity, which the poor man always tried to conceal by boasting; but being always ready to please and accommodate a friend, he assented; but he took the precaution, after loading the rifle and giving it to his visitor, to sling over his shoulder his powder horn and place a couple of bullets between his fingers.

As they made their way to the orchard, the man was constantly telling him how he was going to give the bear a sure death by his unerring shot. They went around the barn and came in sight of the bear, who was meditatively eyeing the paw that was embraced by the earnest jaws of the trap. A glance told Foster that the animal was not very securely caught, only the tip of his paw and the claws being fast. But he said nothing, resolving to have some fun with his boasting companion. The bravado of his neighbor seemed to cool somewhat as they came in sight of the black monster, and he wanted to stop and take his "deadly" shot as soon as they had turned the corner of the barn. But Foster would not consent to this insisting that they go much closer before he took his shot.

When they had come to a "close" distance, so close that it made the neighbor blanch with fear, Foster stopped and told his confident friend to shoot. He was a timid man, as we have said, and one thing he was really afraid of was a gun. He paused now to ask Foster if his rifle "kicked." Foster told him it might a little, but to go ahead and finish the bear. So he put the gun to his shoulder, took careful aim, then turned his head, shut both eyes, and jerked the trigger. Of course he pulled the sight off from the bear, and the bullet buried itself in the trunk of an inoffensive apple tree.

The shot had an effect on the bear for all that, for at the report of the rifle he gave a lunge and jerk which set him quite free, leaving his claws in the trap. As the smoke cleared away, the now thoroughly excited neighbor beheld the bear sitting beside the trap, sucking his injured paw.

This was enough to entirely unman him, and when the bear dropped upon all fours and made towards them, his fright was complete, and he frantically appealed to Foster, exclaiming, "Oh, Uncle Nat! Uncle Nat! What shall we do, what shall we do?"

Foster was too much amused to answer in words, but instead, he took the rifle from his demoralized friend, poured in a charge of powder, dropped in a ball and shot the bear in the heart.

The traps used to catch bears were ponderous things. Foster and Stoner each had one made especially for their use by village smiths. They weighed in the neighborhood of fifty pounds. It is needless to say that they were never "toted" very far into the wilderness, though Foster sometimes took his to Fulton Chain, after the road to Moose river was opened. The trap is now in possession of one of his grandsons, as is also the powder horn and bullet pouch he carried in his tramps and hunts. The jaws of the trap are over two feet in length and five inches in width, and are armed underneath with ugly spikes, which penetrating the bear's foot, making escape impossible when once securely caught. The huge strap springs on each side which closed the jaws of the trap were reinforced by a second set of spring inside of the main ones.

To set this machine was no small task, nor was it by any means free from danger. It was almost impossible for one man alone to set it. The only way the double spring could be forced down was by placing the trap near the root of a tree, a log or rock, or some other object where a leverage could be obtained; then a stout and heavy stake or pole was placed across the spring with the butt of the lever under the log or stone, and one man by throwing his entire weight on the extreme end of the pole could force down the spring. He would then have to remain controlling the end of his lever while his companion went through the same performance with the other set of springs. At this juncture there should be a third man to set the pan. But when a third man was not at hand, they would succeed in adjusting it by one of them reaching and setting the catch. This was a risky thing to do, and the precaution was always taken by the man doing it or placing a billet of wood between the jaws before attempting to adjust the pan, lest the levers getting loose, he would find the horrible spikes piercing his own limbs. A chain some six feet in length, provided with two grappling hooks at the end completed the equipment of this ponderous apparatus.

The wolf traps used by the hunters were on the same plan as this bear trap, but weighing only five or six pounds, and having only single springs on each side. The traps used in catching otter were also provided with two springs, only the whole trap was much lighter. For trapping mink, fisher and muskrat, traps with a single spring on one side was used.

Upon one occasion when he and his brother Shubael were following a line of wolf traps near Salisbury, they came to one in which a half grown wolf was caught by one of its hind legs. At the approach of the hunters it crawled under a brush pile, snarling and growing at a great rate. For the fun of the thing, Foster resolved to take the snarler home alive. So he cut a corked stick and fixed a kind of halter about its muzzle and then released it from the trap and started with the captive for home.

They young wolf would go very quietly a little way, and then stop and spring at its captor. But it was easily controlled by the formed stick fastened to its nose. After getting it home he muzzled it and fastened it to a drag and allowed it partial liberty. It would roam about the place and into the house, much of the time keeping itself concealed under a bed. As it showed no sign of becoming domesticated it was finally slain, and the bounty obtained for its scalp.

Foster seemed to have a particular liking for strange pets. As we remember, while a lad he brought home bear cubs and panther kittens, and once captured a full grown eagle. Later in life he continued the practice of endeavoring to make pets of the wild animals of the forests. He at one time had a full grown moose in his barn at Salisbury, which I have mentioned; this he captured on winter when the snow was deep and crusted. This moose became quite tame. The children of the neighborhood obtained great pleasure by going to Uncle Nat's, as they called him, and seeing his moose, petting it, and giving it handfuls of grain and other delicacies.

Foster's fondness for children was great. Under his rough exterior, as a hunter and trapper of animal of the wood and a slayer of Indians, he carried a most tender and warm heart, particularly for all children. He always had a kind word for them, with a lively regard for their childish delights. An incident has been related to me of a visit paid him by two sons of his brother Elisha, illustrative of this kind trait of his.

The boys were aged eight and ten, and had come to spend the day on Uncle Nat's farm. They found him busily engaged in chopping wood. But as soon as he saw the boys approaching him he ceased work and greeted them with a cheery "Hello, boys, glad to see you; come to spend the day with Uncle Nat? Will now, you must have a good time." And with that he stuck his ax in the block and went around the farm with them, showing them the things that would interest them, all the while asking them questions of their own life; about their going to school; what chores they had to do at home, and similar questions. He took them to the pig sty to show them a hog he was fattening, which was already so fat it could hardly get up; took them to the barn to see the moose, and showed them his fish pond, promising to let them catch some trout from it after a while. Finally he asked the boys if they could shoot, but neither had ever fired off a gun, their father having long before abandoned the vocation of a hunter. So he told them he would show them how, and their eyes fairly glistened with pleasure at the prospect of Uncle Nat's teaching them to shoot.

Taking his young nephews to the house, he took down his rifle and explained it to them. They listened with awed attention, for Uncle Nat's reputation as a wonderful marksman and successful hunter was familiar to them. After explaining all the parts of the rifle to the boys, and the manner of loading and firing, he took them out to the wood pile to practice shooting, the delighted boys leaping and running before him. Arriving at the wood pile, Foster set up a target a reasonable distance away by fastening a piece of paper about the size of a silver dollar to a block of wood. The then loaded the rifle and gave the hone of the first shot to the oldest lad, Aaron by name.

"Now, then," said he, by way of instruction, "raise the sight until you've got it on the paper, and then pull easy."

The rifle was heavy for Aaron, but he managed to level the barrel and fire, but he did not even his the stump. His uncle did not discourage him, however, but told the lad that he had done "perty well," but that he could probably do a "little better," and told the boys to watch the paper while he fired.

In a few seconds he had loaded, and the boys had hardly had time to fasten their eyes on the paper before their uncle put a ball exactly through its center. This quite astonished and delighted them, and they capered about with glee, shouting, "Do it again, Uncle Nat." But he insisted that they all must take turns in shooting, and so the younger lad took a shot; and before they got through he had them so they could hit a larger piece of paper by firing from a rest. In some such manner as this he entertained and amused the boys the whole day.

These side lights upon this phase of Foster's life show his true character. It was one of kindness and true integrity, and tends to enlighten the hardy and rough side of his life as a hunter and the grewsomeness of its bloody conflicts with his dark skinned fellow creatures.

Foster's exploits with Indians were always shrouded in a mystery. When a boy nothing was thought of shooting an Indian, but when he moved to new York and came to live in Herkimer county, the laws had become more strict and an Indian's life regarded of some value, so that when a person wantonly slew one, he was likely to be arrested and tried for it.

I believe that in spite of the fact that Foster had had instilled into his mind a hatred of the red man by his father, he never deliberately and in cold blood killed one. Yet when crossed by one, or threatened by any of them, he would shoot without hesitancy, and as coolly as his father had done in his day, and as he had taught his son to do. Whenever Uncle Nat spoke of these experience, however, he shrewdly made use of such guarded language, that no legal advantage could be taken of it. Thus we see that in recounting his adventure with the Indians near Piesco Lake, from whom he rescued Little Mary French, he did not say that he killed any of of them. He simply said that he shot at the first Indian that was coming up the ravine where the girl, his dog and himself were concealed, and that the savage dropped his gun; that he fired again and the rear Indian turned and ran towards Piesco Lake, and then he fired that way. That was all. "The Indians," he declared, "may have all got back to Canada", but they did not molest him any more.

In this way he told all his stories about killing Indians. They are all very brief and to the point. Here is one. He was telling some of his friends of the lucky shots he had made, and declared that the best shot he ever made brought him eighteen beaver pelts, a dozen otter skins, and twenty muskrat hides, together with several skins of mink. All of these he secured with the single discharge of his gun. This wonderful statement staggered the faith of even his best friends,who had the greatest confidence in his ability to shoot fast and quick and do destructive work with his rifle. One of them in the group to whom he was telling the yarn ventured to express a doubt about its truthfulness. Foster's simple reply to his skeptical friend was, "Wal, yes, it was a wonderful shot, but not so hard either. I just had to take the filling out of a blanket to do it; that's all." No doubt of it. I haven't the slightest idea that the poor red skin who owned the pelts ever rolled himself in his blanket again.

One of his favorite expressions and mode of explanation whenever asked about any particular Indian he was suspected of making away with was, "Wal, the last I saw of 'em his blanket was smoking." Here is another one of his characteristic stories. "I was walking in the woods when I saw an Injun lay down to drink out of a brook; something was the matter with him, for he dropped his face into the water and drowned. I thought I might as well take his gun, blanket and stuff as to leave them there to spoil."

Another time he said that in one of his hunting excursions he fell in with an Indian who carried on his back thirteen otter skins; that he had no intention of harming the Indian, in fact did not know that he had killed him, but he never let the otter skins escape him alive. He fired, they all fell, and he picked them up and came away.

In the same guarded way he told of making away with the Indian Hess. As Simms in his book gives a very good account of this incident in the life of our hero, we will transcribe it from his work verbatim.

"Before the American Revolution there dwelt about two miles from the present village (now a city) of Little Falls, an Indian named Hess, who took an active part in that conflict as a hireling of Britain, and who undoubtedly was one of the most cruel and bloodthirsty of his race. Some ten or twelve years after the war, this Indian returned to his former hunting grounds to prosecute his favorite avocation.

"A country inn at this period was, for the spread of knowledge to be smoked in and watered in, a kind of 'circulating medius;' a place where in the absence of our thousands of newspapers the people of the surrounding country met to learn news from (?? can't read word-- quid nuncs?). And as Little Falls * * * was then a place of some notoriety on account of her new inland locks and old moss clad rocks, the bar room of the village tavern became the place where all the classic events of olden time, and all the improvements of the modern days were freely discussed.

"On a certain occasion Foster met the Indian Hess in the bar room of the Little Falls tavern, and observing that his dress a-la-mode was that of a hunter, he attempted to engage him in conversation, but he feigned ignorance of the English language until his white competitor in beaver skins oiled his tongue at the bar, when lo! the seal on his lips was broken and he spoke English tolerably well. The two hunters soon after left the village and traveled some distance together, when the conversation turned upon Revolutionary days. Boasting of his individual exploits on the frontiers of New York, the Indian exhibited a tobacco pouch of delicate leather. 'This,' said the crafty warrior, 'me got in war. Me kill white woman, rip open belly, find papoose, skin him some, and make pouch.' Hess also opened the box in the breech of his rifle and exhibited some evidence he there carried of the number of scalps he had taken in the war. 'The tally,' said Foster afterwards, 'ran up to the almost incredible number of forty-five,' and he added, 'I had almost a notion to shoot him on the spot.'

"Just before parting the Indian inquired of his companion his name, and on hearing it he exclaimed, 'Ha. Nat Foster, you bad man, you kill Indians.'

"On the Indian making recognition of him, Foster thought he detected in his look and manner a 'lurking devil' that seemed to say, 'if ever you fall into my power you will feel it;' and hearing him call him and 'Indian killer' he believed the old Indian, if opportunity presented, would not scruple to take his life also. The boast of murdered innocence has drawn a frown across the sunburnt brow and stern features of the white hunter, that seemed to send back a defiance to the red man's look of meditated death. But they parted, and if not as friends, certainly not as avowed enemies. But each, no doubt, felt apprehensive that a second interview might not terminate so fortunately for both of them; and certain it is, that one of them at least resolved not to be over reached by the other.

"Not long after the above incident transpired, Foster was threading the forest alone in the northern part of Herkimer county, in the pursuit of game. In a secluded spot, far away from any regular trail, he came unexpectedly upon and shot a moose cow. While securing the noble game, its mate, a most ferocious bull, being attracted to the spot by the bellowing of the dam, attacked him with great fury. In a dodging fight the hunter was obliged to make some two or three shots in rapid succession. Foster reloaded his rifle before he ventured to approach even a fallen animal that had been so tenacious of life. He seldom changed his position in the woods without a charge in his gun. While advancing to the fallen bull he was startled to hear footsteps within a short distance, and was possibly not less surprised to find in the person of his new visitant the muscular form of the Indian Hess.

"Hess, supposing, as is presumed, that Foster's rifle was unloaded, now experienced no difficulty in 'murdering the king's English,' and at the end of a mighty whoop that told credibly for his lungs and the absence of balsams, shouted, 'Now Foster, me got you, me kill you now.' Between Hess and his intended victim there was a little march over which a tree had fallen. Mounting the log to approach the white hunter, he advanced with uplifted tomahawk and death boding mien, when the report of a rifle again echoed amid the fir tops of the forest, a bullet plowed its way through the Indian's heart, and with a guttural groan, the dark warrior fell dead upon the marsh. Lest Hess might not be unaccompanied in the forest, the eagle eyed marksman hastily reloaded his rifle, and then quickly stamped the corpse of his victim deep into the soft mud of the marsh. Dark mystery hung over the fate of this lone hunter for years. Many remembered that his disappearance was sudden and unexpected; and others remembered that they had heard Foster say shortly after meeting him at Little Falls, that he had seen him once and only once after that.

"He confidently communicated many years after to Jacob S. Christman, with whom he was hunting, the fate of this unfortunate savage for whom--
"No solemn Bell's metallic tongue,
E'er toll'd its death not on the breeze;
Zephyrs alone his requiem rung,
where ivy green her mantle hung
'Mid plumed and bowing trees. "

Thus does Simms beautifully close his description of the grewsome event, throwing the mantle of sentiment about the poor Indian's death. Would that we were all as kindly disposed and as gentle in our expressions.

Foster was not given up to any extent to the influence of sentiment. To him the shooting of an Indian under such circumstances was a grim necessity; there was no poetry about it for him. Nor did any scruple probably enter his mind at the taking of Indians' lives. And how could we expect it would? With his birth and his early years spent in a locality where the red man was regarded as a deadly foe, and whose introduction into New York State, and to the Adirondack wilderness was accomplished with stern conflicts with still barbarous members of the race.

In the same way he regarded the trapping of game and shooting of deer. It was a matter of business with him; God had made the forests and put the wild animals there for his and others' use, and so he plied his trade as industriously as possible, even unto his old age, shooting his deer, bears, and panthers, and trapping the smaller quadrupeds with zeal, thinning out the Indians whenever necessary; and though he sometimes displayed what would appear to many as an unjustifiable desire to slaughter game, yet it was because he regarded the business from a commercial standpoint.

Simms gives in his book, some accounts of a W. S. Benchley's association with Foster in a few of his hunts. This man and the famous hunter were once fishing from a boat on one of the Fulton chain of lakes, when Foster discovered an old doe and two fawns feeding on the shore, about a quarter of a mile distant. The fawns were about as big as lambs at two month old. Foster was on fire in an instant. If he could kill the doe, he said, he could easily secure the fawns,and their runnets would bring him fifty cents each. Benchly remonstrated with him for wanting to kill the little fellows for so small a gain, and proposed to pay him the dollar and let them go. But no; that would not be earning it, and nothing would satisfy him short of a shot. His companion then refused to row him within shot; one look, however, from Foster satisfied him that he might as well comply. In doing so he however managed to make some noise in the water to frighten the doe and her fawns away, but not without strong expressions of opinion from foster that he did it intentionally.

The same person says that one time upon entering the Seventh lake with foster, the eagle eye of the latter discovered a buck feeding upon a grassy beach nearly half a mile away.

Said Foster, "Benchley, put me ashore and I will give you some venison for dinner."

Benchley did so, and then rowed out into the lake far enough to see the deer. After watching some time he saw Foster step stealthily from the bushes upon the beach; at the same instant the buck raised his head in alarm and the watcher immediately saw the puff of smoke from Foster's rifle, and the deer fell. At the hunter's call Benchley rowed to him, he not knowing Benchly had seen him shoot or the deer fall.

"Well, Uncle Nat, said Benchley, "have you killed him?" the old hunter straightened up like a soldier, with his eyes flashing; grasping his rifle in his right hand and holding it aloft, he exclaimed, "Benchley, he never told a lie, when he speaks he tells the truth." His companion stepped ashore, and going to the carcass of the dead buck found he had put the ball precisely in the center of its forehead. "And considering," says Benchley, "that Foster was fully twenty-five rods from the animal and that he fired the instant it raised its head, it was an unusually good shot, even for him.' They dressed the carcass and as Foster had promised, they had venison for their dinner.

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