shot would do for Mr. Bruin. Meshack agreed that it was impossible to
kill the bear with that and told the other huntsmen to let the beast
alone until he fetched some more balls, or else secured some one else
to come and shoot him.
“Stand back and keep your counsel to yourself,” cried one of the men.
“We know how to handle this rascally bear. Let us finish him off!”
Taking aim at the animal’s head, one of them again fired, but this only
made the bear snort, scratch his face, and climb up the tree as far as
he could go. Here he seated himself upon another fork, and, although
repeatedly shot at, would not budge.
The bear hunters were feeling very much discouraged. After a long
parley they decided to send for a certain pioneer called John Martin,
who could shoot a squirrel off the highest tree in the woods. A scout
was dispatched for him, and, at about nine in the evening, he returned
with the famous marksman, who brought a rifle shooting an ounce ball.
After the trapper had had full time to recover his breath, which
climbing the high hill had rendered rather short, he placed himself
in a good position and let drive. Mr. Bear remained in his place
unscathed. Several more shots were fired by the old fellow, but Bruin
simply hugged the limb in apparent comfort.
“Here, boys,” cried one, “is a Mr. Morris—a Revolutionary officer—who
has killed many an English soldier. Let him have a crack at this
elusive mark!”
“Yes! Yes!” called several. “Give some one else a chance.”
The new marksman cleaned and loaded his gun, took careful aim, and off
went the musket. The bear snorted, groaned, and made a great fuss,
but remained in its place. Another load was prepared and the Captain
again tried his luck, when the bear, apparently provoked by such ill
treatment, rose from his resting-place and started for the group. But
upon arriving at the lowest fork of the tree, and seeing so many men
and dogs, his courage failed him, and he again lay down. Mr. Martin
tried two or three more shots without any result. Bruin seemed to be
made of cast iron.
“Let me have a shot at him,” said Meshack, at this juncture. “I believe
that I can kill the old boy.”
“Stand out of the way!” cried the Revolutionary soldier. “I am sure
that I can finish him off, and I’ll knock you out if you interfere with
me.”
It was getting dark by now, and Bruin was still unkilled. It soon was
so dark that Mr. Martin could not see the powder in the pan. The gun
missed fire.
“Here, Mr. Martin,” cried young Browning. “Give me your gun, and I will
finish this confounded rascal.”
The old frontiersman passed him the piece.
“Take it,” said he, “and good riddance.”
Meshack felt for the powder in the pan and found it empty, but having
some in a horn, he placed it carefully in the proper vent and was
ready to try his luck. There were fourteen men now around the tree.
The young pioneer could only see the bear by getting him between
himself and the sky, but he took the best aim that he could, and fired.
Pow! Down came the bear this time with a thud; and, with a wild yelping
and barking, the dogs made for him. A shout of horror arose from the
bystanders as they all took to the trees, while over and over, down
the steep hill, rolled the bear and the dogs, until they fell into a
hole, where they stopped. A terrible snarling, yelping and growling now
ensued.
The last shot had so disabled the bear that he lay upon his back
defending himself valiantly as the dogs made for him. Meshack had now
nothing to shoot him with, so he went in search of a club, and pulling
a dry pole out by the roots, broke it off short, and went into the fray.
Creeping behind the bear, as he was reaching after the dogs in front,
he struck him on the head between the ears, while down he went, the
dogs attacking his hindquarters, meanwhile, and holding on to him
tightly. The tough, old fellow uttered one despairing growl, then
rolled over, stone dead. His end had come.
Meshack kept absolutely still, and, as he crouched near the bear, the
back-track party began to come up. All had descended from their trees
when they saw the bear rolling down the hill.
“Where is Browning?” asked one.
“Goodness only knows,” answered another.
“I expect that the young fool has run on the bear and has been killed
by him.”
“Hello, Browning! Hello!” cried many.
Young Meshack would not answer.
“It’s no use to call,” said one of the tree climbers. “He’s as dead as
a door nail.”
Still Meshack would not answer, because he wanted to hear what they
would all say.
“Hello! Browning!” was repeated.
“What do you want?” at length cried the young pioneer.
“Where is the bear?”
“Here he is.”
“What is he doing?”
“He is dead.”
“Well, I reckon that isn’t true, because you couldn’t kill him without
a gun or a tomahawk, and you haven’t got either of them.”
“I beat him to death with a club.”
“By George! you are fool enough to do anything. We don’t believe you.”
So saying, they gingerly began to come nearer and nearer, until they
were at the edge of the hole where the bear lay dead. They would come
no closer until young Meshack took the bear by the foot and shook it in
the air.
“By Jingo! he is dead!” said one. “Bully for you, my boy.”
The young pioneer now held up the club with which he had dispatched
the bear, and each took it and struck the dead beast on the head in
order to say that he had helped to kill the long-lived animal, but no
one congratulated Meshack. In fact, several let it be known that they
themselves had killed the tough, old fellow.
The question now arose as to how Bruin was to be carried home. Some
were for getting two oxen and a cart, but young Browning suggested
that they carry him on a pole. This they did, and staggering and
tumbling onward, the animal was gradually towed towards the house of
Mr. Caldwell. The bear was laid in the kitchen, where the owner of the
house came to view him and to taunt the back-trackers and the climbers
for their cowardice. When closely examined, it was seen that Captain
Morris’s two shots had struck him, one passing through his ear, the
other breaking two of his tusks, without doing any serious injury. No
ball from Martin’s numerous fusillades had touched him at all.
“Your shot killed the bear, Browning,” said he, turning to Meshack. “If
the bear’s backbone had not been weakened by the last shot he would
have undoubtedly killed many, if not all of them. As for these fellows
who climbed the trees, it was a most cowardly trick, and the same thing
would have occurred had they been in a fight with the redskins.”
This was very galling to the back-trackers, and they envied and abused
young Meshack whenever they had an opportunity. When the bear was cut
up they even did not wish to give Meshack a share of it, but Mr.
Caldwell insisted that he should have his just proportion of the game.
“I have no use for the meat, sir,” said the youthful pioneer. “But if
you will give me the skin, I shall be glad to have it.”
Mr. Caldwell immediately took up the hide and presented it to him.
“It is justly yours,” said he, “for my dogs treed him, and you killed
him. You have a right to the skin, because it has always been a rule
among hunters that the first blood drawn takes the skin, be it bear or
deer.”
Thus ended the young trapper’s first bear fight. It raised his
reputation as a fearless boy, and made him admired and respected by all
the stout backwoodsmen of the Blue Ridge. Frequently, thereafter, when
he would be seated in the kitchen with the other children, they would
induce him to tell the whole tale and would ridicule the back-track
huntsmen for their cowardly conduct. One of them, Miss Nancy Lee, said
to him one evening:
“Browning, I always thought that you were a great coward, but I do
not think so now. And I heard father tell a strange man the other day
that if he had you in an Indian fight he knew that you would attack
the redskins as fearlessly as you did that bear. Meshack, I have often
wished that I had been born a boy, then I would be some day a man
and would be able to kill or drive away the red rascals who followed
General St. Clair, so that they would never again come back to murder
the whites. If you had seen as much of their work as I have, you would
feel as vindictively towards them as I, myself, do. Let me tell you a
story about them:
[Illustration:
Used by permission of John D. Morris & Co., publishers of the Lodge
History of Nations.
“THERE WAS EVER THE DANGER OF AN ONRUSH BY THE REDSKINS.”]
“Some years ago, before General St. Clair lost so many men in a great
fight with the Indians, father and mother were compelled to leave this
place, and we all went up to the Fort at Wheeling, West Virginia. The
neighbors were forced to vacate their farms, also, and go into the
stockade. My father and three or four of his friends used to go out to
hunt for game sometimes, and a few pioneers always stood guard while
they were away. Others worked at planting and harvesting corn and at
chopping wood. There was ever the danger of an onrush by the redskins.
“At length news came to us that the Indians were in the neighborhood.
The Fort was put in the best possible condition for defense, and we
awaited their approach. But no attack came. Several days passed by, no
sound came from the depths of the forest and it was supposed that the
savages had given up the assault. But such was not the case.
“One day two Indians made their appearance on the high hill above the
town, across the river, and opposite the Fort. They fired their rifles
at the stockade and then went slowly away, slapping their hands behind
them in token of derision and contempt for the frontiersmen within the
log enclosure.
“Many of the pioneers were outraged by such an insult, for they were
hot-tempered fellows. Several began to run after the savages, and
they would have all gone had not the commanding officer stood in the
gateway and stopped them. Twenty-four of the boldest and most dashing
ran up the steep hill after the Indians, who kept on retreating as if
with no intention to offer battle. When the whites reached the summit,
they suddenly found themselves surrounded. Crack! Crack! sounded many
a rifle, and bullets began to whizz by on every side. They gazed about
them in dismay. Fully four hundred painted redskins were on three sides
of them. Their only hope was to turn and make a break for the Fort.
“The redskins, meanwhile, had moved to their rear, and, as the
frontiersmen approached, put up a stern resistance to their assault.
Many fell. Some escaped unhurt and dashed madly for their haven of
refuge, pursued by the red men with wild, vindictive yelping. My father
was one of the last to get through the lines, and, as he ran for his
life, with a close friend of his before him, he saw his companion fall
to the ground. As he passed him, the wounded man cried out, ‘John,
don’t leave me to be scalped,’ but my father ran on, as he knew that he
could do nothing for him. A moment more and he saw a white renegade,
who had gone to live with the Indians some years before. The fellow
was close to him and carried a spear, mounted on a handle like that
of a pitchfork. He was at my father’s heels when they arrived at a
narrow defile in the hill next to the Fort. A large tree was lying on
the ground and another small one was standing very near it. Something
tripped up my father’s feet, and in he fell, between the two trees.
As he went down, the white renegade made a furious lunge at him. The
spear, however, glanced off the log, turned its point upward, and stuck
so fast in the standing tree that the white savage could not withdraw
it before my father leaped to his feet, escaped unhurt, and reached the
Fort in safety.
“The poor fellow who had called out to him for help had had his thigh
broken; but he crawled upon his hands and knees to a hollow log, in
which he hid himself until dark, and then wriggled to the Fort. A short
time later a frontiersman came in with his arm broken, but the rest all
fell before the rifles, arrows and tomahawks of the redskins.
“Thus perished twenty-one of the best and bravest men in West Virginia.
Their death was a great loss to the frontier settlements, as also to
the strength of the Fort, which, in a few days, was hotly besieged
by these same red men. Their success had made them bold. Having
intercepted a boat loaded with cannonballs, destined for the use of the
garrison, the savages procured a hollow tree, bound it round with as
many chains as they could, drove wedges underneath the chains in order
to tighten them as much as possible; loaded it like a cannon, and, at
a favorable moment, let go a most tremendous broadside. Whang! The
whole thing exploded with a resounding boom, killing several, wounding
others, and frightening the rest half out of their wits.
“They did not remain frightened, however, and soon renewed their attack
upon the Fort. Near by was a log house belonging to Colonel Lane and
the assault was mainly directed against this place, but the redskins
were driven off. The powder became very scarce in the house, so it was
proposed that some men should run to the log barricade for a supply.
Among the volunteers for this dangerous task was a sister of Colonel
Lane, who said that she, herself, would go. It was objected to, and the
young men insisted on going themselves. But she was firm in her purpose
and replied that the loss of a woman would be felt less than the loss
of a man. Pinning up her dress, so that her feet would have fair play,
she started upon her dangerous mission.
“The Indians were perfectly astonished at this sight and did not fire
a single shot at her. Thus she reached the Fort in safety, secured
plenty of powder, which she tied to a belt around her waist, and off
she bounded again for the house. The red men were not so lenient this
time. Suspecting some mischief, they fired a volley of balls after her,
all of which missed the fleeing woman, so that she reached the house
in safety, with plenty of powder with which to withstand the future
attacks of the savages.
“The Indians were now discouraged. Capturing a fat cow, they roasted
her hind quarters, had a feast, and kept up a fusillade on the stockade
while they ate the tender meat. When the repast was over, they all
marched away in profound silence. As they disappeared, a settler at one
of the port-holes drew a bead upon the last savage, but a random shot
from somewhere in the forest dropped him like a stone. A wild war-whoop
echoed from the sombre woodland and the Indians had vanished.”
Thus ended the story of the attack. It was a thrilling tale, and Nancy
concluded with the remark:
“I think, Browning, that if the Indians were to commence hostilities
again, while you were living with us, you would fight for our family,
wouldn’t you?”
“Indeed,” replied the young bear hunter, “no Indian would ever put
hands upon you while life and strength was left in my body sufficient
to save you from their accursed hands.”
And he meant what he said.
Not long afterwards the young frontiersman was married, and desiring
some bear meat for the winter supply, started into the forest in order
to secure a quantity of this article. He knew where there was a swamp
of black haws (trees of which bears are very fond) and so he walked
rapidly for the bottom where these grew. When in sight of the place, he
went around it in order to let his dogs have wind of the thicket. He
had two excellent hounds with him, the older of which was sent into the
swamp in order to raise the game. In he went, and he was scarcely out
of sight before a loud snapping, howling, and yelping came to the ears
of the eager huntsman.
The young dog was crouching at the heels of the trapper, but now he
dashed into the thicket, also. Soon there was hard fighting going on.
Meshack, himself, ran as fast as he could in the direction of the
battle. When he came up with the dogs, the bear had taken to a tree,
just out of their reach. He was a big, brown fellow; very sleek and
shiny. As he heard the trapper rushing through the bushes he let go
his hold, dropped to the ground, and was in an immediate battle with
the dogs. Browning ran the muzzle of his gun against him and fired,
but the bullet struck too far back to seriously injure Brother Bruin.
As the musket went off, the dogs closed in and the fight became most
desperate. The bear was giving them more than they could stand.
Meshack had dropped the gun in the weeds, and had no means of
protecting his pets except by means of a large knife in his belt. It
was now or never, for the bear had one of them on the ground and was
biting him severely. In a few moments it would be all over with him.
Therefore the trapper ran up to Brother Bruin and made a lunge at
his side. The knife struck him far back, and did not cause a mortal
wound. Still on he fought, though the blow released the dog, who arose
and attacked the bear again with renewed energy, just as the beast
attempted to crawl beneath a log which was raised from the ground.
The young dog caught him by the nose as he went under, while the
other seized him by his right hind leg. Both held fast, while Meshack
ran upon him with his knife and dealt him two or three severe blows.
Growling, snuffing, and breathing hard, the tough old Bruin rolled over
dead.
This was one of many such adventures. There were also encounters with
wildcats, panthers, wolves, and other denizens of the woods. With deer,
also, there were many strange happenings, as the following will prove:
In February, 1800, the trapper and another young man, called Louis
Van Sickle, went into the woods in order to catch a young deer, which
Browning intended to raise as a pet. The Virginia red deer will become
tame in two or three days, and even the oldest bucks will prove quite
docile after a few weeks’ confinement. Several had been so tamed by
the trapper that they would come to him, put their nose in his pocket,
would take apples or moss out of it; would eat this food, and would
then search in his pockets for more.
The snow was about four feet deep as the two trappers went into the
laurel swamps where the deer took winter refuge. As they drew near the
edge of the swamp, they discovered many paths made by the animals as
they came out of the thicket in order to browse upon the small bushes
and on the moss upon the fallen timber. They struck off, down one of
the paths, and soon saw seven large deer running and jumping up and
down in the deep snow. They pursued as best they could, for they had
snow-shoes on underneath their moccasins, and soon Meshack was far
ahead of Van Sickle, who was unable to travel over the snow with any
speed.
When the trapper reached the hindmost deer, the foremost ones, being
tired out, had stopped to take breath. The last one attempted to pass
by those in front and leaped into the deep snow, where he stuck fast.
Meshack caught hold of him with the intention of tying him, but he was
too fat and strong and fought viciously. They were struggling together,
when Louis came up with a long clasp-knife and cut the throat of the
buck. With the knife in his pocket, Meshack now ran after the others,
and soon overtook them as they were crossing a small branch, with steep
banks upon either side. A large tree, which had fallen over the stream,
lay a short distance from the ground, where many leaves had drifted
under it. One of the bucks, being hard pushed and greatly frightened,
darted among the leaves, and thus escaped the eyes of the trapper, who
had his attention upon the deer in front. Meshack passed by, pursued
the others for some distance, caught a large buck, which he attempted
to tie, but he fought him desperately, and was so strong that he could
not handle him.
While engaged with this buck he heard Louis crying out from behind:
“Hello! Browning! Come to my assistance! Come quickly!”
Meshack left the buck and ran to the relief of his friend, thinking, as
he did so, that he had probably fallen among the stones and had broken
his leg, for the ground was rocky and full of holes. As he ran towards
him, he said to himself: “If he has broken a leg, I will first take my
ropes and will tie him to a tree, then I will pull it out straight, set
the bone, and will tear up some clothes and wrap them around the limb,
scrape a place clear of snow, build a good fire, and leave him here
while I go for a horse and sled on which to carry him home.”
He was to be agreeably disappointed. As he came in sight of his friend,
he observed him lying upon his back with his knees drawn up towards
his face, and his large, wide snow-shoes turned up to the sun. Before
him stood one of the largest bucks, with his tail spread, his hair
bristled up, and his eyes glowing fire. He was carefully watching the
prostrate trapper, and every time that he moved the buck would spring
upon him and would beat him over the head and face with his feet until
he became quiet again. The irate deer would wait until Louis would make
another move, then he would again jump upon him.
This was the same buck that had hidden underneath the log when Meshack
had passed by. The animal had recovered his breath, and, as Van Sickle
approached, sprang upon him suddenly. Striking the astonished trapper
with his fore feet, he threw him backwards in the deep snow, and every
time that the scout would attempt to arise, the deer would attack and
strike at him until he would lie still.
How often the buck had repeated this chastisement before Meshack came
in sight is difficult to say. When the trapper saw his companion lying
motionless, and hallooing vociferously for help, he could not suppress
a loud laugh. Van Sickle made several attempts to rise, but in vain;
for the buck gave him a sound beating at every move. The prostrate
woodsman was furious with rage. He cried out loudly:
“You intend to let me freeze here in the snow, Browning? That is death,
anyway, and I am going to get out of this fix, or else lose my life in
the attempt. Can’t you drive this cursed buck away?”
As he ceased speaking, he made another move, and, as the buck sprang
upon him again with his fore feet, he reached up, passed one arm around
the animal’s neck, and then the other. Drawing the deer close to
him, he vigorously endeavored to upset his valiant opponent. Meshack
continued his laughter, for it was certainly a novel wrestling match,
and the buck seemed to have the trapper at his mercy. He determined to
let his friend fight it out to the bitter end, without any assistance
on his part.
The buck seemed to be weakening after fifteen minutes of struggling,
and Louis now raised his legs and threw them over the animal’s back.
The snow-shoes were somewhat in the way, but he withdrew his right hand
from the deer’s neck, and, as he lay beneath him, began to strike him
in the ribs with his closed fist.
“It’s now your turn, you rascal,” he called out. “You have had your
innings, and it is now my opportunity. How do you like this—and
this—and this?”
Every time that he punched the buck the deer would grunt and endeavor
to strike him with his fore feet.
Meshack had stopped laughing by now, and walking up to the fighting
trapper, said:
“Let go of the buck, Louis, and I will finish him with my
hunting-knife.”
“No! No!” replied the woodsman. “I have a good hold on him now, and I
refuse to let go until either he or I lose our lives.”
He continued to strike heavy blows upon the buck’s side, as Meshack
seized the animal by the ear. Now determined to end the affair, he
quickly dispatched him with his hunting-knife, and, as he dropped to
the snow, the prostrate trapper drew himself to his feet with a loud
shout of satisfaction and delight.
“Meshack,” said he, “you have saved my life! If you had not come, I
do not believe that I would have whipped this fellow, for he was the
toughest customer that I ever tackled in my entire woodland experience.”
Van Sickle was so upset by the beating which the buck had given him
that he would never hunt any more unless Browning went in advance, and
if a bush rattled, would jump back in deadly fear that another buck was
coming after him. He was severely injured, having many black and blue
lumps upon his head, and one very black eye. Two or three days later,
he exhibited a long war-club, which he had made to defend himself
with, as well as to attack the fighting bucks. It was eight feet in
length, with a large knot upon the upper end, and was a deadly means of
defense. He would never venture to the woods again unless Meshack went
along, and, as the trapper would not go with him, he had no opportunity
of trying his murderous instrument.