Inter-Ocean Hunting Tales

ROUNDING UP CATS IN COLORADO

The mountain lion of the West is the panther or cougar of our Eastern States, sometimes called “painter” by the old-fashioned backwoodsman; in some localities it goes by the name of “Indian devil,” no doubt on account of the weird, unearthly noises it makes at night. In Mexico it is known as the “puma,” and grows to a larger size than elsewhere. In appearance the mountain lion is very similar to the African lioness, having a smooth, tawny skin, without any mane; a full-grown animal that will measure from seven to eight feet from its nose to the end of the tail and weighs about 180 pounds, is considered a large specimen. They seldom exceed this, and more frequently fall below it.

Although often engaged in hunting big game, I never saw a mountain lion at large except when one has been rounded up by a pack of dogs. In their habits they are stealthy and secretive, carefully keeping concealed, and never willing to fight unless cornered, with no chance of escape. Occasionally, when the odds are overwhelmingly in its favor, a lion will provoke a battle, but this is not often the case.

In disposition and character the mountain lion belies its name; of all carnivorous beasts it is, perhaps, the most cowardly. Being exceedingly destructive, it not only kills for food, but it also kills out of wantonness. I have run across numbers of deer that have been destroyed by the same animal within short distances of each other, the carcasses being allowed to remain almost entire. It has also been stated on good authority that one lion will be likely to kill in the course of a year about one hundred and fifty deer.

Considering its destructive disposition, I have no doubt that in a country where the deer are at all numerous, this statement is not far from the truth. The ranchman has a cordial hatred for this destroyer of his stock, and the cunning displayed by the lion in evading traps and turning away from poisoned meat makes him all the more unpopular. This animal will not eat of any kill unless it is his own or that of some other lion. Extremity of hunger may cause him to act differently, but it is exceptional. Most success in hunting this game is to be found in localities where the deer are plentiful. It is practically useless to attempt any hunting of this kind unless you have a pack of well trained dogs handled by some one who has complete control over them. Great care and patience has to be exercised in breaking a pack of dogs for this purpose, and to prevent them from running other game. If, for example, a pack should take after a timber wolf, that animal is so fleet that he would distance most of his pursuers and string them out considerably. The wolf has been known to turn on the pack thus separated and kill a number of the dogs, one after the other, before the pack could be united. The disappointed huntsman, reaching the end of the run on his jaded horse, might survey the remnants of his pack—first the survivors with downcast heads and apologetic tails between their legs—and then some dog fur scattered over the blood-bespattered ground, and here and there a mangled corpse. It is no joke to have a pack run for miles after the wrong game over rough country, your whole day’s sport broken up, and perhaps lose your dogs for several days.

The mountain lion has not much endurance in the chase, although very fast for a short distance, which he covers by a series of leaps. In a short time he is treed or driven to the ledge of a precipice or into some hiding place. If you are fond of hunting with a camera, you generally have ample time to take a photograph of your prize, perhaps posing in the branches of a tree and looking as pleasant as possible—for a mountain lion!

The lively serenade furnished by the dogs, which the lion recognizes by continual growls, displaying his whole set of ivories, completes a scene not soon forgotten. Your share of the business is very tame, although absolutely effective. A shot at close range behind the shoulder, and the lion tumbles among the savage dogs to engage in a losing fight; while in the agony of death, not infrequently he leaves some little reminders of his long claws and strong teeth upon his assailants.

In the month of January, 1900, I engaged the services of John B. Goff, who possessed a good pack of dogs to hunt “lions” and “cats” in Colorado. The “cats” referred to are bobcats, not the Canada lynx with which they are sometimes confounded. The winter was unusually free from snowfalls, and the ground being very dry, it made hunting difficult, because the dogs could hardly follow the scent.

My first destination was a ranch on Strawberry Creek belonging to the guide, about twelve miles from Meeker. Here for several days we engaged in a fruitless hunt, until one morning a fresh fall of snow covered the ground, when our efforts were rewarded by the dogs striking a couple of cat trails; these we followed a short distance, with the whole pack tearing away ahead of us in full cry. The dogs followed the trail to a great pile of massive rocks, which towered a hundred feet above our heads, and there became bewildered. What had become of the stealthy bobcats? The guide and myself climbed the rocks to search for them. Looking down from the summit I saw one of them lying in front of a cave surveying the dogs, which were silently and swiftly nosing around below it. It was easy enough to shoot the cat where it was, but as it rested on the ledge of a rock of some breadth, it was a grave question whether it might not die there where it would be practically inaccessible, and we would have all our pains for nothing.

To drive the cat from its position into a better one was more than a doubtful possibility, as it was likely to run back into the cave. So I took a chance and fired. Like a crash of lightning above their heads, the excited dogs heard the report and knew that “there was something doing.” The wounded cat gave a sudden leap into space and fell among them. If there is any question about a “cat having nine lives,” it seems that the dogs were bound to be on the safe side, for they mauled the remains until I began to fear that the fur might be damaged before I could come to the rescue. Through a fatal curiosity, the other cat peeped over the precipice, and paid for its rashness with its hide, which I added to my collection. The job of skinning the cats I turned over to the guide.

The big dogs sat around in sullen dignity, particularly avoiding any familiarity with smaller dogs and with each other. Each one seemed to consider himself the hero of the occasion. I have had occasion to observe that the pack would work and fight well together, but after the fray they seemed to be intensely jealous of each other.

Several of the dogs interested me considerably. One of them was called “Old Jim,” a big black-and-tan foxhound, with a deep bass voice which would swell the chorus when the pack was in full cry and sometimes almost drown it. Old Jim would occasionally provoke the not over angelic temper of the guide by leading the whole pack after a coyote. On one occasion he had distinguished himself by whipping a coyote, and whenever one of these “sassy” prairie wolves would show itself, he could not resist the temptation of giving chase, leading the whole pack after him.

Any one acquainted with Western hunting knows how useless it is for dogs to attempt to outrun a coyote. The coyotes would frequently come close to the pack, if there was no man nearby, as though to provoke a chase for our special annoyance. The dogs, however, would never run the coyotes’ trail; they were broken of that.

Another interesting acquaintance was a dog called Turk, a cross-breed, but a very strong and stubborn fighter, all seamed with scars. Turk kept near the guide, and did not run with the pack except when there was something in view. He was a good-natured dog ordinarily, but an ugly customer in a scrap.

There was another dog called Boxer which had a very keen scent; long before the rest could discover a trail one could hear Boxer’s knowing yelps, which would gradually develop into a chorus, as one by one the other dogs would detect the scent as it became warmer. Boxer had more judgment than any other dog in the pack, and was very good in puzzling out a broken trail.

We spent several days longer at the ranch on Strawberry Creek. While there the guide purchased a broken-down horse to feed to the dogs. It is not a particularly easy matter to keep twenty-one dogs supplied with food. When the horse was led out for execution the dogs became intensely excited and seemed to know “what was up.” The moment the animal was shot, and almost before it fell to the ground, the whole pack of dogs, big and small, was tearing eagerly at the carcass. No doubt the habit of attacking wild animals as soon as they have been shot developed their naturally savage dispositions.

At the suggestion of the guide, we decided to go to a ranch near the Bear River Cañon, two days’ journey from our present location. When we arrived at the ranch, after a long day’s ride on horseback, we found the ranchman’s wife keeping house; her husband had left for several days. She seemed in no condition to entertain us on account of a bad headache, but kindly offered to do whatever she could. We volunteered to help her out with her domestic duties. First of all I prescribed for her headache; the medicine went down the wrong way, which caused her to vomit, after which she declared she felt better. My professional pride did not permit me to enlighten her as to the unexpected result of my prescription. I say professional pride, because I went by the nickname of the Doctor on account of an emergency case I carried with me.

I made myself useful in doing most of the chores usual on such occasions, while the guide held the baby, which howled incessantly. The expression on his face while performing this duty was as angelic as I have seen it when Old Jim would lead the whole pack off on a chase after a coyote against his impotent protest. When the meal was served, two other children turned up, one a little girl nine years old, who was censured for not taking care of the baby; the other a boy of about eleven, who was particularly good, according to his mother’s account of him. Our first day’s experience with these interesting children caused us to reverse the parental opinion. When we returned from our hunt the evening of the following day, the guide missed his lasso; the good little boy had tried to lasso a cat which was selecting some delicacies from a tin can, the cat took a sudden leap to escape the lasso, and in doing so shoved its head into the can and cinched the lasso round its body; cat, can and lasso disappeared in the sage brush and were never found.

The country around Bear River Cañon is very rough and picturesque. The cañon is steep and cuts a great gorge in the mountain, and is very difficult to cross. In one place we were headed off by the precipice, which must have been fully a thousand feet in depth; I rolled a stone off the edge, and its descent seemed to take a considerable time. A shower of broken fragments and dust, followed a second or two afterward by a dull crash which reverberated through the cañon, announced the termination of its fall.

The dogs finally succeeded in jumping a lion, running right upon him. From a distance I could see the chase along the side of a mountain until it turned in the direction of the cañon. The lion did not seem to be going very fast while covering the ground by long leaps, which he appeared to do without much effort; but when I looked at the pack, which did not seem to be gaining on him, they were straining every nerve, and looked as if they were “going it for all they were worth.” No doubt the easy gait of the lion made his speed deceptive. The lion took refuge upon a ledge of the precipice some fifteen feet below the crest. When we arrived at the spot the dogs were raising an awful din in their impotent frenzy, as they looked down upon the smiling countenance of the lion, which was displaying all his teeth. It was thought inadvisable to shoot the lion on the ledge where he was, because there was a good chance of his dying in an inaccessible spot, so we dropped stones on him, hoping to drive him out of that place and compel him to run to the top of the precipice and take refuge in a tree.

For some time the lion savagely snapped at the stones, much to our diversion. In their eagerness to see the lion the dogs crowded one another near the edge of the precipice, and occasionally crowded me. As I leaned over to drop a stone on the lion’s tail a big dog planted his forefeet on my shoulders. Perhaps he did this to get a better view, or it may have been because he was not able to say “down in front,” that he adopted this method of giving me a gentle hint that I was obstructing his view. The action was not pleasant to me. I did not relish the idea of being shoved over the precipice and dashed to pieces below, with the possible alternative of landing on the ledge where the lion was located. Our efforts at last resulted in causing the tormented beast to seek refuge elsewhere. After abandoning the ledge he ran upon the top of the precipice and came so close to me that I could have touched him—but I didn’t. A little foxhound ventured too close and his impertinence was rewarded by a snap from the lion which grazed the dog’s head and slit his ear in twain. Instead of taking to a tree, as we had vainly hoped, the lion discovered a way of getting down upon another ledge of the precipice, more inaccessible than the first, and became concealed from view. It became evident that we were taking too many chances, so the guide and myself found a way, very steep and rough, below the lion’s last resort, where it was just possible to see, several hundred feet away, the head and neck of the animal. I took careful aim and fired. The bullet went a little higher than I intended, breaking the lower jaw. I wished to preserve the skull entire for a mount; but the character of the wound inflicted made this impossible. In spite of the injury received the tawny form glided along the almost perpendicular side of the precipice, picking out here and there a foot rest to aid in its ascent. I fired another shot, which struck behind the shoulder, but did not stop the animal from reaching the top of the precipice, where the dogs soon discovered him. I was not too late to see some of the fight. In the scrimmage the lion got Turk’s head partly in his mouth, and for a moment I felt alarmed on account of the dog. Fortunately, the lion’s lower jaw refused to work, and Turk got off with light punishment—merely a scalp wound, from which the blood flowed freely.

I began to arrange my camera, intending to take a snap-shot of the melee, but the shade of the trees made the light bad for an instantaneous photograph, the only one that could be taken of a moving scene; the guide, seeing my dilemma, caught hold of the lion’s tail, while still fighting the dogs, and dragged the tangled bunch a few yards down the side of the hill into the sunlight. When this was done the lion was dead, and I was not able to accomplish my purpose. As I surveyed my first lion trophy I could not help admiring the game fight it had put up against hopeless odds. There could be no skepticism respecting the execution of its terrible teeth, for not a few wounds were inflicted on the dogs. The beast must have weighed 170 to 180 pounds, and its skin was in fine condition; but, unfortunately, the skull was ruined.

After hard hunting for about a week, the dogs took up a fresh scent, and in a short time they treed a small lion which the guide called a “kitten,” because it was not full grown. The branches of the tree were quite close together and near the ground. One of the dogs managed to climb a considerable way up the tree by the aid of the easy support the branches afforded, and was in some peril. The report of my rifle helped to swell the chorus of the dogs, which only abated when their jaws were employed to a better purpose on the struggling “kitten.” The poor beast which had climbed the tree remained a disappointed spectator of the fight, being unable to take part. Afterward I helped him down from his ridiculous although somewhat dangerous position.

On a number of occasions the dogs have climbed trees for a considerable distance above the ground. The piñon trees, where the lions frequently take refuge, are supplied with branches which begin to sprout near the base, rendering the feat easier of accomplishment, but nevertheless it is a remarkable sight to see a dog up a tree, sometimes furnishing an unwilling subject for a camera. Any one wishing to obtain some impression of how a dog would look in such an attitude can have his curiosity satisfied by examining the photographs of wild animals in Mr. Wallihan’s remarkable book, where snap-shots were taken of some of the dogs which were in the pack I hunted with.

We had barely skinned the “kitten,” when at some distance we heard the pack baying another animal. We rode as rapidly as possible in the direction we heard the noise. We soon arrived at the edge of the valley, which lay some five or six hundred feet below. The baying broke upon our hearing with great distinctness. The country beneath was free from big timber, being dotted profusely with piñon trees and smaller growth, with here and there great pillars of red sandstone fashioned into mushroom shapes by the erosion of the elements through countless ages. In the clear, bright sunshine every object stood out with great distinctness, producing a curious and beautiful effect.

It was an attractive sight to watch the pack as it swiftly coursed about in the valley. It finally disappeared around the base of the mountain. We took a short cut across the spur of the mountain and soon caught the steady baying of the dogs, and I knew that something was treed or cornered. On the side of a steep slope, which extended hundreds of feet down to the valley, stood a piñon tree with a fine, large lion perched in its branches—a more beautiful pose for a photograph I could hardly imagine. The light was good and the surroundings all that could be desired to produce the proper effect. The guide suggested a doubt in regard to the lion’s remaining in his present position very long, and that one of us should cover him with a rifle while the other used the camera. My love of sport is not so platonic that I could readily forego the deadly part of the pastime for the æsthetic. So I held the rifle carefully pointed at a vital spot, and after a little space the animal quivered, as though just about in the act of taking a spring out of the tree, which, had he effected, would have sent him down the slope at a speed that would have distanced the dogs; once at large in the rough country which spread through the valley, he would have given us another long and fatiguing chase, with a good chance of losing him. Before the trembling limbs could launch into space a bullet pierced his heart and he tumbled from his perch and rolled nearly a hundred feet down the mountain side, where his further descent was arrested by the dogs in no gentle fashion. The struggle with the lion was brief. The guide and myself had more of a struggle with the dogs in driving them away from the carcass.

I was disappointed to learn that the guide had not succeeded in getting a photo. If I could have had a snap-shot with the camera at the lion close by, while in the act of springing, with satisfactory results, I would have had something of more value than the animal’s skin.

I added a few more trophies to my collection before finishing my hunt for that season. My experience, however, had convinced me that the best reminiscences of a hunting trip are good photographs of wild animals in their natural state. The ease with which trophies can often be secured, so far as the question of skill is concerned, has somewhat taken the keen edge off of my desire to kill. Securing a good trophy is quite as often a question of time and patience as skill. Coolness is also required, for frequently easy shots are missed through being over anxious.

DUCK SHOOTING IN CALCASIEU PARISH.

A few years ago, before a great industry had been developed in the vicinity of Sulphur City, La., the natural conditions in that locality were favorable to the increase of migratory game. The ground was low and marshy, but generally quite flat; forests of resinous pine spread over a considerable portion of the country. In some places the trees grew to immense size, their massive trunks ascending for seventy-five or eighty feet without a branch. The soil in such localities being free from underbrush and covered with thick layers of pine needles, yielded pleasantly under the step like a soft plush carpet. Currents of air caressing the treetops imparted the sound of the surf beating the shore at a distance. Stretches of open prairie covered with tall grass furnished feeding spots for large flocks of ducks and geese. When the attention was not too much absorbed with larger game, one might frequently hear the jacksnipe emit its peculiar whistle as it shaped a zigzag course in its flight. Other game was in less abundance.

I engaged an old “red bone” to act as my guide. Legrand—the name by which I will introduce the new acquaintance—was really a Creole, but was said to have a cross of Indian blood, just enough to enable him to detect signs which escape the common eye. A faithful, quiet, uncomplaining man, but an excellent hunter according to his lights, Legrand had no liking for the new-fangled notions of modern sportsmen. He could crawl through the brush or long grass with all the stealthiness of a cat, every sense alert, and in spite of wet, cold or any kind of discomfort would doggedly stick to his task until his game was secured. To this old-fashioned hunter every cartridge must represent something. He was not satisfied with “punching holes in the air.” A story is told of Legrand upon which I would not care to stake my reputation for veracity, although somewhat characteristic of the man.

A ranchman living in that locality noticed a small bunch of teal that were in the habit of using in a pond not far from his dwelling. He requested Legrand to try his luck with them the next morning, when they could be easily found. Legrand, however, was short of ammunition, so the ranchman gave him a shell which he jokingly remarked was enough for a good shot, and he expected him to come back with the whole bunch, numbering six. On the ensuing day Legrand departed before sunrise, but returned to breakfast empty handed. “No ducks, Legrand?” He shook his head; “No ducks.” The next morning the result was the same. “No ducks, Legrand?” “No ducks.”

The third morning a shot was heard. Legrand returned with three beautiful blue-winged teal hanging from each shoulder.

“Legrand, how did you manage to have so much luck all of a sudden, when you were not able to get anything the two preceding mornings?”

“To-day,” he replied, “was the first time I could get them lined up so that I could bag them all at one shot.”

It was my good fortune to make another interesting acquaintance in a somewhat singular way. One afternoon, when shooting on the edge of a marsh close by the house where I was sojourning, I became conscious of someone near at hand. Turning around I discovered an elderly man of dignified bearing, whose round ruddy face, ornamented with a long white flowing beard, rested upon broad shoulders and sturdy frame. The expression of his countenance was mild and kindly, possessing a reflective cast, which was somewhat accentuated by a habit of slowly stroking his beard. Much impressed, I regarded him with a feeling of reverence. Had I been present at a revival meeting, the pose and genial appearance would have suited the occasion, silence having been secured by the exhortation, “Let us pray.” I broke the magic spell by politely asking the new arrival whether he was a sportsman and fond of shooting. “Can I shoot? By——” (a blue streak a yard long imparted all necessary emphasis). “Young man, before my eyes went back on me, old Uncle Dave could hit any living creature.”

After a brief conversation my new acquaintance cordially invited me to visit him, and also extended the privilege of occupying his lodge at a place called Sabine Pass, about twenty miles away. This is not the noted Sabine Pass in Texas, but merely a local name. All reports seemed to confirm the reputation of Sabine Pass, so I concluded to fit out an expedition. I chartered a prairie schooner and secured two horses which the guide said he could get for nothing. I was willing, however, to pay for what I got, but was put off with some dignity. The old saying, “Never look a gift horse in the mouth” seems somewhat in point, so I will be sparing of comments. It was a very safe team, but not much at annihilating space. A young man was engaged as cook. There was no other addition to the party, save an old one-eyed dog.

A long, wearisome day’s travel brought us to a sheet of water which surrounded the lodge. This resulted from the great quantity of moisture that had accumulated from heavy rainfalls. The cook rode ahead, exploring the way. The team tremulously negotiated the pass, but were soon in difficulties. One of them falling down in about four feet of water energetically strove to rise. Legrand, jumping into the icy water, began to fix the harness, which was no easy task. It was too dark to do anything, so the horses were uncoupled from the schooner and driven ashore. I mounted one horse behind the cook. The animal became refractory and varied the monotonous experience of the day by bucking for a brief space. Finally the shipwrecked crew were able to leave the schooner in safety, with a few things absolutely necessary, but by no means with all that were desired.

The bright glow of a fire in the open hearth of the lodge dispelled the gloom and discomfort of our surroundings, but Legrand was chilled to the bone and looked peaked and miserable. My sympathy was excited, and I prescribed a liberal dose from my flask which immediately revived him. Fortunately we had taken the precaution to cover the contents of the wagon, which otherwise would have suffered on account of the rain that fell during the night. Our meagre repast finished, it was not a great while before one after another dozed off into fitful slumber. One blanket covered the forms of three men, and in place of under bedding and spring mattress we had the board floor. The steady pour of the rain resounded continually upon the roof, while the snap of the pine fagots mingled with the hiss of drops of water falling on the burning embers. It is not easy for three persons to sleep under one blanket resting upon a hard surface. The disposition to change position became a fixed habit with all three, but invariably the one who attempted it met with unreasonable objections and muttered protests from the other two. If one turned over all three had to follow suit. It seemed to be a case where the minority ruled, while the majority swore at the minority. The one-eyed dog, becoming restless from the cold when the fire went out, repeatedly attempted to find a place for himself under the blanket, but discovered that a triple alliance had been formed to eliminate him completely. Finally he offered to compromise by lying down on the outside of the blanket above our prostrate forms, but this accommodation was likewise unfeelingly rejected. During that awful night every man’s hand appeared to be against his neighbor and all three united against the dog.

I was at length awakened from a semi-conscious condition by Legrand, who was about to light a fire.

“What is the matter, Legrand?” I inquired. “Are you getting cold?”

“It’s time to get up.”

“What time is it?”

“About 4 o’clock.”

How he knew I could not guess, but I was only too ready to accept any excuse that would rescue me from almost the worst night I ever experienced. It was pitch dark, but the rain had ceased, and the noise of game stirring outside betokened the coming dawn. A dense fog hung over the prairie and when light began to make an impression it was like illuminating an opaque substance. It was impossible to distinguish anything over six yards away. Having removed everything from the schooner the problem of dragging it to dry land did not concern us.

The growing day was heralded by a perfect Babel of voices. Invisible flocks of ducks numbering thousands frequently stirred the air with the rapid movements of their wings, which sounded like an express train. The measured honk of wild geese gave evidence of their presence in no beggarly numbers. At intervals the brant in the long sour bog grass invited an easy shot. When matters were straightened out no time was lost in starting out for feathered game.

The hunt began as soon as we stepped outdoors. Small bunches of ducks were passed by unnoticed. Legrand did not believe in wasting ammunition; I only had five hundred shells. Presently we heard the calling of a large number of brant. That interested Legrand. The fog had lifted somewhat, but still rendered objects indistinct unless they were close at hand. I imitated Legrand in all his movements; first the quiet, cautious approach, gradually bending, until finally we were crawling on our stomachs through the grass and mud. We were already quite near the brant and I was becoming apprehensive lest we should delay too long. A large flock of teal unexpectedly attracted my attention on the left side and I motioned to Legrand. He shook his head, but I signified that I was satisfied to try my luck with them. Legrand disapproved but yielded to my suggestion, except that he drew a bead on the brant. The report of four barrels seemed almost muffled in the uproar caused by great flocks of birds rising in every direction, churning the air with their wings and filling space with a discordant conglomeration of sounds from every species of web-footed fowl on the prairie. When the gray mist had swallowed the black mass, a pleasant sight welcomed our eyes. The ground was plentifully covered with limp forms, a handsome tribute to the prowess of our guns. The beam of joy on Legrand’s weatherbeaten face satisfied me that so far we had not been unduly wasteful of ammunition. Fearing lest there might be some lingering doubt in his mind on the subject, I sought to console him with the reflection that I still had four hundred and ninety-six shells left.

No time was lost in collecting the game. I stuffed the big pockets of my hunting coat with teal and brant. Legrand fastened them to the fringes of his jacket until he was almost covered with the dark bodies of brant and the beautifully colored teal. I warned Legrand to kill every bird he gathered, but he was careless in carrying out my suggestion. On the way back to the lodge I heard behind me a flutter of wings and several quacks and caught a glimpse of a duck disappearing in the fog. Legrand was standing in a state of stupefaction, staring in the direction the duck had flown. I could not help laughing. Needless to say he made sure of the rest.

Surfeited with abundance of game, the pastime soon palled on me. After several days’ sport I was ready to return to more comfortable quarters where the shooting was productive of smaller results, but more to my taste. Jacksnipe, which were quite plentiful, furnished an opportunity for skillful marksmanship, but the high standard of economy in using ammunition established for me by Legrand was shamefully lowered. Jacksnipe did not swarm before the muzzle of my gun, nor was one bagged in every shot. This kind of shooting is excellent for training the eye, and no sportsman need be chagrined at an occasional miss.

AN OUTING AT TWO-OCEAN PASS

“Roughing it” is an expression which we have long associated with various hardships undergone for the sake of sport. But modern enterprise has made that phrase a misnomer when taken in the sense in which it was formerly understood. A number of years’ experience in camping out and hunting in the West have convinced me that every reasonable comfort can be enjoyed without sacrificing the principal object which lies nearest the heart of a thorough sportsman—good hunting.

The last outing I had in the West, was in Wyoming, in the Jackson Hole country, and I realized then how thoroughly a guide, who enjoys the comforts of life himself and has the real love of sport, can contribute to the success of a hunting trip. A guide who likes to make himself comfortable will generally think of what is necessary for the comfort of those who engage his services.

Early in October I started out from St. Anthony, Idaho, with my guide, Ed. Sheffield, on one of the most pleasurable and successful hunts I have undertaken. A couple of days’ drive and we reached Shives’ ranch, at which place we made up the pack outfit. A short rest at this spot while things were being got in readiness was very pleasant, as it gave me a chance to stretch my limbs and to admire the grand perspective, which no words can describe in a way that would bring the natural picture to the eye. The Teton peaks, covered with perpetual snow and dazzling bright, furnished an attraction which never palled on the mind, and they were ever visible from the plain but tidy ranch. Flocks of ducks frequented the ice cold stream near by.

The horses having been corralled during the day’s wait, everything was arranged for the morning start. The next day I rose bright and early to commence the final stage of the journey. When the last pack had been “cinched” and everything was in readiness, we began our journey to the hunting grounds. It was a long, monotonous ride—much of it through thick timber with no stop for lunch or rest, because the heavily laden beasts could not lie down with their packs on, and we did not care to delay them. At length, after crossing a rocky ravine and a swift-running stream and climbing a steep ascent, we arrived at Two-Ocean Pass. There we found an ideal spot to camp. In a short time everything was unpacked, and the two tents were pitched. The tired beasts that had borne the brunt of the work tumbled over and rubbed their backs in the dust and snorted with delight.

The next morning I started out on horseback with Sheffield, while the ranchman, Shives, whom I had engaged as cook and general helper, remained behind and minded camp. We took with us several dogs, because they might be useful in rounding up lions or “cats,” as they frequently call the cougar or wildcats in that section. The day passed without result, except that I lost my Seitz spy-glasses, which hung on the pummel of my saddle by a leather strap; this had evidently caught on something and snapped. When the guide heard of the loss, he exclaimed with great confidence, “We must find them tomorrow.” I was somewhat inclined to be skeptical about his being able to recover the lost property, but I assented to his going out with a little dog he called Maiden, a cross of a black-and-tan foxhound and a bloodhound, as intelligent an animal as I ever saw. He came back in a few hours with the glasses, and I was curious to learn how he managed to discover them. While following our trail of the day before, he had stopped to call the dog, which had fallen behind and stood yelping at something which he had passed; upon going to the spot, he found the glasses. They were not immediately in the line of the trail, but had rolled down hill and were some dozen feet away from it. I wonder if that dog had overheard our previous conversation and knew what we wanted!

Although for a couple of weeks the weather had been cool and exhilarating, often freezing at night, still we had as yet no snow. Snow was wanted, because it makes the hunting good, and when traveling the impress of the foot is practically noiseless, and does not alarm the game. Moreover, when the snow accumulates in deep drifts it drives the elk and deer out of the higher elevations down into the lower country, where they collect in large numbers and become less shy.

One evening on the way back to camp the guide was explaining to me why he thought that we would be apt to find bull elk with the best heads separated from the bunch of cow elk. The old bulls, it would seem, after a time are driven off by the younger bulls, which in turn take charge of the herds of cow elk. The conversation was suddenly interrupted, for on a knoll about 300 yards distant, we saw two fine bulls all by themselves. To dismount and take aim with my Mauser after gauging the space, was a matter of a few seconds. The furthest of the two bulls was a stately monarch, and he had a set of antlers which tempted me as much as a crown could have tempted Cæsar. The first shot fortunately took effect behind the shoulders and made him sag on his knees, but he immediately recovered and started to run. The next shot was over him, and, before I could fire again, the other bull ran in between and blanketed him, receiving the ball. They stood for several seconds in that position, while two more messengers of death sang a doleful dirge on their errand of destruction, and they disappeared over the hill.

The atmosphere in that country is naturally blue; but there was a tinge of blueness in the air at that time which I am sure was not natural. Sheffield said he was not the cause of it, and I know that I was not to blame. I have heard of somebody swearing until the air became blue, but this does not seem to be one of those cases.

However, we were both convinced that the first bull was hit twice at least, and more than likely would not go a great ways. It was inexpedient to follow him up at that time, because he was still fresh and strong. It seemed best to go back to camp and come out the next day and track him, because he would be likely to run only a short distance, and lying down to rest, would become stiff, and incapable of running, in which case he could be found in the morning. On the other hand, if pursued, he might continue to run while his strength held.

With anxious hearts we returned to camp, noting with apprehension the lowering clouds that were beginning to darken the sky. The indications of a storm which would cover the ground with snow were not welcome now, as much as I had desired it previously. Fresh snow would conceal the tracks and destroy the scent on the ground. If that should happen, I had small expectation of securing my trophy. The next morning the guide looked into my tent, and said that everything was covered with snow. I immediately went out to see for myself. There, sure enough, it lay several inches deep. It covered the trees, bending the branches under their weight and transforming, as if by magic, the rugged landscape into a fairyland. It was beautiful—but it was disappointing.

After breakfast we set out, taking one of the dogs with us. When we reached the spot where the elk had been shot the keen-scented dog began to sniff the tops of the sage brush which stood about two feet high. We followed him as he confidently pursued his way through the sage brush and timber, until finally, ascending a small knoll, I espied, just over the crest, the tops of the antlers spread out like the branches of a tree. The elk was stretched out in beautiful repose, his neck supported against a fallen tree, which held up his antlers.

At last my trophy was won, and I had something to show to admiring friends.

For the present the keen edge was taken off my desire to kill, because I had something to take back as a memento of the trip. A fine trophy serves to identify most appropriately a hunting experience, and as the years roll by the memories of certain camps cluster about each head and revive thrilling scenes which might otherwise become dimmed amid an uncongenial environment.

A considerable portion of my remaining time I spent in easy life in camp. The meat was a welcome addition to the larder and was much appreciated by the dogs. When first killed, the flesh of the bull elk is not particularly toothsome; it should be allowed to hang for a time until it becomes tender.

It was an entertaining sight to see the dogs catch the large hunks of meat flung to them, which they often swallowed without masticating it, unless one or two bites could be exaggerated into an act of mastication. When hunger was appeased to the extent of a surfeit, the cunning animals would still continue to accept gifts of raw meat, which they would carefully cache in some favorite spot. Each dog knew where he had cached his own supplies, and expected every other dog to respect it. Occasional disputes arose among them, but—though with a bad grace—the dog with a guilty conscience generally yielded when detected in the act of violating the law which holds a cache sacred among dogs as among men.

There are certain very simple and rudimentary laws which the primitive life develops. The rule that the cache shall remain inviolate is well known. The absence of adequate protection for a cache beyond its secrecy, which is not always sufficient, makes it a point of honor among the rough denizens of the wilderness to respect property so deposited. In a primitive state of society, when recourse to such means of providing for emergency were more frequent, the frontier man was likely to regard as worthy of death any one who violated this law.

When I read of the ruthless slaughter which has been wrought among the elk, especially by the detestable tooth-hunter, I recall, with some degree of satisfaction, the forbearance which I exercised upon various occasions. One evening, while returning to camp, I saw in the waning light, about the space of three hundred and fifty yards removed from where I stood, three bull elk standing on the side of a hill, their forms fairly well defined against the white background which the snow afforded. The antlers were less distinct on account of the deadening effect of some spruce trees, whose branches reached below the spread of the antlers. I wanted another trophy, but was uncertain about the quality of any one of the heads in sight. Although I watched the bulls for some time, while they remained practically without motion, I was unable to make sure that there was a really first-class head in the bunch. I finally gave them the benefit of the doubt. If I made a mistake, I have the satisfaction of knowing that I erred on the right side.

The time arrived for breaking up camp. When the horses were packed, the guide and myself separated from the rest of the outfit, in order to secure better hunting. We had not traveled far, when one of the dogs stopped and growled. We both reined up, while I dismounted and approached the edge of a clearing just ahead. Across the clearing some eighty or ninety yards distant I saw a brown body disappearing amid the spruces. Aiming at the spot where the shoulder should be, concealed by the forest growth, a trifle in advance of the brown, which I recognized as the belly of the elk, I fired. Stunned by the bullet, the animal broke into another opening, when I emptied my magazine, which contained several additional cartridges. Fortunately the animal turned out to be a bull elk with a fairly good spread. I should not have taken the chance except that my hunting for this season was practically over, and I had not shot my full allowance. Having dressed the animal so as to keep its meat from spoiling, we left everything and followed the outfit. Shives was sent back with a pack horse to get the meat and the antlers.

At the Shives ranch a hearty welcome was given us. Mrs. Shives proved herself an admirable hostess. I shall never forget the repast specially prepared for us by which she proved herself an accomplished cook. One dish I approached with misgiving, for I could not guess what it was. I discovered in it a culinary gem which in my judgment will hold its own with anything ever prepared by the most accomplished chef to please a capricious palate—elk’s brain scrambled in eggs. My cup of happiness was filled to the brim, but the guide caused it to run over when he presented me with a pair of untanned cow skin shaps marked with red and white spots, which he wore when dressed up to have his picture taken in correct style.