Produced by Sonya Schermann, Barry Abrahamsen, and the
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THE BLACK BEAR
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[Illustration: Ben and the author]
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THE BLACK BEAR
BY
WILLIAM H. WRIGHT
Author of “The Grizzly Bear”
ILLUSTRATED FROM PHOTOGRAPHS BY THE AUTHOR
AND J. B. KERFOOT
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
NEW YORK - - - - 1910
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COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
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Published April, 1910
[Illustration: Publisher’s Logo]
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CONTENTS
PAGE
THE STORY OF BEN 3
THE BLACK BEAR: ITS DISTRIBUTION AND HABITS 51
Classification of Bears 53
Description and Distribution 56
Characteristics and Habits 68
Food and Feeding 91
The Happy Hooligan 105
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ILLUSTRATIONS
Ben and the Author Frontispiece
Making friends 16
The next day we cut a hole in the sack 22
so that he could ride with his head
out
Ready for the start 30
Ben tries on his new chain and collar 36
A stop for a drink of water 44
Front foot of a black bear, front track 62
of a black bear; front foot of a
grizzly bear, front track of a grizzly
bear
Hind foot of a black bear, hind track of 64
a black bear; hind foot of a grizzly
bear, hind track of a grizzly bear
A mother and two cubs 74
Taking a sun bath 88
She began to swing her head from side to 106
side
A black bear at home 114
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THE STORY OF BEN
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THE STORY OF BEN
MY story of Ben starts on the 22d of June, 1890. Ben’s own story had
begun some four or five months earlier, in the den where his mother, who
was a Black Bear, had spent the winter; but although I came to know Ben
rather intimately later on, he never spoke of his early childhood to me
and I never asked him about it. So we’ll take that part for granted.
Early in May of that year three of us, Martin Spencer, Jack O’Brien, and
myself, had set out from Spokane, Washington, to hunt grizzlies and
prospect for gold in the rugged and, at that time, largely unexplored
Bitter Root Mountains, in Idaho. We had a small pack train and a large
stock of enthusiasm, and we arrived at the foothills with both in good
condition. But although it was well past the middle of the month when we
reached the mountains, we soon found ourselves floundering in
snow-drifts that increased in depth as we climbed, and when, for several
days on end, we had cut our way with a two-handed saw through fallen
trees that barred our progress and had dug the saddle and pack horses
out of pot holes in the snow into which a misstep or an act of
deliberate stupidity had sent them rolling, both men and horses had
become exhausted. And so, when a cold storm had added itself to our
other troubles, we had pitched camp in a little opening facing the south
and settled down to wait for better days. And we had waited there three
solid weeks.
Once, on the morning of the 19th of June, dawn had shown us a clear sky,
against which, fifty miles to the east of us, we could see the main
range of the jagged Bitter Roots; and after eating a cheerful breakfast
we had hastily broken camp, packed our horses, and started for the
summit of the ridge along which we proposed to travel. But here, roaring
up out of the next valley, we had met another great storm of icy wind
and swirling snow, and I had soon been forced to leave my companions
with the horses while I stumbled down the mountain and hunted up another
sheltered spot where we could take refuge from the huge storm. And so by
noon we had once more found ourselves crowded under a hemlock bark
lean-to, thankfully facing a blazing fire of logs and listening to the
wind howling overhead. And it was not until the afternoon of the 21st
that the storm had passed. Then at last the sun had come out hot and
clear and had begun forcing the great masses of snow that clung to the
limbs of the trees to loosen their grip so that the forest was filled
with the splash of their falling, while laden bushes jerked their heads
free from the weight that bore them down and the horses stood steaming
with the warm air.
But the burnt child fears the fire, and we had determined to be dead
sure of the weather conditions this time before we went ahead; so we
first climbed to the top of the ridge to study the country through our
glasses and at the same time try to look a little bit into the future in
the matter of the weather. The storm, we found, covered a tract of
country about fifteen miles in width and fifty to sixty miles in length,
and where we stood was about midway of the western end of its range.
Some two miles along the ridge on which we were we could see a gap in
the hills, and Spencer and I started over to explore this, while Jack
took his rifle and a dog that he had brought along and started down the
mountain.
Spencer and I, after reconnoitring the gap, catching a mess of small
trout from a stream that flowed through it, and following the track of a
large grizzly for some miles, reached camp after dark, and found that
O’Brien had returned some time before after having had a more
interesting adventure. It seemed that, when some two miles from camp, he
had heard, above the constant splash of falling snow, the crying of some
animals, and as the sound seemed to be coming nearer and nearer he had
crouched down behind a large log and, holding his dog in check, had
waited and watched. Shortly, out from among the trees, there appeared a
large Black Bear followed by three tiny cubs, the whole family having
evidently just left their winter quarters. It must have been an amusing
procession, for the old bear was ploughing her way through the soft and
slushy snow, making large holes into which the baby bears would fall,
and out of which, being so small, they were scarcely able to flounder.
They were quite unable, therefore, to keep the pace set by their mother,
and the old bear would slouch along for a while and then sit down and
watch them as they struggled to catch up. And all the time they kept up
the whimpering, crying sound that had attracted Jack’s attention.
But I am afraid O’Brien was more interested in bear meat than in bear
habits, for as soon as these animals drew near his hiding-place he let
loose the dog, who drove the mother up one tree and the cubs up another;
and having shot the old one and decided that it might be possible to
catch the youngsters alive next day, he returned to camp.
The next morning, as soon as we had had breakfast, we put pack saddles
on a couple of ponies and, taking some empty gunny-sacks along in which
to put the cubs if we caught them, started out to bring in the meat and
hide of the old bear. It had come on to rain again during the night, and
a cold drizzle was falling as we started out; and in that steep-sided
and unbroken wilderness, half buried in the melting snows of a mountain
winter, the going was both slow and dangerous. However, we managed to
reach the bottom of the ravine where Jack had seen the bears without
accident, and once near the place we tied the horses and crept forward
as silently as might be, thinking to steal up on the cubs unheard and
perhaps catch them before they could reach and climb a tree. The carcass
of the dead bear lay about fifty feet from a huge fir tree, and we soon
saw the three cubs, huddled together, and sitting on the body of their
dead mother. But it was evident that they were aware of our approach,
for they were on the alert and keeping a sharp lookout in our direction.
So when we had worked up as near as possible, and had reached the last
cover between ourselves and them, we crouched behind a fallen log and
laid out a plan of campaign.
It was plain to be seen that we were not going to catch the cubs off
their guard, and it was equally evident that we would have to do some
mighty quick sprinting if we were going to beat them to the foot of the
big fir tree. So we agreed to move forward little by little until the
bears began to be alarmed, and then to make a dash for the tree in hope
of intercepting them. But we had scarcely wormed our way over the log
and begun our sneaking approach, when all three cubs rose on their hind
legs for a clearer view of their suspicious visitors, and a moment later
they bounded down from their bed in the dead mother’s fur and began
floundering through the snow and water toward the fir tree.
The little fellows (the largest of them would not have weighed over five
pounds) had looked to be half dead with cold and misery, and the snow
and slush was over their heads; but for all that they reached the tree
ahead of us, and started up the rough trunk like so many cats. I just
managed to grab the hindmost of them by one leg as she was scrambling
out of reach, and after a good deal of squalling, clawing, and biting,
the little woolly ball was landed in one of the gunny-sacks, the mouth
tied up, and the package deposited on a log out of the way. Then we
began figuring out ways and means of catching the two cubs in the big
fir tree. The rough trunk of this old settler shot up forty feet from
the ground without a limb, and the cubs looked down at us from the
lowest branches, pushing out their upper lips and uttering short
“whoofs,” exactly as a grown bear would have done. There seemed to be
but one way to get them alive, and this was to shin up the old tree and
shake them down as one would ripe plums. Spencer and Jack agreed to
catch them before they could again take to a tree, if I would undertake
the climbing and shaking: and after some little talk I closed the
bargain. The hardest part of the task seemed to me to be the shinning of
the old tree. The rest looked easy, but that was before I had tried it.
Any one who has never had the pleasure of dislodging a bear from the
limb of a tree by shaking is apt to think it an easy matter; but he will
change his mind after a little experience.
The bark of the fir tree was rough and afforded good finger holds, and
it also scraped the skin off the inside of my knee, but in due time I
reached the lower limbs and, seating myself on one of these, rested for
a few minutes. Then I began climbing up after the cubs, who moved higher
up at my approach. One of them, after climbing some twenty feet, crawled
out on a branch and, as I came to him first, I gave the limb a gentle
shake expecting to see him roll off and go tumbling down through the
boughs to the ground below. As the cub did not drop at the first shake,
I gave another and harder one. As this did not dislodge him, I stood on
the branch and, grasping the limb over my head with both hands jumped up
and down with all my might and, after several minutes of this exercise,
saw the youngster lose his desperate grip on the small branches and go
smashing down out of sight. And a moment later a loud splash announced
his arrival at his destination. Even then, I learned afterward, he got
to his feet and had nearly reached another tree before he was captured.
The racket that had been raised in dislodging the one cub had so
frightened the other that he had climbed to the topmost branch of the
tree, and here I found him with his head down, snorting and striking
with his little paws. If he had weighed fifty pounds he would have been
an ugly customer to handle, but as it was there was no danger from him.
But there was considerable difficulty, for he had climbed so high that I
did not dare trust my weight to the small branches, and, shake as I
might, I was unable to dislodge him. Finally I climbed down to where the
limbs were longer, cut one of them with my jack-knife, and, using it as
a pole, succeeded in poking the cub out of his perch. And as he shot
past me I called to the boys to look out and listen for the splash of
his arrival. But instead of the expected sound I heard Martin call out
that the cub had caught on a lower limb and was climbing back up the
tree. This was aggravating, but I thought that at least I had the upper
hand of him this time and started down to meet him.
He had taken refuge on one of the longest branches of the old fir, and
as he was too far out for me to reach with my pole, I had recourse to my
former tactics. I stood up on the branch the cub was on, grasped a
higher one with both hands, and put all my strength and weight into a
succession of violent shakes. The bear slipped inch by inch out toward
the end of the limb; first one paw and then the other lost its grip; at
last he hung down from the outermost fork by what looked like one toe
nail. But further than this he refused to yield. Round and round he
swung as long as the shaking lasted, which was until I was completely
out of wind and compelled to stop for breath; and then back the little
beggar climbed, and by the time I had got ready for another inning he
was safe in the original position.
This was repeated again and again until it became evident that only
complete exhaustion on the part of one or other of the contestants would
end the bout. And I won by a hair. The plucky little fellow let go and
was landed squalling in the sack with the others, while I rested up
before undertaking my slower journey to the ground. Then we skinned the
old bear, cut up the meat, packed the whole on the horses, fastened the
sack containing the cubs to one of the packs, and returned to camp.
Just back of the bark shack which we had built there was a steep bank,
and into this, with pick and shovel, we dug a hole. Over the top of the
excavation we placed poles, and having covered these with bark threw a
foot or more of dirt on top, thus making a nice little cave for the
cubs. We then gathered pine needles, dried and warmed them by the fire,
and filled up the den with them. From a tanned buckskin we cut long
thongs, fastened little buckskin collars around our orphans’ necks, and
so tied them to a stake driven into the ground in front of the cave. We
each, naturally, laid claim to a cub. And as I was given first choice as
a reward for the climbing I had done to get them, I chose the
determined, spunky little chap that had been the last one caught. He was
the middle one in size, but I made up my mind to treat him gently and
keep him, if possible, until he should be a large bear. Jack took the
first one caught, it being the smallest and a female. The other two were
males. Spencer named his bear George, Jack decided to bring his up
without any name, while I called my wee cublet Ben, after “Ben
Franklin,” the pet grizzly of one of my boyhood’s heroes, old James
Capen Adams, the tamer and exhibitor of grizzly bears who, in the
fifties and sixties, became famous as Grizzly Adams.
But now that we had caught our cubs, housed them, parcelled them out,
and named them, we had to face another problem. How were we going to
feed them, and, worse still, _what_ were we going to feed them? Old
Grizzly Adams, when he caught his “Ben” as an even tinier cub than mine,
had induced a greyhound that he had with him and that happened to have
puppies at the time to nurse the foundling. But Jack’s dog could not
help us that way and we had to make other arrangements.
We began by taking a frying-pan, a little flour and water, some
condensed milk and a pinch of sugar, and stewing up a sort of pap. When
this had cooled off we each took a teaspoon and a squalling, kicking cub
and began experimenting. The cubs, small as they were, had sharp claws,
teeth like needles, and a violent objection to being mollycoddled; and
so, although we each had on heavy buckskin gloves, and each held a cub
under one arm, its front paws with one hand and a teaspoon with the
other, the babies took most of their first meal externally. The little
rascals looked like pasty polar bears when the fight was over. But they
acted better the second try and soon learned to like their new diet. And
in a day or two they learned to feed themselves out of a plate. And it
was not very long before our problem was, not to induce them to eat, but
to satisfy their unappeasable appetites.
Meanwhile, however, we had had other troubles. At the conclusion of
their first meal we had put them into their den, placed sections of bark
against the opening, rolled a boulder in front of the improvised door,
and left them, as we thought, for the night. But we were soon awakened
by the cries of the lonesome little fellows, and, as there seemed to be
no prospect of their quieting down, I finally got up, built a fire,
warmed some of the gruel, and gave them another feed. I then warmed a
couple of flat rocks, placed these under the pine needles, and again
tucked the babies into bed. By daybreak I had to get up and give them an
early breakfast.
This was the first night, but it was no sample of what followed. The
interval between feeds became less and less until the feeding quieted
them only so long as the feeding act lasted. Then, as soon as a cub was
put down, it set up a bawling that was unbearable. One night we put them
all in a sack and tied the mouth. This kept them from bawling so long as
they could not get out of the sack, but they all fell to work with tooth
and nail, and their combined voices soon announced that they had
succeeded in freeing themselves and were pacing in front of their cave
making it impossible for us to sleep. I got up and put them into another
sack, and this sack inside another. Then I put the bundle in the den
and, with the shovel, buried it more than a foot deep with dirt. Then I
put rocks over the top and front of their house. At first the snuffing
and snorting they made in working on the sack was nearly as bad as the
bawling, but we finally got to sleep in spite of it; only, however, to
be aroused later on by familiar sounds that proclaimed that the sacks
had been clawed to bits, the cave dug open, and that the trio were
waiting to see what kind of game we would next invent for their
entertainment. This was our last attempt to keep them quiet. After that
we fed them all they would eat and then let them howl.
During the day they would play contentedly in front of the den for a
part of the time. But when the two male bears settled down to sleep the
little vixen of a female would howl and fret and finally take to clawing
and biting them, so that at last they would come out and join in her
walking and bawling. As soon as we discovered this we separated them,
making another cave for the female, and after this we were not bothered
so much with the crying, and in a few days this ceased altogether.
We stayed at this camp more than two weeks, waiting for the weather to
settle; and though we did some fishing and a little hunting we were, for
the most part, held close by the steady rain and gave much time to the
training of our cubs. Each of us of course adopted his own system of
education. O’Brien, being an Irishman, would hear of no half measures;
talked of “sparing the rod and spoiling the child,” and was determined
to be master in his own house. In this way he soon developed a
disposition in his little cub that I have never seen equalled for
viciousness in any animal whatever. She would, at the mere sound of
Jack’s voice, become a vindictive little devil; and she would spit, and
strike at, and fight him until she was completely exhausted. And when
she finally died from the effects of the constant whippings he gave her
in trying to break her spirit, she tried to bite him with her last
breath.
Ben and George occupied the original little cave in the bank, and we
spent many hours laughing at their antics. At first they would scratch
and bite if you touched them, but we never whipped them nor corrected
them in any way and they soon lost their fear of us. We put on heavy
leather gloves, handled them gently but firmly, and—let them chew. They
were so small that they could do us no harm and after a few days they
grew gentle as kittens. It was not long before, when they were not tied
up, they would come and climb into our laps. They would lick our hands
like puppies and, when allowed to, would come into our tent and snuggle
down beside us on our blankets. During the whole five years that I kept
Ben I never once struck or whipped him and never allowed any one to
tease him, and a more gentle and playful animal I never saw.
Just in front of their little den there was a large stump with a long
root that sloped away down the bank. One day when Spencer was playing
with the cubs, he picked up one of them and placing it, doubled up like
a ball, on the old root, sent it rolling downward. To our amazement the
bear did not try to regain his feet until he stopped rolling some
fifteen feet away, and Spencer was so tickled with the act that he
brought him back and once more sent him tumbling down the incline. The
result was the same as before. The bear kept whirling until he landed at
the end of the root. The other cub was now brought out and we found that
he would do the same thing. We sent them down, first backward, then
forward, and either way the little fellows seemed to enjoy the sport as
much as we; and it was not long before they would climb up on the root
and, ducking their tiny heads, would go rolling down the toboggan slide,
and in the end we actually had to tie them up to keep them from
overdoing it.
[Illustration: Making friends]
Sometimes they would play like kittens. They would roll over and over,
biting and wrestling, and we would laugh until our sides fairly ached.
At other times they seemed to feel cranky and out of sorts, and then
they would claw and fight each other. These spells always occurred when
they were tied to their stake and were pacing the circle in front of
their cave.
We continued to keep them fastened most of the time by their buckskin
leads to the stake driven near their den, and they spent much of their
time walking round and round in circles. They never however, by any
chance, accompanied each other in the same direction, but invariably
travelled different ways; and for the most part they rather ignored each
other when they met on these journeys, or stopped to play in all
friendliness. Perhaps they would pass without noticing each other a
dozen times, when suddenly, as they met again, they would rise on their
hind legs and look at each other with an expression of complete
surprise, as who should say: “Where in all creation did _you_ come from?
Here I have been travelling this circle for half an hour, and never
mistrusted there was another bear in this part of the country.” And
then, as though determined to celebrate the lucky meeting, they would
embrace and tumble about for a few minutes and then separate and,
perhaps, pass each other a dozen times more with no notice taken. And
then the little comedy would be re-enacted.
But on days when their tempers were touchy these meetings were apt to be
less playful. Instead of surprise they would then exhibit resentment at
finding their imaginary solitude invaded; and after a few spiteful slaps
with their little paws, they would clinch and bite and claw each other
in earnest. Usually they would break away from these clinches quite
suddenly and resume their tramp; only, however, to reopen hostilities at
an early date. Ben, although the smaller of the two, always seemed to
get the better of his brother in the boxing bouts and wrestling matches.
He entered into each with an earnestness that seemed to put the larger
cub to flight; and yet in spite of the fact that as they grew older
their battles seemed to grow more fierce, we thought nothing of the
matter, but looked on and laughed at the Lilliputian struggles. But one
day when we returned to camp we found George dead in the little trail
that circled the stake to which they were tied, while Ben in his rounds
stepped over the body of his dead brother at each turn. George’s face
and nose were chewed beyond identification and he had been dead several
hours.
Ben had now no companions except ourselves and one of the dogs which I
had brought along and whose name was Jim; but in spite of this, or
because of it, he grew more friendly and playful each day. He would coax
Jim to come and romp with him and they would chase each other about
until the dog was tired out. Ben seemed to be tireless and would never
quit playing until chained up, or until the badgered dog turned on him
in earnest. Even then the bear used not to give up hope immediately.
After the first really angry snap from Jim, Ben would stand off a few
feet and look apologetic. Then, if nothing more happened, he would
approach the dog with a kind of experimental briskness; only, however,
to turn a back somersault in his haste to get out of the reach of Jim’s
teeth. A few minutes later, after Jim had lain down and was apparently
asleep, Ben would steal up quietly and, very gently, with just the tip
of his paw, would touch his old playfellow to find out if he really
meant that the romp was off. And it was the deep growl that always
greeted this last appeal that seemed to settle the matter in Ben’s mind.
He would then keep out of Jim’s way until the latter felt like having
another play.
Ben was very quick to learn and we only had to show him a few times to
have him catch on to a new trick. He continued to enjoy cartwheeling
down the old root, and one of the other things he took to with the most
zest was a sort of juggling act with a ball. This trick, like the other,
we discovered by accident, and then worked up into a more elaborate
performance. We finally made him a large ball out of a length of rope,
sewed it up in a gunny-sack to keep it from unwinding, and he would lie
on his back and keep the thing spinning with his four feet by the hour.
Early in July the weather finally became settled. The new snow had
melted away, the old snow banks were fast disappearing, the little open
park on the side of the mountain above our camp was green with young
grass and literally carpeted with flowers. So one morning we rounded up
the ponies, saddled and packed them, put the cub into a grain sack, tied
up the mouth, placed it on top of one of the packs, tied each of its
four corners to one of the lash ropes that held the pack to the horse,
and started into the unexplored Clearwater country in the heart of the
Bitter Roots.
The horse selected for Ben’s mount was a little tan-colored beast who
gave very little trouble on the trail, and whom we called Buckskin. We
never had to lead him and he would always follow without watching. He
would, when he found good feed, loiter behind until the pack train was
nearly out of sight; but then, with a loud neigh, he would come charging
along, jumping logs and dashing through thick bushes until the train was
again caught up with. The first day’s travel was a dangerous one for the
bear on account of the many low-hanging limbs. We were obliged to keep a
constant watch lest one of these catch the sack and either sweep it from
the pack or crush Ben to death inside it. But with care and good luck we
got through safely and, after seven hours of travel, reaching an open
side hill with plenty of feed for the horses and a clear cold spring, we
went into camp.
While we were unpacking the horses an old trapper and prospector known
as Old Jerry came along. He was one of the first men who made their way
into that wilderness, and for many years he and his cabin on the
Lockasaw Fork of the Clearwater were among the curiosities of the
region. We had put Ben, still in his sack, on the ground while we got
things settled for the night, and Old Jerry, seeing the sack moving,
asked what we had in it. When he heard that it was a Black Bear cub he
asked permission to turn it out and have a look at it and we told him to
go ahead. After loosening the cord that closed the mouth, he took the
sack by the two lower corners and gave it a shake, and out rolled Ben in
his favorite toboganning posture of a fluffy ball. The cub seemed to
think this a variation of the pine root game, and to the astonishment
and delight of Old Jerry continued turning somersaults for ten or
fifteen feet. Old Jerry is still alive, and to this day I never meet him
that he does not speak of my performing cub.
[Illustration: The next day we cut a hole in the sack so that he could
ride with his head out]
The next day we again put Ben in the sack, but this time we cut a hole
in the side of it, so that he could ride with his head out. For a while
he was contented with this style of riding, but after some days he got
to working on the sack until he was able to crawl through the hole.
Then, as we found that he could keep his seat very nicely and would
even, when his pony passed under a branch or leaning tree, dodge to one
side of the pack and hang there until the danger was past, we adopted
his amendment and from this time on never again put him in the sack when
on the march. Instead, we arranged to give him a good flat pack to ride
on. We put a roll of blankets on each side of the horse, close up to the
horns of the pack saddle, and tied them in place. Then the space between
was filled with small articles and a heavy canvas thrown over all and
cinched in place. And on top of this Ben would pass the day. We tied his
lead to the lash rope and he seemed perfectly content, and in fact
appeared to enjoy the excitement of being jolted and shaken along
through the timber and brush. It kept him on the jump to dodge the limbs
and switches that were always threatening to unseat him, but in all of
his four months’ riding through the mountains, I never saw him taken
unawares. Nor was he ever thrown by a bucking horse. Sometimes he would
get down from his seat on top of the pack and sit on the pony’s neck,
holding by one paw to the front of the pack. Sometimes he would lie
curled up as though asleep. But he was never caught off his guard, and
his horse Buckskin seemed not to care how much he climbed about on its
back.
Ben soon came to know his own horse, and after Buckskin was packed of a
morning would run to the pony’s side and bawl to be lifted to his place
on the pack. And once there he spent several minutes each morning
inspecting the canvas and the ropes of his pack. Several times during
the summer we were obliged to transfer Ben to another mount, but we had
to be mighty careful in our arrangements, as we learned to our cost the
first time we tried the experiment. This was on a day when we had a
difficult mountain to descend, and we thought we would lighten
Buckskin’s load by putting Ben on another horse that was carrying less
weight. We got him settled on Baldy, as we called the other cayuse,
without any trouble, and started out in the usual order; but just as we
were on a particularly steep part of the hill, working our way down
through a track of burned but still standing timber where the dry dirt
and ashes were several inches deep and the dust and heat almost
unbearable, there was a sudden commotion in the rear. We turned to see
what was happening, and out of a cloud of dust and ashes Baldy bore
frantically down upon us. His back was arched and with his head down
between his fore-legs he was giving one of the most perfect exhibitions
of the old-school style of bucking that any one ever saw.
Now it is useless to try to catch a bucking horse on a steep mountain
side. The only thing to be done was to get out of the road and wait
until the frightened animal either lost its footing and rolled to the
foot of the declivity or reached the bottom right side up and stopped of
its own accord. So we jumped to one side. But, just as Ben and his
maddened steed enveloped in a cloud of ash dust swept past the balance
of the now frightened horses, the pack hit against a dead tree whose
root had nearly rotted away and the result completed the confusion. For
the force of the shock first dislodged a large section of loosely
hanging bark which came down with much noise, striking the head
packhorse squarely across the back; and this was almost instantly
followed by the falling of the old tree itself, which came down with a
crash of breaking limbs and dead branches, and sent up a cloud of dust
that completely hid Ben and his cavorting mount as they tore down the
mountain. This was too much for the leading pony, who already stood
shivering with excitement, and turning sharp to the right he shot off
around the side of the mountain.
The other horses were quickly tied up, and while Spencer hurried after
the runaway leader I took down through the burned timber after Baldy.
Had the latter known how hard it had been to shake that same little bear
from the limb of the old tree, he never would have spent so much energy
in trying to buck him off the top of the pack. Ben had not looked in the
least troubled as he was hurried past us, but had apparently felt
himself complete master of the situation. He had, however, almost
instantly disappeared from view, and soon even the sound of the bounding
pony and the breaking of the dead branches as the pack hit them was no
longer to be heard. The only things that marked their course were the
deep imprints of the pony’s feet and the dust cloud that was settling
down among the dead and blackened timber. Hurrying along this easily
followed trail I at last reached the bottom of the gorge and found the
tracks still leading up the opposite slope. But the horse had soon tired
of the strenuous work of the steep ascent, and after a couple of hundred
yards he had come to a standstill in a thick clump of trees and
underbrush that had escaped the fire. Ben was still sitting in his place
as unconcerned as though nothing had happened, but was liberally covered
with ashes and did not seem to be in the best of humors. The pack did
not appear to have slipped any and so I undid the lead rope and started
back toward where the pack train had been left.
But when only a few yards on the way the pony suddenly bolted ahead,
nearly knocking me down as he tried to get past. I brought him to a halt
with a few sharp yanks on the rope, and then kept a careful eye to the
rear to find out what it was that was startling him. I did not suspect
Ben because none of the horses had ever shown the least fear of him, had
always allowed him to run about them as they did the dogs, and no one of
them had ever even kicked at him. Nevertheless I had noticed that the
cub seemed grumpy when we put him on Baldy, and remembered that at first
he had bawled and tried to get down. So I kept my eye on him. And the
first thing I knew I saw him push out his upper lip, as all bears do
when mad and out of humor, reach out stealthily one of his hind legs,
and with a sharp stroke drive his catlike claws into Baldy’s rump. So
here was the cause of all the trouble. Ben, objecting to the change of
programme, had been taking it out on the horse. I at once tied him up so
short that he could not reach the horse from the pack, and, although he
was in a huff all that day, we had no further trouble with him. Only
twice after this, however, did we mount him on any other horse but his
own Buckskin.
Each day’s travel now brought us nearer to the main range, and one day
we climbed the last ridge and camped on the border of one of the
beautiful summit meadows where grow the camas, the shooting-star, the
dog-tooth violet, the spring beauty, and other plants that the grizzlies
love. The snow, by now, had disappeared, except the immense banks lying
in the deep ravines on the north side of the upper peaks; the marshes
were literally cut up by the tracks of deer, elk, and moose; while
freshly dug holes and the enormous tracks of grizzlies told us plainly
that we had reached the happy hunting ground. And now I began to learn
from Ben much about the wonderful instincts of animals. Ben had never,
before we captured him, had a mouthful of any food except his mother’s
milk. Not only had the family just left the winter den in which the
little cubs had been born, but the earth at that time, and for long
after, had been covered deep with snow. So that there was nothing for
even a grown bear to eat except some of the scant grasses that our
horses found along the little open places on the sides of the hills, or
the juices and soft slimy substances to be found beneath the bark of the
mountain spruce trees in the spring and early summer.
But now, while camped near this mountain meadow, Ben would pull at his
leash and even bawl to get loose, and I soon took to letting him go and
to following him about to learn what it was that he wished to do. I was
amazed to find that he knew every root and plant that the oldest bears
knew of and fed upon in that particular range of mountains. He would
work around by the hour, paying not the least attention to my presence;
eat a bit of grass here, dig for a root there, and never once make a
mistake. When he got something that I did not recognize, I would take it
away from him and examine it to see what it was, and in this way I
learned many kinds of roots that the bears feed on in their wild state.
I have seen Ben dig a foot down into the ground and unearth a bulb that
had not yet started to send out its shoot. Later, when the time came for
the sarvis berries and huckleberries to ripen, he would go about pulling
down bushes, searching for berries. And not once in the whole summer did
I ever see him pull down a bush that was not a berry bush. This was the
more remarkable because he would occasionally examine berry bushes on
which there happened to be no berries at the time.
At our next camp we killed a small moose for meat, and the hide was used
during the remainder of the trip as a cover for one of the packs. After
a few days in the sun it dried as hard as a board and of course took the
shape of the pack over which it had been used. And this skin box now
became Ben’s home when in camp. It was placed on the ground, Ben’s
picket pin driven near it, and he soon learned to raise up one edge and
crawl inside. It was funny, when he had done some mischief in camp and
we stamped our feet and took after him, to see him fly to the protection
of his skin teepee, and raise the edge with one paw so quickly that
there was no apparent pause in his flight. Then, safe inside, we would
hear him strike the ground with his forefoot and utter angry “whoofs,”
daring us to come any nearer. After a few minutes the edge of the hide
would be lifted a few inches and a little gray nose would peep out to
see if the coast was clear. If no notice was taken of him he would come
back into camp, only to get into trouble again and be once more shooed
back to cover.
Ben took great pride in this home of his and was an exemplary
housekeeper, for no insect was ever permitted to dwell in the coarse
hair. At first, when the hide was green, the flies would crowd into the
hair and “blow,” or deposit their eggs. These Ben never allowed to
hatch. As soon as he was off his pony he would get to work on his house,
and with much sniffing and clawing, would dig out and eat every egg to
be found. And not one ever escaped his keen little nose. Many times in
the night we would hear him sniffing and snuffing away, searching out
the fly-blows.
He grew to be more of a pet each day and he still juggled his ball of
rope. Indeed, he got to be a great expert at this trick. He knew his own
frying-pan from the others, and would set up a hungry bawl as soon as it
was brought out. His food in camp was still flour and water, a little
sugar, and condensed milk. This we fed him for more than a month, after
which we cut out the milk and gave him just flour and water with a pinch
of sugar. He did not care about meat and would eat his frying-pan food,
or bread, in preference to deer or moose meat. Sometimes, when we killed
a grizzly, we would bring in some of the meat and cook it for the dogs.
This was the only meat that Ben would touch and very little of that. But
although he occasionally consented to dine on bear meat, he showed
unmistakable signs of temper whenever a new bear-skin was added to our
growing pile of pelts. On these occasions, even before the hide was
brought to camp, we would find him on our return in a towering rage. No
amount of coaxing would induce him to take a romp. Not even for his only
four-footed friend, Jim, would he come out of his huff. He would retreat
beneath his moose-skin house, and we could hear him strike the ground,
champ his jaws, and utter his blowing “whoofs.” I was never able to make
out whether he resented or was made fearful by the killing of his kind,
or whether it was the smell of the grizzlies, of which the Black Bear is
more or less afraid, that affected him. He still remembered his mother,
and on every occasion when he could get to our pile of bear hides he
would dig out her skin—the only Black Bear skin in the lot—sniff it all
over, and lie on it until dragged away. Indeed he seemed to mourn so
much over it, even whimpering and howling every time the wind was in the
right direction for him to smell it, that we finally had to keep this
hide away from camp.
One day a little later on, as we were working our way toward the Montana
side of the mountains, we arrived after a hard day’s work at the bank of
a large stream flowing into the middle fork of the Clearwater River. As
the stream to be forded was a swift and dangerous one, and as we had as
high a mountain to climb on the other side as the one we had come down,
we decided to go into camp and wait till morning to find a practicable
ford. In this deep canyon there was no feed for the horses, and not even
enough level ground on which to set up our tent. So the horses were tied
up to the trees, supper was cooked and eaten, Ben’s “coop,” as we called
his skin house, was placed under a tree, and then each of us rolled up
in his blankets and was soon lulled to sleep by the roar of the water
over the boulders that lined the river’s bed.
[Illustration: Ready for the start]
We were up and ready for the start before it was fairly light in the
deep canyon, and, on account of the dangerous work ahead of us, both in
fording the river and in climbing the opposite mountain, we determined
to put Ben on a pony that could be led. We were careful, however, to tie
him up short enough to prevent any repetition of his former antics. I
then mounted my riding horse, a good sure-footed one, and, with the lead
rope of Ben’s horse in my hand, started for the other shore. The first
two-thirds of the ford was not bad, but the last portion was deep and
swift, the footing bad, and the going dangerous. However, by heading my
horse diagonally down-stream, and thus going with the current, we
succeeded in making the opposite bank in safety and waited for Spencer
and Jack to follow. They got along equally well until near the bank on
which I stood, when Spencer’s horse slipped on one of the smooth rocks
and pitched his rider over his head into the swirling water. With a pole
which I had cut in case it should be needed I managed to pull the
water-soaked fellow out of the current, however, and when we had seen
once more to the security of the packs we started on the steep climb
ahead of us. There was not so much as an old game trail to mark our way,
and the hill was so steep that we could only make headway by what are
known as “switchbacks.” Our one desire now was to get up to where we
could find grass for the horses, and a place level enough to pitch a
tent and to unpack and give the ponies a few days in which to rest up.
The horse on which Ben had been mounted for the day was called Riley,
and, as I have already said, we had selected him for his steady-going
qualities and his reliability in leading. But just as we reached a
particularly steep place about half-way up the mountain, Riley suddenly
stopped and threw his weight back on the lead rope, which was lapped
around the horn of my riding saddle, in such a way that the rope parted,
the horse lost his balance, and falling backward landed, all four feet
in the air, in a hole that had been left by an upturned root. We at once
tied up the rest of the horses to prevent them from straying, and,
cutting the cinch rope to Riley’s pack, rolled him over and got him to
his feet again. We then led him to as level a spot as we could find and
once more cinched on the saddle, and, while Spencer brought the various
articles that made up the pack, I repacked the horse. All this time
nobody had thought of Ben. In the excitement of rescuing the fallen
horse he had been completely forgotten, and when Spencer lifted the pack
cover, which was the last article of the reversed pack, he called out in
consternation, “Here’s Ben, smashed as flat as a shingle.” When we
rushed to examine him we found that he still breathed, but that was
about all; and after I got the horse packed I wrapped him in my coat,
placed him in a sack, and hanging this to the horn of my riding saddle,
proceeded up the hill.
In the course of a couple of hours we reached another of those ideal
camping spots, a summit marsh, and here we unpacked the horses, turned
them loose, set up our tent, and then looked Ben over to see if any
bones were broken. His breathing seemed a little stronger, so I put him
in the sun at the foot of a large tree and in a few minutes he staggered
to his feet. We always carried a can-full of sour dough to make bread
with, and Ben was extravagantly fond of this repulsive mixture which he
considered a dainty. I now offered him a spoonful of it, and as soon as
the smell reached his nostrils he spruced up and began to lap it from
the spoon; and from that time on his recovery was rapid. The next day he
was as playful as ever and seemed none the worse for his close call.
Spencer had a great way, when we were about camp and Ben was not
looking, of suddenly scuffling his feet on the ground and going
“Whoof-whoof!” to frighten the cub. This would either send Ben flying up
a tree or start him in a mad rush for his moose-skin house before he
realized what the noise was. But one evening after this trick had been
sprung on the cub several times, we came into camp well after dark,
tired, hungry, and not thinking of Ben; and as Spencer passed a large
tree there was a sudden and loud scuffling on the ground at his very
heels and a couple of genuine “whoof-whoofs” that no one who had ever
heard a bear could mistake. Spencer made a wild leap to one side and was
well started on a second before he thought of Ben and realized that his
pupil had learned a new trick and had incidentally evened things up with
his master.
The acuteness of Ben’s senses was almost beyond belief. Nothing ever
succeeded in approaching our camp without his knowing it; and this not
only before we could hear a sound ourselves, but before we could have
expected even his sharp ears or sensitive nostrils to detect anything.
He would stand on his hind feet and listen, or get behind a tree and
peer out with one eye, and at such times nothing would distract his
attention from the approaching object. Moreover whenever he had one of
these spells of suspicion something invariably appeared. It might prove
to be a moose or a deer or an elk, but something would always finally
walk out into view. He was far and away the best look-out that I ever
saw. We used to amuse ourselves by trying to surprise him on our return
to camp; but, come in as quietly as we might, and up the wind at that,
we would always find him standing behind a tree, peering around its
trunk with just one eye exposed, ready to climb in case the danger
proved sufficient to warrant it. One day after we had crossed the divide
of the Bitter Root range into Montana, where we had gone to replenish
our food supply before starting on our return trip, we camped in a
canyon through which flowed an excellent trout stream. We were still
miles from any settlement and had no idea that there was another human
being in the same county. I was lying in the shade of a large tree with
Ben, as his habit was, lying beside me with his head on my breast, to
all appearance fast asleep. Suddenly he roused, stood up on his hind
legs, and looked up the canyon. I also looked but, seeing nothing,
pulled the bear down beside me again. For a while he was quiet, but soon
stood up again and gazed uneasily up the creek. As nothing appeared I
again made him lie down; but there was plainly something on his mind,
and at last, after nearly half an hour of these tactics, he jumped to
his feet, pushed out his upper lip, and began the blowing sound that he
always made when something did not suit him. And there, more than two
hundred yards away and wading in the middle of the creek, was a man,
fishing. In some way Ben had been aware of his approach long before he
had rounded the turn that brought him into sight of our camp.
We remained in Montana long enough to visit the town of Missoula, lay in
a supply of provisions, ship our bear-skins, buy a small dog-chain and
collar for Ben, who was getting too large for his buck-skin thong, and
rest the horses. Then, O’Brien having determined to try his fortune in
the mining camps, Spencer and I turned our faces to the West and started
back over the same three hundred miles of trackless mountains.