If out in the late fall or early spring, it is often possible to follow
a bear's trail in the snow; having come upon it either by chance or hard
hunting, or else having found where it leads from some carcass on which
the beast has been feeding. In the pursuit one must exercise great
caution, as at such times the hunter is easily seen a long way off,
and game is always especially watchful for any foe that may follow its
trail.
Once I killed a grisly in this manner. It was early in the fall, but
snow lay on the ground, while the gray weather boded a storm. My camp
was in a bleak, wind-swept valley, high among the mountains which form
the divide between the head-waters of the Salmon and Clarke's Fork of
the Columbia. All night I had lain in my buffalo-bag, under the lea of a
windbreak of branches, in the clump of fir-trees, where I had halted
the preceding evening. At my feet ran a rapid mountain torrent, its
bed choked with ice-covered rocks; I had been lulled to sleep by the
stream's splashing murmur, and the loud moaning of the wind along the
naked cliffs. At dawn I rose and shook myself free of the buffalo robe,
coated with hoar-frost. The ashes of the fire were lifeless; in the dim
morning the air was bitter cold. I did not linger a moment, but snatched
up my rifle, pulled on my fur cap and gloves, and strode off up a side
ravine; as I walked I ate some mouthfuls of venison, left over from
supper.
Two hours of toil up the steep mountain brought me to the top of a spur.
The sun had risen, but was hidden behind a bank of sullen clouds. On the
divide I halted, and gazed out over a vast landscape, inconceivably wild
and dismal. Around me towered the stupendous mountain masses which make
up the backbone of the Rockies. From my feet, as far as I could see,
stretched a rugged and barren chaos of ridges and detached rock masses.
Behind me, far below, the stream wound like a silver ribbon, fringed
with dark conifers and the changing, dying foliage of poplar and quaking
aspen. In front the bottoms of the valleys were filled with the sombre
evergreen forest, dotted here and there with black, ice-skimmed tarns;
and the dark spruces clustered also in the higher gorges, and were
scattered thinly along the mountain sides. The snow which had fallen lay
in drifts and streaks, while, where the wind had scope it was blown off,
and the ground left bare.
For two hours I walked onwards across the ridges and valleys. Then among
some scattered spruces, where the snow lay to the depth of half a foot,
I suddenly came on the fresh, broad trail of a grisly. The brute was
evidently roaming restlessly about in search of a winter den, but
willing, in passing, to pick up any food that lay handy. At once I
took the trail, travelling above and to one side, and keeping a sharp
look-out ahead. The bear was going across wind, and this made my task
easy. I walked rapidly, though cautiously; and it was only in crossing
the large patches of bare ground that I had to fear making a noise.
Elsewhere the snow muffled my footsteps, and made the trail so plain
that I scarcely had to waste a glance upon it, bending my eyes always to
the front.
At last, peering cautiously over a ridge crowned with broken rocks, I
saw my quarry, a big, burly bear, with silvered fur. He had halted on an
open hillside, and was busily digging up the caches of some rock gophers
or squirrels. He seemed absorbed in his work, and the stalk was easy.
Slipping quietly back, I ran towards the end of the spur, and in ten
minutes struck a ravine, of which one branch ran past within seventy
yards of where the bear was working. In this ravine was a rather close
growth of stunted evergreens, affording good cover, although in one or
two places I had to lie down and crawl through the snow. When I reached
the point for which I was aiming, the bear had just finished rooting,
and was starting off. A slight whistle brought him to a standstill,
and I drew a bead behind his shoulder, and low down, resting the rifle
across the crooked branch of a dwarf spruce. At the crack he ran off at
speed, making no sound, but the thick spatter of blood splashes, showing
clear on the white snow, betrayed the mortal nature of the wound. For
some minutes I followed the trail; and then, topping a ridge, I saw
the dark bulk lying motionless in a snow drift at the foot of a low
rock-wall, from which he had tumbled.
The usual practice of the still-hunter who is after grisly is to toll
it to baits. The hunter either lies in ambush near the carcass, or
approaches it stealthily when he thinks the bear is at its meal.
One day while camped near the Bitter Root Mountains in Montana I found
that a bear had been feeding on the carcass of a moose which lay some
five miles from the little open glade in which my tent was pitched, and
I made up my mind to try to get a shot at it that afternoon. I stayed
in camp till about three o'clock, lying lazily back on the bed of
sweet-smelling evergreen boughs, watching the pack ponies as they stood
under the pines on the edge of the open, stamping now and then, and
switching their tails. The air was still, the sky a glorious blue; at
that hour in the afternoon even the September sun was hot. The smoke
from the smouldering logs of the camp fire curled thinly upwards. Little
chipmunks scuttled out from their holes to the packs, which lay in a
heap on the ground, and then scuttled madly back again. A couple of
drab-colored whisky-jacks, with bold mien and fearless bright eyes,
hopped and fluttered round, picking up the scraps, and uttering an
extraordinary variety of notes, mostly discordant; so tame were they
that one of them lit on my outstretched arm as I half dozed, basking in
the sunshine.
When the shadows began to lengthen, I shouldered my rifle and plunged
into the woods. At first my route lay along a mountain side; then
for half a mile over a windfall, the dead timber piled about in crazy
confusion. After that I went up the bottom of a valley by a little
brook, the ground being carpeted with a sponge of soaked moss. At the
head of this brook was a pond covered with water-lilies; and a scramble
through a rocky pass took me into a high, wet valley, where the thick
growth of spruce was broken by occasional strips of meadow. In this
valley the moose carcass lay, well at the upper end.
In moccasined feet I trod softly through the soundless woods. Under the
dark branches it was already dusk, and the air had the cool chill
of evening. As I neared the clump where the body lay, I walked with
redoubled caution, watching and listening with strained alertness. Then
I heard a twig snap; and my blood leaped, for I knew the bear was at his
supper. In another moment I saw his shaggy, brown form. He was working
with all his awkward giant strength, trying to bury the carcass,
twisting it to one side and the other with wonderful ease. Once he
got angry and suddenly gave it a tremendous cuff with his paw; in his
bearing he had something half humorous, half devilish. I crept up within
forty yards; but for several minutes he would not keep his head still.
Then something attracted his attention in the forest, and he stood
motionless looking towards it, broadside to me, with his fore-paws
planted on the carcass. This gave me my chance. I drew a very fine bead
between his eye and ear; and pulled trigger. He dropped like a steer
when struck with a pole-axe.
If there is a good hiding-place handy it is better to lie in wait at the
carcass. One day on the head-waters of the Madison, I found that a
bear was coming to an elk I had shot some days before; and I at once
determined to ambush the beast when he came back that evening. The
carcass lay in the middle of a valley a quarter of a mile broad. The
bottom of this valley was covered by an open forest of tall pines; a
thick jungle of smaller evergreens marked where the mountains rose
on either hand. There were a number of large rocks scattered here and
there, one, of very convenient shape, being only some seventy or eighty
yards from the carcass. Up this I clambered. It hid me perfectly, and
on its top was a carpet of soft pine needles, on which I could lie at my
ease.
Hour after hour passed by. A little black woodpecker with a yellow crest
ran nimbly up and down the tree-trunks for some time and then flitted
away with a party of chickadees and nut-hatches. Occasionally a Clarke's
crow soared about overhead or clung in any position to the swaying end
of a pine branch, chattering and screaming. Flocks of cross-bills, with
wavy flight and plaintive calls, flew to a small mineral lick near by,
where they scraped the clay with their queer little beaks.
As the westering sun sank out of sight beyond the mountains these sounds
of bird-life gradually died away. Under the great pines the evening was
still with the silence of primeval desolation. The sense of sadness and
loneliness, the melancholy of the wilderness, came over me like a spell.
Every slight noise made my pulses throb as I lay motionless on the rock
gazing intently into the gathering gloom. I began to fear that it would
grow too dark to shoot before the grisly came.
Suddenly and without warning, the great bear stepped out of the bushes
and trod across the pine needles with such swift and silent footsteps
that its bulk seemed unreal. It was very cautious, continually halting
to peer around; and once it stood up on its hind legs and looked long
down the valley towards the red west. As it reached the carcass I put a
bullet between its shoulders. It rolled over, while the woods resounded
with its savage roaring. Immediately it struggled to its feet and
staggered off; and fell again to the next shot, squalling and yelling.
Twice this was repeated; the brute being one of those bears which greet
every wound with a great outcry, and sometimes seem to lose their feet
when hit--although they will occasionally fight as savagely as their
more silent brethren. In this case the wounds were mortal, and the bear
died before reaching the edge of the thicket.
I spent much of the fall of 1889 hunting on the head-waters of the
Salmon and Snake in Idaho, and along the Montana boundary line from the
Big Hole Basin and the head of the Wisdom River to the neighborhood of
Red Rock Pass and to the north and west of Henry's Lake. During the
last fortnight my companion was the old mountain man, already mentioned,
named Griffeth or Griffin--I cannot tell which, as he was always called
either "Hank" or "Griff." He was a crabbedly honest old fellow, and a
very skilful hunter; but he was worn out with age and rheumatism, and
his temper had failed even faster than his bodily strength. He showed
me a greater variety of game than I had ever seen before in so short a
time; nor did I ever before or after make so successful a hunt. But he
was an exceedingly disagreeable companion on account of his surly, moody
ways. I generally had to get up first, to kindle the fire and make ready
breakfast, and he was very quarrelsome. Finally, during my absence
from camp one day, while not very far from Red Rock pass, he found my
whisky-flask, which I kept purely for emergencies, and drank all the
contents. When I came back he was quite drunk. This was unbearable, and
after some high words I left him, and struck off homeward through the
woods on my own account. We had with us four pack and saddle horses; and
of these I took a very intelligent and gentle little bronco mare, which
possessed the invaluable trait of always staying near camp, even when
not hobbled. I was not hampered with much of an outfit, having only my
buffalo sleeping-bag, a fur coat, and my washing kit, with a couple of
spare pairs of socks and some handkerchiefs. A frying-pan, some salt
pork, and a hatchet, made up a light pack, which, with the bedding, I
fastened across the stock saddle by means of a rope and a spare packing
cinch. My cartridges and knife were in my belt; my compass and matches,
as always, in my pocket. I walked, while the little mare followed almost
like a dog, often without my having to hold the lariat which served as
halter.
The country was for the most part fairly open, as I kept near the
foot-hills where glades and little prairies broke the pine forest. The
trees were of small size. There was no regular trail, but the course was
easy to keep, and I had no trouble of any kind save on the second day.
That afternoon I was following a stream which at last "canyoned up,"
that is sank to the bottom of a canyon-like ravine impossible for a
horse. I started up a side valley, intending to cross from its head
coulies to those of another valley which would lead in below the canyon.
However, I got enmeshed in the tangle of winding valleys at the foot of
the steep mountains, and as dusk was coming on I halted and camped in
a little open spot by the side of a small, noisy brook, with crystal
water. The place was carpeted with soft, wet, green moss, dotted red
with the kinnikinnic berries, and at its edge, under the trees where the
ground was dry, I threw down the buffalo bed on a mat of sweet-smelling
pine needles. Making camp took but a moment. I opened the pack, tossed
the bedding on a smooth spot, knee-haltered the little mare, dragged up
a few dry logs, and then strolled off, rifle on shoulder, through the
frosty gloaming, to see if I could pick up a grouse for supper.
For half a mile I walked quickly and silently over the pine needles,
across a succession of slight ridges separated by narrow, shallow
valleys. The forest here was composed of lodge-pole pines, which on
the ridges grew close together, with tall slender trunks, while in
the valleys the growth was more open. Though the sun was behind the
mountains there was yet plenty of light by which to shoot, but it was
fading rapidly.
At last, as I was thinking of turning towards camp, I stole up to the
crest of one of the ridges, and looked over into the valley some sixty
yards off. Immediately I caught the loom of some large, dark object; and
another glance showed me a big grisly walking slowly off with his head
down. He was quartering to me, and I fired into his flank, the bullet,
as I afterwards found, ranging forward and piercing one lung. At the
shot he uttered a loud, moaning grunt and plunged forward at a heavy
gallop, while I raced obliquely down the hill to cut him off. After
going a few hundred feet he reached a laurel thicket, some thirty yards
broad, and two or three times as long which he did not leave. I ran up
to the edge and there halted, not liking to venture into the mass of
twisted, close-growing stems and glossy foliage. Moreover, as I halted,
I head him utter a peculiar, savage kind of whine from the heart of the
brush. Accordingly, I began to skirt the edge, standing on tiptoe and
gazing earnestly to see if I could not catch a glimpse of his hide. When
I was at the narrowest part of the thicket, he suddenly left it directly
opposite, and then wheeled and stood broadside to me on the hill-side, a
little above. He turned his head stiffly towards me; scarlet strings of
froth hung from his lips; his eyes burned like embers in the gloom.
I held true, aiming behind the shoulder, and my bullet shattered the
point or lower end of his heart, taking out a big nick. Instantly the
great bear turned with a harsh roar of fury and challenge, blowing the
blood foam from his mouth, so that I saw the gleam of his white fangs;
and then he charged straight at me, crashing and bounding through the
laurel bushes, so that it was hard to aim. I waited until he came to a
fallen tree, raking him as he topped it with a ball, which entered his
chest and went through the cavity of his body, but he neither swerved
nor flinched, and at the moment I did not know that I had struck him. He
came steadily on, and in another second was almost upon me. I fired for
his forehead, but my bullet went low, entering his open mouth, smashing
his lower jaw and going into the neck. I leaped to one side almost as I
pulled trigger; and through the hanging smoke the first thing I saw was
his paw as he made a vicious side blow at me. The rush of his charge
carried him past. As he struck he lurched forward, leaving a pool of
bright blood where his muzzle hit the ground; but he recovered himself
and made two or three jumps onwards, while I hurriedly jammed a couple
of cartridges into the magazine, my rifle holding only four, all of
which I had fired. Then he tried to pull up, but as he did so his
muscles seemed suddenly to give way, his head drooped, and he rolled
over and over like a shot rabbit. Each of my first three bullets had
inflicted a mortal wound.
It was already twilight, and I merely opened the carcass, and then
trotted back to camp. Next morning I returned and with much labor took
off the skin. The fur was very fine, the animal being in excellent trim,
and unusually bright-colored. Unfortunately, in packing it out I lost
the skull, and had to supply its place with one of plaster. The beauty
of the trophy, and the memory of the circumstances under which I
procured it, make me value it perhaps more highly than any other in my
house.
This is the only instance in which I have been regularly charged by a
grisly. On the whole, the danger of hunting these great bears has been
much exaggerated. At the beginning of the present century, when white
hunters first encountered the grisly, he was doubtless an exceedingly
savage beast, prone to attack without provocation, and a redoubtable foe
to persons armed with the clumsy, small-bore muzzle-loading rifles of
the day. But at present bitter experience has taught him caution. He has
been hunted for the bounty, and hunted as a dangerous enemy to stock,
until, save in the very wildest districts, he has learned to be more
wary than a deer and to avoid man's presence almost as carefully as the
most timid kind of game. Except in rare cases he will not attack of
his own accord, and, as a rule, even when wounded his object is escape
rather than battle.
Still, when fairly brought to bay, or when moved by a sudden fit of
ungovernable anger, the grisly is beyond peradventure a very dangerous
antagonist. The first shot, if taken at a bear a good distance off and
previously unwounded and unharried, is not usually fraught with much
danger, the startled animal being at the outset bent merely on flight.
It is always hazardous, however, to track a wounded and worried grisly
into thick cover, and the man who habitually follows and kills this
chief of American game in dense timber, never abandoning the bloody
trail whithersoever it leads, must show no small degree of skill and
hardihood, and must not too closely count the risk to life or limb.
Bears differ widely in temper, and occasionally one may be found who
will not show fight, no matter how much he is bullied; but, as a rule,
a hunter must be cautious in meddling with a wounded animal which has
retreated into a dense thicket, and had been once or twice roused; and
such a beast, when it does turn, will usually charge again and again,
and fight to the last with unconquerable ferocity. The short distance
at which the bear can be seen through the underbrush, the fury of his
charge, and his tenacity of life make it necessary for the hunter on
such occasions to have steady nerves and a fairly quick and accurate
aim. It is always well to have two men in following a wounded bear under
such conditions. This is not necessary, however, and a good hunter,
rather than lose his quarry, will, under ordinary circumstances, follow
and attack it, no matter how tangled the fastness in which it has
sought refuge; but he must act warily and with the utmost caution
and resolution, if he wishes to escape a terrible and probably fatal
mauling. An experienced hunter is rarely rash, and never heedless; he
will not, when alone, follow a wounded bear into a thicket, if by that
exercise of patience, skill, and knowledge of the game's habits he can
avoid the necessity; but it is idle to talk of the feat as something
which ought in no case to be attempted. While danger ought never to be
needlessly incurred, it is yet true that the keenest zest in sport comes
from its presence, and from the consequent exercise of the qualities
necessary to overcome it. The most thrilling moments of an American
hunter's life are those in which, with every sense on the alert, and
with nerves strung to the highest point, he is following alone into
the heart of its forest fastness the fresh and bloody footprints of an
angered grisly; and no other triumph of American hunting can compare
with the victory to be thus gained.
These big bears will not ordinarily charge from a distance of over a
hundred yards; but there are exceptions to this rule. In the fall of
1890 my friend Archibald Rogers was hunting in Wyoming, south of the
Yellowstone Park, and killed seven bears. One, an old he, was out on a
bare table-land, grubbing for roots, when he was spied. It was early
in the afternoon, and the hunters, who were on a high mountain slope,
examined him for some time through their powerful glasses before making
him out to be a bear. They then stalked up to the edge of the wood which
fringed on the table-land on one side, but could get no nearer than
about three hundred yards, the plains being barren of all cover. After
waiting for a couple of hours Rogers risked the shot, in despair of
getting nearer, and wounded the bear, though not very seriously.
The animal made off, almost broadside to, and Rogers ran forward to
intercept it. As soon as it saw him it turned and rushed straight for
him, not heeding his second shot, and evidently bent on charging home.
Rogers then waited until it was within twenty yards, and brained it with
his third bullet.
In fact bears differ individually in courage and ferocity precisely as
men do, or as the Spanish bulls, of which it is said that not more than
one in twenty is fit to stand the combat of the arena. One grisly can
scarcely be bullied into resistance; the next may fight to the end,
against any odds, without flinching, or even attack unprovoked. Hence
men of limited experience in this sport, generalizing from the actions
of the two or three bears each has happened to see or kill, often
reach diametrically opposite conclusions as to the fighting temper and
capacity of the quarry. Even old hunters--who indeed, as a class, are
very narrow-minded and opinionated--often generalize just as rashly as
beginners. One will portray all bears as very dangerous; another will
speak and act as if he deemed them of no more consequence than so many
rabbits. I knew one old hunter who had killed a score without ever
seeing one show fight. On the other hand, Dr. James C. Merrill, U.
S. A., who has had about as much experience with bears as I have had,
informs me that he has been charged with the utmost determination three
times. In each case the attack was delivered before the bear was wounded
or even shot at, the animal being roused by the approach of the hunter
from his day bed, and charging headlong at them from a distance of
twenty or thirty paces. All three bears were killed before they could
do any damage. There was a very remarkable incident connected with the
killing of one of them. It occurred in the northern spurs of the Bighorn
range. Dr. Merrill, in company with an old hunter, had climbed down
into a deep, narrow canyon. The bottom was threaded with well-beaten elk
trails. While following one of these the two men turned a corner of the
canyon and were instantly charged by an old she-grisly, so close that
it was only by good luck that one of the hurried shots disabled her and
caused her to tumble over a cut bank where she was easily finished.
They found that she had been lying directly across the game trail, on a
smooth well beaten patch of bare earth, which looked as if it had been
dug up, refilled, and trampled down. Looking curiously at this patch
they saw a bit of hide only partially covered at one end; digging down
they found the body of a well grown grisly cub. Its skull had been
crushed, and the brains licked out, and there were signs of other
injuries. The hunters pondered long over this strange discovery, and
hazarded many guesses as to its meaning. At last they decided that
probably the cub had been killed, and its brains eaten out, either by
some old male-grisly or by a cougar, that the mother had returned and
driven away the murderer, and that she had then buried the body and lain
above it, waiting to wreak her vengeance on the first passer-by.
Old Tazewell Woody, during his thirty years' life as a hunter in the
Rockies and on the great plains, killed very many grislies. He always
exercised much caution in dealing with them; and, as it happened, he was
by some suitable tree in almost every case when he was charged. He
would accordingly climb the tree (a practice of which I do not approve
however); and the bear would look up at him and pass on without
stopping. Once, when he was hunting in the mountains with a companion,
the latter, who was down in a valley, while Woody was on the hill-side,
shot at a bear. The first thing Woody knew the wounded grisly, running
up-hill, was almost on him from behind. As he turned it seized his rifle
in its jaws. He wrenched the rifle round, while the bear still gripped
it, and pulled trigger, sending a bullet into its shoulder; whereupon it
struck him with its paw, and knocked him over the rocks. By good luck
he fell in a snow bank and was not hurt in the least. Meanwhile the bear
went on and they never got it.
Once he had an experience with a bear which showed a very curious
mixture of rashness and cowardice. He and a companion were camped in a
little tepee or wigwam, with a bright fire in front of it, lighting up
the night. There was an inch of snow on the ground. Just after they went
to bed a grisly came close to camp. Their dog rushed out and they could
hear it bark round in the darkness for nearly an hour; then the bear
drove it off and came right into camp. It went close to the fire,
picking up the scraps of meat and bread, pulled a haunch of venison down
from a tree, and passed and repassed in front of the tepee, paying no
heed whatever to the two men, who crouched in the doorway talking to one
another. Once it passed so close that Woody could almost have touched
it. Finally his companion fired into it, and off it ran, badly wounded,
without an attempt at retaliation. Next morning they followed its tracks
in the snow, and found it a quarter or a mile away. It was near a pine
and had buried itself under the loose earth, pine needles, and snow;
Woody's companion almost walked over it, and putting his rifle to its
ear blew out its brains.
In all his experience Woody had personally seen but four men who were
badly mauled by bears. Three of these were merely wounded. One was
bitten terribly in the back. Another had an arm partially chewed off.
The third was a man named George Dow, and the accident happened to him
on the Yellowstone about the year 1878. He was with a pack animal at the
time, leading it on a trail through a wood. Seeing a big she-bear with
cubs he yelled at her; whereat she ran away, but only to cache her cubs,
and in a minute, having hidden them, came racing back at him. His pack
animal being slow he started to climb a tree; but before he could get
far enough up she caught him, almost biting a piece out of the calf of
his leg, pulled him down, bit and cuffed him two or three times, and
then went on her way.
The only time Woody ever saw a man killed by a bear was once when he had
given a touch of variety to his life by shipping on a New Bedford whaler
which had touched at one of the Puget Sound ports. The whaler went up
to a part of Alaska where bears were very plentiful and bold. One day a
couple of boats' crews landed; and the men, who were armed only with an
occasional harpoon or lance, scattered over the beach, one of them,
a Frenchman, wading into the water after shell-fish. Suddenly a bear
emerged from some bushes and charged among the astonished sailors, who
scattered in every direction; but the bear, said Woody, "just had it in
for that Frenchman," and went straight at him. Shrieking with terror
he retreated up to his neck in the water; but the bear plunged in after
him, caught him, and disembowelled him. One of the Yankee mates then
fired a bomb lance into the bear's hips, and the savage beast hobbled
off into the dense cover of the low scrub, where the enraged sailor folk
were unable to get at it.
The truth is that while the grisly generally avoids a battle if
possible, and often acts with great cowardice, it is never safe to take
liberties with him; he usually fights desperately and dies hard when
wounded and cornered, and exceptional individuals take the aggressive on
small provocation.
During the years I lived on the frontier I came in contact with many
persons who had been severely mauled or even crippled for life by
grislies; and a number of cases where they killed men outright were
also brought under my ken. Generally these accidents, as was natural,
occurred to hunters who had roused or wounded the game.
A fighting bear sometimes uses his claws and sometimes his teeth. I have
never known one to attempt to kill an antagonist by hugging, in spite
of the popular belief to this effect; though he will sometimes draw an
enemy towards him with his paws the better to reach him with his teeth,
and to hold him so that he cannot escape from the biting. Nor does the
bear often advance on his hind legs to the attack; though, if the man
has come close to him in thick underbrush, or has stumbled on him in his
lair unawares, he will often rise up in this fashion and strike a single
blow. He will also rise in clinching with a man on horseback. In 1882
a mounted Indian was killed in this manner on one of the river bottoms
some miles below where my ranch house now stands, not far from the
junction of the Beaver and Little Missouri. The bear had been hunted
into a thicket by a band of Indians, in whose company my informant, a
white squaw-man, with whom I afterward did some trading, was travelling.
One of them in the excitement of the pursuit rode across the end of
the thicket; as he did so the great beast sprang at him with wonderful
quickness, rising on its hind legs, and knocking over the horse and
rider with a single sweep of its terrible fore-paws. It then turned
on the fallen man and tore him open, and though the other Indians came
promptly to his rescue and slew his assailant, they were not in time to
save their comrade's life.
A bear is apt to rely mainly on his teeth or claws according to whether
his efforts are directed primarily to killing his foe or to making good
his own escape. In the latter event he trusts chiefly to his claws. If
cornered, he of course makes a rush for freedom, and in that case he
downs any man who is in his way with a sweep of his great paw, but
passes on without stopping to bite him. If while sleeping or resting in
thick brush some one suddenly stumbles on him close up he pursues
the same course, less from anger than from fear, being surprised and
startled. Moreover, if attacked at close quarters by men and dogs he
strikes right and left in defence.
Sometimes what is called a charge is rather an effort to get away. In
localities where he has been hunted, a bear, like every other kind of
game, is always on the look-out for an attack, and is prepared at any
moment for immediate flight. He seems ever to have in his mind,
whether feeding, sunning himself, or merely roaming around, the
direction--usually towards the thickest cover or most broken ground--in
which he intends to run if molested. When shot at he instantly starts
towards this place; or he may be so confused that he simply runs he
knows not whither; and in either event he may take a line that leads
almost directly to or by the hunter, although he had at first no thought
of charging. In such a case he usually strikes a single knock-down blow
and gallops on without halting, though that one blow may have taken
life. If the claws are long and fairly sharp (as in early spring, or
even in the fall, if the animal has been working over soft ground) they
add immensely to the effect of the blow, for they cut like blunt axes.
Often, however, late in the season, and if the ground has been dry and
hard, or rocky, the claws are worn down nearly to the quick, and the
blow is then given mainly with the under side of the paw; although even
under this disadvantage a thump from a big bear will down a horse or
smash in a man's breast. The hunter Hofer once lost a horse in this
manner. He shot at and wounded a bear which rushed off, as ill luck
would have it, past the place where his horse was picketed; probably
more in fright than in anger it struck the poor beast a blow which, in
the end, proved mortal.
If a bear means mischief and charges not to escape but to do damage, its
aim is to grapple with or throw down its foe and bite him to death. The
charge is made at a gallop, the animal sometimes coming on silently,
with the mouth shut, and sometimes with the jaws open, the lips drawn
back and teeth showing, uttering at the same time a succession of roars
or of savage rasping snarls. Certain bears charge without any bluster
and perfectly straight; while others first threaten and bully, and even
when charging stop to growl, shake the head and bite at a bush or knock
holes in the ground with their fore-paws. Again, some of them charge
home with a ferocious resolution which their extreme tenacity of life
renders especially dangerous; while others can be turned or driven back
even by a shot which is not mortal. They show the same variability in
their behavior when wounded. Often a big bear, especially if charging,
will receive a bullet in perfect silence, without flinching or seeming
to pay any heed to it; while another will cry out and tumble about, and
if charging, even though it may not abandon the attack, will pause for a
moment to whine or bite at the wound.
Sometimes a single bite causes death. One of the most successful bear
hunters I ever knew, an old fellow whose real name I never heard as he
was always called Old Ike, was killed in this way in the spring or early
summer of 1886 on one of the head-waters of the Salmon. He was a very
good shot, had killed nearly a hundred bears with the rifle, and,
although often charged, had never met with any accident, so that he had
grown somewhat careless. On the day in question he had met a couple of
mining prospectors and was travelling with them, when a grisly crossed
his path. The old hunter immediately ran after it, rapidly gaining, as
the bear did not hurry when it saw itself pursued, but slouched slowly
forwards, occasionally turning its head to grin and growl. It soon went
into a dense grove of young spruce, and as the hunter reached the edge
it charged fiercely out. He fired one hasty shot, evidently wounding the
animal, but not seriously enough to stop or cripple it; and as his two
companions ran forward they saw the bear seize him with its wide-spread
jaws, forcing him to the ground. They shouted and fired, and the beast
abandoned the fallen man on the instant and sullenly retreated into the
spruce thicket, whither they dared not follow it. Their friend was at
his last gasp; for the whole side of the chest had been crushed in by
the one bite, the lungs showing between the rent ribs.
Very often, however, a bear does not kill a man by one bite, but after
throwing him lies on him, biting him to death. Usually, if no assistance
is at hand, such a man is doomed; although if he pretends to be dead,
and has the nerve to lie quiet under very rough treatment, it is just
possible that the bear may leave him alive, perhaps after half burying
what it believes to be the body. In a very few exceptional instances men
of extraordinary prowess with the knife have succeeded in beating off
a bear, and even in mortally wounding it, but in most cases a
single-handed struggle, at close quarters, with a grisly bent on
mischief, means death.
Occasionally the bear, although vicious, is also frightened, and passes
on after giving one or two bites; and frequently a man who is knocked
down is rescued by his friends before he is killed, the big beast mayhap
using his weapons with clumsiness. So a bear may kill a foe with a
single blow of its mighty fore-arm, either crushing in the head or
chest by sheer force of sinew, or else tearing open the body with its
formidable claws; and so on the other hand he may, and often does,
merely disfigure or maim the foe by a hurried stroke. Hence it is common
to see men who have escaped the clutches of a grisly, but only at the
cost of features marred beyond recognition, or a body rendered almost
helpless for life. Almost every old resident of western Montana or
northern Idaho has known two or three unfortunates who have suffered in
this manner. I have myself met one such man in Helena, and another in
Missoula; both were living at least as late as 1889, the date at which
I last saw them. One had been partially scalped by a bear's teeth; the
animal was very old and so the fangs did not enter the skull. The other
had been bitten across the face, and the wounds never entirely healed,
so that his disfigured visage was hideous to behold.
Most of these accidents occur in following a wounded or worried bear
into thick cover; and under such circumstances an animal apparently
hopelessly disabled, or in the death throes, may with a last effort
kill one or more of its assailants. In 1874 my wife's uncle, Captain
Alexander Moore, U. S. A., and my friend Captain Bates, with some men
of the 2nd and 3rd Cavalry, were scouting in Wyoming, near the Freezeout
Mountains. One morning they roused a bear in the open prairie and
followed it at full speed as it ran towards a small creek. At one spot
in the creek beavers had built a dam, and as usual in such places there
was a thick growth of bushes and willow saplings. Just as the bear
reached the edge of this little jungle it was struck by several balls,
both of its forelegs being broken. Nevertheless, it managed to shove
itself forward on its hind-legs, and partly rolled, partly pushed itself
into the thicket, the bushes though low being so dense that its body was
at once completely hidden. The thicket was a mere patch of brush, not
twenty yards across in any direction. The leading troopers reached the
edge almost as the bear tumbled in. One of them, a tall and powerful
man named Miller, instantly dismounted and prepared to force his way in
among the dwarfed willows, which were but breast-high. Among the men
who had ridden up were Moore and Bates, and also the two famous scouts,
Buffalo Bill--long a companion of Captain Moore,--and California Joe,
Custer's faithful follower. California Joe had spent almost all his life
on the plains and in the mountains, as a hunter and Indian fighter; and
when he saw the trooper about to rush into the thicket he called out
to him not to do so, warning him of the danger. But the man was a very
reckless fellow and he answered by jeering at the old hunter for his
over-caution in being afraid of a crippled bear. California Joe made no
further effort to dissuade him, remarking quietly: "Very well, sonny, go
in; it's your own affair." Miller then leaped off the bank on which they
stood and strode into the thicket, holding his rifle at the port. Hardly
had he taken three steps when the bear rose in front of him, roaring
with rage and pain. It was so close that the man had no chance to fire.
Its fore-arms hung useless and as it reared unsteadily on its hind-legs,
lunging forward at him, he seized it by the ears and strove to hold it
back. His strength was very great, and he actually kept the huge head
from his face and braced himself so that he was not overthrown; but the
bear twisted its muzzle from side to side, biting and tearing the man's
arms and shoulders. Another soldier jumping down slew the beast with
a single bullet, and rescued his comrade; but though alive he was too
badly hurt to recover and died after reaching the hospital. Buffalo Bill
was given the bear-skin, and I believe has it now.
The instances in which hunters who have rashly followed grislies into
thick cover have been killed or severely mauled might be multiplied
indefinitely. I have myself known of eight cases in which men have met
their deaths in this manner.
It occasionally happens that a cunning old grisly will lie so close that
the hunter almost steps on him; and he then rises suddenly with a loud,
coughing growl and strikes down or seizes the man before the latter can
fire off his rifle. More rarely a bear which is both vicious and crafty
deliberately permits the hunter to approach fairly near to, or perhaps
pass by, its hiding-place, and then suddenly charges him with such
rapidity that he has barely time for the most hurried shot. The danger
in such a case is of course great.
Ordinarily, however, even in the brush, the bear's object is to slink
away, not to fight, and very many are killed even under the most
unfavorable circumstances without accident. If an unwounded bear thinks
itself unobserved it is not apt to attack; and in thick cover it is
really astonishing to see how one of these large animals can hide, and
how closely it will lie when there is danger. About twelve miles below
my ranch there are some large river bottoms and creek bottoms covered
with a matted mass of cottonwood, box-alders, bull-berry bushes,
rosebushes, ash, wild plums, and other bushes. These bottoms have
harbored bears ever since I first saw them; but, though often in company
with a large party, I have repeatedly beaten through them, and though we
must at times have been very near indeed to the game, we never so much
as heard it run.
When bears are shot, as they usually must be, in open timber or on the
bare mountain, the risk is very much less. Hundreds may thus be killed
with comparatively little danger; yet even under these circumstances
they will often charge, and sometimes make their charge good. The spice
of danger, especially to a man armed with a good repeating rifle,
is only enough to add zest to the chase, and the chief triumph is in
outwitting the wary quarry and getting within range. Ordinarily the only
excitement is in the stalk, the bear doing nothing more than keep a keen
look-out and manifest the utmost anxiety to get away. As is but natural,
accidents occasionally occur; yet they are usually due more to some
failure in man or weapon than to the prowess of the bear. A good hunter
whom I once knew, at a time when he was living in Butte, received fatal
injuries from a bear he attacked in open woodland. The beast charged
after the first shot, but slackened its pace on coming almost up to the
man. The latter's gun jambed, and as he was endeavoring to work it he
kept stepping slowly back, facing the bear which followed a few yards
distant, snarling and threatening. Unfortunately while thus walking
backwards the man struck a dead log and fell over it, whereupon the
beast instantly sprang on him and mortally wounded him before help
arrived.
On rare occasions men who are not at the time hunting it fall victims to
the grisly. This is usually because they stumble on it unawares and the
animal attacks them more in fear than in anger. One such case, resulting
fatally, occurred near my own ranch. The man walked almost over a bear
while crossing a little point of brush, in a bend of the river, and was
brained with a single blow of the paw. In another instance which came
to my knowledge the man escaped with a shaking up, and without even a
fight. His name was Perkins, and he was out gathering huckleberries in
the woods on a mountain side near Pend'Oreille Lake. Suddenly he was
sent flying head over heels, by a blow which completely knocked the
breath out of his body; and so instantaneous was the whole affair that
all he could ever recollect about it was getting a vague glimpse of the
bear just as he was bowled over. When he came to he found himself lying
some distance down the hill-side, much shaken, and without his berry
pail, which had rolled a hundred yards below him, but not otherwise the
worse for his misadventure; while the footprints showed that the bear,
after delivering the single hurried stoke at the unwitting disturber of
its day-dreams, had run off up-hill as fast as it was able.
A she-bear with cubs is a proverbially dangerous beast; yet even under
such conditions different grislies act in directly opposite ways. Some
she-grislies, when their cubs are young, but are able to follow them
about, seem always worked up to the highest pitch of anxious and jealous
rage, so that they are likely to attack unprovoked any intruder or even
passer-by. Others when threatened by the hunter leave their cubs to
their fate without a visible qualm of any kind, and seem to think only
of their own safety.
In 1882 Mr. Casper W. Whitney, now of New York, met with a very singular
adventure with a she-bear and cub. He was in Harvard when I was, but
left it and, like a good many other Harvard men of that time, took to
cow-punching in the West. He went on a ranch in Rio Arriba County, New
Mexico, and was a keen hunter, especially fond of the chase of cougar,
bear, and elk. One day while riding a stony mountain trail he saw a
grisly cub watching him from the chaparral above, and he dismounted to
try to capture it; his rifle was a 40-90 Sharp's. Just as he neared the
cub, he heard a growl and caught a glimpse of the old she, and he at
once turned up-hill, and stood under some tall, quaking aspens. From
this spot he fired at and wounded the she, then seventy yards off; and
she charged furiously. He hit her again, but as she kept coming like a
thunderbolt he climbed hastily up the aspen, dragging his gun with
him, as it had a strap. When the bear reached the foot of the aspen she
reared, and bit and clawed the slender trunk, shaking it for a moment,
and he shot her through the eye. Off she sprang for a few yards, and
then spun round a dozen times, as if dazed or partially stunned; for the
bullet had not touched the brain. Then the vindictive and resolute
beast came back to the tree and again reared up against it; this time
to receive a bullet that dropped her lifeless. Mr. Whitney then climbed
down and walked to where the cub had been sitting as a looker-on.
The little animal did not move until he reached out his hand; when it
suddenly struck at him like an angry cat, dove into the bushes, and was
seen no more.
In the summer of 1888 an old-time trapper, named Charley Norton, while
on Loon Creek, of the middle fork of the Salmon, meddled with a she and
her cubs. She ran at him and with one blow of her paw almost knocked off
his lower jaw; yet he recovered, and was alive when I last heard of him.
Yet the very next spring the cowboys with my own wagon on the Little
Missouri round-up killed a mother bear which made but little more fight
than a coyote. She had two cubs, and was surprised in the early morning
on the prairie far from cover. There were eight or ten cowboys together
at the time, just starting off on a long circle, and of course they
all got down their ropes in a second, and putting spurs to their fiery
little horses started toward the bears at a run, shouting and swinging
their loops round their heads. For a moment the old she tried to bluster
and made a half-hearted threat of charging; but her courage failed
before the rapid onslaught of her yelling, rope-swinging assailants; and
she took to her heels and galloped off, leaving the cubs to shift for
themselves. The cowboys were close behind, however, and after half
a mile's run she bolted into a shallow cave or hole in the side of a
butte, where she stayed cowering and growling, until one of the men
leaped off his horse, ran up to the edge of the hole, and killed her
with a single bullet from his revolver, fired so close that the powder
burned her hair. The unfortunate cubs were roped, and then so dragged
about that they were speedily killed instead of being brought alive to
camp, as ought to have been done.
In the cases mentioned above the grisly attacked only after having been
itself assailed, or because it feared an assault, for itself or for its
young. In the old days, however, it may almost be said that a grisly
was more apt to attack than to flee. Lewis and Clarke and the early
explorers who immediately succeeded them, as well as the first hunters
and trappers, the "Rocky Mountain men" of the early decades of the
present century, were repeatedly assailed in this manner; and not a few
of the bear hunters of that period found that it was unnecessary to take
much trouble about approaching their quarry, as the grisly was usually
prompt to accept the challenge and to advance of its own accord, as
soon as it discovered the foe. All this is changed now. Yet even at the
present day an occasional vicious old bear may be found, in some far-off
and little-trod fastness, which still keeps up the former habit of its
kind. All old hunters have tales of this sort to relate, the prowess,
cunning, strength, and ferocity of the grisly being favorite topics for
camp-fire talk throughout the Rockies; but in most cases it is not safe
to accept these stories without careful sifting.
Still it is just as unsafe to reject them all. One of my own cowboys was
once attacked by a grisly, seemingly in pure wantonness. He was riding
up a creek bottom and had just passed a clump of rose and bull-berry
bushes when his horse gave such a leap as almost to unseat him, and
then darted madly forward. Turning round in the saddle to his utter
astonishment he saw a large bear galloping after him, at the horse's
heels. For a few jumps the race was close, then the horse drew away and
the bear wheeled and went into a thicket of wild plums. The amazed
and indignant cowboy, as soon as he could rein in his steed, drew his
revolver and rode back to and around the thicket, endeavoring to provoke
his late pursuer to come out and try conclusions on more equal terms;
but prudent Ephraim had apparently repented of his freak of ferocious
bravado, and declined to leave the secure shelter of the jungle.
Other attacks are of a much more explicable nature. Mr. Huffman, the
photographer of Miles City, informed me once when butchering some
slaughtered elk he was charged twice by a she-bear and two well-grown
cubs. This was a piece of sheer bullying, undertaken solely with the
purpose of driving away the man and feasting on the carcasses; for
in each charge the three bears, after advancing with much blustering,
roaring, and growling, halted just before coming to close quarters. In
another instance a gentleman I once knew, a Mr. S. Carr was charged by
a grisly from mere ill temper at being disturbed at mealtime. The man
was riding up a valley; and the bear was at an elk carcass, near a clump
of firs. As soon as it became aware of the approach of the horseman,
while he was yet over a hundred yards distant, it jumped on the carcass,
looked at him a moment, and then ran straight for him. There was no
particular reason why it should have charged, for it was fat and in
good trim, though when killed its head showed scars made by the teeth
of rival grislies. Apparently it had been living so well, principally
on flesh, that it had become quarrelsome; and perhaps its not over sweet
disposition had been soured by combats with others of its own kind.
In yet another case, a grisly charged with even less excuse. An old
trapper, from whom I occasionally bought fur, was toiling up a mountain
pass when he spied a big bear sitting on his haunches on the hill-side
above. The trapper shouted and waved his cap; whereupon, to his
amazement, the bear uttered a loud "wough" and charged straight down on
him--only to fall a victim to misplaced boldness.
I am even inclined to think that there have been wholly exceptional
occasions when a grisly has attacked a man with the deliberate purpose
of making a meal of him; when, in other words, it has started on the
career of a man-eater. At least, on any other theory I find it difficult
to account for an attack which once came to my knowledge. I was at Sand
point, on Pend'Oreille Lake, and met some French and Meti trappers, then
in town with their bales of beaver, otter, and sable. One of them, who
gave his name as Baptiste Lamoche, had his head twisted over to one
side, the result of the bite of a bear. When the accident occurred he
was out on a trapping trip with two companions. They had pitched camp
right on the shore of a cove in a little lake, and his comrades were off
fishing in a dugout or pirogue. He himself was sitting near the shore,
by a little lean-to, watching some beaver meat which was sizzling over
the dying embers. Suddenly, and without warning, a great bear, which had
crept silently up beneath the shadows of the tall evergreens, rushed at
him, with a guttural roar, and seized him before he could rise to his
feet. It grasped him with its jaws at the junction of the neck and
shoulder, making the teeth meet through bone, sinew, and muscle; and
turning, tracked off towards the forest, dragging with it the helpless
and paralyzed victim. Luckily the two men in the canoe had just paddled
round the point, in sight of, and close to, camp. The man in the bow,
seeing the plight of their comrade, seized his rifle and fired at
the bear. The bullet went through the beast's lungs, and it forthwith
dropped its prey, and running off some two hundred yards, lay down on
its side and died. The rescued man recovered full health and strength,
but never again carried his head straight.
Old hunters and mountain-men tell many stories, not only of malicious
grislies thus attacking men in camp, but also of their even dogging the
footsteps of some solitary hunter and killing him when the favorable
opportunity occurs. Most of these tales are mere fables; but it is
possible that in altogether exceptional instances they rest on a
foundation of fact. One old hunter whom I knew told me such a story. He
was a truthful old fellow and there was no doubt that he believed what
he said, and that his companion was actually killed by a bear; but it
is probable that he was mistaken in reading the signs of his comrade's
fate, and that the latter was not dogged by the bear at all, but
stumbled on him and was slain in the surprise of the moment.
At any rate, cases of wanton assaults by grislies are altogether out
of the common. The ordinary hunter may live out his whole life in the
wilderness and never know aught of a bear attacking a man unprovoked;
and the great majority of bears are shot under circumstances of no
special excitement, as they either make no fight at all, or, if they
do fight, are killed before there is any risk of their doing damage.
If surprised on the plains, at some distance from timber or from badly
broken ground, it is no uncommon feat for a single horseman to kill
them with a revolver. Twice of late years it has been performed in the
neighborhood of my ranch. In both instances the men were not hunters out
after game, but simply cowboys, riding over the range in early morning
in pursuance of their ordinary duties among the cattle. I knew both
men and have worked with them on the round-up. Like most cowboys, they
carried 44-calibre Colt revolvers, and were accustomed to and
fairly expert in their use, and they were mounted on ordinary
cow-ponies--quick, wiry, plucky little beasts. In one case the bear
was seen from quite a distance, lounging across a broad table-land. The
cowboy, by taking advantage of a winding and rather shallow coulie, got
quite close to him. He then scrambled out of the coulie, put spurs to
his pony, and raced up to within fifty yards of the astonished bear ere
the latter quite understood what it was that was running at him through
the gray dawn. He made no attempt at fight, but ran at top speed towards
a clump of brush not far off at the head of a creek. Before he could
reach it, however, the galloping horsemen was alongside, and fired three
shots into his broad back. He did not turn, but ran on into the bushes
and then fell over and died.
In the other case the cowboy, a Texan, was mounted on a good cutting
pony, a spirited, handy, agile little animal, but excitable, and with
a habit of dancing, which rendered it difficult to shoot from its back.
The man was with the round-up wagon, and had been sent off by himself to
make a circle through some low, barren buttes, where it was not thought
more than a few head of stock would be found. On rounding the corner
of a small washout he almost ran over a bear which was feeding on the
carcass of a steer that had died in an alkali hole. After a moment of
stunned surprise the bear hurled himself at the intruder with furious
impetuosity; while the cowboy, wheeling his horse on its haunches and
dashing in the spurs, carried it just clear of his assailant's headlong
rush. After a few springs he reined in and once more wheeled half round,
having drawn his revolver, only to find the bear again charging and
almost on him. This time he fired into it, near the joining of the neck
and shoulder, the bullet going downwards into the chest hollow; and
again by a quick dash to one side he just avoided the rush of the beast
and the sweep of its mighty forepaw. The bear then halted for a minute,
and he rode close by it at a run, firing a couple of shots, which
brought on another resolute charge. The ground was somewhat rugged
and broken, but his pony was as quick on its feet as a cat, and never
stumbled, even when going at full speed to avoid the bear's first mad
rushes. It speedily became so excited, however, as to render it almost
impossible for the rider to take aim. Sometimes he would come up close
to the bear and wait for it to charge, which it would do, first at a
trot, or rather rack, and then at a lumbering but swift gallop; and he
would fire one or two shots before being forced to run. At other times,
if the bear stood still in a good place, he would run by it, firing as
he rode. He spent many cartridges, and though most of them were wasted
occasionally a bullet went home. The bear fought with the most savage
courage, champing its bloody jaws, roaring with rage, and looking the
very incarnation of evil fury. For some minutes it made no effort to
flee, either charging or standing at bay. Then it began to move slowly
towards a patch of ash and wild plums in the head of a coulie, some
distance off. Its pursuer rode after it, and when close enough would
push by it and fire, while the bear would spin quickly round and charge
as fiercely as ever, though evidently beginning to grow weak. At last,
when still a couple of hundred yards from cover the man found he had
used up all his cartridges, and then merely followed at a safe distance.
The bear no longer paid heed to him, but walked slowly forwards, swaying
its great head from side to side, while the blood streamed from between
its half-opened jaws. On reaching the cover he could tell by the waving
of the bushes that it walked to the middle and then halted. A few
minutes afterwards some of the other cowboys rode up, having been
attracted by the incessant firing. They surrounded the thicket, firing
and throwing stones into the bushes. Finally, as nothing moved, they
ventured in and found the indomitable grisly warrior lying dead.
Cowboys delight in nothing so much as the chance to show their skill as
riders and ropers; and they always try to ride down and rope any wild
animal they come across in favorable ground and close enough up. If
a party of them meets a bear in the open they have great fun; and the
struggle between the shouting, galloping, rough-riders and their shaggy
quarry is full of wild excitement and not unaccompanied by danger.
The bear often throws the noose from his head so rapidly that it is
a difficult matter to catch him; and his frequent charges scatter his
tormentors in every direction while the horses become wild with fright
over the roaring, bristling beast--for horses seem to dread a bear more
than any other animal. If the bear cannot reach cover, however, his
fate is sealed. Sooner or later, the noose tightens over one leg, or
perchance over the neck and fore-paw, and as the rope straightens with a
"plunk," the horse braces itself desperately and the bear tumbles over.
Whether he regains his feet or not the cowboy keeps the rope taut; soon
another noose tightens over a leg, and the bear is speedily rendered
helpless.
I have known of these feats being performed several times in northern
Wyoming, although never in the immediate neighborhood of my ranch. Mr.
Archibald Roger's cowhands have in this manner caught several bears, on
or near his ranch on the Gray Bull, which flows into the Bighorn; and
those of Mr. G. B. Grinnell have also occasionally done so. Any set
of moderately good ropers and riders, who are accustomed to back one
another up and act together, can accomplish the feat if they have smooth
ground and plenty of room. It is, however, indeed a feat of skill and
daring for a single man; and yet I have known of more than one instance
in which it has been accomplished by some reckless knight of the rope
and the saddle. One such occurred in 1887 on the Flathead Reservation,
the hero being a half-breed; and another in 1890 at the mouth of
the Bighorn, where a cowboy roped, bound, and killed a large bear
single-handed.
My friend General "Red" Jackson, of Bellemeade, in the pleasant
mid-county of Tennessee, once did a feat which casts into the shade
even the feats of the men of the lariat. General Jackson, who afterwards
became one of the ablest and most renowned of the Confederate cavalry
leaders, was at the time a young officer in the Mounted Rifle Regiment,
now known as the 3rd United States Cavalry. It was some years before
the Civil War, and the regiment was on duty in the Southwest, then the
debatable land of Comanche and Apache. While on a scout after hostile
Indians, the troops in their march roused a large grisly which sped off
across the plain in front of them. Strict orders had been issued against
firing at game, because of the nearness of the Indians. Young Jackson
was a man of great strength, a keen swordsman, who always kept the
finest edge on his blade, and he was on a swift and mettled Kentucky
horse, which luckily had but one eye. Riding at full speed he soon
overtook the quarry. As the horse hoofs sounded nearer, the grim bear
ceased its flight, and whirling round stood at bay, raising itself on
its hind-legs and threatening its pursuer with bared fangs and spread
claws. Carefully riding his horse so that its blind side should be
towards the monster, the cavalryman swept by at a run, handling his
steed with such daring skill that he just cleared the blow of the
dreaded fore-paw, while with one mighty sabre stroke he cleft the bear's
skull, slaying the grinning beast as it stood upright.