One day after we had selected our new camp, I took my rod along and
wandered into the wonderful forest of ancient trees. There I seated
myself on a log to think over my experience. Somehow my own trials and
ambitions seemed small, trivial and not worth while when I looked upon
those grand trees standing silently on guard as they were standing when
Columbus was busy smashing a hard-boiled egg to make it stand on end.
Yes, naturalists tell us some of these same trees were standing before
the New Testament was written and then as now their branches concealed
their lofty tops and formed a screen through which the powerful rays of
the noon-day sun are filtered, refined and subdued to a dreamy twilight
below, a twilight in which the soft green mosses and lace-like ferns
thrive into luxuriant growth.
It was so still and quiet in that forest that the silence seemed to hurt
my ears and I found myself listening to see if I could not hear the deep
dark blue blossoms of the fringed gentians whispering scandals about the
flaming Indian paint brushes that flourished in the opening in the woods
where the sun's ray could reach and warm the dark earth. As I listened I
could not help but speculate a great deal as to the possibilities of the
odd old man of this forest being in some way connected with my father's
history, but the story of the wolf-man as given to me by my big
companion was so varied and so mixed with the superstitions of the
Indians and trappers who had come in contact with him, or had seen him
and his weird wolf pack roaming the mountains, that I could not in any
way take it as the basis for a solution of the problem.
Indeed, the more Big Pete told me the less I believed that this strange
and probably mad man could be my father. In truth, the only real clue
or even faint reason I had for believing that he owned the missing
"Patrick Mullen" was because this gun at a distance seemed to correspond
with the description of the Mullen's gun. It was a faint clue indeed and
sometimes seemed not worth investigation. Yet when I began to doubt the
possibility an unexplained impulse or force kept urging me on to believe
that if I but persisted and found an opportunity to examine this gun it
would prove to be the one I sought, and if I had a chance to talk to
this strange Wild Hunter much of the mystery that surrounded my own
babyhood would be cleared up, so I found myself earnestly longing for a
real interview with this mysterious creature.
The more I thought of it the more I was inclined to believe that I was
on the right track, until at last convinced that this was so, I cried
aloud, "I have found him!"
"Who! Who!" queried a startled owl, as it peered down at me from its
hiding place in the dense foliage of a cedar far above.
"Never mind who, you old rascal," I laughingly replied, and picking up
my fishing-rod I parted the underbrush to start on my way through the
wood for some trout, but suddenly halted when I found myself staring
into the face of a huge timber wolf. The beast's lips were drawn back
displaying its gleaming fangs, its back hair was as erect as the cropped
mane of a pony, its mongolian eyes shone green through their narrow
slits and its whole attitude seemed to say, "Well, now that you have
found me, what do you propose to do?"
Now, boys, do not make any mistake about me, I am not a hero and never
posed as one; in truth my timidity at times amounts to cowardice, a fact
which I usually keep to myself, but I never was afraid of wolves until I
so unexpectedly met this one. It is needless to say that I have no hair
on my back, it is as bare as that of any other fellow's, nevertheless,
on this occasion I could distinctly feel my bristles rise from the nape
of my neck to the end of my spine, just the same as those on the
oblique-eyed, shaggy monster whose snapping teeth were so near my face.
Everybody is familiar with the fact that people who have had limbs
amputated often complain of pains or itching in the missing members. My
missing back hair, the hair which my ancestors lost by the slow process
of evolution, the hair which grew on the back of the "missing link,"
stood on end at the sight of this wolf. However, this fear was but
momentary and when my courage returned I lifted my rod case in a
threatening manner, and the wolf slunk away as noiselessly as a shadow,
and like a shadow faded out of sight in the dim twilight of the ancient
forest. When I reached the open land beyond the forest another surprise
awaited me.
Surely this is heaven, I thought as I waded knee-deep among the
beautiful flowers of the prairie, starting the sharp pin-tailed grouse,
prairie chickens and sage grouse from their retreats and sending the
meadow-larks skimming away over flowering billows. Reaching an
elevation where I could peer beyond the crests of one of the "ground
swells" which furrowed the sea of nodding blossoms, I saw through the
stems of the plants, a part of the prairie at first concealed from view,
and there appeared to be numerous irregular boulders of dark brown stone
scattered around among the vegetation, and the boulders were moving!
Careful scrutiny, however, proved them to be not stones but live
buffalo. Big Pete had often told me that these animals lived unmolested
by him in the park; but when I realized that I was looking at between
three and four hundred real buffalo my heart gave a great jump of joy. I
tried to view them so as to take in their details, but the apparently
shapeless masses of dark reddish brown wool appeared to have none,
unless indeed the comical fur trousers with frayed bottoms on their
front legs might be called detail.
Even the faces of the beasts were so concealed by masks of knotted wool
that at first I could distinguish neither eyes, noses, horns or ears;
but in spite of their ragged trousers and their masked faces, the bison
are sublime in their mighty strength and ponderous proportions, and as
this was the first wild herd I had ever seen and one of the very few, if
not the only one, then extant, I viewed them with the keenest interest.
But the scattered bunches of antelope, which I now noticed were dotting
the plains around the buffalo, appealed to my love of the beautiful.
Knowing that in other localities these charming little creatures are
rapidly being slaughtered and steadily decreasing in numbers and that
all attempts to breed them in captivity have so far failed, they at once
absorbed my attention to the exclusion of their larger neighbors.
When we moved our camp to the far side of the lake, Big Pete told me
that I could find plenty of trout streams beyond the timber belt, and he
also informed me that I could there see the walls of the park and
satisfy myself that there was but one trail leading into the preserve.
I do not now recall the sort of walls that were pictured in my mind or
know what I really expected to see enclosing Darlinkel's Park, but I do
know that when I suddenly emerged from the dark forests into the sunlit
prairie, the scene which greeted my vision was not the one painted by my
imagination.
Before me stretched an open plain surrounded by mountains arising
abruptly from a bed of many colored flowers; they were the same ranges
whose snow-covered peaks formed a feature of the landscape at the lake
and at our first camp.
Here, however, their appearance was different, as different as the dark
forest from the open sunlit prairie. The scene at first did not seem
real, it had a sort of a drop-curtain effect that was as familiar to me
as the row of footlights and gilded boxes, but never did I expect to see
those delicate tints, that blue atmosphere, the fresco colored rocks and
all the theatrical properties of a drop-curtain duplicated in nature,
yet here it was before me, not a detail wanting, even the impossible
mammoth bed of gaudy flowers at the foot of the mountain was here and
the numerous cascades had not been forgotten. Well, it does seem
wonderful to me that unknown theatrical daubers should know so much more
of nature than the public for whom they paint.
But, nature is a bolder artist than even the daring scenic painters; in
front of me was a prairie of flowers, acres and acres of waving,
undulating masses of color; thousands of Arizona wyetha (wild
sunflowers) mingled with the brilliant tips of the fire-weed and clumps
of odorous and delicately colored horsemint. There were other flowers
unfamiliar to me and hundreds of big blossoms of what I took to be a
member of the primrose family. It was in this garden that the buffalo
and antelope were grazing.
An old buck antelope saw me and I instantly dropped to the ground and
was concealed by the flowering vegetation. I wanted to see the home
life of these animals, but was disappointed because of the attention I
had attracted. When first discovered the does were browsing with heads
down and the kids were playing tag with one another, every once in a
while spreading the white hair on their rumps and then lowering the
"white flag" again, they apparently used it as a Morse signal system of
their own. But now they were all alert and facing me; the bucks had seen
something and that something had suddenly disappeared. This must be
investigated, so they circled round hesitatingly; the apparition might
be a foe but still they _must_ satisfy their curiosity and discover what
it was of which they had had a moment's glimpse and thus they approached
nearer and ever nearer to my place of concealment.
Soon, however, I became aware of the fact that the antelope had
unaccountably lost all thought of me and were deeply interested in
something else which from their actions I concluded to be recognized as
an enemy. It was now apparent that if Big Pete did not hunt the
prong-horns someone or something else _did_ hunt them.
As a bunch broke away from the scattered groups and came in my
direction, making great leaps over the prairie, I detected the cause of
their panic in the form of a huge eagle which was keeping pace with and
flying over the fleeing prong-horns.
The bird was not more than a dozen feet above the animals' backs and in
vain did the poor creatures try to distance their pursuer. At length
they scattered, each one taking a course of his own. Then the bird did a
strange thing. It singled out the largest buck and persistently
following him, it came directly towards me and passed within ten feet of
my ambush, the broad wings of the antelope's relentless foe casting a
dark shadow over the straining muscles of the beautiful animal's back. I
was tempted to drive the bird away or shoot at it with my revolver, but
the thought that I had seen that bird before restrained me and the fact
that it pursued a strong, healthy buck instead of selecting a weaker and
more easy prey convinced me that this eagle had been trained to the hunt
and was not a wild[2] bird, for the immutable law that "labor follows
the line of least resistance" holds good with all wild creatures. It was
not long before I had to use my field glasses to follow the chase and
then I discovered that the poor prong-horn was showing signs of fatigue.
It had made a grave error in dashing up an incline and the eagle from
his position above knew that the time had come to strike and, like a
thunderbolt, it fell, striking its hooked talons in the graceful neck of
the terror-stricken antelope.
[Footnote 2: The late Howard Eaton of Wolf, Wyoming, watched an
eagle hunt down a prong-horned buck.--EDITOR.]
Hoping to get a nearer view of the last tragedy, I hastened towards the
spot and before I was aware of my position, found myself close to the
herd of buffalo. I then saw that these beasts being unaccustomed to
man, did not fear him, but on the contrary meant to show fight. As I
came to a sudden halt the old bulls began to paw the earth, throwing the
dirt up over their backs and bellowing with a low vibrating roar that
was terror-inspiring. Then they dropped to their knees, rolled on their
backs, got up, shook themselves, licked their noses, "rolled up their
tails" into stiff curves, put down their heads and came at me. The cows
with their hair standing on end like angry elks and bellowing loudly
were not behind their lords in aggressiveness and the comical little
calves came bouncing along after their dame.
Was I frightened? That depends upon one's definition of the word. I was
not panic-stricken, but to say that I was not _excited_ when I saw those
animated masses of dark brown wool come roaring and thundering at me
would be to make boast that no one who has had a similar experience
would believe.
Fortunately, not far behind me was the hollow or gully already
mentioned and I bolted over the edge of it. As soon as the bank
concealed my person I ran as I never ran before taking a course at right
angles to my original one and leeward of the herd, and at last, out of
breath, I rolled over in the weeds and lay there panting and straining
my ears to hear the snorting beasts.
My chest felt dry, hot and oppressed from forced and labored breathing,
and had the buffalo discovered me I do not think I could have run
another step. But the big brutes halted at the edge of the bank and
seeing no one in sight walked around pawing and throwing up great clouds
of dust and in their rage apparently daring me to come forth. Like a
small boy when he hears a challenge from a gang of toughs, I decided
that I did not want to fight and lay as quiet as possible among the
sunflowers until I had regained my breath. When the buffalo wandered
back to their original pasture land I, like a coyote, slunk away and
consoled myself with the thought that although I had had my run for my
money, at least, I had seen the death of the antelope even if I did miss
again seeing the Wild Hunter "collar his game," as Big Pete would have
called the act of securing it. Besides this I had a real exciting
adventure with good red-blooded American animals and learned the lesson
that large horned beasts which have not been taught to fear man are
exceedingly dangerous to man.