ANTELOPE HUNTING IN MONTANA.
Of all the numerous species of large game to be found in the far West,
there is none whose pursuit furnishes grander sport to the expert
rifleman than the antelope (_Antilocapra americana_). His habitat being
the high, open plains, he may be hunted on horseback, and with a much
greater degree of comfort than may the deer, elk, bear, and other
species which inhabit the wooded or mountainous districts. His keen
eyesight, his fine sense of smell, his intense fear of his natural
enemy, man, however, render him the most difficult of all game animals
to approach, and he must indeed be a skillful hunter who can get within
easy rifle range of the antelope, unless he happens to have the
circumstances of wind and lie of ground peculiarly in his favor. When
the game is first sighted, even though it be one, two, or three miles
away, you must either dismount and picket your horse, or find cover in
some coulee or draw, where you can ride entirely out of sight of the
quarry. But even under such favorable circumstances it is not well to
attempt to ride very near them. Their sense of hearing is also very
acute, and should your horse's hoof or shoe strike a loose rock, or
should he snort or neigh, the game is likely to catch the sound while
you are yet entirely out of sight and faraway, and when you finally
creep cautiously to the top of the ridge from which you expect a
favorable shot, you may find the game placidly looking for you from the
top of another ridge a mile or two farther away.
But we will hope that you are to have better luck than this. To start
with, we will presume that you are an expert rifleman; that you are in
the habit of making good scores at the butts; that at 800, 900, and
1,000 yards you frequently score 200 to 210 out of a possible 225
points. We will also suppose that you are a hunter of some experience;
that you have at least killed a good many deer in the States, but that
this is your first trip to the plains. You have learned to estimate
distances, however, even in this rare atmosphere, and possess good
judgment as to windage. You have brought your Creedmoor rifle along,
divested, of course, of its Venier sight, wind-guage, and spirit-level,
and in their places you have fitted a Beach combination front sight and
Lyman rear sight. Besides these you have the ordinary open step sight
attached to the barrel just in front of the action. This is not the best
arm for antelope hunting; a Winchester express with the same sights
would be much better; but this will answer very well.
We camped last night on the bank of a clear, rapid stream that gurgles
down from the mountain, and this morning are up long before daylight;
have eaten our breakfasts, saddled our horses, and just as the gray of
dawn begins to show over the low, flat prairie to the east of us, we
mount, and are ready for the start. The wind is from the northeast. That
suits us very well, for in that direction, about a mile away, there are
some low foot-hills that skirt the valley in which we are camped. In or
just beyond these we are very likely to find antelope, and they will
probably be coming toward the creek this morning for water.
We put spurs to our horses and gallop away. A brisk and exhilarating
ride of ten minutes brings us to the foot-hills, and then we rein up and
ride slowly and cautiously to near the top of the first one. Here we
dismount, and, picketing our ponies, we crawl slowly and carefully to
the apex. By this time it is almost fully daylight. We remove our hats,
and peer cautiously through the short, scattering grass on the brow of
the hill.
Do you see anything?
No; nothing but prairie and grass.
No? Hold! What are those small, gray objects away off yonder to the
left? I think I saw one of them move. And now, as the light grows
stronger, I can see white patches on them. Yes, they are antelope. They
are busily feeding, and we may raise our heads slightly and get a more
favorable view. One, two, three--there are five of them--two bucks, a
doe, and two kids. And you will observe that they are nearly in the
centre of a broad stretch of table-land.
"But," you say, "may we not wait here a little while until they come
nearer to us?"
Hardly. You see they are intent on getting their breakfast. There is a
heavy frost on the grass, which moistens it sufficiently for present
purposes, and it may be an hour or more before they will start for
water. It won't pay us to wait so long, for we shall most likely find
others within that time that we can get within range of without waiting
for them. So you may as well try them from here.
Now your experience at the butts may serve you a good turn. After taking
a careful look over the ground, you estimate the distance at 850 yards,
and setting up your Beach front and Lyman rear sights, you make the
necessary elevation. There is a brisk wind blowing from the right, and
you think it necessary to hold off about three feet. We are now both
lying prone upon the ground. You face the game, and support your rifle
at your shoulder by resting your elbows on the ground. The sun is now
shining brightly, and you take careful aim at that old buck that stands
out there at the left. At the report of your rifle a cloud of dust rises
from a point about a hundred yards this side of him, and a little to the
left, showing that you have underestimated both the distance and the
force of the wind--things that even an old hunter is liable to do
occasionally.
We both lie close, and the animals have not yet seen us. They make a few
jumps, and stop all in a bunch. The cross-wind and long distance prevent
them from knowing to a certainty where the report comes from, and they
don't like to run just yet, lest they may run toward the danger instead
of away from it. You make another half-point of elevation, hold a little
farther away to the right, and try them again. This time the dirt rises
about twenty feet beyond them, and they jump in every direction. That
was certainly a close call, and the bullet evidently whistled
uncomfortably close to several of them. They are now thoroughly
frightened. You insert another cartridge, hurriedly draw a bead on the
largest buck again, and fire. You break dirt just beyond him, and we
can't tell for the life of us how or on which side of him your bullet
passed. It is astonishing how much vacant space there is round an
antelope, anyway. This time they go, sure. They have located the puff of
smoke, and are gone with the speed of the wind away to the west. But
don't be discouraged, my friend. You did some clever shooting, some
_very_ clever shooting, and a little practice of that kind will enable
you to score before night.
We go back to our horses, mount, and gallop away again across the
table-land. A ride of another mile brings us to the northern margin of
this plateau, and to a more broken country. Here we dismount and picket
our horses again. We ascend a high butte, and from the top of it we can
see three more antelope about a mile to the north of us; but this time
they are in a hilly, broken country, and the wind is coming directly
from them to us. We shall be able to get a shot at them at short range.
So we cautiously back down out of sight, and then begins the tedious
process of stalking them. We walk briskly along around the foot of a
hill for a quarter of a mile, to where it makes a turn that would carry
us too far out of our course. We must cross this hill, and after looking
carefully at the shape and location of it, we at last find a low point
in it where by lying flat down we can crawl over it without revealing
ourselves to the game. It is a most tedious and painful piece of work,
for the ground is almost covered with cactus and sharp flinty rocks, and
our hands and knees are terribly lacerated. But every rose has its
thorn, and nearly every kind of sport has something unpleasant connected
with it occasionally; and our reward, if we get it, will be worth the
pain it costs us. With such reflections and comments, and with frequent
longing looks at the game, we kill time till at last the critical part
of our work is done, and we can arise and descend in a comfortable but
cautious walk into another draw.
[Illustration: A PORTRAIT.]
This we follow for about two hundred yards, until we think we are as
near our quarry as we can get. We turn to the right, cautiously ascend
the hill, remove our hats, and peer over, and there, sure enough, are
our antelope quietly grazing, utterly oblivious to the danger that
threatens them. They have not seen, heard, or scented us, so we have
ample time to plan an attack. You take the standing shot at the buck,
and together we will try and take care of the two does afterward. At
this short distance you don't care for the peep and globe sights, and
wisely decide to use the plain open ones. This time you simply kneel,
and then edge up until you can get a good clear aim over the apex of the
ridge in this position. The buck stands broadside to you, and at the
crack of your rifle springs into the air, and falls all in a heap,
pierced through the heart.
And now for the two does. They are flying over the level stretch of
prairie with the speed of an arrow, and are almost out of sure range
now. You turn loose on that one on the right, and I will look after the
one on the left. Our rifles crack together, and little clouds of dust
rising just beyond tell us that, though we have both missed, we have
made close calls. I put in about three shots to your one, owing to my
rifle being a repeater, while you must load yours at each shot. At my
fourth shot my left-fielder doubles up and goes down with a broken neck;
and although you have fairly "set the ground afire"--to use a Western
phrase--around your right-fielder, you have not had the good fortune to
stop her, and she is now out of sight behind a low ridge.
But you have the better animal of the two, and have had sport enough for
the first morning. We will take the entrails out of these two, lash them
across our horses behind our saddles, go to camp, and rest through the
heat of the day; for this September sun beams down with great power in
midday, even though the nights are cool and frosty.
And now, as we have quite a long ride to camp, and as we are to pass
over a rather monotonous prairie country _en route_, I will give you a
point or two on flagging antelope, as we ride along, that may be useful
to you at some time. Fine sport may frequently be enjoyed in this way.
If you can find a band that have not been hunted much, and are not
familiar with the wiles of the white man, you will have little trouble
in decoying them within rifle range by displaying to them almost any
brightly-colored object. They have as much curiosity as a woman, and
will run into all kinds of danger to investigate any strange object they
may discover. They have been known to follow an emigrant or freight
wagon, with a white cover, several miles, and the Indian often brings
them within reach of his arrow or bullet by standing in plain view
wrapped in his red blanket. A piece of bright tin or a mirror answers
the same purpose on a clear day. Almost any conspicuous or
strange-looking object will attract them; but the most convenient as
well as the most reliable at all times is a little bright-red flag.
On one occasion I was hunting in the Snowy Mountains, in Northern
Montana, with S. K. Fishel, the government scout, and Richard Thomas,
the packer, from Fort Maginnis. We had not been successful in finding
game there, and on our way back to the post camped two days on the head
of Flat Willow creek, near the foot of the mountains, to hunt antelopes.
As night approached several small bands of them came toward the creek,
but none came within range of our camp during daylight, and we did not
go after them that night, but were up and at them betimes the next
morning.
I preferred to hunt alone, as I always do when after big game, and went
out across a level flat to some low hills north of camp. When I ascended
the first of these I saw a handsome buck antelope on the prairie half a
mile away. I made a long detour to get to leeward of him, and meantime
had great difficulty in keeping him from seeing me. But by careful
maneuvering I finally got into a draw below him, and found the wind
blowing directly from him to me. In his neighborhood were some large,
ragged volcanic rocks, and getting in line with one of these I started
to stalk him. He was feeding, and as I moved cautiously forward I could
frequently see his nose or rump show up at one side or the other of the
rock. I would accordingly glide to right or left, as necessary, and move
on. Finally, I succeeded in reaching the rock, crawled carefully up to
where I could see over it, and there, sure enough, stood the handsome
old fellow not more than fifty yards away, still complacently nipping
the bunch-grass.
"Ah, my fine laddie," I said to myself, "you'll never know what hurt
you;" and resting the muzzle of the rifle on the rock, I took a fine,
steady aim for his heart and turned the bullet loose. There was a
terrific roar; the lead tore up a cloud of dust and went screaming away
over the hills, while, to my utter astonishment, the antelope went
sailing across the prairie with the speed of a greyhound. I sprang to my
feet, pumped lead after him at a lively rate, and, though I tore the
ground up all around him, never touched a hair. And what annoyed me most
was that, owing to some peculiar condition of the atmosphere, the smoke
of each shot hung in front of me long enough to prevent me from seeing
just where my bullets struck, and, for the life of me, I could not tell
whether I was shooting over or under the game!
I went back over the hill to my horse, with my heart full of
disappointment and my magazine only half full of cartridges. I loaded
up, however, mounted, and, as I rode away in search of more game, I
could occasionally hear the almost whispered "puff, puff" of Fishel's
and Thomas's rifles away to the south and west, which brought me the
cheering assurance that they were also having fun, and also assured me
that we should not be without meat for supper and breakfast.
I soon sighted a band of about thirty antelopes, and riding into a
coulee dismounted, picketed my horse, and began another crawl. In due
time I reached the desired "stand," within about eighty yards of them,
and, picking out the finest buck in the bunch, again took a careful,
deliberate aim and fired, scoring another clear miss. The band, instead
of running away, turned and ran directly toward me, and, circling,
slightly, passed within thirty yards of me, drawn out in single file. It
was a golden opportunity and I felt sure I should kill half a dozen of
them at least; but, alas! for fleeting hopes. I knew not the frailty of
the support on which I built my expectations. I fanned them as long as
there was a cartridge in my magazine, and had to endure the intense
chagrin of seeing the last one of them go over a ridge a mile away safe
and sound.
I was dumb. If there had been anyone there to talk to, I don't think I
could have found a word in the language to express my feelings. As
before, the smoke prevented me from seeing just where my bullets struck
the ground, but I felt sure they must be striking very close to the
game. I sat down, pondered, and examined my rifle. I could see nothing
wrong with it, and felt sure it must be perfect, for within the past
week I had killed a deer with it at 170 yards and had shaved the heads
off a dozen grouse at short range. I was, therefore, forced to the
conclusion that I had merely failed to exercise proper care in holding.
I returned to my horse, mounted, and once more set out in search of
game, determined to kill the next animal I shot at or leave the country.
I rode away to the west about two miles, and from the top of a high hill
saw another band of forty or fifty antelopes on a table-land. I rode
around till I got within about two hundred yards of them, when I left my
horse under cover of a hill and again began to sneak on the unsuspecting
little creatures. They were near the edge of the table, and from just
beyond them the formation fell abruptly away into the valley some fifty
feet. I crawled up this bluff until within about forty yards of the
nearest antelope, and then, lying flat upon the ground, I placed my
rifle in position for firing, and, inch by inch, edged up over the apex
of the bluff until within fair view of the game. Again selecting the
best buck--for I wanted a good head for mounting--I drew down on his
brown side until I felt sure that if there had been a silver dollar hung
on it I could have driven it through him. Confidently expecting to see
him drop in his tracks, I touched the trigger. But, alas! I was doomed
to still further disgrace. When the smoke lifted, my coveted prize was
speeding away with the rest of the herd.
I simply stood, with my lower jaw hanging down, and looked after them
till they were out of sight. Then I went and got my horse and went to
camp. Sam and Dick were there with the saddles of three antelopes. When
I told them what I had been doing, they tried to console me, but I
wouldn't be consoled. After dinner, Sam picked up my rifle and looked it
over carefully.
"Why, look here, you blooming idiot," said he. "No wonder you couldn't
kill at short range. The wedge has slipped up under your rear sight two
notches. She's elevated for 350 yards, and at that rate would shoot
about a foot high at a hundred yards." I looked and found it even so.
Then I offered him and Dick a dollar each if they would kick me, but
they wouldn't.
Sam said good-naturedly: "Come, go with me and get the head of the buck
I killed. It's a very handsome one, and only two miles from camp."
I said I didn't want any heads for my own use unless I could kill their
owners myself, but would take this one home for a friend, so we saddled
our horses and started.
As we reached the top of a hill about a mile from camp a large buck that
was grazing ahead of us jumped and ran away to what he seemed to
consider a safe distance, and stopped to look at us. Sam generously
offered me the shot, and springing out of my saddle I threw down my
rifle, took careful aim and fired. At the crack the buck turned just
half way round, but was unable to make a single jump and sank dead in
his tracks.
Sam is ordinarily a quiet man, but he fairly shouted at the result of my
shot. I paced the distance carefully to where the carcass lay, and it
was exactly 290 steps. The buck was standing broadside to me and I had
shot him through the heart. Of course, it was a scratch. I could not do
it again perhaps in twenty shots, and yet when I considered that I shot
for one single animal and got him I could not help feeling a little
proud of it. As we approached the animal, not knowing just where I had
hit him, I held my rifle in readiness, but Sam said:
"Oh, you needn't be afraid of his getting up. One of those Winchester
express bullets is all an antelope needs, no matter what part of the
body you hit him in."
This old fellow had a fine head, and we took it off, and now as I write
it gazes down upon me with those large, lustrous black eyes, from its
place on the wall, as proudly and curiously as it did there on the
prairie when I looked at it through the sights of my Winchester. His
portrait adorns page 199 of this book, and though the artist has treated
it with a master's hand, it does not possess the lordly beaming, the
fascinating grace, the timid beauty that distinguished the living
animal.
It was so late when we got this one dressed that we decided to return to
camp at once.
The curiosity which is so prominent a feature in the antelope's nature
costs many a one of them his life, and is taken advantage of by the
hunter in various ways. When we reached camp that afternoon Dick told us
how he had taken advantage of it. He had seen a small band on a level
stretch of prairie where there was no possible way of getting within
range of them, and having heard that if a man would lie down on his
back, elevate his feet as high as possible, and swing them back and
forth through the air, that it would attract antelopes, decided to try
it. But the antelopes of this section had evidently never seen soap
boxes or bales of hay floating through the air, and had no desire to
cultivate a closer acquaintance with such frightful looking objects as
he exhibited to their astonished gaze. And Dick said that when he turned
to see if they had yet come within shooting distance they were about a
mile away, and judging from the cloud of dust they were leaving behind
them seemed to be running a race to see which could get out of the
country first.
The next morning Sam and I went together and Dick alone in another
direction. During the forenoon I shot a buck through both fore legs,
cutting one off clean and paralyzing the other. Sam said not to shoot
him again and he would catch him, and putting spurs to his horse was
soon galloping alongside of the quarry. He caught him by one horn and
held him until I came up. The little fellow pranced wildly about, and
bleated pitifully, but a stroke of the hunting knife across his throat
soon relieved his suffering.
We then got the head from the buck Sam had killed the day before, and
returned to camp about 11 o'clock a. m.
In the afternoon we rode out together again, and had not gone far when
we saw five of the bright little animals we were hunting on a hill-side.
They were too far away for anything like a sure shot, but were in such a
position that we could get no nearer to them. They stood looking at us,
and Sam told me to try them. I had little hope of making a hit, but
dismounting took a shot off hand, holding for the shoulder of a good
sized buck. When the gun cracked there was a circus. I had missed my aim
so far as to cut both his hind legs off just below the knee. The buck
commenced bucking. First he stood on his fore feet, got his hind legs up
in the air and shook the stumps. Then he tried to stand on them and paw
the air with his fore feet, but lost his balance and fell over backward.
He got up, jumped first to one side, then to the other, then forward.
Meantime Sam rode toward him, and he tried to run. In this his motions
were more like those of a rocking horse than of a living animal. The
race was a short one. Sam soon rode up to him, caught him by a horn and
held him till I came up and cut the little fellow's throat. Then Sam
said that was a very long shot, and he would like to know just what the
distance was. He went back to where I stood when I shot, stepped the
distance to where the antelope stood, and found it to be 362 paces.
We rode on a mile further and saw a young antelope lying down in some
tall rye-grass. We could just see his horns and ears, and though he
appeared to be looking at us he seemed to think himself securely hidden,
for he made no movement toward getting up. I told Sam to shoot this
time, but he said, "No, you shoot. I live in this country and can get
all the shooting I want any time. You have come a long way out here to
have some fun. Turn loose on him." And slipping off my horse I knelt
down to get a knee rest, but found that from that position I could not
see the game at all, and was compelled to shoot off hand again. Raising
up I drew a bead on one of the horns, and then lowering the muzzle to
where I thought the body should be, pressed the trigger. There was a
lively commotion in the grass, but the buck never got out of his bed.
The ball went in at one shoulder and out at the opposite hip. On
stepping the distance we found it to be only 125 yards.
And now, having in a measure wiped out the disgrace of the previous
day's work and secured all the meat, skins, and heads that our
pack-mules could carry, we returned to camp and the next day went back
to Fort Maginnis.
These bright little creatures, though naturally timid, sometimes show
great courage in defense of their young. I once saw a coyote sneak from
behind a hill toward a herd of antelope. Instantly there was a grand
rush of all the adult members of the band, male and female, toward the
intruder, and when they had gotten in front of the kids they stopped,
with bristles erect, ears thrown forward, and heads lowered, presenting
a most warlike and belligerent appearance. The coyote, when he saw
himself confronted with this solid phalanx, suddenly stopped, eyed his
opponents for a few moments, and then, apparently overawed at the
superiority of numbers and warlike attitude of his intended prey, slunk
reluctantly away in search of some weaker victim. When he was well out
of sight, the older members of the band turned to their young, caressed
them, and resumed their grazing.
The speed of the antelope is probably not excelled by that of any other
animal in this country, wild or domestic, except the greyhound, and, in
fact, it is only the finest and fleetest of these that can pull down an
antelope in a fair race.
In the little village of Garfield, Kansas, there lived a man some years
ago--the proprietor of a hotel--who had two pet antelopes. The village
dogs had several times chased them, but had always been distanced. One
day a Mexican came to town who had with him two large, handsome
greyhounds. Immediately on riding up to the hotel he saw the antelopes
in the yard, and told the proprietor gruffly that he had better put
"them critters" in the corral, or his dogs would kill them. The
proprietor said he guessed the "critters" were able to take care of
themselves, especially if the dogs did not spring upon them unawares.
This aroused the Mexican's ire, and he promptly offered to wager a
goodly sum that his dogs would pull down one or both of the antelopes
within a mile. The challenge was accepted, the stakes deposited, the
antelopes turned into the street, and the "greaser" told his dogs to
"take'em."
The dogs sprang at the antelopes, but the latter had by this time
reached a vacant lot across the street. They started off down the river.
For a distance of four miles the river bottom was an open prairie, and
as level as a floor. As the quartette sped over this grand natural
race-course, the whole populace of the town turned out _en masse_ to see
the race. Men and boys shouted, and ladies waved their handkerchiefs.
Betting was rife, the natives offering two to one on the antelopes, the
Mexican and the few other strangers in town being eager takers. It was
nip and tuck, neither animals gaining nor losing perceptibly, and when
at last the four went round a bend in the river four miles away, and
were hidden by a bluff, the game was, as nearly as could be seen by the
aid of good field-glasses, just about the same distance ahead of the
dogs as when they left town.
Some hours later the dogs returned, so tired they could scarcely walk.
The Mexican eagerly looked for hair on their teeth, and although he
could find none, was confident that his dogs had killed the antelopes. A
mounted expedition to search for the carcasses and settle the question
was agreed upon, but as it was too near night to start when the dogs
returned, it was arranged to go in the morning. But when the parties
got up the next morning they found the antelopes quietly grazing in the
hotel yard. The Mexican left town in disgust followed by his lame,
sore-footed dogs, and muttering that he "never seed no varmints run like
them things did."
The antelope, one of the brightest and most graceful and beautiful of
all our Western game animals, is fast disappearing from our broad
plains, owing to the ceaseless slaughter of it that is carried on by
"skin hunters," Indians, "foreign noblemen," and others who come to this
country year after year and spend the entire summer in hunting. Hundreds
of them are killed every summer by this latter class, and left to rot
where they fall, not a pound of meat, a skin, or even a head being taken
from them. I have seen with my own eyes this butchery carried on for
years past, and know whereof I speak.
Nearly all the Territories have stringent laws intended to prohibit this
class of slaughter, but in these sparsely settled countries the
provisions for enforcing them are so meagre that these men violate them
day after day and year after year with impunity. This is one of the
instances in which prohibition does not prohibit. And what I have said
of the antelope is true of all the large game of the great West. The
elk, deer, mountain sheep, etc., are being slaughtered by the hundreds
every year--tenfold faster than the natural increase. And the time is
near, _very_ near, when all these noble species will be extinct. The
sportsman or naturalist who desires to preserve a skin or head of any of
them must procure it very soon or he will not be able to get it at all.