HUNTING IN THE CATTLE COUNTRY; THE PRONGBUCK
The prongbuck is the most characteristic and distinctive of American
game animals. Zoologically speaking, its position is unique. It is the
only hollow-horned ruminant which sheds its horns, or rather the horn
sheaths. We speak of it as an antelope, and it does of course represent
on our prairies the antelopes of the Old World; but it stands apart from
all other horned animals. Its place in the natural world is almost as
lonely as that of the giraffe. In all its ways and habits it differs as
much from deer and elk as from goat and sheep. Now that the buffalo has
gone, it is the only game really at home on the wide plains. It is a
striking-looking little creature, with its prominent eyes,
single-pronged horns, and the sharply contrasted white, brown and
reddish of its coat. The brittle hair is stiff, coarse and springy; on
the rump it is brilliantly white, and is erected when the animal is
alarmed or excited, so as to be very conspicuous. In marked contrast to
deer, antelope never seek to elude observation; all they care for is to
be able themselves to see. As they have good noses and wonderful eyes,
and as they live by preference where there is little or no cover, shots
at them are usually obtained at far longer range than is the case with
other game; and yet, as they are easily seen, and often stand looking at
the hunter just barely within very long rifle-range, they are always
tempting their pursuer to the expenditure of cartridges. More shots are
wasted at antelope than at any other game. They would be even harder to
secure were it not that they are subject to fits of panic folly, or
excessive curiosity, which occasionally put them fairly at the mercy of
the rifle-bearing hunter.
In the old days the prongbuck was found as soon as the westward-moving
traveller left the green bottom-lands of the Mississippi, and from
thence across to the dry, open valleys of California, and northward to
Canada and southward into Mexico. It has everywhere been gradually
thinned out, and has vanished altogether from what were formerly the
extreme easterly and westerly limits of its range. The rates of
extermination of the different kinds of big game have been very unequal
in different localities. Each kind of big game has had its own peculiar
habitat in which it throve best, and each has also been found more or
less plentifully in other regions where the circumstances were less
favorable; and in these comparatively unfavorable regions it early tends
to disappear before the advance of man. In consequence, where the ranges
of the different game animals overlap and are intertwined, one will
disappear first in one locality, and another will disappear first where
the conditions are different. Thus the whitetail deer had thrust forward
along the very narrow river bottoms into the domain of the mule-deer and
the prongbuck among the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, and in these
places it was exterminated from the narrow strips which it inhabited
long before the mule-deer vanished from the high hills, or the prongbuck
from the great open plains. But along great portions of the Missouri
there are plenty of whitetails yet left in the river bottoms, while the
mule-deer that once dwelt in the broken hills behind them, and the
prongbuck which lived on the prairie just back of these bluffs, have
both disappeared. In the same way the mule-deer and the prongbuck are
often found almost intermingled through large regions in which plains,
hills, and mountains alternate. If such a region is mainly mountainous,
but contains a few valleys and table-lands, the prongbuck is sure to
vanish from the latter before the mule-deer vanishes from the broken
country. But if the region is one primarily of plains, with here and
there rows of rocky hills in which the mule-deer is found, the latter is
killed off long before the prongbuck can be hunted out of the great open
stretches. The same is true of the pronghorn and the wapiti. The size
and value of the wapiti make it an object of eager persecution on the
part of hunters. But as it can live in the forest-clad fastnesses of the
Rockies, into which settlement does not go, it outlasts over great
regions the pronghorn, whose abode is easily penetrated by sheep and
cattle men. Under anything like even conditions, however, the prongbuck,
of course, outlasts the wapiti. This was the case on the Little
Missouri. On that stream the bighorn also outlasted the wapiti. In 1881
wapiti were still much more plentiful than bighorns. Within the next
decade they had almost totally disappeared, while the bighorn was still
to be found; I shot one and saw others in 1893, at which time I had not
authentic information of a single wapiti remaining anywhere on the river
in my neighborhood, although it is possible that one or two still lurked
in some out-of-the-way recess. In Colorado at one time the bighorn was
nearly exterminated, while the wapiti still withstood the havoc made
among its huge herds; then followed a period in which the rapidity of
destruction of the wapiti increased far beyond that of the bighorn.
I mention these facts partly because they are of interest in themselves,
but chiefly because they tend to explain the widely different opinions
expressed by competent observers about what superficially seem to be
similar facts. It cannot be too often repeated that allowance must be
made for the individual variability in the traits and characters of
animals of the same species, and especially of the same species under
different circumstances and in different localities; and allowance must
also be made for the variability of the individual factor in the
observers themselves. Many seemingly contradictory observations of the
habits of deer, wapiti, and prongbuck will be found in books by the best
hunters. Take such questions as the keenness of sight of the deer as
compared with the prongbuck, and of the pugnacity of the wapiti, both
actual and relative, and a wide difference of opinion will be found in
three such standard works as Dodge’s “The Hunting-grounds of the Great
West,” Caton’s “Deer and Antelope of America,” and the contributions of
Mr. Grinnell to the “Century Book of Sports.” Sometimes the difference
will be in mere matters of opinion, as, for instance, in the belief as
to the relative worth of the sport furnished by the chase of the
different creatures; but sometimes there is a direct conflict of fact.
Colonel Dodge, for instance, has put it upon record that the wapiti is
an exceedingly gentle animal, less dangerous than a whitetail or
blacktail buck in a close encounter, and that the bulls hardly ever
fight among themselves. My own experience leads me to traverse in the
most emphatic manner every one of these conclusions, and all hunters
whom I have met feel exactly as I do; yet no one would question for a
moment Colonel Dodge’s general competency as an observer. In the same
way Mr. Grinnell has a high opinion of the deer’s keenness of sight.
Judge Caton absolutely disagrees with him, and my own experience tends
to agree with that of the Judge—at least to the extent of placing the
deer’s vision far below that of the prongbuck and even that of the
bighorn, and only on a par with that of the wapiti. Yet Mr. Grinnell is
an unusually competent observer, whose opinion on any such subject is
entitled to unqualified respect.
Difference in habits may be due simply to difference of locality, or to
the need of adaptation to new conditions. The prongbuck’s habits about
migration offer examples of the former kind of difference. Over portions
of its range the prongbuck is not migratory at all. In other parts the
migrations are purely local. In yet other regions the migrations are
continued for great distances, immense multitudes of the animals going
to and fro in the spring and fall along well-beaten tracks. I know of
one place in New Mexico where the pronghorn herds are tenants of certain
great plains throughout the entire year. I know another region in
northwestern Colorado where the very few prongbucks still left, though
they shift from valley to valley, yet spend the whole year in the same
stretch of rolling, barren country. On the Little Missouri, however,
during the eighties and early nineties, there was a very distinct though
usually local migration. Before the Black Hills had been settled they
were famous wintering places for the antelope, which swarmed from great
distances to them when cold weather approached; those which had summered
east of the Big Missouri actually swam the river in great herds, on
their journey to the Hills. The old hunters around my ranch insisted
that formerly the prongbuck had for the most part travelled from the
Little Missouri Bad Lands into the Black Hills for the winter.
[Illustration:
ON THE LITTLE MISSOURI
]
When I was ranching on that river, however, this custom no longer
obtained, for the Black Hills were too well settled, and the herds of
prongbuck that wintered there were steadily diminishing in numbers. At
that time, from 1883 to 1896, the seasonal change in habits, and shift
of position, of the prongbucks were well marked. As soon as the new
grass sprang they appeared in great numbers upon the plains. They were
especially fond of the green, tender blades that came up where the
country had been burned over. If the region had been devastated by
prairie fires in the fall, the next spring it was certain to contain
hundreds and thousands of prongbucks. All through the summer they
remained out on these great open plains, coming to drink at the little
pools in the creek beds, and living where there was no shelter of any
kind. As winter approached they began to gather in bands. Some of these
bands apparently had regular wintering places to the south of us, in
Pretty Buttes and beyond; and close to my ranch, at the crossing of the
creek called Beaver, there were certain trails which these antelope
regularly travelled, northward in the spring and southward in the fall.
But other bands would seek out places in the Bad Lands near by,
gathering together on some succession of plateaus which were protected
by neighboring hills from the deep drifts of snow. Here they passed the
winter, on short commons, it is true (they graze, not browsing like
deer), but without danger of perishing in the snowdrifts. On the other
hand, if the skin-hunters discovered such a wintering place, they were
able to butcher practically the entire band, if they so desired, as the
prongbucks were always most reluctant to leave such a chosen ground.
Normally the prongbuck avoids both broken ground and timber. It is a
queer animal, with keen senses, but with streaks of utter folly in its
character. Time and again I have known bands rush right by me, when I
happened to surprise them feeding near timber or hills, and got between
them and the open plains. The animals could have escaped without the
least difficulty if they had been willing to go into the broken country,
or through even a few rods of trees and brush; and yet they preferred to
rush madly by me at close range, in order to get out to their favorite
haunts. But nowadays there are certain localities where the prongbucks
spend a large part of their time in the timber or in rough, hilly
country, feeding and bringing up their young in such localities.
Typically, however, the prongbuck is preeminently a beast of the great
open plains, eating their harsh, dry pasturage, and trusting to its own
keen senses and speed for its safety. All the deer are fond of skulking;
the whitetail preeminently so. The prongbuck, on the contrary, never
endeavors to elude observation. Its sole aim is to be able to see its
enemies, and it cares nothing whatever about its enemies seeing it. Its
coloring is very conspicuous, and is rendered still more so by its habit
of erecting the white hair on its rump. It has a very erect carriage,
and when it thinks itself in danger it always endeavors to get on some
crest or low hill from which it can look all about. The big bulging
eyes, situated at the base of the horns, scan the horizon far and near
like twin telescopes. They pick out an object at such a distance that it
would entirely escape the notice of a deer. When suspicious, they have a
habit of barking, uttering a sound something like “kau,” and repeating
it again and again, as they walk up and down, endeavoring to find out if
danger lurks in the unusual object. They are extremely curious, and in
the old days it was often possible to lure them toward the hunter by
waving a red handkerchief to and fro on a stick, or even by lying on
one’s back and kicking the legs. Nowadays, however, there are very few
localities indeed in which they are sufficiently unsophisticated to make
it worth while trying these time-honored tricks of the long-vanished
trappers and hunters.
Along the Little Missouri the fawns, sometimes one and sometimes two in
number, were dropped in May or early in June. At that time the antelope
were usually found in herds which the mother did not leave until she was
about to give birth to the fawn. During the first few days the fawn’s
safety is to be found only in its not attracting attention. During this
time it normally lies perfectly flat on the ground, with its head
outstretched, and makes no effort to escape. While out on the spring
round-up I have come across many of these fawns. Once, in company with
several cowboys, I was riding behind a bunch of cattle which, as we
hurried them, spread out in open order ahead of us. Happening to cast
down my eyes I saw an antelope fawn directly ahead of me. The bunch of
cattle had passed all around it, but it made not the slightest sign, not
even when I halted, got off my pony, and took it up in my arms. It was
useless to take it to camp and try to rear it, and so I speedily put it
down again. Scanning the neighborhood, I saw the doe hanging about some
half a mile off, and when I looked back from the next divide I could see
her gradually drawing near to the fawn.
If taken when very young, antelope make cunning and amusing pets, and I
have often seen them around the ranches. There was one in the ranch of a
Mrs. Blank who had a station on the Deadwood stage line some eighteen
years ago. She was a great worker in buckskin, and I got her to make me
the buckskin shirt I still use. There was an antelope fawn that lived at
the house, wandering wherever it wished; but it would not permit me to
touch it. As I sat inside the house it would come in and hop up on a
chair, looking at me sharply all the while. No matter how cautiously I
approached, I could never put my hand upon it, as at the last moment it
would spring off literally as quick as a bird would fly. One of my
neighbors on the Little Missouri, Mr. Howard Eaton, had at one time upon
his ranch three little antelope whose foster-mother was a sheep, and who
were really absurdly tame. I was fond of patting them and of giving them
crusts, and the result was that they followed me about so closely that I
had to be always on the lookout to see that I did not injure them. They
were on excellent terms with the dogs, and were very playful. It was a
comic sight to see them skipping and hopping about the old ewe when
anything happened to alarm her and she started off at a clumsy waddle.
Nothing could surpass the tameness of the antelope that are now under
Mr. Hornaday’s care at the Bronx Zoological Garden in New York. The last
time that I visited the garden some repairs were being made inside the
antelope enclosure, and a dozen workmen had gone in to make them. The
antelope regarded the workmen with a friendliness and curiosity
untempered by the slightest touch of apprehension. When the men took off
their coats the little creatures would nose them over to see if they
contained anything edible, and they would come close up and watch the
men plying the pick with the utmost interest. Mr. Hornaday took us
inside, and they all came up in the most friendly manner. One or two of
the bucks would put their heads against our legs and try to push us
around, but not roughly. Mr. Hornaday told me that he was having great
difficulty, exactly as with the mule-deer, in acclimatizing the
antelope, especially as the food was so different from what they were
accustomed to in their native haunts.
The wild fawns are able to run well a few days after they are born. They
then accompany the mother everywhere. Sometimes she joins a band of
others; more often she stays alone with her fawn, and perhaps one of the
young of the previous year, until the rut begins. Of all game the
prongbuck seems to me the most excitable during the rut. The males run
the does much as do the bucks of the mule and whitetail deer. If there
are no does present, I have sometimes watched a buck run to and fro by
himself. The first time I saw this I was greatly interested, and could
form no idea of what the buck was doing. He was by a creek bed in a
slight depression or shallow valley, and was grazing uneasily. After a
little while he suddenly started and ran just as hard as he could, off
in a straight direction, nearly away from me. I thought that somehow or
other he had discovered my presence; but he suddenly wheeled and came
back to the original place, still running at his utmost speed. Then he
halted, moved about with the white hairs on his rump outspread, and
again dashed off at full speed, halted, wheeled, and came back. Two or
three times he did this, and let me get very close to him before he
discovered me. I was too much interested in what he was doing to desire
to shoot him.
In September, sometimes not earlier than October, the big bucks begin to
gather the does into harems. Each buck is then constantly on the watch
to protect his harem from outsiders, and steal another doe if he can get
a chance. I have seen a comparatively young buck who had appropriated a
doe, hustle her hastily out of the country as soon as he saw another
antelope in the neighborhood; while, on the other hand, a big buck,
already with a good herd of does, will do his best to appropriate any
other that comes in sight. The bucks fight fearlessly but harmlessly
among themselves, locking their horns and then pushing as hard as they
can.
Although their horns are not very formidable weapons, they are bold
little creatures, and if given a chance will stand at bay before either
hound or coyote. A doe will fight most gallantly for her fawn, and is an
overmatch for a single coyote, but of course she can do but little
against a large wolf. The wolves are occasionally very destructive to
the herds. The cougar, however, which is a much worse foe than the wolf
to deer and mountain sheep, can but rarely molest the prongbuck, owing
to the nature of the latter’s haunts. Eagles, on occasion, take the
fawns, as they do those of deer.
I have always been fond of the chase of the prongbuck. While I lived on
my ranch on the Little Missouri it was, next to the mule-deer, the game
which I most often followed, and on the long wagon strips which I
occasionally took from my ranch to the Black Hills, to the Big Horn
Mountains, or into eastern Montana, prongbuck venison was our usual
fresh meat, save when we could kill prairie-chickens and ducks with our
rifles, which was not always feasible. In my mind the prongbuck is
always associated with the open prairies during the spring, summer, or
early fall. It has happened that I have generally pursued the bighorn in
bitter weather; and when we laid in our stock of winter meat, mule-deer
was our usual game. Though I have shot prongbuck in winter, I never
liked to do so, as I felt the animals were then having a sufficiently
hard struggle for existence anyhow. But in the spring the meat of the
prongbuck was better than that of any other game, and, moreover, there
was not the least danger of mistaking the sexes, and killing a doe
accidentally, and accordingly I rarely killed anything but pronghorns at
that season. In those days we never got any fresh meat, whether on the
ranch or while on the round-up or on a wagon trip, unless we shot it,
and salt pork became a most monotonous diet after a time.
Occasionally I killed the prongbuck in a day’s hunt from my ranch. If I
started with the intention of prongbuck hunting, I always went on
horseback; but twice I killed them on foot when I happened to run across
them by accident while looking for mule-deer. I shall always remember
one of these occasions. I was alone in the Elkhorn ranch-house at the
time, my foreman and the only cow-puncher who was not on the round-up
having driven to Medora, some forty miles away, in order to bring down
the foreman’s wife and sister, who were going to spend the summer with
him. It was the fourth day of his absence. I expected him in the evening
and wanted to have fresh meat, and so after dinner I shouldered my rifle
and strolled off through the hills. It was too early in the day to
expect to see anything, and my intention was simply to walk out until I
was five or six miles from the ranch, and then work carefully home
through a likely country toward sunset, as by this arrangement I would
be in a good game region at the very time that the animals were likely
to stir abroad. It was a glaring, late-spring day, and in the hot sun of
mid-afternoon I had no idea that anything would be moving, and was not
keeping a very sharp lookout. After an hour or two’s steady tramping I
came into a long, narrow valley, bare of trees and brushwood, and
strolled along it, following a cattle trail that led up the middle. The
hills rose steeply into a ridge crest on each side, sheer clay shoulders
breaking the mat of buffalo-grass which elsewhere covered the sides of
the valley as well as the bottom. It was very hot and still, and I was
paying but little attention to my surroundings, when my eye caught a
sudden movement on the ridge crest to my right, and, dropping on one
knee as I wheeled around, I saw the head and neck of a prongbuck rising
above the crest. The animal was not above a hundred yards off, and stood
motionless as it stared at me. At the crack of the rifle the head
disappeared; but as I sprang clear of the smoke I saw a cloud of dust
rise on the other side of the ridge crest, and felt convinced that the
quarry had fallen. I was right. On climbing the ridge crest I found that
on the other side it sank abruptly in a low cliff of clay, and at the
foot of this, thirty feet under me, the prongbuck lay with its neck
broken. After dressing it I shouldered the body entire, thinking that I
should like to impress the new-comers by the sight of so tangible a
proof of my hunting prowess as whole prongbuck hanging up in the
cottonwoods by the house. As it was a well-grown buck the walk home
under the hot sun was one of genuine toil.
The spot where I ran across this prongbuck was miles away from the
nearest plains, and it was very unusual to see one in such rough
country. In fact, the occurrence was wholly exceptional; just as I once
saw three bighorn rams, which usually keep to the roughest country,
deliberately crossing the river bottom below my ranch, and going for
half a mile through the thick cottonwood timber. Occasionally, however,
parties of prongbuck came down the creek bottoms to the river. Once I
struck a couple of young bucks in the bottom of a creek which led to the
Chimney Butte ranch-house, and stalked them without difficulty; for as
prongbuck make no effort to hide, if there is good cover even their
sharp eyes do not avail them. On another occasion several does and
fawns, which we did not molest, spent some time on what we called “the
corral bottom,” which was two or three miles above the ranch-house. In
the middle of this bottom we had built a corral for better convenience
in branding the calves when the round-up came near our ranch—as the
bottom on which the ranch-house stood was so thickly wooded as to make
it difficult to work cattle thereon. The does and fawns hung around the
corral bottom for some little time, and showed themselves very curious
and by no means shy.
When I went from the ranch for a day’s prongbuck hunting of set purpose,
I always rode a stout horse and started by dawn. The prongbucks are
almost the only game that can be hunted as well during the heat of the
day as at any other time. They occasionally lie down for two or three
hours about noon in some hollow where they cannot be seen, but usually
there is no place where they are sure they can escape observation even
when resting; and when this is the case they choose a somewhat
conspicuous station and trust to their own powers of observation,
exactly as they do when feeding. There is therefore no necessity, as
with deer, of trying to strike them at dawn or dusk. The reason why I
left the ranch before sunrise and often came back long after dark was
because I had to ride at least a dozen miles to get out to the ground
and a dozen to get back, and if after industrious walking I failed at
first to find my game, I would often take the horse again and ride for
an hour or two to get into new country. Prongbuck water once a day,
often travelling great distances to or from some little pool or spring.
Of course, if possible, I liked to leave the horse by such a pool or
spring. On the great plains to which I used to make these excursions
there was plenty of water in early spring, and it would often run, here
and there, in the upper courses of some of the creeks—which, however,
usually contained running water only when there had been a cloudburst or
freshet. As the season wore on the country became drier and drier. Water
would remain only in an occasional deep hole, and few springs were left
in which there was so much as a trickle. In a strange country I could
not tell where these water-holes were, but in the neighborhood of the
ranch I of course knew where I was likely to find them. Often, however,
I was disappointed; and more than once after travelling many miles to
where I hoped to find water, there would be nothing but sun-cracked mud,
and the horse and I would have eighteen hours of thirst in consequence.
A ranch horse, however, is accustomed to such incidents, and of course
when a man spends half the time riding, it is merely a matter of slight
inconvenience to go so long without a drink.
Nevertheless, if I did reach a spring, it turned the expedition into
pleasure instead of toil. Even in the hot weather the ride toward the
plains over the hills was very lovely. It was beautiful to see the red
dawn quicken from the first glimmering gray in the east, and then to
watch the crimson bars glint on the tops of the fantastically shaped
barren hills when the sun flamed, burning and splendid, above the
horizon. In the early morning the level beams threw into sharp relief
the strangely carved and channelled cliff walls of the buttes. There was
rarely a cloud to dim the serene blue of the sky. By the time the heat
had grown heavy I had usually reached the spring or pool, where I
unsaddled the horse, watered him, and picketed him out to graze. Then,
under the hot sun, I would stride off for the hunting proper. On such
occasions I never went to where the prairie was absolutely flat. There
were always gently rolling stretches broken by shallow watercourses,
slight divides, and even low mounds, sometimes topped with strangely
shaped masses of red scoria or with petrified trees. My object, of
course, was, either with my unaided eyes or with the help of my glasses,
to catch sight of the prongbucks before they saw me. I speedily found,
by the way, that if they were too plentiful this was almost impossible.
The more abundant deer are in a given locality the more apt one is to
run across them, and of course if the country is sufficiently broken,
the same is true of prongbucks; but where it is very flat and there are
many different bands in sight at the same time, it is practically
impossible to keep out of sight of all of them, and as they are also all
in sight of one another, if one flees the others are certain to take the
alarm. Under such circumstances I have usually found that the only
pronghorns I got were obtained by accident, so to speak; that is, by
some of them unexpectedly running my way, or by my happening to come
across them in some nook where I could not see them, or they me.
Prongbucks are very fast runners indeed, even faster than deer. They
vary greatly in speed, however, precisely as is the case with deer; in
fact, I think that the average hunter makes altogether too little
account of this individual variation among different animals of the same
kind. Under the same conditions different deer and antelope vary in
speed and wariness, exactly as bears and cougars vary in cunning and
ferocity. When in perfect condition a full-grown buck antelope, from its
strength and size, is faster and more enduring than an old doe; but a
fat buck, before the rut has begun, will often be pulled down by a
couple of good greyhounds much more speedily than a flying yearling or
two-year-old doe. Under favorable circumstances, when the antelope was
jumped near by, I have seen one overhauled and seized by a first-class
greyhound; and, on the other hand, I have more than once seen a
pronghorn run away from a whole pack of just as good dogs. With a fair
start, and on good ground, a thoroughbred horse, even though handicapped
by the weight of a rider, will run down an antelope; but this is a feat
which should rarely be attempted, because such a race, even when carried
to a successful issue, is productive of the utmost distress to the
steed.
Ordinary horses will sometimes run down an antelope which is slower than
the average. I once had on my ranch an under-sized old Indian pony named
White Eye, which, when it was fairly roused, showed a remarkable turn of
speed, and had great endurance. One morning on the round-up, when for
some reason we did not work the cattle, I actually ran down an antelope
in fair chase on this old pony. It was a nursing doe, and I came over
the crest of the hill, between forty and fifty yards away from it. As it
wheeled to start back, the old cayuse pricked up his ears with great
interest, and the moment I gave him a sign was after it like a shot.
Whether, being a cow-pony, he started to run it just as if it were a
calf or a yearling trying to break out of the herd, or whether he was
overcome by dim reminiscences of buffalo-hunting in his Indian youth, I
know not. At any rate, after the doe he went, and in a minute or two I
found I was drawing up to her. I had a revolver, but of course did not
wish to kill her, and so got my rope ready to try to take her alive. She
ran frantically, but the old pony, bending level to the ground, kept up
his racing lope and closed right in beside her. As I came up she fairly
bleated. An expert with the rope would have captured her with the utmost
ease; but I missed, sending the coil across her shoulders. She again
gave an agonized bleat, or bark, and wheeled around like a shot. The
cow-pony stopped almost, but not quite, as fast, and she got a slight
start, and it was some little time before I overhauled her again. When I
did I repeated the performance, and this time when she wheeled she
succeeded in getting on some ground where I could not follow, and I was
thrown out.
Normally, a horseman without greyhounds can hope for nothing more than
to get within fair shooting range; and this only by taking advantage of
the prongbucks’ peculiarity of running straight ahead in the direction
in which they are pointed, when once they have settled into their pace.
Usually, as soon as they see a hunter they run straight away from him;
but sometimes they make their flight at an angle, and as they do not
like to change their course when once started, it is thus possible, with
a good horse, to cut them off from the point toward which they are
headed, and get a reasonably close shot.
I have done a good deal of coursing with greyhounds at one time or
another, but always with scratch packs. There are a few ranchmen who
keep leashes of greyhounds of pure blood, bred and trained to antelope
coursing, and who do their coursing scientifically, carrying the dogs
out to the hunting-grounds in wagons and exercising every care in the
sport; but these men are rare. The average man who dwells where antelope
are sufficiently abundant to make coursing a success, simply follows the
pursuit at odd moments, with whatever long-legged dogs he and his
neighbors happen to have; and his methods of coursing are apt to be as
rough as his outfit. My own coursing was precisely of this character. At
different times I had on my ranch one or two high-classed greyhounds and
Scotch deerhounds, with which we coursed deer and antelope, as well as
jack-rabbits, foxes, and coyotes; and we usually had with them one or
two ordinary hounds, and various half-bred dogs. I must add, however,
that some of the latter were very good. I can recall in particular one
fawn-colored beast, a cross between a greyhound and a foxhound, which
ran nearly as fast as the former, though it occasionally yelped in
shrill tones. It could also trail well, and was thoroughly game; on one
occasion it ran down and killed a coyote single-handed.
On going out with these dogs, I rarely chose a day when I was actually
in need of fresh meat. If this was the case, I usually went alone with
the rifle; but if one or two other men were at the ranch, and we wanted
a morning’s fun, we would often summon the dogs, mount our horses, and
go trooping out to the antelope-ground. As there was good deer-country
between the ranch bottom and the plains where we found the prongbuck, it
not infrequently happened that we had a chase after blacktail or
whitetail on the way. Moreover, when we got out to the ground, before
sighting antelope, it frequently happened that the dogs would jump a
jack-rabbit or a fox, and away the whole set would go after it,
streaking through the short grass, sometimes catching their prey in a
few hundred yards, and sometimes having to run a mile or so. In
consequence, by the time we reached the regular hunting-ground the dogs
were apt to have lost a good deal of their freshness. We would get them
in behind the horses and creep cautiously along, trying to find some
solitary prongbuck in a suitable place, where we could bring up the dogs
from behind a hillock and give them a fair start. Usually we failed to
get the dogs near enough for a good start; and in most cases their
chases after unwounded prongbuck resulted in the quarry running clean
away from them. Thus the odds were greatly against them; but, on the
other hand, we helped them wherever possible with the rifle. We usually
rode well scattered out, and if one of us put up an antelope, or had a
chance at one when driven by the dogs, he always fired, and the pack
were saved from the ill effects of total discouragement by so often
getting these wounded beasts. It was astonishing to see how fast an
antelope with a broken leg could run. If such a beast had a good start,
and especially if the dogs were tired, it would often lead them a hard
chase, and the dogs would be utterly exhausted after it had been killed;
so that we would have to let them lie where they were for a long time
before trying to lead them down to some stream-bed. If possible, we
carried water for them in canteens.
There were red-letter days, however, on which our dogs fairly ran down
and killed unwounded antelope—days when the weather was cool, and when
it happened that we got our dogs out to the ground without their being
tired by previous runs, and found our quarry soon, and in favorable
places for slipping the hounds. I remember one such chase in particular.
We had at the time a mixed pack, in which there was only one dog of my
own, the others being contributed from various sources. It included two
greyhounds, a rough-coated deerhound, a foxhound, and the fawn-colored
cross-bred mentioned above.
We rode out in the early morning, the dogs trotting behind us; and,
coming to a low tract of rolling hills, just at the edge of the great
prairie, we separated and rode over the crest of the nearest ridge. Just
as we topped it, a fine buck leaped up from a hollow a hundred yards
off, and turned to look at us for a moment. All the dogs were instantly
spinning toward him down the grassy slope. He apparently saw those at
the right, and, turning, raced away from us in a diagonal line, so that
the left-hand greyhound, which ran cunning and tried to cut him off, was
very soon almost alongside. He saw her, however—she was a very fast
bitch—just in time, and, wheeling, altered his course to the right. As
he reached the edge of the prairie, this alteration nearly brought him
in contact with the cross-bred, which had obtained a rather poor start,
on the extreme right of the line. Around went the buck again, evidently
panic-struck and puzzled to the last degree, and started straight off
across the prairie, the dogs literally at his heels, and we, urging our
horses with whip and spur, but a couple of hundred yards behind. For
half a mile the pace was tremendous, when one of the greyhounds made a
spring at his ear, but failing to make good his hold, was thrown off.
However, it halted the buck for a moment, and made him turn quarter
round, and in a second the deerhound had seized him by the flank and
thrown him, and all the dogs piled on top, never allowing him to rise.
Later we again put up a buck not far off. At first it went slowly, and
the dogs hauled up on it; but when they got pretty close, it seemed to
see them, and letting itself out, went clean away from them almost
without effort.
Once or twice we came upon bands of antelope, and the hounds would
immediately take after them. I was always rather sorry for this,
however, because the frightened animals, as is generally the case when
beasts are in a herd, seemed to impede one another, and the chase
usually ended by the dogs seizing a doe, for it was of course impossible
to direct them to any particular beast.
It will be seen that with us coursing was a homely sport. Nevertheless
we had good fun, and I shall always have enjoyable memories of the rapid
gallops across the prairie, on the trail of a flying prongbuck.
Usually my pronghorn hunting has been done while I have been off with a
wagon on a trip intended primarily for the chase, or else while
travelling for some other purpose.
[Illustration:
CAMPING ON THE ANTELOPE GROUNDS
]
All life in the wilderness is so pleasant that the temptation is to
consider each particular variety, while one is enjoying it, as better
than any other. A canoe trip through the great forests, a trip with a
pack-train among the mountains, a trip on snowshoes through the silent,
mysterious fairyland of the woods in winter—each has its peculiar charm.
To some men the sunny monotony of the great plains is wearisome;
personally there are few things I have enjoyed more than journeying over
them where the game was at all plentiful. Sometimes I have gone off for
three or four days alone on horseback, with a slicker or oilskin coat
behind the saddle, and some salt and hardtack as my sole provisions. But
for comfort on a trip of any length it was always desirable to have a
wagon. My regular outfit consisted of a wagon and team driven by one man
who cooked, together with another man and four riding ponies, two of
which we rode, while the other two were driven loose or led behind the
wagon. While it is eminently desirable that a hunter should be able to
rough it, and should be entirely willing to put up with the bare minimum
of necessities, and to undergo great fatigue and hardship, it is yet not
at all necessary that he should refrain from comfort of a wholesome sort
when it is obtainable. By taking the wagon we could carry a tent to put
up if there was foul weather. I had a change of clothes to put on if I
was wet, two or three books to read—and nothing adds more to the
enjoyment of a hunting trip—as well as plenty of food; while having two
men made me entirely foot-loose as regards camp, so that I could hunt
whenever I pleased, and, if I came in tired, I simply rested, instead of
spending two or three hours in pitching camp, cooking, tethering horses,
and doing the innumerable other little things which in the aggregate
amount to so much.
On such a trip, when we got into unknown country, it was of course very
necessary to stay near the wagon, especially if we had to hunt for
water. But if we knew the country at all, we would decide in the morning
about where the camp was to be made in the afternoon, and then I would
lope off on my own account, while the wagon lumbered slowly across the
rough prairie sward straight toward its destination. Sometimes I took
the spare man with me, and sometimes not. It was convenient to have him,
for there are continually small emergencies in which it is well to be
with a companion. For instance, if one jumps off for a sudden shot,
there is always a slight possibility that any but a thoroughly trained
horse will get frightened and gallop away. On some of my horses I could
absolutely depend, but there were others, and very good ones too, which
would on rare occasions fail me; and few things are more disheartening
than a long stern chase after one’s steed under such circumstances, with
the unpleasant possibility of seeing him leave the country entirely and
strike out for the ranch fifty or sixty miles distant. If there is a
companion with one, all danger of this is over. Moreover, in galloping
at full speed after the game it is impossible now and then to avoid a
tumble, as the horse may put his leg into a prairie-dog hole or badger
burrow; and on such occasions a companion may come in very handily. On
the other hand, there is so great a charm in absolute solitude, in the
wild, lonely freedom of the great plains, that often I would make some
excuse and go off entirely by myself.
Such rides had a fascination of their own. Hour after hour the wiry pony
shuffled onward across the sea of short, matted grass. On every side the
plains stretched seemingly limitless. Sometimes there would be no object
to break the horizon; sometimes across a score of miles there would loom
through the clear air the fantastic outlines of a chain of buttes,
rising grim and barren. Occasionally there might be a slightly marked
watercourse, every drop of moisture long dried; and usually there would
not be as much as the smallest sage-brush anywhere in sight. As the sun
rose higher and higher the shadows of horse and rider shortened, and the
beams were reflected from the short, bleached blades until in the hot
air all the landscape afar off seemed to dance and waver. Often on such
trips days went by without our coming across another human being, and
the loneliness and vastness of the country seemed as unbroken as if the
old vanished days had returned—the days of the wild wilderness
wanderers, and the teeming myriads of game they followed, and the
scarcely wilder savages against whom they warred.
Now and then prongbuck would appear, singly or in bands; and their sharp
bark of alarm or curiosity would come to me through the still, hot air
over great distances, as they stood with head erect looking at me, the
white patches on their rumps shining in the sun, and the bands and
markings on their heads and necks showing as if they were in livery.
Scan the country as carefully as I would, they were far more apt to see
me than I was them, and once they had seen me, it was normally hopeless
to expect to get them. But their strange freakishness of nature
frequently offsets the keenness of their senses. At least half of the
prongbucks which I shot were obtained, not by stalking, but by coming
across them purely through their own fault. Though the prairie seemed
level, there was really a constant series of undulations, shallow and of
varying width. Now and then as I topped some slight rise I would catch a
glimpse of a little band of pronghorns feeding, and would slip off my
horse before they could see me. A hasty determination as to where the
best chance of approaching them lay would be followed by a half-hour’s
laborious crawl, a good part of the time flat on my face. They might
discover me when I was still too far for a shot; or by taking advantage
of every little inequality I might get within long range before they got
a glimpse of me, and then in a reasonable proportion of cases I would
bag my buck. At other times the buck would come to me. Perhaps one would
suddenly appear over a divide himself, and his curiosity would cause him
to stand motionless long enough to give me a shot; while on other
occasions I have known one which was out of range to linger around,
shifting his position as I shifted mine, until by some sudden gallop or
twist I was able to get close enough to empty my magazine at him.
When the shadows had lengthened, but before any coolness had come into
the air, I would head for the appointed camping-place. Sometimes this
would be on the brink of some desolate little pool under a low, treeless
butte, or out on the open prairie where the only wood was what we had
brought with us. At other times I would find the wagon drawn up on the
edge of some shrunken plains river, under a line of great cottonwoods
with splintered branches and glossy leaves that rustled all day long.
Such a camp was always comfortable, for there was an abundance of wood
for the fire, plenty of water, and thick feed in which the horses
grazed—one or two being picketed and the others feeding loose until
night came on. If I had killed a prongbuck, steaks were speedily
sizzling in the frying-pan over the hot coals. If I had failed to get
anything, I would often walk a mile or two down or up the river to see
if I could not kill a couple of prairie-chickens or ducks. If the
evening was at all cool, we built a fire as darkness fell, and sat
around it, while the leaping flames lit up the trunks of the cottonwoods
and gleamed on the pools of water in the half-dry river bed. Then I
would wrap myself in my blanket and lie looking up at the brilliant
stars until I fell asleep.
In both 1893 and 1894 I made trips to a vast tract of rolling prairie
land, some fifty miles from my ranch, where I had for many years enjoyed
the keen pleasure of hunting the prongbuck. In 1893 the prong-horned
bands were as plentiful in this district as I have ever seen them
anywhere. Lambert was with me; and in a week’s trip, including the
journey out and back, we easily shot all the antelope we felt we had any
right to kill; for we only shot to get meat, or an unusually fine head.
Lambert did most of the shooting; and I have never seen a professional
hunter do better in stalking antelope on the open prairie. I myself
fired at only two antelope, both of which had already been missed. In
each case a hard run and much firing at long ranges, together with in
one case some skilful manœuvring, got me my game; yet one buck cost ten
cartridges and the other eight. In 1894 I had exactly the reverse
experience. I killed five antelope for thirty-six shots, but each one
that I killed was killed with the first bullet, and in not one case
where I missed the first time did I hit with any subsequent shot. These
five antelope were killed at an average distance of about 150 yards.
Those that I missed were, of course, much farther off on an average, and
I usually emptied my magazine at each. The number of cartridges spent
would seem extraordinary to a tyro; and an unusually skilful shot, or
else a very timid shot who fears to take risks, will of course make a
better showing per head killed; but I doubt if men with experience in
antelope hunting, who keep an accurate account of the cartridges they
expend, will see anything much out of the way in the performance.
During the years I have hunted in the West I have always, where
possible, kept a record of the number of cartridges expended for every
head of game killed, and of the distances at which it was shot. I have
found that with bison, bear, moose, elk, caribou, bighorn and white
goat, where the animals shot at were mostly of large size and usually
stationary, and where the mountainous or wooded country gave chance for
a close approach, the average distance at which I have killed the game
has been eighty yards, and the average number of cartridges expended per
head slain, three; one of these representing the death-shot, and the
others standing either for misses outright, of which there were not
many, or else for wounding game which escaped, or which I afterward
overtook, or for stopping cripples or charging beasts. I have killed but
two peccaries, using but one cartridge for each; they were close up. My
experiences with cougar have already been narrated. At wolves and
coyotes I have generally had to take running shots at very long range,
and I have shot but two—one of each—for fifty cartridges. Blacktail deer
I have generally shot at about ninety yards, at an expenditure of about
four cartridges apiece. Whitetail I have killed at shorter range; but
the shots were generally running, often taken under difficult
circumstances, so that my expenditure of cartridges was rather larger.
Antelope, on the other hand, I have on the average shot at a little
short of 150 yards, and they have cost me about nine cartridges apiece.
This, of course, as I have explained above, does not mean that I have
missed eight out of nine antelope, for often the entire nine cartridges
would be spent at an antelope which I eventually got. It merely means
that, counting all the shots of every description fired at antelope, I
had one head to show for each nine cartridges expended.
Thus, the first antelope I shot in 1893 cost me ten cartridges, of which
three hit him, while the seven that missed were fired at over 400 yards’
distance while he was running. We saw him while we were with the wagon.
As we had many miles to go before sunset, we cared nothing about
frightening other game, and, as we had no fresh meat, it was worth while
to take some chances to procure it. When I first fired, the prongbuck
had already been shot at and was in full flight. He was beyond all
reasonable range, but some of our bullets went over him and he began to
turn. By running to one side I got a shot at him at a little over 400
paces, as he slowed to a walk, bewildered by the firing, and the bullet
broke his hip. I missed him two or three times as he plunged off, and
then by hard running down a watercourse got a shot at 180 paces and
broke his shoulder, and broke his neck with another bullet when I came
up.
This one was shot while going out to the hunting-ground. While there
Lambert killed four others. I did not fire again until on our return,
when I killed another buck one day while we were riding with the wagon.
The day was gray and overcast. There were slight flurries of snow, and
the cold wind chilled us as it blew across the endless reaches of
sad-colored prairie. Behind us loomed Sentinel Butte, and all around the
rolling surface was broken by chains of hills, by patches of bad lands,
or by isolated, saddle-shaped mounds. The ranch wagon jolted over the
uneven sward, and plunged in and out of the dry beds of the occasional
water courses; for we were following no road, but merely striking
northward across the prairie toward the P. K. ranch. We went at a good
pace, for the afternoon was bleak, the wagon was lightly loaded, and the
Sheriff of the county, whose deputy I had been, and who was serving for
the nonce as our teamster and cook, kept the two gaunt, wild-looking
horses trotting steadily. Lambert and I rode to one side on our unkempt
cow-ponies, our rifles slung across the saddle bows.
Our stock of fresh meat was getting low and we were anxious to shoot
something; but in the early hours of the afternoon we saw no game. Small
parties of horned larks ran along the ground ahead of the wagon,
twittering plaintively as they rose, and now and then flocks of
long-spurs flew hither and thither; but of larger life we saw nothing,
save occasional bands of range horses. The drought had been severe and
we were far from the river, so that we saw no horned stock. Horses can
travel much farther to water than cattle, and, when the springs dry up,
they stay much farther out on the prairie.
At last we did see a band of four antelope, lying in the middle of a
wide plain, but they saw us before we saw them, and the ground was so
barren of cover that it was impossible to get near them. Moreover, they
were very shy and ran almost as soon as we got our eyes on them. For an
hour or two after this we jogged along without seeing anything, while
the gray clouds piled up in the west and the afternoon began to darken;
then, just after passing Saddle Butte, we struck a rough prairie road,
which we knew led to the P. K. ranch—a road very faint in places, while
in others the wheels had sunk deep in the ground and made long, parallel
ruts.
Almost immediately after striking this road, on topping a small rise, we
discovered a young prongbuck standing off a couple of hundred yards to
one side, gazing at the wagon with that absorbed curiosity which in this
game so often conquers its extreme wariness and timidity, to a certain
extent offsetting the advantage conferred upon it by its marvellous
vision. The little antelope stood broadside on, gazing at us out of its
great bulging eyes, the sharply contrasted browns and whites of its coat
showing plainly. Lambert and I leaped off our horses immediately, and I
knelt and pulled trigger; but the cartridge snapped, and the little
buck, wheeling round, cantered off, the white hairs on its rump standing
erect. There was a strong cross-wind, almost a gale, blowing, and
Lambert’s bullet went just behind him; off he went at a canter, which
changed to a breakneck gallop, as we again fired; and he went out of
sight unharmed, over the crest of the rising ground in front. We ran
after him as hard as we could pelt up the hill, into a slight valley,
and then up another rise, and again got a glimpse of him standing, but
this time farther off than before; and again our shots went wild.
However, the antelope changed its racing gallop to a canter while still
in sight, going slower and slower, and, what was rather curious, it did
not seem much frightened. We were naturally a good deal chagrined at our
shooting and wished to retrieve ourselves, if possible; so we ran back
to the wagon, got our horses and rode after the buck. He had continued
his flight in a straight line, gradually slackening his pace, and a
mile’s brisk gallop enabled us to catch a glimpse of him, far ahead and
merely walking. The wind was bad, and we decided to sweep off and try to
circle round ahead of him. Accordingly, we dropped back, turned into a
slight hollow to the right, and galloped hard until we came to the foot
of a series of low buttes, when we turned more to the left; and, when we
judged that we were about across the antelope’s line of march, leaped
from our horses, threw the reins over their heads, and left them
standing, while we stole up the nearest rise; and, when close to the
top, took off our caps and pushed ourselves forward, flat on our faces
to peep over. We had judged the distance well, for we saw the antelope
at once, now stopping to graze. Drawing back, we ran along some little
distance nearer, then drew up over the same rise. He was only about 125
yards off, and this time there was no excuse for my failing to get him;
but fail I did, and away the buck raced again, with both of us shooting.
My first two shots were misses, but I kept correcting my aim and holding
farther in front of the flying beast. My last shot was taken just as the
antelope reached the edge of the broken country, in which he would have
been safe; and almost as I pulled the trigger I had the satisfaction of
seeing him pitch forward and, after turning a complete somerset, lie
motionless. I had broken his neck. He had cost us a good many
cartridges, and, though my last shot was well aimed, there was doubtless
considerable chance in my hitting him, while there was no excuse at all
for at least one of my previous misses. Nevertheless, all old hunters
know that there is no other kind of shooting in which so many cartridges
are expended for every head of game bagged.
As we knelt down to butcher the antelope, the clouds broke and the rain
fell. Hastily we took off the saddle and hams, and, packing them behind
us on our horses, loped to the wagon in the teeth of the cold storm.
When we overtook it, after some sharp riding, we threw in the meat, and
not very much later, when the day was growing dusky, caught sight of the
group of low ranch buildings toward which we had been headed. We were
received with warm hospitality, as one always is in a ranch country. We
dried our streaming clothes inside the warm ranch-house and had a good
supper, and that night we rolled up in our blankets and tarpaulins, and
slept soundly in the lee of a big haystack. The ranch-house stood in the
winding bottom of a creek; the flanking hills were covered with stunted
cedar, while dwarf cottonwood and box-elder grew by the pools in the
half-dried creek bed.
Next morning we had risen by dawn. The storm was over, and it was clear
and cold. Before sunrise we had started. We were only some thirty miles
away from my ranch, and I directed the Sheriff how to go there, by
striking east until he came to the main divide, and then following that
down till he got past a certain big plateau, when a turn to the right
down any of the coulees would bring him into the river bottom near the
ranch-house. We wished ourselves to ride off to one side and try to pick
up another antelope. However, the Sheriff took the wrong turn after
getting to the divide, and struck the river bottom some fifteen miles
out of his way, so that we reached the ranch a good many hours before he
did.
When we left the wagon we galloped straight across country, looking out
from the divide across the great rolling landscape, every feature
standing clear through the frosty air. Hour after hour we paced and
loped on and on over the grassy seas in the glorious morning. Once we
stopped, and I held the horses while Lambert stalked and shot a fine
prongbuck; then we tied his head and hams to our saddles and again
pressed forward along the divide. We had hoped to get lunch at a spring
that I knew of some twelve miles from my ranch, but when we reached it
we found it dry and went on without halting. Early in the afternoon we
came out on the broad, tree-clad bottom on which the ranch-house stands,
and, threading our way along the cattle trails soon drew up in front of
the gray empty buildings.
Just as we were leaving the hunting-grounds on this trip, after having
killed all the game we felt we had a right to kill, we encountered bands
of Sioux Indians from the Standing Rock and Cheyenne River reservations
coming in to hunt, and I at once felt that the chances for much future
sport in that particular district were small. Indians are not good
shots, but they hunt in large numbers, killing everything, does, fawns
and bucks alike, and they follow the wounded animals with the utmost
perseverance, so that they cause much destruction of game.
Accordingly, in 1894, when I started for these same grounds, it was with
some misgivings; but I had time only to make a few days’ hunt, and I
knew of no other accessible grounds where prongbuck were plentiful. My
foreman was with me, and, as usual, we took the ranch wagon, driven this
time by a cowboy who had just come up over the trail with cattle from
Colorado. On reaching our happy hunting-grounds of the previous season,
I found my fears sadly verified; and one unforeseen circumstance, also
told against me. Not only had the Indians made a great killing of
antelope the season before, but in the spring one or two sheep men had
moved into the country. We found that the big flocks had been moving
from one spring pool to another, eating the pasturage bare, while the
shepherds whom we met—wild-looking men on rough horses, each accompanied
by a pair of furtive sheep dogs—had taken every opportunity to get a
shot at antelope, so as to provide themselves with fresh meat. Two days
of fruitless hunting in this sheep-ridden region was sufficient to show
that the antelope were too scarce and shy to give us hope for sport, and
we shifted quarters, a long day’s journey, to the head of another creek;
and we had to go to yet another before we found much game. As so often
happens on such a trip, when we started to have bad luck we had plenty.
One night two of the three saddle horses stampeded and went straight as
the crow flies back to the home range, so that we did not get them until
on our return from the trip. On another occasion the team succeeded in
breaking the wagon pole; and as there was an entire absence of wood
where we were at the time, we had to make a splice for it with the two
tent poles and the picket ropes. Nevertheless, it was very enjoyable out
on the great grassy plains. Although we had a tent with us, I always
slept in the open in my buffalo bag, with the tarpaulin to pull over me
if it rained. On each night before going to sleep, I lay for many
minutes gazing at the stars above, or watching the rising of the red
moon, which was just at or past the full.
We had plenty of fresh meat—prairie fowl and young sage fowl at first,
and antelope venison afterward. We camped by little pools, generally
getting fair water; and from the camps where there was plenty of wood we
took enough to build the fires at those where there was none. The nights
were frosty, and the days cool and pleasant, and from sunrise to sunset
we were off riding or walking among the low hills and over the uplands,
so that we slept well and ate well, and felt the beat of hardy life in
our veins.
Much of the time we were on a high divide between two creek systems,
from which we could see the great landmarks of all the regions
roundabout, Sentinel Butte, Square Butte and Middle Butte, far to the
north and east of us. Nothing could be more lonely and nothing more
beautiful than the view at nightfall across the prairies to these huge
hill masses, when the lengthening shadows had at last merged into one
and the faint afterglow of the red sunset filled the west. The endless
waves of rolling prairie, sweeping, vast and dim, to the feet of the
great hills, grew purple as the evening darkened, and the buttes loomed
into vague, mysterious beauty as their sharp outlines softened in the
twilight.
Even when we got out of reach of the sheep men we never found antelope
very plentiful, and they were shy, and the country was flat, so that the
stalking was extremely difficult; yet I had pretty good sport. The first
animal I killed was a doe, shot for meat, because I had twice failed to
get bucks at which I emptied my magazine at long range, and we were all
feeling hungry for venison. After that I killed nothing but bucks. Of
the five antelope killed, one I got by a headlong gallop to cut off his
line of flight. As sometimes happens with this queer, erratic animal,
when the buck saw that I was trying to cut off his flight he simply
raced ahead just as hard as he knew how, and, as my pony was not fast,
he got to the little pass for which he was headed 200 yards ahead of me.
I then jumped off, and his curiosity made him commit the fatal mistake
of halting for a moment to look round at me. He was standing end on, and
offered a very small mark at 200 yards; but I made a good line shot,
and, though I held a trifle too high, I hit him in the head, and down he
came. Another buck I shot from under the wagon early one morning as he
was passing just beyond the picketed horses. I have several times shot
antelope which unexpectedly came into camp in this fashion. The other
three I got after much manœuvring and long, tedious stalks.
In some of the stalks, after infinite labor, and perhaps after crawling
on all-fours for an hour, or pulling myself flat on my face among some
small sage-brush for ten or fifteen minutes, the game took alarm and
went off. Too often, also, when I finally did get a shot, it was under
such circumstances that I missed. Sometimes the game was too far;
sometimes it had taken alarm and was already in motion; sometimes the
trouble could only be ascribed to lack of straight powder, and I was
covered with shame as with a garment. Once in the afternoon I had to
spend so much time waiting for the antelope to get into a favorable
place that, when I got up close, I found the light already so bad that
my front sight glimmered indistinctly, and the bullet went wild. Another
time I met with one of those misadventures which are especially
irritating. It was at midday, and I made out at a long distance a band
of antelope lying for their noon rest in a slight hollow. A careful
stalk brought me up within fifty yards of them. I was crawling flat on
my face, for the crest of the hillock sloped so gently that this was the
only way to get near them. At last, peering through the grass, I saw the
head of a doe. In a moment she saw me and jumped to her feet, and up
stood the whole band, including the buck. I immediately tried to draw a
bead on the latter, and to my horror found that, lying flat as I was,
and leaning on my elbows, I could not bring the rifle above the tall
shaking grass, and was utterly unable to get a sight. In another second
away tore all the antelope. I jumped to my feet, took a snap shot at the
buck as he raced round a low-cut bank and missed, and then walked
drearily home, chewing the cud of my ill-luck. Yet again in more than
one instance, after making a good stalk upon a band seen at some
distance, I found it contained only does and fawns, and would not shoot
at them.
Three times, however, the stalk was successful. Twice I was out alone;
the other time my foreman was with me, and held my horse while I
manœuvred hither and thither, and finally succeeded in getting into
range. In both the first instances I got a standing shot, but on this
last occasion, when my foreman was with me, two of the watchful does
which were in the band saw me before I could get a shot at the old buck.
I was creeping up a low washout, and, by ducking hastily down again and
running back and up a side coulee, I managed to get within long range of
the band as they cantered off, not yet thoroughly alarmed. The buck was
behind, and I held just ahead of him. He plunged to the shot, but went
off over the hill-crest. When I had panted up to the ridge I found him
dead just beyond.
One of the antelope I killed while I was out on foot toward nightfall, a
couple of miles from the wagon. I saw the prongbuck quite half a mile
off, and though I dropped at once I was uncertain whether he had seen
me. He was in a little hollow or valley. A long, smoothly sloping
plateau led up to one edge of it. Across this plateau I crawled, and
when I thought I was near the run I ventured slowly to look up, and
almost immediately saw vaguely through the tops of the long grasses what
I took to be the head and horns of the buck, looking in my direction.
There was no use in going back, and I dropped flat on my face again and
crawled another hundred yards, until it was evident that I was on the
rise from which the plateau sank into the shallow valley beyond. Raising
my head inch by inch, I caught sight of the object toward which I had
been crawling, and after a moment’s hesitation recognized it as a dead
sunflower, the stalks and blossoms so arranged as to be in a V shape.
Completely puzzled, I started to sit up, when by sheer good luck I
caught sight of the real prongbuck, still feeding, some three hundred
yards off, and evidently unaware of my presence. It was feeding toward a
slight hill to my left. I crept off until behind this, and then walked
up until I was in line with a big bunch of weeds on its shoulder.
Crawling on all-fours to the weeds, I peeped through and saw the
prongbuck still slowly feeding my way. When he was but seventy yards
off, I sat up and shot him; and trudged back to the wagon, carrying the
saddle and hams.
In packing an antelope or deer behind the saddle, I cut slashes through
the sinews of the legs just above the joints; then I put the buck behind
the saddle, run the picket rope from the horn of the saddle, under the
belly of the horse, through the slashes in the legs on the other side,
bring the end back, swaying well down on it, and fasten it to the horn;
then I repeat the same feat for the other side. Packed in this way, the
carcass always rides steady, and cannot shake loose, no matter what
antics the horse may perform.
In the fall of 1896 I spent a fortnight on the range with the ranch
wagon. I was using for the first time one of the new small calibre,
smokeless-powder rifles, with the usual soft-nosed bullet. While
travelling to and fro across the range we usually moved camp each day,
not putting up the tent at all during the trip; but at one spot we spent
three nights. It was in a creek bottom, bounded on either side by rows
of grassy hills, beyond which stretched the rolling prairie. The creek
bed, which at this season was of course dry in most places, wound in
S-shaped curves, with here and there a pool and here and there a fringe
of stunted wind-beaten timber. We were camped near a little grove of
ash, box-elder, and willow, which gave us shade at noonday; and there
were two or three pools of good water in the creek bed—one so deep that
I made it my swimming-bath.
The first day that I was able to make a hunt I rode out with my foreman,
Sylvane Ferris. I was mounted on Muley. Twelve years before, when Muley
was my favorite cutting pony on the round-up, he never seemed to tire or
lose his dash, but Muley was now sixteen years old, and on ordinary
occasions he liked to go as soberly as possible; yet the good old pony
still had the fire latent in his blood, and at the sight of game—or,
indeed, of cattle or horses—he seemed to regain for the time being all
the headlong courage of his vigorous and supple youth.
On the morning in question it was two or three hours before Sylvane and
I saw any game. Our two ponies went steadily forward at a single-foot or
shack, as the cow-punchers term what Easterners call a “fox trot.” Most
of the time we were passing over immense grassy flats, where the mat of
short curled blades lay brown and parched under the bright sunlight.
Occasionally we came to ranges of low barren hills, which sent off
gently rounded spurs into the plain.
It was on one of these ranges that we first saw our game. As we were
travelling along the divide we spied eight antelope far ahead of us.
They saw us as soon as we saw them, and the chance of getting to them
seemed small; but it was worth an effort, for by humoring them when they
started, so as to let them wheel and zigzag before they became really
frightened, and then, when they had settled into their run, by galloping
toward them at an angle oblique to their line of flight, there was
always some little chance of getting a shot. Sylvane was on a light
buckskin horse, and I left him on the ridge crest to occupy their
attention while I cantered off to one side. The pronghorns became uneasy
as I galloped away, and ran off the ridge crest in a line nearly
parallel to mine. They did not go very fast, and I held in Muley, who
was all on fire at the sight of the game. After crossing two or three
spurs, the antelope going at half speed, they found I had come closer to
them, and turning, they ran up one of the valleys between two spurs. Now
was my chance, and wheeling at right angles to my former course, I
galloped Muley as hard as I knew how up the valley nearest and parallel
to where the antelope had gone. The good old fellow ran like a
quarter-horse, and when we were almost at the main ridge crest I leaped
off, and ran ahead with my rifle at the ready, crouching down as I came
to the sky-line. Usually on such occasions I find that the antelope have
gone on, and merely catch a glimpse of them half a mile distant, but on
this occasion everything went right. The band had just reached the ridge
crest about 220 yards from me across the head of the valley, and had
halted for a moment to look around. They were starting as I raised my
rifle, but the trajectory is very flat with these small-bore
smokeless-powder weapons, and taking a coarse front sight I fired at a
young buck which was broadside to me. There was no smoke, and as the
band raced away I saw him sink backward, the ball having broken his
hips.
We packed him bodily behind Sylvane on the buckskin and continued our
ride, as there was no fresh meat in camp, and we wished to bring in a
couple of bucks if possible. For two or three hours we saw nothing. The
unshod feet of the horses made hardly any noise on the stretches of
sun-cured grass, but now and then we passed through patches of thin
weeds, their dry stalks rattling curiously, making a sound like that of
a rattlesnake. At last, coming over a gentle rise of ground, we spied
two more prongbucks, half a mile ahead of us and to our right.
Again there seemed small chance of bagging our quarry, but again fortune
favored us. I at once cantered Muley ahead, not toward them, but so as
to pass them well on one side. After some hesitation they started, not
straight away, but at an angle to my own course. For some moments I kept
at a hand gallop, until they got thoroughly settled in their line of
flight; then I touched Muley, and he went as hard as he knew how.
Immediately the two panic-stricken and foolish beasts seemed to feel
that I was cutting off their line of retreat, and raced forward at mad
speed. They went much faster than I did, but I had the shorter course,
and when they crossed me they were not fifty yards ahead—by which time I
had come nearly a mile. At the pull of the rein Muley stopped short,
like the trained cow-pony he is; I leaped off, and held well ahead of
the rearmost and largest buck. At the crack of the little rifle down he
went with his neck broken. In a minute or two he was packed behind me on
Muley, and we bent our steps toward camp.
During the remainder of my trip we were never out of fresh meat, for I
shot three other bucks—one after a smart chase on horseback, and the
other two after careful stalks; and I missed two running shots.
The game being both scarce and shy, I had to exercise much care, and
after sighting a band I would sometimes have to wait and crawl round for
two or three hours before they would get into a position where I had any
chance of approaching. Even then they were more apt to see me and go off
than I was to get near them.
Antelope are the only game that can be hunted as well at noonday as in
the morning or evening, for their times for sleeping and feeding are
irregular. They never seek shelter from the sun, and when they lie down
for a noonday nap they are apt to choose a hollow, so as to be out of
the wind; in consequence, if the band is seen at all at this time, it is
easier to approach them than when they are up and feeding. They
sometimes come down to water in the middle of the day, sometimes in the
morning or evening. On this trip I came across bands feeding and resting
at almost every hour of the day. They seemed usually to rest for a
couple of hours, then began feeding again.
The last shot I got was when I was out with Joe Ferris, in whose company
I had killed my first buffalo, just thirteen years before, and not very
far from this same spot. We had seen two or three bands that morning,
and in each case, after a couple of hours of useless effort, I failed to
get near enough. At last, toward midday, after riding and tramping over
a vast extent of broken sun-scorched country, we got within range of a
small band lying down in a little cup-shaped hollow in the middle of a
great flat. I did not have a close shot, for they were running about 180
yards off. The buck was rearmost, and at him I aimed; the bullet struck
him in the flank, coming out of the opposite shoulder, and he fell in
his next bound. As we stood over him, Joe shook his head, and said, “I
guess that little rifle is the ace;” and I told him I guessed so too.