THE FIRST DEER HUNT
The question of food supply is always an important one where there is
a family of growing children, but especially is it so in a wilderness
of forest, far from stores and the supplies of towns and cities. The
question is not so much one of variety as of quantity, as the vigorous
out-of-door life of the pioneer gives an appetite which dainties
prepared by a famous _chef_ would not tempt from the generous dish of
“pork and beans,” or roast beef and potatoes.
This question became a pressing one to our settlers in the “old lake
bottom,” by the Necedah river. The severe summer drouth had cut short
the yield of their potato crop upon which high hopes had rested at the
spring planting, and a great horde of migrating squirrels had harvested
their little field of corn before it had ripened.
Ruffled grouse, or “prairie-chickens,” as they were called, were
abundant up to the time of the big fires in August. Indeed, from the
first of July the young birds had furnished a supply of meat for the
table more delicious than the boys of the family had ever known.
The old sow, which they had succeeded in bringing through the winter,
had been turned out into the hardwood timber along the river to care
for herself, and Uncle Sam Thompson reported having seen her on Big
Bend with a fine litter of pigs, which would thrive upon the “mast,”
the nuts of oak and hickory, and furnish good “hams” and “sides” by
Christmas.
The fire which had come down out of the big woods during the summer,
burning over the low prairies and shallow marches had been followed by
a week of heavy rains, and what had been a wide stretch of blackened
waste was soon transformed by the springing grass into an emerald
garden. While light frosts occasionally nipped the top, through
September, the grass grew rapidly and luxuriantly, and Mr. Allen’s few
cows and yoke of young oxen were rolling with fat by October.
Families and herds of deer might be seen any day a mile west from the
Allen home, though they appeared to be more difficult of approach as
the cold season came on. As many as twenty in one herd were counted
by the boys at one time. While they had become expert with their guns
in securing small game, neither Rob nor Ed had as yet tried their
marksmanship upon the larger animals.
There was, at that time, no “closed” season for its protection, but
the settlers, as a rule, never killed game wantonly, nor for “sport.”
No deer were shot in the summer, especially while the young needed
the care of its mother. But when the sharp, frosty nights of October
came, the hunter’s appetite was allowed to match the woods-wisdom and
cunning of the “antlered lords of the forest.”
The moonlight nights of October is the mating season, and then the
hunters know that the deer keep to regular paths or “runs” through the
forest. Rough platforms of boughs were built upon the low branches of
some tree at the crossing or intersection of two runs, and upon this
the hunter will take his seat and watch, while a comrade starts off,
and making a wide detour, starts a “drive” in the direction of the
ambush. The watcher in the tree must be alert, quick of sight, and sure
of aim, for the buck will come bounding toward him with prodigious
leaps and be gone again in a flash.
Uncle Sam had promised his nephew Dauphin and the Allen boys a deer
hunt on the night of the full moon in October, but Rob Allen was
impatient. “You needn’t be in such a hurry,” said Dauphin. “You
couldn’t hit a deer the first time, anyway. One always has ‘buck-fever’
the first time.”
“You’ll see,” boasted Rob; “I’ll show you that the laugh will not be on
me.”
If Rob had been wise, he would have awaited the time set, and acted
under the direction of the experienced hunter, but the taunt of Dauphin
spurred him on to prove his prowess. So the next afternoon he slipped
off with his gun in the direction of Round Slough. Approaching the
water from the west he came to a swale where some long-past tornado
from the southwest had laid the aspen trees in great windrows. The
breeze from the east brought to Rob the quacking of ducks over in the
slough, and as he slowly and as quietly as possible, clambered over the
fallen tree trunks, he thought, “Well, I can change the buckshot in my
gun to a cartridge of 4’s, and take home a mess of mallards anyway.”
Then, from the further side of the very windrow of tree trunks
upon which he was clambering, there sprang high into the air, and
in a mighty bound clearing the last barrier of trees, a splendid,
eight-pronged buck. For a second Rob stood in open-mouthed wonder, then
seizing his gun in one hand he started on a run after the deer, yelling
at the top of his voice. There was a flash of the great antlers above
the underbrush of the slough, and the deer was gone.
“Well,” said Rob, coming to himself, “I had it, didn’t I! So that is
‘buck fever.’ Why I never once thought of my gun. The boys will have
their laugh now.”
Coming out into the open forest, the lad struck into a deer “run” and
started for home. He had not gone far when he caught the sound of
animals running, coming toward him. Quickly he dodged behind a big
pine. In a moment two deer burst into sight, the second one carrying
a pair of branching antlers. Rob could feel his heart beating like a
trip-hammer, but he drew a bead upon the antlers, and, just as they
passed, fired. The buck dropped, rolled over and over, then lay still.
“Hurrah!” shouted Rob. “I have you now;” and, dropping his gun, he ran
quickly, drawing his hunting knife. The deer was a four-year-old, and
would probably weigh a hundred and fifty pounds. The boy put one foot
upon the neck of the fallen animal, when a startling thing occurred.
As though the solid earth had risen beneath his feet, Rob felt himself
lifted and flung over upon his back on the pine needles as if he had
been the merest trifle, and in great leaps and bounds he saw his deer
disappearing in the distance.
“Of all things,” gasped the lad, “this beats me. If I caught the ‘buck
fever’ the first time, I must now have reached the delirious stage. Who
ever heard of a dead deer acting in that way!”
It was now growing dark, and impossible to follow the trail of the deer
even had it been seriously wounded, so the lad struck out for home. He
had gone perhaps half a mile, and was approaching the open prairie not
far from his home, when, in a small swale, to the left of the trail,
he heard a snort, then a quick, impatient pawing of a hoof like a
challenge. Dropping to his knees he waited, and in a moment discovered
the gleam of two eyes shining through the darkness. Carefully raising
his gun, he fired. Springing straight up into the air, the animal came
down with a thud. This time Rob did not throw down his gun, but made
ready with the second barrel in case of need, as he cautiously went
up to where his quarry lay. But the charge had gone true, and a fine,
fat yearling, a “spike” buck--his first deer--was a prize to the young
hunter.
The boy’s heart beat proudly as he shouldered his game and bore it home.
With well assumed modesty Rob accepted the praises of Dauphin and Ed,
but being an honest lad he finally confessed to his attack of “buck
fever,” and then related the astonishing action of the second deer.
But Uncle Sam explained it. “You ‘creased’ him,” said he. “Your aim
was too high, but one of the buckshot grazed the top of his head and
stunned him for the time. Probably he was not at all seriously hurt. I
saw that trick played many a time when we were crossing the plains to
California in an early day. When we were on the llanos of northern and
western Texas bands of wild horses would occasionally circle about our
wagon train. None of the saddle horses were anything like a match for
the wild fellows in speed, but the plainsmen had a way of occasionally
capturing one of the band. Where the lay of the ground would permit,
a picked man would be detailed to creep toward the herd until within
shooting distance. Selecting the horse that pleased his fancy, he would
shoot, not to kill or wound the animal, but to just graze the skin
along the top of its head. The trick required the highest skill in
marksmanship, but many horses were secured in that way, as the force
of the bullet would stun the animal for a time and it could be secured
with ropes, and finally be broken to service.”