On arriving at Chehalis John kindly invited me to stop over night with him, but I declined with thanks. I went into his house, however, to wait while he got ready to take me down to Barker's. It was the same type of home that nearly all these Indians have--a large clapboard building about eight feet high, with smoked salmon hung everywhere and a fire in the centre of the room, which, by the way, was more of a smoke than fire, curing the winter provender. A pile of wood lay in one corner of the room, some empty barrels in another, fish-nets were hung in still another, and the family lived, principally, in the fourth. John lives with his father-in-law, mother-in-law, two brothers-in-law, one sister-in-law, his wife and three papooses. Blankets, pots, tinware and grub of various kinds were piled up promiscuously in this living corner, and the little undressed kids hovered and shivered around the dull fire, suffering from the cold. We were soon in the canoe again, _en route_ to the steamboat landing, where we arrived soon after dark. I regretted to part with John, for I had found him a good, faithful servant and staunch friend. I was glad to get rid of Seymour, however, for I had learned that he was a contemptible sneak, and told him so in as many words.
_En route_ home I had about two hours to wait at Port Moody for the boat. There were great numbers of grebes and ducks in the bay, and I asked the dock foreman if there was any rule against shooting there. He said he guessed not; he had never seen anyone shooting there, but he guessed there wouldn't be any objection. I got out my rifle and two boxes of cartridges and opened on the birds. The ducks left at once, but the grebes sought safety in diving, and as soon as the fusillade began a number of gulls came hovering around, apparently to learn the cause of the racket. I had fine sport between the two, and a large audience to enjoy it with me. In ten minutes from the time I commenced shooting all the clerks in the dock office, all the freight hustlers in the warehouse, all the railroad section men, the ticket-agent and baggage-master, numbering at least twenty men in the aggregate, were clustered around me, and their comments on my rifle and shooting were extremely amusing. Not a man in the party had ever before seen a Winchester express, and the racket it made, the way in which the balls plowed up the water, and the way the birds, when hit, vanished into thin air and a few feathers, were mysteries far beyond their power to solve. At the first lull in the firing half a dozen of them rushed up and wanted to examine the rifle, the fancy finish and combination sights of which were as profoundly strange to them as to the benighted Indians. They soon handed it back to me, however, with the request to resume hostilities against the birds; they preferred to see the old thing work rather than to handle it. The gulls were soaring in close, and six shots, rapidly delivered, dropped three of them into the water, mutilated beyond recognition. This was the climax; the idea of killing birds on the wing, with a rifle, was something these men had never before heard of, and two or three examined my cartridges to see if they were not loaded with shot, instead of bullets. When they found this suspicion was groundless they were beside themselves with wonder and admiration of the strange arm. As a matter of fact, it required no particular skill to kill the gulls on the wing, for they were the large gray variety, and frequently came within twenty or thirty feet of me, so that anyone who could kill them with a shotgun could do so with a rifle.