Although we had made a five miles' march from the place where we had
halted to shoot the pigeons, our night-camp was still within the
boundaries of the flock. During the night we could hear them at
intervals at no great distance off. A branch occasionally cracked, and
then a fluttering of wings told of thousands dislodged or frightened by
its fall. Sometimes the fluttering commenced without any apparent
cause. No doubt the great-horned owl (_Strix virginiana_), the wild cat
(_felis rufa_), and the raccoon, were busy among them, and the silent
attacks of these were causing the repeated alarms.
Before going to rest, a torch-hunt was proposed by way of variety, but
no material for making good torches could be found, and the idea was
abandoned. Torches should be made of dry pine-knots, and carried in
some shallow vessel. The common frying-pan, with a long handle, is best
for the purpose. Link-torches, unless of the best pitch-pine (_Pinus
resinosa_), do not burn with sufficient brightness to stultify the
pigeons. They will flutter off before the hunter can get his long pole
within reach, whereas with a very brilliant light, he may approach
almost near enough to lay his hands upon them. As there were no
pitch-pine-trees in the neighbourhood, nor any good torch-wood, we were
forced to give up the idea of a night-hunt.
During the night strange noises were heard by several who chanced to be
awake. Some said they resembled the howling of dogs, while others
compared them to the screaming of angry cats. One party said they were
produced by wolves; another, that the wild cats (lynxes) made them. But
there was one that differed from all the rest. It was a sort of
prolonged hiss, that all except Ike believed to be the snort of the
black bear, lice, however, declared that it was not the bear, but the
"sniff," as he termed it, of the "painter" (cougar). This was probable
enough, considering the nature of the place. The cougar is well-known
to frequent the great roosts of the passenger-pigeon, and is fond of the
flesh of these birds.
In the morning our camp was still surrounded by the pigeons, sweeping
about among the tree-trunks, and gathering the mast as they went. A few
shots were fired, not from any inclination to continue the sport of
killing them, but to lay in a fresh stock for the day's dinner. The
surplus from yesterday's feast was thrown away, and left by the deserted
camp--a banquet for the preying creatures that would soon visit the
spot.
We moved on, still surrounded by masses upon the wing. A singular
incident occurred as we were passing through a sort of avenue in the
forest. It was a narrow aisle, on both sides walled in by the thick
foliage of the beeches. We were fairly within this hall-like passage,
when it suddenly darkened at the opposite end. We saw that a cloud of
pigeons had entered it, flying towards us. They were around our heads
before they had noticed us. Seeing our party, they suddenly attempted
to diverge from their course, but there was no other open to them,
except to rise upward in a vertical direction. This they did on the
instant--the clatter of their wings producing a noise like the continued
roar of thunder. Some had approached so near, that the men on
horseback, striking with their guns, knocked several to the ground; and
the Kentuckian, stretching upward his long arm, actually caught one of
them on the wing. In an instant they were out of sight; but at that
instant two great birds appeared before us at the opening of the forest,
which were at once recognised as a brace of white-headed eagles (_Falco
leucocephalus_). This accounted for the rash flight of the pigeons; for
the eagles had evidently been in pursuit of them, and had driven them to
seek shelter under the trees. We were desirous of emptying our guns at
the great birds of prey, and there was a simultaneous spurring of horses
and cocking of guns: to no purpose, however. The eagles were on the
alert. They had already espied us; and, uttering their maniac screams,
they wheeled suddenly, and disappeared over the tree-tops.
We had hardly recovered from this pleasant little bit of excitement,
when the guide Ike, who rode in the advance, was seen suddenly to jerk
up, exclaiming--
"Painter, by God! I know'd I heard a painter."
"Where? where?" was hurriedly uttered by several voices, while all
pressed forward to the guide.
"Yander!" replied Ike, pointing to a thicket of young beeches. "He's
tuk to the brush: ride round, fellers. Mark, boy, round! quick, damn
you!"
There was a scramble of horsemen, with excited, anxious looks and
gestures. Every one had his gun cocked and ready, and in a few seconds
the small copse of beeches, with their golden-yellow leaves, was
inclosed by a ring of hunters. Had the cougar got away, or was he still
within the thicket? Several large trees grew out of its midst. Had he
taken to one? The eyes of the party were turned upwards. The fierce
creature was nowhere visible.
It was impossible to see into every part of the jungle from the outside,
as we sat in our saddles. The game might be crouching among the grass
and brambles. What was to be done? We had no dogs. How was the cougar
to be started? It would be no small peril to penetrate the thicket
afoot. Who was to do it?
The question was answered by Redwood, who was now seen dismounting from
his horse.
"Keep your eyes about you," cried he. "I'll make the varmint show if
he's thur. Look sharp, then!"
We saw Redwood enter fearlessly, leaving his horse hitched over a
branch. We heard him no longer, as he proceeded with that stealthy
silence known only to the Indian fighter. We listened, and waited in
profound suspense. Not even the crackling of a branch broke the
stillness. Full five minutes we waited, and then the sharp crack of a
rifle near the centre of the copsewood relieved, us. The next moment
was heard Redwood's voice crying aloud--
"Look out thur? By God! I've missed him."
Before we had time to change our attitudes another rifle cracked, and
another voice was heard, crying in answer to Redwood--
"But, by God! I hain't."
"He's hyur," continued the voice; "dead as mutton. Come this a way, an'
yu'll see the beauty."
Ike's voice was recognised, and we all galloped to the spot where it
proceeded from. At his feet lay the body of the panther quite dead.
There was a red spot running blood between the ribs, where Ike's bullet
had penetrated. In trying to escape from the thicket, the cougar had
halted a moment, in a crouching attitude, directly before Ike's face,
and that moment was enough to give the trapper time to glance through
his sights, and send the fatal bullet.
Of course the guide received the congratulations of all, and though he
pretended not to regard the thing in the light of a feat, he knew well
that killing a "painter" was no everyday adventure.
The skin of the animal was stripped off in a trice, and carried to the
waggon. Such a trophy is rarely left in the woods.
The hunter-naturalist performed some farther operations upon the body
for the purpose of examining the contents of the stomach. These
consisted entirely of the half-digested remains of passenger-pigeons, an
enormous quantity of which the beast had devoured during the previous
night--having captured them no doubt upon the trees.
This adventure formed a pleasant theme for conversation during the rest
of our journey, and of course the cougar was the subject. His habits
and history were fully discussed, and the information elicited is given
below.