Big Pete and I spent several weeks in our charming little camp at the
lower end of the park, for my guide decided that despite the recent
presence of the wild hunter, here would be a good place to get a shot at
some black-tail deer. In fact we saw signs of those animals all about
and my guide was only looking for fresh indication to start out on our
last hunt before we made our way deeper into the wilderness.
On the third day of our stay I was returning to camp with my shotgun
over my shoulder and a brace of sage grouse in my hand, when I came upon
Big Pete in a swail about a mile from camp. He was bending low and
examining fresh signs when he saw me.
"Howdy, kid, here's some doin's. Shall we foller him?"
"Of course, Pete; what are we here for, the mountain air?" I answered.
"No," answered Pete, in his deep, low voice, "we're here for game," and
off he started, but slowly and with great caution. I felt impatient, but
restrained myself, saying nothing and continued to follow my big guide
who now moved with the most painstaking care. Not a twig broke beneath
his moccasins as with panther-like step and crouching form he led me
through a lot of young trees over a rocky place until we struck a small
spring with a soft muddy margin. Here Pete came to a sudden halt. I
asked him why he did not go on, and he pointed to a ledge of rock that
ran up the mountain side diagonally with a flat, natural roadbed on top,
graded like a stage road but unlike a traveled road, ending in a bunch
of underwood and brush about a hundred yards ahead.
Above the ledge of the rocks was a steep declivity of loose shale
sprinkled over with large and small boulders of radically different
formations, and in no manner resembling the friable, uncertain bed upon
which they rested.
These boulders undoubtedly showed the result of the grinding and
polishing of an ancient, slow-moving glacier, but some other force had
deposited them in the present position.
"He's in tha'," whispered Pete.
"Who, the wild mountain man?" I asked.
"No," answered my guide, "th' grizzly."
"The what?" I almost shouted.
"Th' grizzly," answered Pete; "what do you think we've been following?"
"Black-tailed deer," I said softly, with my eyes glued on the thicket.
"Well, tenderfoot, here's the trail of that tha' _deer_, and he hain't
been gone by here mor'n nor a week ago, nuther."
I looked and there in the soft mud was the print of a foot, a
human-looking foot, but for the evenness in the length of the toes and
the sharpness and length of the toe nails. Yes, there was another
difference, and that was the size. It was the footprint of a savage
Hercules, the track of an enormous grizzly bear, and the soft mud that
had dripped from the big foot was still undried on the leaves and grass
when Pete pointed it out to me.
"Well, Pete, don't forget your promise that I am to have first shot at
all big game," I whispered with my best effort at coolness, but my heart
was thumping against my ribs at a terrific rate.
"But--why, bless you old man!" I whispered excitedly as I looked at my
gun, "I am armed only with a shotgun."
"Tha's all right," replied the big trapper complacently; then, with a
quick motion, he whipped out his keen-edged knife and snatching one of
my cartridges he severed the shell neatly between the two wads which
separated the powder and shot; that is, a wad in each piece of the
cartridge was exposed by the cut.
Guided by the faint longitudinal seam where the edges of the colored
paper join on the shell, Big Pete carefully fitted the two parts of the
cartridge together exactly as they were before being cut apart. Breaking
my gun, he slipped the mutilated ammunition into the unchoked barrel.
"Tha'," he grunted, "tha's better than a bullet at short range, an'll
tar a hole in old Ephraim big enough to put your arm through."
He cut two more in the same manner, saying, "Be darned kerful not to get
excited and put them in your choke barl, or tha' may be trouble."
Hunting a grizzly with a shotgun and bird shot was not my idea of safe
sport, but I was too much of a moral coward to acknowledge to Pete that
I was frightened. Pete examined his gun, ran his finger over the
cartridges in his belt, and went through all the familiar motions which
to him were unconscious but always foretold danger ahead.
"You drap on your prayer hinges behind that tha' nigger head," said
Pete, "and you will have a dead shot at the brute, an' I'll go up and
roll a stone down the mountain side and follow it as fast as I kin, so
as to be ready to help you if you need it; but you ought to drap him at
first shot at short range. Yer must drap him, yer must or I allow tha'll
be a right smart of a scrap here, and don't yer forget it!"
"This is no Christmas turkey shooting, young feller, so look sharp," and
with a noiseless tread Pete vanished in the wood, while I with beating
heart and bulging eyes watched the thicket at the end of the ledge. I
had not long to wait before I heard a blood-curdling yell and then
crash! crash! crash! came a big boulder tearing down the mountain side.
It reached a point just over the thicket, struck a small pine tree,
broke the tree and leaped high into the air, then crashed into the
middle of the brush.
Following with giant leaps came Big Pete Darlinkel down the rocky
declivity, but I only looked that way for one instant, then my eyes were
again fixed on the thicket, and in my excitement I arose to a standing
position. There was but a momentary silence after the fall of the
boulder before I heard the rustling of sticks and leaves, saw the top of
the bushes sway as some heavy body moved beneath, then there appeared a
head, and what a head it was! Bigger than all outdoors! I aimed my gun,
but my body swayed and the end of my shotgun described a large circle in
the air. I knew that my position was serious, but my nerves played me
false.
I had never before faced a grizzly. I heard Big Pete's voice calling to
me to drop behind the rock, but I only stood there with a dogged
stupidity, trying to aim my gun at a mark which seemed to me as big
almost as a barn-door.
I heard Pete give a sudden cry then there was a rattle of stones and
dirt on the ledge in front of the mountain of brownish hair that was
advancing in sort of side leaps or bounds like a big ball.
The bear came to a sudden stop, and to my horror I saw the form of my
friend shoot over the edge of the overhanging rock right in the path of
the grizzly. It all flashed through my mind in a moment. Pete in his
haste to reach me had lost control of himself and slid with the rolling
stones and dirt over the mountain side, a fall of at least twenty-five
feet!
Instantly my nerve returned and I rushed madly up the incline to rescue
my companion. I bounded between the branches of some stout saplings,
they parted as my body struck them but sprung together again before my
leg had cleared the V-shaped opening.
My foot was imprisoned and I fell with a heavy thud on my face. For an
instant I was dazed, but even in my dazed state I was fully conscious of
Pete's impending peril, and I kicked and struggled blindly to free
myself. My gun had been flung from my hand in my fall and was out of my
reach. Then to my horror I heard the howl the wolf gives when game is in
sight, and even half blind as I was I saw dark, dog-like forms sweep by
me; I heard the scream of an eagle; I heard a snarling and yelping, the
sounds of a struggle--I ceased to kick, wiped the blood from my eyes and
looked ahead.
There lay Big Pete Darlinkel, dead or unconscious, and within ten feet
of him stood the giant bear surrounded by a vicious pack of gaunt
red-mouthed wolves. The bear made a rush and a shadow passed over the
ground; I heard the sound of a large body rushing swiftly through the
air, and an immense eagle struck the bear like a thunderbolt; at the
same instant the wolves attacked him from all sides; then there was a
whistle keen and clear; the wolves retreated; the bird again soared
aloft; the bear made several passes in the air in search of the bird,
fell forward again on all fours, rose on its hind legs and killed a wolf
with one sweep of its great paw.
The bear now made a dash at the giant leader of the pack, only to fall
forward, dead, with its ugly nose across Big Pete's chest.
Then I remembered hearing the crack of a rifle, and knew that the Wild
Mountain Man had saved our lives. I tried to rise but found my ankle so
badly sprained that I could not stand on it.
Suddenly a low voice with a hint of an Irish accent said, "Sit down,
stranger, while I look to your mate," and I saw the tall lithe figure of
a man clothed in buckskin bending over Pete.
"Only stunned, friend," said he, and I heard no more. The blow on my
head, combined with the pain from my ankle was too much for me, and now
that the danger was over it was a good time to faint, and I took
advantage of it.
How long I remained unconscious I do not know, but when my eyes opened
again it was night; through the interlacing boughs overhead the stars
were shining brightly, my head was neatly bandaged and so was my foot
and ankle. I could hear our horses cropping grass near by. I raised my
head and there lay Pete; he was alive I knew by his snores that issued
from his nose, and we were in our own camp; but--what are those animals
by our camp fire? Wolves! gaunt, shaggy wolves!
I hastily arose to a sitting posture, but my alarm subsided when in the
dim light of the fire I could trace the outline of another man's figure,
and on a stick close to the stranger's head roosted a giant bird.
Could it be that this wild man of the mountain--possibly my own
father--was camping with us?