for his imprudence and self-assurance, he would be less frequently
captured than the coyote, who is also a very clever gentleman. As it
is, a raccoon hunt is a nocturnal escapade that may be enjoyed by any
lively boy or man who happens to own a coon dog.
Now a coon dog is any sort of a dog that has a sporting instinct and a
large propensity for combat. We have, of course, that product of
culture and breeding, the coon hound, an offshoot from the English fox
hound. This dog is a marvel in his own sphere.
Although we have not devoted a great deal of time to coon hunting, one
or another of our group has counted the scalps of quite a number of
_Procyon lotor_. Having been accepted as a companion of one or two or
more ambitious and enthusiastic dogs, we start out at dusk to hunt the
creek bottoms for coons. Provided with bows, blunt arrows, and a
lantern, we unleash the dogs, and the fun begins.
One must be prepared to scramble through blackberry vines, nettles,
tangled swamps, and to climb trees. The dogs busy themselves sniffing
and working through the underbrush, crossing the creek back and forth,
investigating old hollow trees, displaying signs of exaggerated
interest and industry.
Suddenly there is a change in their vocal expression. Heretofore the
short, snappy bark has spoken only of anticipation and eagerness; now
there comes the instinctive yelp of the questing beast, the hound on
the scent. It bursts from them like a wail from the distant past. As if
shot, they are off in a bunch. A clatter of sounds, scratching,
rustling, and scrambling, we hear them tearing through the brush. We
follow, but are soon outdistanced. Down the creek bed we go, splash
through mud, clamber over logs, stop, listen, and hear them baying,
afar off. Their voices rise in a chorus, some are high-pitched,
incessant yelps, some are deep-voiced, bell-like tones. We know they
have him treed and, breathless, we push forward, arriving in the order
of our physical vigor, those with the best legs and lungs coming first.
High up in a tree, out on a limb, we see a shadowy form and two glowing
orbs--that is the coon. The dogs are insistent; since they cannot
climb, although they try, man must rout the victim out. Somebody turns
a flashlight on the varmint. Frank Ferguson is the champion coon
hunter; so he draws a blunt arrow from his quiver, takes quick aim and
shoots. A dull thud tells that he has hit, but the coon does not fall.
Another arrow whistles past, registering a miss; then a sharp click as
the blunt point of the third arrow strikes the creature's head, a
stifled snarl, a falling body, a rush of dogs on the ground, and all is
over. The hounds are delighted, and we count one chicken thief the
less.
Sometimes the coon becomes the aggressor. He boldly enters our camp at
night and purloins a savory ham or rifles the larder and eats a pound
of butter. He fully deserves what is coming to him. I loose Teddy and
Dixie, my two faithful hounds. The morning mist is rising from the
stream, the tree trunks are barely visible in the early dawn, the
grasses drip with dew.
The eager dogs take up the trail and start on a run up the stream bank.
They cross on a great fallen tree and mount the wooded hill on the
other side where I lose them in the jungle. I run on by instinct,
listening for their directing bark. Once in a while I catch it faintly
in the distance. They must be mounting rapidly and too busy to bark.
Again it is audible far off to my left and I force my tired legs to
renewed energy, climbing higher and higher.
Up I mount through the forest, alert for the telltale yelp. There it
is, a whine and faint, stifled guttural sounds, but so indistinct and
so obscured by the prattle of the stream and the murmuring tree tops
that I fail to locate it. So I flounder on through vines and
underbrush, wondering where my dogs have gone. I blow the horn and
Dixie answers with a pathetic howl, away off to the right. I run and
blow the horn again; again that puppy whine. Teddy doesn't answer and I
wonder how Dixie could have been lost, though after all, he is only a
recent graduate from the kennel and unseasoned in this world of canine
misery and wisdom. Unexpectedly, I come upon him, looking very
disconsolate and somewhat mauled. There is no doubt about it, he has
rushed in where angels fear to tread. He has received a recent lesson
in coon hunting. So I console him with a little petting and ask him
where is Teddy. Just then I hear a subterranean gurgle and scuffle and
rushing off to a nearby clump of trees, I find that away down under the
ground in a hollow stump, there is a death struggle going on--Teddy and
the coon are having it out. From the sounds I know that Ted has him by
the throat and is waiting for the end. But he seems very weak himself.
As I shout down the hole to encourage him, the coon, with one final
effort, wrests himself free from the dog and comes scuttling out of the
hole. With undignified haste I back away from the outlet and fumble a
blunt arrow on the string, and I am just in time, for here comes one of
the maddest and one of the sickest coons I ever saw. With a hasty shot
back of the ear, I bowl him over and put him out of his misery. Turning
him over with my foot to make sure he is finished, I note how desperate
the fight must have been. His neck and brisket are a mass of mangled
flesh and skin. Then reaching deep down in the hole I grab poor
exhausted Teddy by the scruff of his neck, lift him out, and let him
regain his breath in the fresh air. He certainly is a weary champion.
The coon has bitten him viciously between the legs and along the
abdomen. After a while we all go down to the stream and there bathe the
wounded heroes.
With the rascally old coon over my shoulder, we three wander back to
camp in time for congratulations and wonderment of the children and the
consolation of hot victuals.
That is a typical coon hunt with us. Some are less damaging to the
dogs, but usually this little cousin of the bears is able to give a
good account of himself in the contest.
Ferguson and his pack of fox terriers have had more experience with the
redoubtable raccoon than the rest of us; he hunts them for their pelts.
He is also a trapper for the market and long since has found that the
blunt arrow shot from a light bow serves very admirably for dispatching
the captured varmint when once trapped.
The fox is more difficult to meet in the wilds. His business hours are
also at night, but he extends them not infrequently both into the
sunrise and twilight zones. One of the most beautiful sights I ever
witnessed came unexpectedly while hunting deer.
It was evening; dusky shadows merged all objects into a common drab.
Two silent, graceful foxes rose over the crest of a little eminence of
ground before me. Outlined distinctly against a red dirt bank across
the ravine, they stood just for a moment in surprise. I drew my bow and
instantly loosed an arrow at the foremost. It flew swift as a
night-hawk and with a rush of wind passed his head. As is usual at
dusk, I had overestimated the distance. It was but forty yards; I
thought it fifty.
Half-startled, but not alarmed, the two foxes fixed their gaze upon me
a second, then gracefully, and with infinite ease, they cleared a
three-foot bush without a run and disappeared in the gloom.
But in that leap I gained all the thrill that I missed with my arrow.
Such facile grace I never saw. Without an effort they rose, hovered an
instant in midair, straightened their wonderful bushy tails as an
aeroplane readjusts its flight, and soared level across the obstacle.
One final downward curve of that beautiful counterbalance landed them
smoothly on the distant side of the bush where, with uninterrupted
speed, they vanished from sight. For the first time I appreciated why a
fox has such a light, long, fluffy caudal appendage. Marvelous!
[Illustration: MR. COON BROUGHT INTO CAMP]
[Illustration: A PRETTY PAIR OF WINGS]
[Illustration: JUST A LITTLE HUNT BEFORE BREAKFAST]
[Illustration: YOUNG AND COMPTON WITH A QUAIL APIECE]
Often at night when coming late to camp through the woods, a fox has
emerged from the outer sphere of darkness and given a querulous little
bark at me. Wheeling with a bright light on the head, I could have shot
him, but then he is such a harmless little denizen of the woods that I
hate to kill him. But after all, is he really harmless? The little
culprit! He actually does a deal of harm, destroying birds' nests,
eating the young, catching quail and rabbits--I don't know that we
should spare him.
With horses and hounds we have chased many foxes over the sage and
chaparral-covered hills.
The fox terrier and the black and tan are excellent dogs for this sort
of work. These little hunters are keen for the sport and make their way
beneath the brush where a larger dog follows with difficulty. With
strident yelps the pack picks up the hot trail, and off they rush,
helter skelter, through the sage and chaparral; we circle and cross
cut, dash down the draw, traverse the open forest meadow and follow the
furious procession into the trees.
There the hard-pressed little fox makes a final spurt for a large red
pine, leaps straight for the bare trunk, mounts like a squirrel and
gains a rotten limb, panting with effort. As we approach he climbs
still higher and lodges himself securely in the crotch of the tree,
gazing furtively down at the dogs.
Who ever thought that a fox could climb such a tree! It was twenty feet
to the first foothold on a decayed branch; yet there he was, and we saw
him do it.
Sometimes when the fleeing fox has mounted a smaller tree, we have
shaken him from his perch and let the dogs deal with him as they think
best--for a dog must not be too often cheated of his conquest or he
loses heart. Sometimes we have mounted the tree and slipped a noose
over the fox's neck, brought him close, tied his wicked little jaws
tightly together with a thong, packed him off on the horse to show him
to the children in camp, and later given him his liberty. Or, as in the
case of our little villain up the pine tree, we have drawn a careful
arrow and settled his life problems with a broad-head.
In winter time the trap and the blunt arrow add another fur collar to
the coat of the feminine sybarite.
The woods and plains are full of hunters. The hawk is on the wing; the
murderous mink and weasel never cease their crimes; the bird seeks the
slothful worm and jumping insect; the fox, cat, and wolf forever quest
for food. And so we, hunting in the early morning light, once saw a
flock of quail flushed long before our presence should have given them
cause for flight. Compton and Young, arrows nocked and muscles taut,
crept cautiously to the thicket of wild roses out of which flew the
quail. There, stooping low, they saw the spotted legs of a lynx softly
stalking the birds. Aiming above the legs where surely there must be a
body, Young sped an arrow. There was a thud, a snarl, and an animal
tore through the crackling bushes. Out from the other side bounded the
cat, and there, not twenty yards off, he met Compton. Like a flash
another arrow flew at him, flew through him, and down he tumbled, a
flurry of scratching claws, torn up grasses and dust. Young's arrow,
having been a blunt barbed head, still lodged in his chest, and as the
lynx succumbed to death I took his picture.
Lazy, sleepy cat, both lynx and wildcats, we meet not infrequently on
our travels. Still they are ever up to mischief in spite of their
indolent casual appearance. Often have we seen them slink out from a
bunch of cover, cross the open hillside, and there, if within range,
receive an archer's salute. Many times we miss them, sometimes we hit;
but that's not the point, we are not so anxious to get them as to send
greetings.
Then, too, since Ishi taught us to do it, we have called these wary
creatures from the thicket and sometimes got a shot.
With the dogs, the story is soon told and the rôle of the bowman is
without triumph; so for this reason, we prefer the accidental meetings
and impromptu adventures to the more certain contact. Still when at
night we hear the tingling call of the lynx up in the woods, we yearn
for a willing dog and a taut bowstring.
With the distant barking wail of the prairie wolf or coyote, one feels
differently. I presume that man has become so accustomed to the dog
that he has rather a kindly feeling toward this little brother of the
plains, called by the Aztecs coyote, or "wild one." We know his evil
propensities and his economic menace, but still we love him, or at
least, look upon him much as the Indians do, as a sort of comedian
among animals.
Ishi used to tell me of his laughable experiences with coyotes. When
coming home at night with a haunch of venison on his shoulder, a band
of these gamins of the wilds would follow him teasing at his heels.
Ishi would turn upon them with feigned fury and chase them back into
the shadows or wield his bow as a short lance and jab them vigorously
in the ribs--when he could.
With him the coyote was the reincarnation of a mythical character, half
buffoon, half magician. He was cunning, crafty, humorous, and evil, all
in one, and no doings of the animal folk ever progressed very far
without the entrance of the "coyote doctor" on the scene. He was the
doer of tricks and caster of spells, but still he himself met with
misadventure--witness how he lost his claws. Of course, he had long
claws like the bear in the beginning, and fine silky fur. But one
night, coming weary from hunting and cold, he crept into a hollow oak
gall to sleep. The wind fanned the embers of the camp-fire and the dry
grass burst into a blaze. It swept up to the sleeping coyote, where
only his feet protruded from his hollow spherical den. Here they hung
out for lack of room. So, of course, his claws were burned off before
the pain wakened him. He leaped out of his nest, dashed through the
blaze, and plunged into the creek, not in time, however, to keep his
beautiful long hair from being singed. Even to this day he has that
half-scorched, moth-eaten pelt, and his claws are only those of a
coyote.
When met in the open, the prairie wolf seems so weary and listless. If
at a distance, he protests at your entrance upon his domain with a
forlorn wail, or insolently stares at you from a ridge. He sits and
looks or moves about dyspeptically waiting for you to go.
Once I remember that we saw one sitting on his haunches a hundred and
eighty yards away. Compton loosed an arrow at him, one of those
whining, complaining shafts that drone through the air. The coyote
heard it coming; he pricked up his ears, pointed his nose skyward, rose
and limped lively to the left, turned, peered into the sky, and ran a
short distance to the right, then loped off just in time to be missed
by the descending arrow, which landed exactly where he sat originally.
It was indeed a most ludicrous performance, incidentally a splendid
shot.
Just as with a rifle, the coyote simply is not there when your missile
strikes. He doesn't seem to bestir himself greatly, but just seems to
drag himself out of harm's way at the last moment. How often have we
let fly at him, sometimes at a group of them, but seldom has he been
hit. A beginner's luck seems to fool him, however. One of our neophytes
with the bow, having had his tackle less than a month, was out riding
in his new automobile in company with a group of friends. The bow at
that time was his vade-mecum; he never left it home. He chanced to see
a stray coyote near the side of the highway when, after passing it a
hundred yards or so, he stopped his machine, grabbed his trusty weapon,
which he had hardly learned to shoot, strung it, nocked an arrow, and
ran back to take a shot at the animal in question. His eagerness and
obvious incapacity so amused the gay company in the machine, that they
cheered him on with laughter and ridicule.
Undaunted, our bowman hastened back, saw the crafty beast retreating in
a slinking gallop, drew his faithful bow, and shot at sixty yards.
Unerringly the fatal shaft flew, struck the coyote back of the ear and
laid him low without a quiver.
Mad with unexpected triumph, our archer dragged his slain victim back
to the car to meet the jeering company, and confounded them with his
success. Loud were the shouts of joy; a war dance ensued to celebrate
the great event. When done the merry party cranked up the machine and
sped on its fragrant way, a happier and a more enlightened bevy of
children.
Thus is shown the danger of utter innocence.
These chance meetings seem rather unlucky for coyotes. Frank Ferguson,
when trapping in the foothills of the Sierras, repeatedly had his traps
robbed by an impudent member of the wolf family. One day while making
his regular rounds and approaching a set, he saw in the distance a
coyote run off with the catch of his trap. Seeing that the wolf turned
up a branch creek, Ferguson cut across the intervening neck of the
woods to intercept him if possible. He reached the stream bottom at the
moment the coyote came trotting past. Having a blunt arrow on the
bowstring, he shot across the twenty-five yards of bank, and quite
unexpectedly cracked the animal on the foreleg, breaking the bone. A
jet of blood spurted out with astonishing force, and the brute
staggered for a space of time. This gave Ferguson a moment to nock a
second shaft, a broad-head, and with that accuracy known to come in
excitement, he drove it completely through the animal's body, killing
it instantly. When next we met after this episode, he showed me the
bloody arrows and wolf skin as mute evidence of his skill.
Ferguson was won over to archery when, as packer upon our first trip
together, he asked Compton to show him what could be done with the bow
in the way of accurate shooting. Compton is particularly good at long
ranges, so he pointed out a bush about one hundred and seventy-five
yards distant. It was about the size of a dog. Compton took unusual
care with his shots, and dropped three successive arrows in that bush.
When "Ferg" saw this he took the bow seriously.
The timber wolf is seldom met in our clime, and so for this reason he
has been spared the fate common to all fearsome beasts that cross the
trail of an archer. But with that fateful hope which has foreshadowed
and seemingly insured our subsequent achievement, I fervently wish that
some day we may meet, wolf and bowman.
In the absence of this the more austere and wicked member of the
family, we shall continue from time to time to speed a questing arrow
in the general direction of the furtive coyote.
XI
DEER HUNTING
Deer are the most beautiful animals of the woods. Their grace, poise,
agility, and alertness make them a lovely and inspiring sight. To see
them feed undisturbed is wonderful; such mincing steps, such dainty
nibbling is a lesson in culture. With wide, lustrous eyes, mobile ears
ever listening, with moist, sensitive nostrils testing every vagrant
odor in the air, they are the embodiment of hypersensitive
self-preservation. And yet deer are not essentially timid animals. They
will venture far through curiosity, and I have seen them from the
hilltop, being run by dogs, play and trifle with their pursuers. The
dog, hampered by brush and going only by scent, follows implicitly the
trail. The deer runs, leaps high barriers, doubles on his tracks, stops
to browse at a tempting bush, even waits for the dog to catch up with
him, and leads him on in a merry chase. I feel sure that unless badly
cornered or confused by a number of dogs or wolves, the deer does not
often develop great fear, nor is he hard put to it in these episodes.
Quite likely there is an element of sport in it with him.
Why men should kill deer is a moot question, but it is a habit of the
brute. For so many hundreds of years have we been at it, that we can
hardly be expected to reform immediately. Undoubtedly, it is a sign of
undeveloped ethnic consciousness. We are depraved animals. I must admit
that there are quite a number of things men do that mark them as far
below the angels, but in a way I am glad of it. The thrill and glow of
nature is strong within us. The great primitive outer world is still
unconquered, and there are impulses within the breast of man not yet
measured, curbed and devitalized, which are the essential motives of
life. Therefore, without wantonness, and without cruelty, we shall hunt
as long as the arm has strength, the eye glistens, and the heart
throbs.
Lead on!
To go deer hunting, the archer should seek a country unspoiled by
civilization and gunpowder. It should approach as nearly as possible
the pristine wilderness of our forefathers. The game should be
unharried by the omnipresent and dangerous nimrod. In fact, as a matter
of safety, an archer particularly should avoid those districts overrun
by the gunman. The very methods employed by the bowman make him a ready
target for the unerring, accidental bullet.
Never go in company with those using firearms; never carry firearms.
The first spoils your hunting, and the second is unnecessary and only
gives your critic a chance to say that you used a gun to kill your
animal, then stuck it full of arrows to take its picture.
On our deer hunts we first decide upon the location, usually in some
mountain ranch owned by a man who is willing and anxious to have us
hunt on his grounds. The sporting proposition of shooting deer with a
bow strikes the fancy of most men in the country. If we are unfamiliar
with the district, the rancher can give us valuable information
concerning the location of bucks, and this saves time. Usually he is
our guide and packer, supplying the horses and equipment for a
compensation, so we are welcome. Some of the intimate relations
established on these expeditions are among the pleasantest features of
our vacation.
Having reached the hunting grounds, we make camp. Tents are pitched,
stores unpacked and arranged, beds made and all put in order for a stay
of days or weeks.
Each archer has with him two or more bows, and anywhere from two to six
dozen arrows. About half of these are good broad-heads and the rest are
blunts or odd scraps to be shot away at birds on the wing, at marks, or
some are shot in pure exhilaration across deep canyons.
As a rule, there are two or three of us in the party, and we hunt
together.
Having decided what seems the best buck ground, we rise before daylight
and, having eaten, strike out to reach the proposed spot before
sunrise. There we spread out, approximately a bowshot apart, that is to
say, two hundred yards. In parallel courses we traverse the country;
one just below the ridges where one nearly always finds a game trail;
one part way down, working through the wooded draws; and the third
going through the timber edge where deer are likely to lurk or bed
down.
In this way we cross-cut a good deal of country, and one or the other
is likely to come upon or rout out a buck. With great caution we
progress very quietly, searching every bit of cover, peering at every
fallen log, where deer often lie, standing to scrutinize every
conspicuous twig in anticipation that it may be horns. Does, of course,
we see in plenty. So carefully do we approach that often we have come
up within ten yards of female deer. Once Compton sneaked up on a doe
nursing her fawn. He crept so close that he could have thrown his hat
on them. While he watched, the mother got restless, seemed to sense
danger without scenting or seeing it. She moved off slowly, pulling her
teats out of the eager fawn's mouth, gave a flip to her hind legs and
hopped over him, then meandered leisurely to the crest of the hill. The
little fellow, unperturbed, licked his chops, ran his tongue up his
nose, shook his ears, and seeing mother waiting for him, trotted away
unaware of the possible danger of man. But we do not shoot does.