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.
[Illustration: THE TETON RANGE.]
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.
[Illustration: BREAKING CAMP.]
CAMP LIFE NEAR THE TETONS
One of the most picturesque sections of our country lies in the valleys
and depressions formed by the Gallatin River where it winds its way
among the rugged mountains of Montana. Sometimes the river steals
noiselessly through level spots, forming great pools of clear greenish
water, where the big rainbow trout love to bask in the sunshine which
the gamy fish love for its brightness more than its warmth. Frequently
the stream challenges the obstructions of masses of rock, forcing its
way with angry murmurs to its destination. Amid such scenes I fell into
repose, while sitting near a large camp-fire, yielding to the heaviness
due to a hearty meal and a long day’s travel on horseback.
I do not remember how I managed to make up my rustic bed, or whether I
had anything to do with it at all. I simply recall the quiet scenes
around the camp-fire, the ruddy faces of my companions as they caught
the glow from the burning fagots and the wild scene which surrounded
us. I entered dreamland in the same way everyone else does. The unreal
realm of fancy I accepted as a matter of course, but when the chill
of a cold autumn night gradually revived me to consciousness and the
sullen gloom of the silent forest, only broken by a murmuring stream
nearby, had succeeded the cheerful camp-fire, I returned to the world
of reality with a feeling of strangeness and wonder. I rubbed my eyes
to make sure if I was really awake, and lay watching the stars shining
brightly overhead. The beauty of the night, however, was not sufficient
to keep me awake, and when I had finished my night’s rest it was broad
daylight, and my two companions, Jake and Aleck, were already astir.
Aleck was the cook and general handy man about camp. Jake acted as
guide and horse wrangler. These men could take a turn at helping each
other, but each had his special work cut out for him. In packing and
pitching tents they were mutually helpful. Whenever things went wrong
and descriptive language was required to soothe irritated feelings,
their common desire to aid each other developed into a generous
rivalry. Aleck was busy getting breakfast ready, but the other man was
not in sight.
“Where is Jake?” I asked.
“Gone after the horses,” Aleck answered.
“Do you suppose they are gone far?”
“Oh, maybe a mile, maybe fifteen,” was the enlightening response.
When camping out in the Western country horses are an uncertain
quantity. They are apt to wander over a considerable space in search
of good pasturage, which is not easy to find on account of the extreme
dryness of the soil and the difficulty of any vegetation thriving
which cannot shoot its roots deep into the earth. Fortunately Jake soon
appeared with the stock.
“We will have the tents up so that you can be comfortable to-night,” he
remarked with a look as though he were conveying a most welcome piece
of intelligence, for we had been sleeping out in the open for several
nights.
With the air of one who despised all such things as enervating
luxuries, I replied: “Let that go to some other time; we want to get an
early start after something.”
“It won’t take long to put up the tents and then Aleck can get
everything else to rights while we are hunting,” Jake replied.
I ate a substantial breakfast, and after finishing that meal I ate
a substantial lunch before starting. Needless to say, I felt in no
condition for vigorous exercise which I would be compelled to take when
our course led over ascents too steep to take on horseback. About
lunch time, however, my capricious and unreasoning stomach, like some
people who are mere slaves of custom and routine, demanded a square
meal, which was not to be had.
Two dogs, which served more as sociable companions about camp than in
any other capacity, accompanied us. One of the dogs was a large-sized
bull-terrier, rather old and at times inclined to be cross. This animal
answered to the name of Major. Major had a peculiar trait, which it
is hard to account for. In the evening, when the cook pulled out his
harmonicon and began to perform on it, Major would stick his nose
straight up in the air and emit the most doleful and lugubrious wail I
ever listened to.
The other dog was a fox-terrier, named Jack, like most of his species,
a very animated little creature, always ready for a scrap. This
disposition was a source of annoyance at times, because Jack had a
strong prejudice against porcupines, and on several occasions I have
had to sit on the ground and help pull the quills out of his hide after
one of these encounters.
As I was leisurely riding along some distance behind the guide I saw
him stop on a slight elevation somewhat in advance, and at the same
time I heard the dogs barking very savagely. Jake made a sign to me to
hurry up. When I arrived at the spot I saw a couple of coyotes not more
than forty yards away yelping and tantalizing the dogs. I dismounted,
after pulling my rifle out of its scabbard, and brought it carelessly
to my shoulder. Jake in the meantime had unsheathed his knife ready to
strip the hides.
I fired, and, much to my surprise, both of the coyotes vanished with
startling suddenness. I had evidently missed, probably overshooting.
I think it was about the worst shot I ever made, and I never could
understand it. A sportsman will once in a while flinch through some
muscular contraction which it is hard to account for. The thick sage
brush and intervening hills made a second shot practically hopeless.
Jake seemed overcome with emotion, quite as much as myself. For once
his eloquent tongue failed him; the words appeared to stick in his
throat. His wide open eyes and his distended jaws, which seemed to be
pried open with a quid of tobacco in one corner of his mouth, betrayed
his astonishment. In silence we remounted and rode a considerable space
without speaking a word.
Finally Jake opened the conversation with all the tact of an
accomplished diplomat.
Turning in his saddle and looking intently at me he exclaimed: “Say, do
you know what I would do if I missed a shot like that?”
“No,” I replied.
“I would take that gun and smash it over the first rock I came across.”
I quite agreed with him that it was the fault of the gun, but, strange
to say, I did not take his advice. I still have the weapon and I can
recall some of its achievements, which are not wholly discreditable.
Several days passed quite uneventfully except for a rather novel
experience. While sitting around the camp-fire one evening our
attention was attracted by the noise of some animal breaking through
the undergrowth. The sound of cracking branches and pattering hoofs
seemed to approach closer.
“That’s one of the horses, and he seems inclined to be sociable,” said
Jake as he leaned over to lay hold of a good-sized stick to cast at him.
The animal presently appeared, coming straight to the camp-fire, but
when fairly revealed by the light the horse we were about to drive
unceremoniously away developed a splendid set of antlers. We were
confronted by a black-tailed deer which had been attracted by the
strange fascination of the blaze to within several paces, where
he stood perfectly still. No one moved nor uttered a word for a
considerable space for fear of alarming our timid guest. It was a
charming sight to watch the graceful and shapely form of the deer, his
head crowned with a perfectly balanced set of antlers, the wide open
eyes staring in bewilderment at three rough looking men sitting around
the fire like petrified images. The deer held his position for some
thirty seconds rigid and immovable, except the swelling of his sides in
breathing, while the glowing embers brought out in distinct view every
line and muscle of the body against the dark background of the forest.
He posed like a beautiful statue with all the advantage of picturesque
and weird surroundings to set off his perfect figure.
What a chance for a photographer to take a snapshot of the group with
a flashlight. Sad to relate, the only impression I could take away
with me was that which was photographed upon my mind. In place of a
photograph to show to my friends I am compelled to relate the bare
circumstance with but limited power to portray the scene in words; the
imagination of the reader must do the rest.
How long the tableau would have lasted I cannot say, if I had not
pulled the curtain, so to speak, by attempting to reach out and get my
rifle, which was nearby. I knew it was a desperate chance, but I was
extremely anxious to secure the head of our handsome guest.
Hardly had I attempted to move my hand in the direction of the rifle,
although very slowly, than the watchful eyes seemed to become conscious
of something wrong, and the spell was broken. With a single leap the
deer cleared the lighted space and was lost in the darkness of the
forest.