I felt that excitement was again about to get the upper hand, and I
aimed carefully several times before pulling trigger. At last, after a
sharp report, the smoke blew directly in my face, and for a second I
could see nothing distinctly; but when it cleared away, and I, having
pumped a cartridge into place, was again prepared to shoot, what was my
astonishment to find that the buck fired at had utterly disappeared, and
that the second, far from being frightened, was still standing with his
nose poked down into the washout that had been between them.
Without further speculation, I sighted for the neck of buck number two,
and at the report he also disappeared; but this time I made out that he
fell over forward into the washout. Everything was now afoot and moving
about, so taking a quick shot at the doe, behind the shoulder, and three
more at the remaining two, the last on the jump, I realized, by seeing
them fall, a big day's work, and for the moment felt very proud. It was
not until afterward that the feeling came up that my glory would have
been quite enough without killing the last three; but then it must be
remembered that we needed every pound of meat at the shack.
The two big bucks had fallen into the washout, which was about six feet
deep, one directly on top of the other, and it was beyond my strength,
without a horse and rope, to pull them out. As it was, I had to clean
them in very uncomfortable quarters and not in the most approved manner.
During November, in the northern latitudes, the sun is early to bed, and
it was four o'clock and getting gray when the last deer had been cared
for. At dark I washed all trace of blood from my hands and arms in the
river near the shack, and strolled into the kitchen with as woebegone a
countenance as I could muster. I intended to get even with the foreman.
A sardonic smile stole over his face, and a disgusted look over those of
the others, as they noticed my unstained hands. I remarked to the
foreman that I had shot some game. He promptly replied, "You didn't; if
you had, you'd have been so proud you'd be as red as a scoria butte with
deer blood, to show off. No such luck; and as long as you and that
thirty-eight-caliber pop-gun go rustling around this country, I reckon
we'll eat pork and be ---- glad to get it."
To this I answered that if he would promise to pack in what game I had
killed, and would do it, I would give him the hunting-knife that he had
been trying to steal for the last week. He instantly called it a
bargain, and asked how far it was to the game. I answered that it was
about five miles, and that I would take him there in the morning.
So next morning we started on horseback, and I went far enough with him
to point out exactly where the deer were, and leaving him, I rode over
to call on a friend who had a small horse-ranch in the neighborhood. I
stayed at this horse-ranch overnight, and did not get back to our ranch
until the following evening about supper-time.
It leaked out that the cow-boys had fairly screamed with delight when
the truth was known, and would rather have been discharged than help the
foreman pack in the five deer. He did pack them, however, in good faith;
and both he and the cow-punchers, now that they had fresh meat, spared
me their jokes, and for several days did not try to lend me their
pitching ponies.
Thus ended a most eventful hunt; and although it was unquestionably a
very exceptional piece of good luck to have killed five deer neatly,
still it is none the less a fact that with a thirty-eight-caliber rifle
I have always done the best work. With a fifty-caliber I have shot deer
in their vital parts and then had them run great distances, whereas with
the smaller bullet, when properly hit, they would almost invariably
double up on the spot. I can give no explanation that will help to
determine why the smaller-bored rifle has always, with me, been the most
efficient.
_Bronson Rumsey._