She dropped her bone, clapped one of her paws to her ribs, and to my
happiness waltzed down the snow-bank. As she now seemed to be out of the
dance, I turned to her brother, for such I afterward judged him to be,
who, with great affection, had gone down with her until she stuck her
head in the snow. Not understanding this, he smelled around his fallen
relative, when a hollow three-hundred-and-thirty-grain chunk of lead
nearly severed one hip and smashed the other. He did not stop to reason,
but promptly jumped on his relative, and then and there occurred a
lively bit of a scrimmage. Over and over they rolled, slapping, biting,
and making the best fight of it they could, considering the plight they
were in. Each probably accused the other of the mishap.
The snow was dyed a crimson hue. It was like the scene of a bloody
battle-ground. At last the lady first aggrieved gave up, and plunged her
head back into the snow, while her brother, not having any one to fight
with, went off a short distance and lay down. We cautiously approached,
bearing in mind that a snow-drift is a hard thing for pedestrians in a
hurry to travel on, and when we got about ten feet from the first bear,
I told my companion to snowball her and see what effect that would have,
for she looked too innocent to be finished for and dead.
But instead of doing so, he discarded his rifle and reached for her
tail. Ah, I thought so! for, as he gave a yank, up came her head, her
jaws flew open like clockwork, and a snort came forth. But right between
the eyes went the deadly messenger, smashing her skull and ending any
prolonged suffering for any of us. Her end accomplished, we turned to
the other partner. He had been taking it all in, and was ready for a
fight. He seemed pretty fit, too. Fortunately, he could not come up to
us; the snow-drift was too steep, and he had only two serviceable legs
to travel with. Still he had true grit, and faced us; but it was an
unequal battle.
Again the bullet reached its victim, and brother ba'r lay quietly on his
back with his legs in the air. No need to trifle with this bear's tail,
as any fool could see that he was dead. However, we pelted him with a
lot of snowballs, and then Woody went around to his stump of a tail and
pulled it while I stood guard at his head. We took off our coats, and
soon had the skins off the pair of them. These skins proved to be in the
finest condition, though the bears themselves were poor. I should judge
one was a three-year-old and the other a two-year-old. Still they were
good-sized grizzlies.
Those skins seemed to grow in size and weight as each of us lugged one
up the side of the mountain over shelving rock, snow, and loose gravel
to where we left our horses. Of course they were not there, and we had
to go on, carrying the skins, which were growing heavier and heavier
every minute, until we tracked our horses to where they were feeding,
and, in Western vernacular, "we had a circus" packing those skins on my
horse. It was done at last, though, and to stay, by means of
blindfolding him with a coat; and after a little while he settled down
to work as though he had carried bears all his many years of service. I
had a very nasty time in getting down the mountain after my horse
slipped and fell down a gap in the crown rock. We could not get the
other down, so I took charge of my horse and skins and made the rest of
the descent in safety, though it looked squally for a bit when the old
rascal's feet slid out from under him, knocking me down in the snow, and
he on top, and I could feel that even with the fleecy covering the
rocks were still very hard.
However, it was deep enough for me to crawl out, more scared than hurt,
and soon we had sage-brush and grass under our feet, with an easy trail
to camp, where a square meal inside of a stomach that sorely needed it
soon made amends for all hardships. Wondering what those bears had been
at work at, I went back the next day and found that they had been
tearing up a sheep that had died of scab, a disease that wild sheep are
subject to.
To a thorough sportsman, killing bear after a successful stalk is by
long odds the best and most exciting method, but the country must be
such as permits of this,--as, for instance, when there are long
stretches of high mountains, plateaus or ridges above, or devoid of,
timber, where the bears resort to root, and where the hunter from some
elevated post can look over a large area with the aid of glasses. The
general procedure, though, is to put out bait--that is, to have the
carcass of some animal to attract the bear, and many a noble elk or
timorous deer has been thus sacrificed. To avoid this needless
destruction it has been my custom to take along on my hunting-trips
aged and worn-out horses, which answer admirably when it comes to
drawing bears to a carcass. Of course, this is not always a sure way,
for the bear, if alarmed or disturbed, will only visit the carcass at
night, and then, if the hunter is persistent and determined to get a
shot, he may expect many weary hours of watching from a friendly pine.
I think I hear the reader say, "What's the fun in shooting a bear from a
tree?--there is no risk in that." True, there is not; but it is when you
come down from your perch that you may not feel quite so safe, as with
limbs benumbed from cold and lack of circulation you climb down, knowing
that perhaps several pairs of watchful eyes or cunning nostrils are
studying your movements. Involuntarily your thoughts travel in the vein
of your gloomy surroundings as you go stumbling on your way to camp:
what if the bear should prefer live goose-flesh to dead horse?
One spring morning I was knocking around under the base of the mountains
and found myself, about dinner-time, so close to Colonel Pickett's cozy
log-cabin that I determined to pay him a long-postponed visit. After an
ample repast, including some delicious home-made butter, which I had not
tasted for a month, Woody and I, with our little pack-train, regretfully
filed off, and, fording the river, took up our wanderings, not expecting
to see our cheery host again for a year.
We had not proceeded far, though, when we met an excited "cow-puncher,"
who evidently had news to tell. He had been up on the side of the
mountain, which was here a long grassy slope as smooth as any of our
well-tended lawns, extending upward to where it joined the dense
pine-forest which covered the upper portion of the mountain. Our friend
was the horse-wrangler for a neighboring ranch, and was out looking for
horses. Did any one ever see a horse-wrangler who was not looking for
missing stock?
When skirting the timber he surprised, or was surprised by, a good-sized
grizzly, which promptly chased him downward and homeward, and evidently
for a short distance was well up in the race. Gathering from his
description that the bear had been at work on the carcass of a steer
that had died from eating poison-weed, I determined to go back and
camp, and see if another skin could not be added to the score. It did
not take long to pick out an ideal camping-spot, well sheltered, with
plenty of dry wood, and trout from the little stream almost jumping into
the frying-pan.
Our horses had been having pretty rough times lately, and they lost no
time in storing away as much of the rich grass as they could hold. They
had plenty of society, too, for the slope was dotted here and there with
bunches of range cattle and bands of horses, not to mention the recent
additions to the families of each in the shape of frolicsome calves and
frisky foals, all busily at work. Bruin seemed rather out of place in
such a pastoral scene, and yet, as one looked higher beyond the somber
heights of the forest toward the frowning crown rock that resembled some
mighty fortress forbidding further progress, or the everlasting
snow-peaks above, one could well fancy that wild animals must be up
there somewhere, either in the dense woods or in the still higher and
safer retreats.
We at once examined the ground, and found the carcasses of two steers,
one of which was untouched, but the other was very nearly devoured. All
the signs pointed to more than one bear, and the ground was fairly
padded down round the carcass they were using. Unfortunately, though,
there seemed to be no place to watch from,--not a bush or rock to screen
one while awaiting a shot. To cut a long story short, I watched that
bait every afternoon and evening for a week, and though it was visited
every night I never got a sight of the prowlers. Bears will very often,
when going to a carcass, take the same trail, but when leaving, wander
off in almost any direction. Taking advantage of this, and being
satisfied that they were up in the timber through the day, we hunted for
their trail, and found it on an old wood-road that led through the
timber. To make sure, we placed the hind quarters of one of the steers
just on the edge of the forest, and awaited developments. That night the
bears found it, and, dragging it off, carefully cached it; so we
determined to watch here.
As the daylight faded that night I was much disappointed to find that
if I was to get a shot it would have to be in the dark; so as soon as I
found I could not see to shoot with any degree of safety, I got up in a
pine-tree that commanded the road and was just over the bait. It was
weary work watching, and to make it still more uncomfortable, a heavy
thunder-storm swept by, first pelting one with hail, then with a deluge
of rain and snow.
It was pitch-dark, except when the black recesses of the forest seemed
to be rent asunder during the vivid lightning. The whole effect was
weird and uncanny, and I wished myself back under my soft, warm
blankets. I could not well repress thinking of the early admonition of
"Never go under a tree during a thunder-storm."--But what's that? One
swift surge of blood to the heart, an involuntary tightening of the
muscles that strongly gripped the rifle. I seemed to feel, rather than
see, the presence of three strange objects that appeared to have sprung
from the ground under me.
I had not heard a sound; not a twig had snapped, and yet, as I strained
my eyes to penetrate the gloom, there, right at my feet, almost
touching them in fact, I made out the indistinct forms of three bears
all standing on their hind legs. Oh, what a chance it was if it had not
been so dark! I could not even see the end of my rifle; but I knew I
could hit them, they were so close. But to hit fatally? Well, there is
no use thinking about it now the bears are here. Trust to luck and
shoot!
Hardly daring to breathe, I fired; the scuffling on the ground, and the
short, sharp snorting, told me I had not missed; but I could see
nothing, and could only hear the bear rolling over and over and growling
angrily. Presently there was quiet, and then with angry, furious
champing of jaws the wounded animal charged back directly under me; but
I could not see to shoot again, worse luck. From sundry sounds I
gathered the bear was not far off, but had lain down in a thicket which
was about one hundred yards from my tree. I could hear an occasional
growl, and the snap of dead branches, broken as she turned uneasily. I
did not know exactly what to do. To descend was awkward, and to stay
where I was, wet and chilled to the bone, seemed impossible. It was
most unlikely the other bears would come back; however, thinking it
would be prudent to stay aloft a little while longer, I made up my mind
to stick it out another half hour. During this wait I fancied I could
see shadowy forms moving about, and I could surely hear a cub squalling.
The light was now a little better, and the darkness, though still very
black, was not so intense.
Just as I had screwed up courage to descend, another bear came up under
the tree and reared up. This time I made no mistake, and almost
simultaneously with the rifle's report a hoarse bawl proved to me that I
had conquered. Glad at almost any cost to get out of my cramped position
I sung out to Woody to lend a hand, as I proposed descending, and as he
came up I came down, and then we discussed the situation. The proximity
of the wounded bear was not pleasant, but then the dead one must be
opened in order to save the skin. But what if the latter were not dead?
Hang this night-work! why can't the bears stick to daylight! But to
work,--there was the motionless form to be operated on. Inch by inch we
crept up with our rifles at full-cock stuck out ahead of us until they
gently touched the inanimate mass. It was all right, for the bear was
stone-dead. Hastily feeling in the dark, as neatly as possible the
necessary operations were nearly concluded when simultaneously we both
dropped our knives and made for the open.... It makes me perspire even
now when I think of that midnight stampede from an enraged and wounded
grizzly.
_Archibald Rogers._