leaving us chagrined and disappointed. Sometimes one tries this and is
defeated. One evening as we returned to camp, making haste because of
the rapidly falling night, we startled a deer that plunged down the
steep slope before us. Instantly Compton drew to the head and shot. His
arrow led the bounding animal by ten yards. Just as the deer reached
cover at a distance of seventy-five yards, the arrow struck. It entered
his flank, ranged forward and emerged at the point of the opposite
shoulder. The deer turned and dashed into the bush. As it did so the
protruding arrow shaft snapped; we descended and picked up the broken
piece. Following the crashing descent of the buck down the canyon, we
found him some two hundred yards below, crumpled up and dead against a
madrone tree. It was a heart shot, one of the finest I ever hope to
see. Compton is a master at the judgment of distance and the speed of
running game.
Having worked out a piece of country by the method of sub-division, we
meet at a pre-arranged rendezvous and plan another sortie.
If the sun has not risen above the peaks, we continue this method of
combing the land until we know the time for bucks has passed. For this
reason we work the high points first, and the lower points last, for in
this way we take advantage of the slowly advancing illumination.
Sometimes, using glasses, we pick out a buck at a considerable
distance, either in his solitary retreat, or with a band of deer; and
we go after him. Here we figure out where he is traveling and make a
detour to intercept him. This is often heartbreaking work, up hill and
down dale, but all part of the game.
Young and Compton brought low a fine buck by this means on one of our
recent hunts. Seeing a three-pointer a mile distant, we all advanced at
a rapid pace. We reached suitable vantage ground just as the buck
became aware of our presence. At eighty yards Young shot an arrow and
pierced him through the chest. The deer leaped a ravine and took refuge
in a clump of bay trees. We surrounded this cover and waited for his
exit. Since he did not come out after due waiting, Compton cautiously
invaded the wooded area, saw the wounded deer deep in thought; he
finished him with a broad-head through the neck.
[Illustration: WOODCHUCKS GALORE!]
[Illustration: PORCUPINE QUILLS TO DECORATE A QUIVER]
[Illustration: A FATAL ARROW AT 65 YARDS]
[Illustration: THE CHIEF AND ART GET A BUCK AT 85 YARDS]
Not having had any large experience myself in hunting deer with
firearms, the use of the bow presented no great contrast. Mr. Young has
often said, however, that it gave him more pleasure to shoot at a deer
and miss it with an arrow, than to kill all the deer he ever had with a
gun. For my part, I did not want to kill anything with a gun. It did
not seem fair; so until I took up archery, I did not care to hunt.
Therefore, the analysis of my feelings interested me considerably as we
began to have experiences with the bow.
The first deer I shot at was so far off that there was no chance to hit
it, but I let drive just to get the sensation. My arrow sailed
harmlessly over its back. The next I shot at was within good range, but
my arrow only grazed its rump. And that deer did something that I never
saw before. It sagged in the middle until its belly nearly touched the
ground, then it gathered its seemingly weakened legs beneath it, and
galloped off in a series of bucks. We laughed immoderately over its
antics; in fact, some of our adventures have been most ludicrous at
times.
Once, when two of us shot at an old stag together as it raced far off
down the trail, the two arrows dropped twenty yards ahead of it.
Instantly the stag came to an abrupt stop, smelled first one arrow at
one side of the trail, and the other on the opposite side, deliberated
a moment, bolted sidewise and disappeared. What he got in his olfactory
investigation must have been confusing. He smelled man; he smelled
turkey feathers; and he smelled paint. What sort of animals do you
think he imagined the arrows to be?
This reminds me that Ishi always said that a white man smelled like a
horse, and in hunting made a noise like one, but apparently he doesn't
always have horse sense.
I saw this exemplified upon one occasion. When camped in a beautiful
little spot we were disturbed by the arrival of a party of some four
men, five horses, and three dogs--all heavily accoutred for the chase.
With our quiet Indian methods, we caused little excitement in the land,
but they burst in upon us with a fury that warned all game for miles
around.
The day after their arrival, alone on a trail, I heard one of this band
approaching; half a mile above me his noise preceded him. Down he came
over brush and stones. I stepped quietly beside a bush and waited as I
would for an oncoming elephant. With gun at right shoulder arms,
knapsack and canteen rattling, spiked shoes crunching, he marched past
me, eyes straight ahead; walking within ten yards and never saw me.
Twenty deer must have seen him where he saw one. That night this same
man came straggling wearily into our midst and asked the way to his
camp. He explained that he had put a piece of paper on a tree to guide
him, but that he could not find the tree. We asked him what luck. He
said that there were only does in the country. Perhaps he was right,
because that is all they shot. We found two down in the gullies after
they had gone. For a week they hunted all over the place with horses,
guns, and dogs, and got no legitimate game. During this same time,
beneath their very noses, we got two fine bucks. So much for the men of
iron.
The first buck I ever landed with the bow thrilled me to such an extent
that every detail is memorable. After a long, hard morning hunt, I was
returning to camp alone. It was nearly noon; the sun beat down on the
pungent dust of the trail, and all nature seemed sleepy. The air, heavy
with the fragrance of the pines, hardly stirred.
I was walking wearily along thinking of food, when suddenly my outer
visual fields picked up the image of a deer. I stopped. There, eighty
yards away, stood a three-year-old buck, grazing under an oak. His back
was toward me. I crouched and sneaked nearer. My arrow was nocked on
the string. The distance I measured carefully with my eye; it was now
sixty-five yards. Just then the deer raised its head. I let fly an
arrow at its neck. It flew between its horns. The deer gave a started
toss to its head, listened a second, then dipped its crest again to
feed. I nocked another shaft. As it raised its head again I shot. This
arrow flew wide of the neck, but at the right elevation. The buck now
was more startled and jumped so that it stood profile to me, looking
and listening. I dropped upon one knee. A little rising ground and
intervening brush partially concealed me. As I drew a third arrow from
my quiver its barb caught in the rawhide, and I swore a soft vicious
oath to steady my nerves. Then drawing my bow carefully, lowering my
aim and holding like grim death, I shot a beautifully released arrow.
It sped over the tops of the dried grass seeming to skim the ground
like a bird, and struck the deer full and hard in the chest. It was a
welcome thud. The beast leaped, bounded off some thirty yards,
staggered, drew back its head and wilted in the hind legs. I had stayed
immovable as wood. Seeing him failing, I ran swiftly forward, and
almost on the run at forty yards I drove a second arrow through his
heart. The deer died instantly.
Conflicting emotions of compassion and exultation surged through me,
and I felt weak, but I ran to my quarry, lifted his head on my knee and
claimed him in the name of Robin Hood.
Looking him over, it was apparent that my second shaft had hit him in
the base of the heart, emerged through the breast and only stopped in
its flight by striking the foreleg. The first arrow had gone completely
through the back part of the chest, severed the aorta, and flown past
him. There it lay, sticking deep into the ground twenty yards beyond
the spot where he stood when shot.
After the body had been cleaned and cooled in the shade of an oak, we
packed it home in the twilight, an easy burden for a light heart. This
is the fulfilment of the hunter's quest. It was the sweetest venison we
ever tasted.
We have had little experience in trailing deer on the snow and none in
the use of dogs to run them. Doubtless, the latter method under some
conditions is admirable, particularly in very brushy countries.
But we have preferred the still hunt. Lying in wait at licks we have
done so to study animal life and in conjunction with the Indian to
learn his methods, but neither the lick nor the ambush appealed to us
as sport. In fact, we have hunted deer more for meat than for trophies,
and quite a number of our kills have been in a way incidental to
hunting mountain lions or other predatory animals.
Once, when on a lion trail, the dogs ran down a steep trail ahead of
me, and there in the creek bottom they started a fine large buck. On
each side of the path the brush was very high, and up this corridor
dashed the buck. There was no room for him to pass, and he came upon me
with a rush. When less than twenty yards away, I hastily drew my bow
and drove an arrow deep into his breast. With a lateral bound he
cleared the brushy hedge and was lost to view. The dogs had been
trained not to follow deer; but since they saw me shoot it, they ran in
hot pursuit. I sounded my horn and brought them back, and scolded them.
But fearing to lose the deer, I decided to go down to the ranch house,
a couple of miles away, and borrow Jasper and his dog, Splinters. Now
Splinters was some sort of a mongrel fise, an insignificant-looking
little beast that had come originally from the city and presumably was
hopelessly civilized. Jasper, however, had recognized in him certain
latent talents and had trained him to follow wounded deer. He paid no
attention to any scent except that of deer blood. In an accidental
encounter with the hind foot of a horse, Splinters had lost the sight
of one eye and the use of one ear; but in spite of the lopsided
progression occasioned by this disability, he was infallible with
wounded bucks.
So Jasper came, and Splinters trotted along at his heels. At the spot
where the deer leaped off the trail, we let the dog smell a drop of
blood. After a deliberate, unexcited investigation, he began to wander
through the brush. Occasionally he stopped to stand on his hind legs
and nose the chaparral above him, then wandered on. Just about this
time I stepped on a rattlesnake, and, after a hasty change of location,
directed my efforts toward dispatching the snake. By the time I had
finished this worthy deed, Jasper and Splinters were lost to view; so I
sat down and waited. After a quarter of an hour I heard a distant
whistle.
Following Jasper's signal, I descended to the creek below me, went a
short distance up a side branch, and there were all three--Jasper,
Splinters, and the deer. The latter had made almost a complete circle,
half a mile in extent, and dropped in the creek, not a hundred yards
from his starting point.
My arrow had caused a most destructive wound in the lungs and great
vessels of the chest, and it was remarkable that the animal could have
gone so far. We were of the opinion that if my own dogs had not started
to run him, the deer would have gone but a short distance and lain down
where in a few minutes we could have found him dead.
While, after all, the object of deer hunting is to get your deer, it
does seem that some of our keenest delight has been when we have missed
it. So far, we have never shot one of those massive old bucks with
innumerable points to his antlers; they have all been adolescent or
prospective patriarchs. But several times we have almost landed the big
fellow.
Out of the quiet purple shadow of the forest one evening there stepped
the most stately buck I ever saw. His noble crest and carriage were
superb. On a grassy hillside, some hundred and fifty yards away, he
stood broadside on. With a rifle the merest tyro might have bowled him
over. In fact, he looked just like the royal stag in the picture.
Two of us were together--a little underbrush shielded us. We drew our
bows, loosed the arrows and off they flew. The flight of an arrow is a
beautiful thing; it is grace, harmony, and perfect geometry all in one.
They flew, and fell short. The deer only looked at them. We nocked
again and shot. This time we dropped them just beneath his belly. He
jumped forward a few paces and stopped to look at us. Slowly we reached
for a third arrow, slowly nocked and drew it, and away it went,
whispering in the air. One grazed his withers, the other pierced him
through the loose skin of the brisket and flew past.
With an upward leap he soared away in the woods and we sent our
blessing with him. His wound would heal readily, a mere scratch. We
picked up our arrows and returned to camp to have bacon for supper,
perfectly happy.
An arrow wound may be trivial, as was this one, or it may be
surprisingly deadly, as brought out by an experience of Arthur Young.
Once when stalking deer, the animal became alarmed and started to run
away behind a screen of scrub oak. Young, perceiving that he was about
to lose his quarry, shot at the indistinct moving body. Thinking that
he had missed his shot, he searched for his arrow and found that it had
plowed up the ground and buried its head deep in the earth. When he
picked it up, he noted that it was strangely damp, but since he could
not explain it, he dismissed the matter from his mind.
Next day, hunting over the same ground, he and Compton found the deer
less than a hundred and fifty yards from this spot. It had run, fallen,
bled, risen and fallen down hill, where it died of hemorrhage. Their
inspection showed that the arrow had struck back of the shoulder, gone
through the lungs and emerged beneath the jaw. With all this it had
flown yards beyond, struck deeply in the earth, and was only a trifle
damp.
Upon another occasion, while hunting cougars with a hound, I came
abruptly upon a doe and a buck in a deep ravine. It was open season and
we needed camp meat. Gauging my distance carefully, I shot at the buck,
striking him in the flank. For the first time in my life, I heard an
adult deer bleat. He gave an involuntary exclamation, whirled, but
since he knew not the location or the nature of his danger, he did not
run.
My hound was working higher up in the canyon, but he heard the bleat,
when like a wild beast he came charging through the undergrowth and
hurled himself with terrific force upon the startled deer, bearing him
to the ground. There was a fierce struggle for a brief moment in which
the buck wrenched himself free from the dog's hold upon his throat and
with an effort lunged down the slope and eluded us. Because of the many
deer trails and because the hound was unused to following deer, night
fell before we could locate him.
Next day we found the dead buck, but the lions had left little meat on
his bones--in fact, it seemed that a veritable den of these animals had
feasted on him.
The striking picture in my mind today is the fierceness and the savage
onslaught of my dog. Never did I suspect that the amiable, gentle pet
of our fireside could turn into such an overpowering, indomitable
killer. His assault was absolutely bloodthirsty. I've often thought how
grateful I should be that such an animal was my friend and companion in
the hunt and not my pursuer. How quickly the dog adjusts himself to the
bow! At first he is afraid of the long stick. But he soon gets the idea
and not waiting for the detonation of the gun, he accepts the hum of
the bowstring and the whirr of the arrow as signals for action. Some
dogs have even shown a tendency to retrieve our arrows for us, and
nothing suits them better than that we go on foot, and by their sides
can run with them and with our silent shafts can lay low what they
bring to bay. In fact, it is a perfect balance of power--the hound with
his wondrous nose, lean flanks and tireless legs; the man with his
human reason, the horn, and his bow and arrow.
We who have hunted thus, trod the forest trails, climbed the lofty
peaks, breathed the magic air, and viewed the endless roll of mountain
ridges, blue in the distance, have been blessed by the gods.
In all, we have shot about thirty deer with the bow. The majority of
these fell before the shafts of Will Compton, while Young and I have
contributed in a smaller measure to the count. Despite the vague
regrets we always feel at slaying so beautiful an animal, there is an
exultation about bringing into camp a haunch of venison, or hanging the
deer on the limb of a sheltering tree, there to cool near the icy
spring. By the glow of the campfire we broil savory loin steaks, and
when done eating, we sit in the gloaming and watch the stars come out.
Great Orion shines in all his glory, and the Hunters' Moon rises golden
and full through the skies.
Drowsy with happiness, we nestle down in our sleeping bags, resting on
a bed of fragrant boughs, and dream of the eternal chase.
XII
BEAR HUNTING
Killing bears with the bow and arrow is a very old pastime, in fact, it
ranks next in antiquity to killing them with a club. However, it has
faded so far into the dim realms of the past that it seems almost
mythical.
The bear has stood for all that is dangerous and horrible for ages. No
doubt, our ancestral experiences with the cave bears of Europe stamped
the dread of these mighty beasts indelibly in our hearts. The American
Indians in times gone past killed them with their primitive weapons,
but even they have not done it lately, so it can be considered a lost
art.
The Yana's method of hunting bears has been described. Here they made
an effort to shoot the beast in the open mouth. Ishi said that the
blood thus choked and killed him. But after examining the bear skulls,
it seems to me that a shot in the mouth is more likely to be fatal
because the base of the brain is here covered with the thinnest layers
of bone. Arrows can hardly penetrate the thick frontal bones of the
skull, but up through the palate there would be no difficulty in
entering the brain. At any rate, it is here that the Yana directed
their shots. Apparently, from Ishi's description, it took quite a time
to wear down and slay the animal.
All Indians seem to have had a wholesome respect for the grizzly, the
mighty brother of the mountains, and they gave him the right of way.
The black bear is, of course, the same animal whether brown or
cinnamon, these color variations are simply brunette, blonde and auburn
complexions, the essential anatomical and habit characteristics are
identical.
The American black bear at one time ranged all over the United States
and Canada. He has recently become a rare inhabitant of the eastern and
more thickly populated districts; yet it is astonishing to hear that
even in the year of 1920 some four hundred and sixty-five bears were
taken in the State of Pennsylvania.
In the western mountains he is to be met with quite frequently, but is
not given to unprovoked attack, and with modern firearms an encounter
with him is not fraught with great danger. He, or more properly, she
will charge man with intent to kill upon certain rare occasions--when
wounded, surprised, or when feeling that her young are in danger. But
the bear, in company with all the other animals of the wilds, has
learned to fear man since gunpowder was invented. Prior to this time,
it felt the game was more equal, and seldom avoided a meeting, even
courted it.
Bears are a mixture of the curious comedy traits with cunning and
savage ferocity. In some of their lighter moods and pilfering habits,
they add to the gayety of life.
While hunting in Wyoming one night, on coming to camp we discovered a
young black bear robbing our larder. He had a ham bone in his jaws as
we approached. Hastily nocking a blunt arrow on my bowstring, I let fly
at sixty yards as he started to make his escape. I did not wish to
kill, only admonish him. The arrow flew in a swift chiding stroke and
smote him on his furry side with a dull thud. With a grunt and a bound,
he dropped the bone and scampered off into the forest while the arrow
rattled to the ground. His antics of surprise were most ludicrous. We
sped him on his way with hilarious shouts; he never came again.
Upon a different occasion with another party, where the camp was
bothered by the midnight foraging of a bear, our guide arranged to play
a practical joke upon a certain "tenderfoot." Unknown to the victim, he
tied a chunk of bacon to the corner of his sleeping bag with a piece of
bale wire. In the middle of the night the camp was awakened by a
pandemonium as the sleeping bag, man and all disappeared down the slope
and landed in the creek bed below, where the determined bear, hanging
on to the bacon, dragged the protesting tenderfoot. Here he abandoned
his noisy burden and left the scene of excitement. No doubt, this goes
down in the annals of both families as the most dramatic and stirring
moment of life.
Bear stories of this sort tend to give one the idea that these beasts
can be petted and made trustworthy companions. In fact, certain
sentimental devotees of nature foster the sentiment that wild animals
need naught but kindness and loving thoughts to become the bosom friend
of man. Such sophists would find that they had made a fatal mistake if
they could carry out their theories. The old feud between man and beast
still exists and will exist until all wild life is exterminated or is
semi-domesticated in game preserves and refuges.
Even domestic cattle allowed to run wild are extremely dangerous. Their
fear of man breeds their desperate assault when cornered.
The black bear has killed and will kill men when brought to bay or
wounded or even when he feels himself cornered.
Although largely vegetarian, bear also capture and devour prey. Young
deer, marmots, ground squirrels, sheep, and cattle are their diet. In
certain districts great damage is done to flocks by bears that have
become killers. In our hunts we have come across dead sheep, slain and
partially devoured by black bears. All ranchers can tell of the
depredations of these animals.
In Oregon and the northern part of California, there are many men who
make it their business to trap or run bears with dogs to secure their
hides and to sell their meat to the city markets. It is a hardy sport
and none but the most stalwart and experienced can hope to succeed at
it. In the late autumn and early winter the bears are fat and in prime
condition for capture.
Having graduated from ground squirrels, quail and rabbits, and having
laid low the noble deer, we who shoot the bow became presumptuous and
wanted to kill bear with our weapons. So, learning of a certain
admirable hunter up in Humboldt County by the name of Tom Murphy, we
wrote to him with our proposal. He was taken with the idea of the bow
and arrow and invited us to join him in some of his winter excursions.
In November, 1918, we arrived in the little village of Blocksburg, on
the outskirts of which was Murphy's ranch. In normal times, Tom cuts
wood, and raises cattle and grain for the market. In the winter months
he hunts bear for profit and recreation. In the spring after his
planting is done he also runs coyotes with dogs and makes a good income
on bounties.
We found Murphy a quiet-spoken, intelligent man of forty-five years,
married, and having two daughters. I was surprised to see such a
redoubtable bear-slayer so modest and kindly. We liked him immediately.
It is an interesting observation that all the notable hunters that have
guided us on our trips have been rather shy, soft-spoken men who
neither smoked nor drank.
Arthur Young and I constituted the archery brigade. We brought with us
in the line of artillery two bows and some two dozen arrows apiece. We
also brought our musical instruments. Not only do we shoot, but in camp
we sit by the fire at night and play sweet harmonies till bedtime.
Young is a finished violinist, and he has an instrument so cut down and
abbreviated that with a short violin bow he can pack it in his bed
roll. Its sound is very much like that of a violin played with a mute.
My own instrument was an Italian mandolin with its body reduced to a
box less than three inches square. It also is carried in a blanket roll
and is known as the camp mosquito.
Young is a master at improvising second parts, double stopping, and
obbligato accompaniments. So together we call all the sweet melodies
out of the past and play on indefinitely by ear. In the glow of the
camp-fire, out in the woods, this music has a peculiar plaintive appeal
dear to our hearts.
With these charms we soon won the Murphy family and Tom was eager to
see us shoot. He had heard that we shot deer, but he was rather
skeptical that our arrows could do much damage to bear. So one of the
first things he did after our arrival was to drag out an old dried hide
and hang it on a fence in the corral and asked me to shoot an arrow
through it. It was surely a test, for the old bear had been a tough
customer and his hide was half an inch thick and as hard as sole
leather.