THE CROWN OF CHIEF MOUNTAIN FROM THE SOUTHEAST.

Hunting

In Many Lands

EDITORS

THEODORE ROOSEVELT

GEORGE BIRD GRINNELL

NEW-YORK

FOREST AND STREAM PUBLISHING COMPANY

1895

Copyright, 1895, by

Forest and Stream Publishing Company

Forest and Stream Press,

New York, N. Y., U. S. A.

Contents

List of Illustrations

Note.—The mountain sheep's head on the cover is from a photograph
of the head of the big ram killed by Mr. Gould in Lower California,
as described in the article "To the Gulf of Cortez."

Preface

The first volume published by the Boone
and Crockett Club, under the title "American
Big Game Hunting," confined itself, as its
title implied, to sport on this continent. In
presenting the second volume, a number of
sketches are included written by members who
have hunted big game in other lands. The
contributions of those whose names are so
well known in connection with explorations
in China and Tibet, and in Africa, have an
exceptional interest for men whose use of the
rifle has been confined entirely to the North
American continent.

During the two years that have elapsed
since the appearance of its last volume, the
Boone and Crockett Club has not been idle.
The activity of its members was largely instrumental
in securing at last the passage by
Congress of an act to protect the Yellowstone
National Park, and to punish crimes and offenses
within its borders, though it may be
questioned whether even their efforts would
have had any result had not the public interest
been aroused, and the Congressional conscience
pricked, by the wholesale slaughter
of buffalo which took place in the Park in
March, 1894, as elsewhere detailed by Capt.
Anderson and the editors. Besides this, the
Club has secured the passage, by the New
York Legislature, of an act incorporating the
New York Zoölogical Society, and a considerable
representation of the Club is found in the
list of its officers and managers. Other efforts,
made by Boone and Crockett members
in behalf of game and forest protection, have
been less successful, and there is still a wide
field for the Club's activities.

Public sentiment should be aroused on the
general question of forest preservation, and
especially in the matter of securing legislation
which will adequately protect the game and
the forests of the various forest reservations
already established. Special attention was
called to this point in the earlier volume published
by the Club, from which we quote:

A really remarkable phenomenon in American
animal life, described in the paper on the
Yellowstone Park Protection Act, is the attitude
now assumed toward mankind by the
bears, both grizzly and black, in the Yellowstone
National Park. The preservation of the
game in the Park has unexpectedly resulted in
turning a great many of the bears into scavengers
for the hotels within the Park limits.
Their tameness and familiarity are astonishing;
they act much more like hogs than beasts of
prey. Naturalists now have a chance of studying
their character from an entirely new standpoint,
and under entirely new conditions. It
would be well worth the while of any student
of nature to devote an entire season in the Park
simply to study of bear life; never before has
such an opportunity been afforded.

The incident mentioned on page 421 was
witnessed by Mr. W. Hallett Phillipps and
Col. John Hay. Since this incident occurred,
one bear has made a practice of going into the
kitchen of the Geyser Hotel, where he is fed
on pies. If given a chance, the bears will eat
the pigs that are kept in pens near the hotels;
but they have not shown any tendency to molest
the horses, or to interfere in any way with
the human beings around the hotels.

These incidents, and the confidence which
the elk, deer and other animals in the Park
have come to feel in man, are interesting, for
they show how readily wild creatures may be
taught to look upon human beings as friends.

New York, August 1, 1895.

Hunting in Many Lands

Hunting in East Africa

In the month of July, 1889, I was encamped
in the Taveta forest, 250 miles from the east
coast, and at the eastern foot of Mt. Kilimanjaro.
I was accompanied by my servant,
George Galvin, an American lad seventeen
years old, and had a following of 130 Zanzibaris.
My battery consisted of the following
weapons: one 8-bore smooth, using a cartridge
loaded with 10 drams of powder and a 2-ounce
spherical ball; one .577 and one .450 Express
rifle, and one 12-bore Paradox. All these were
made by Messrs. Holland & Holland. My
servant carried an old 12-bore rifle made by
Lang (intended to shoot 4-1/2 drams of powder,
but whose cartridges he recklessly loaded with
more than 7) and a .45-90 Winchester of the
model of 1886.

Taveta forest has been often described by
pens far abler than mine, so I will not attempt
to do this. It is inhabited by a most friendly
tribe of savages, who at the time of my visit
to them possessed sufficient food to be able to
supply the wants of my caravan. I therefore
made it a base at which I could leave the major
part of my following, and from which I could
with comfort and safety venture forth on shooting
trips, accompanied by only a few men.

The first of these excursions was made to
the shores of Lake Jipé, six hours' march from
Taveta, for the purpose of shooting hippos. I
took with me my whole battery and thirteen
men. This unlucky number perhaps influenced
my fortunes, for I returned to Taveta empty
handed and fever stricken, after a stay on the
shores of the lake lasting some days. However,
my experiences were interesting, if only
because they were in great measure the result
of ignorance. Up to this time my sporting experience
had dealt only with snipe and turkey
shooting in Florida, for on my road from the
coast, the little game seen was too wary to give
me a chance of putting a rifle to my shoulder.

The shores of Lake Jipé, where I pitched
my tent, were quite flat and separated from the
open water of the lake by a wide belt of swamp
growth. I had brought with me, for the purpose
of constructing a raft, several bundles of
the stems of a large palm growing in Taveta.
These were dry and as light as cork. In
a few hours' time my men constructed a raft,
fifteen feet in length and five feet in width.
On trial, it was found capable of supporting
two men, but even with this light load it sank
some inches below the surface of the water. I
fastened a deal box on the forward end as seat,
and instructed one of the men, who said he
understood boatman's work, to stand in the
stern and punt the craft along with a pole.
During the night my slumbers were constantly
disturbed by the deep, ominous grunting of
hippopotami, which, as if to show their contempt
for my prowess, chose a path to their
feeding grounds which led them within a few
yards of my camp. The night, though starlit,
was too dark for a shot, so I curbed my impatience
till the morning.

As most people are aware, the day begins in
the tropics as nearly as possible at 6 o'clock
and lasts twelve hours. Two hours before
dawn I was up and fortifying myself against the
damp morning air with a good breakfast of
roast chicken, rice and coffee. My men, wrapped
in their thin cotton shirts, lay about the
fires on the damp ground, seemingly unmindful
of rheumatism and fever, and only desirous to
sleep as long as possible. I awoke my crew at
a little after 5, and he, unassisted, launched the
raft. The swamp grass buoyed it up manfully,
so that it looked as if it disdained to touch the
yellow waters of the lake. When it had been
pushed along till the water was found to be two
feet deep, I had myself carried to the raft and
seated myself on the box. I was clad only in
a flannel shirt, and carried my .577 with ten
rounds of ammunition. As we slowly started
on our way, my men woke up one by one, and
shouted cheering words to us, such as, "Look
out for the crocodiles!" "If master dies, who'll
pay us!" These cries, added to the dismal
chill of the air and my boatman's only too apparent
dislike of his job, almost caused me to
turn back; but, of course, that was out of the
question.

Half an hour from the shore found me on
the edge of the open water, and, as if to endorse
my undertaking, day began to break. That
sunrise! Opposite me the rough outlines of
the Ugucno Mountains, rising several thousand
feet, lost their shadows one by one, and far to
the right towered Mt. Kilimanjaro, nearly four
miles high, its snowy rounded top roseate with
the soft light of dawn. But in Africa at least
one's higher sensibilities are dulled by the animal
side of his nature, and I fear I welcomed
the sun more for the warmth of its rays than
for the beautiful and fleeting vision it produced.
Then the hippos! While the sun was rising my
raft was not at rest, but was being propelled by
slow strong strokes toward the center of the
lake, and as the darkness lessened I saw the
surface of the lake dotted here and there by
spots, which soon resolved themselves into the
black, box-like heads of my game. They were
to all appearance motionless and appeared quite
unconscious or indifferent to the presence, in
their particular domain, of our strange craft
and its burden.

I approached them steadily, going more
slowly as the water grew deeper, and more
time was needed for the pulling out and dipping
in of the pole. When, however, I had
reached a position some 150 yards from the
nearest group, five in number, they all with a
loud snort faced me. I kept on, despite the
ardent prayer of the boatman, and when within
100 yards, and upon seeing three of the hippos
disappear beneath the surface, I took careful
aim and fired at the nearest of the remaining
two. I could see the splash of my bullet as it
skipped harmlessly along the surface of the
lake, and knew I had missed. At once all heads
in sight disappeared. There must have been
fifty in view when the sun rose. Presently,
one by one, they reappeared, and this time, as
if impelled by curiosity, came much closer than
before. I took aim at one not fifty yards away,
and could hear the thud of the bullet as it
struck. I thought, as the hippo at once disappeared,
that it was done for. I had not yet
learned that the brain of these animals is very
small, and that the only fatal shot is under
the ear.

After this shot, as after my first, all heads
vanished, but this time I had to wait much
longer ere they ventured to show themselves.
When they did reappear, however, it was too
close for comfort. One great head, blinking
its small eyes and holding its little horselike
ears at attention, was not twenty feet away,
and another was still closer on my other side.
While hesitating at which to shoot I lost my
opportunity, for they both ducked simultaneously.

I was riveted to my uncomfortable seat, and
I could hear my boatman murmuring "Allah!"
with fright, when slowly, but steadily, I felt the
raft rise under my feet. Instinctively I remembered
I had but one .577 rifle, and hastened,
my hands trembling, to fasten it with a loose
rope's end to the raft. My boatman yelled
with terror, and at that fearful cry the raft
splashed back in the water and all was again
still. One of the hippos, either with his back
or head, must have come in contact with the
bottom of the raft as he rose to the surface.
How far he would have gone had not the
negro screamed I do not know, but as it was
it seemed as if we were being held in mid air
for many minutes. I fancy the poor brute was
almost as frightened as we were, for he did
not reappear near the raft.

I now thought discretion the better part of
valor, and satisfied myself with shooting at the
animal from a somewhat greater distance. I hit
two more in the head and two—who showed
a good foot of their fat bodies above the water—in
the sides. None floated on the surface,
legs up, as I had been led to expect they would
do; but the men assured me that they never
come to the surface till sundown, no matter
what time of day they may have been shot.
This, needless to state, I afterward found, is
not true. My ammunition being exhausted,
and the sun blazing hot, I returned to camp.
I awoke the next day feeling anything but
energetic; nevertheless, I set out to see what
game the land held ready for the hunter, dissatisfied
with his experiences on water. The
country on the eastern side of Lake Jipé is
almost flat, but is dotted here and there with
low steep gneiss hills, stretching in an indefinite
line parallel to the lake and some three miles
distant from it. I made my way toward these
hills. On the way I put up some very small
antelope, which ran in such an irregular manner
that they presented no mark to my unskilled
arm.

We reached the hills, and I climbed one and
scanned the horizon with my glasses. Far to
the northwest I spied two black spots in a grassy
plain. I gave the glasses to my gun-bearer
and he at once said, "Rhinoceros!" I had
never seen these beasts except in a menagerie,
and the mention of the name brought me to my
feet eager to come to a closer acquaintance
with them. The wind blew toward me and the
game was too far for the need of caution, so I
walked rapidly in their direction. When I got
to within 250 yards, I could quite easily distinguish
the appearance of my quarry. They
were lying down and apparently oblivious to
my approach—perhaps asleep. My gun-bearer
(a Swahili) now began to show an anxiety to
turn back. This desire is, in many cases, the
distinguishing trait of this race. On we went,
but now cautiously and silently. The grass
was about two feet high, so that by crawling
on hands and knees, one could conceal most of
his body. But this position is not a pleasant
one with a blazing sun on the back, rough soil
under the knees and a thirteen-pound rifle in
the hand.

We got to within fifty yards. I looked back
for the negro with my .577. He was lying
flat on his stomach fifty yards to the rear. I
stood up to beckon him, but he did not move.
The rhinos did, and my attention was recalled
to them by hearing loud snorts, and, turning
my head, I saw the two beasts on their feet
facing me. I had never shot an 8-bore in my
life before, so it is not to be wondered at that
the shock of the recoil placed me on my back.
The animals were off before I could recover
my feet, and my second barrel was not discharged.
I ran after them, but the pace of a
rhino is much faster than it looks, and I soon
found pursuit useless. I returned to the place
where they had lain, and on looking about
found traces of fresh blood. My gun-bearer,
as an explanation for his behavior, said that
rhinos were devils, and were not to be approached
closely. He said I must be possessed
of miraculous power, or they would have charged
and slain me. The next day, fever laid me
low, and, though the attack was slight, some
days elapsed before I could muster strength to
take me back to Taveta.

After a few days' rest in camp—strengthened
by good food and spurred to fresh exertion by
the barren result of my first effort—I set out
again, accompanied by more men and in a different
direction.

My faith in myself received a pleasant encouragement
the day before my departure.
My head man came to me and said trade was
at a standstill, and that the natives could not
be induced to bring food to sell. On asking
him why, I learned that the Taveta people
had found three dead hippos in Lake Jipé and
one rhino near its shores. Meat—a rare treat
to them, even when not quite fresh—filled their
minds and bodies, and they were proof even
against the most tempting beads and the brightest
cloths. I cannot say that I shared my
head man's anxiety. The fact that I had not
labored altogether in vain, even though others
reaped the benefit of my efforts, filled me with
a certain satisfaction.

A day's march from Taveta brought me to
the banks of an almost stagnant brook, where I
made camp. The country round about was a
plain studded with low hills, here thinly thatched
with short grass, and there shrouded with
thick bush, above which every now and then
rose a giant acacia. The morning after my
arrival, I set out from camp with my 8-bore in
my hands and hope in my heart. Not 200
yards from my tent, I was startled by a snort
and then by the sight of two rhinos dashing
across my path some fifty yards away. This
time I did not succumb to my gun's recoil, but
had the doubtful satisfaction of seeing, from a
standing position, the animals disappear in the
bush. I made after them and found, to my
delight, a clear trail of fresh blood. Eagerly
pressing on, I was somewhat suddenly checked
in my career by almost stumbling over a rhino
apparently asleep on its side, with its head
toward me. Bang! went the 8-bore and down
I went. I was the only creature disturbed by
the shot, as the rhino had been dead some
minutes—slain by my first shot; and my satisfaction
was complete when I found the hole
made by my bullet. My men shouted and sang
over this, the first fruits of my expedition,
and even at this late day I forgive myself for
the feeling of pride I then experienced. I
have a table at home made of a piece of this
animal's hide, and supported in part by one of
its horns.

The next day I made an early start and
worked till 4 o'clock P. M., with no result.
Then, being some eight miles from camp, I
turned my face toward home. I had not gone
far, and had reached the outskirts of an almost
treeless savanna, when my gun-bearer brought
me to a halt by the word mbogo. This I knew
meant buffalo. I adjusted my glass and followed
the direction of my man's finger. There,
500 yards away, I saw a solitary buffalo feeding
slowly along toward two low bushes, but on
the further side of them. I did not think what
rifle I held (it was a .450), but dashed forward
at once. My gun-bearer was more thoughtful
and brought with him my .577. We actually
ran. When within eighty or ninety yards of
the two bushes behind which the beast was
now hidden. I slackened pace and approached
more cautiously. My heart was beating and
my hands trembling with the exertion of running
when I reached the nearest bush, and my
nerves were not exactly steadied by meeting
the vicious gaze of a large buffalo, who stood
not thirty feet on the other side. My gun-bearer
in an instant forced the .577 into my
hands, and I took aim at the shoulder of the
brute and fired, without knowing exactly what
I was doing. The smoke cleared, and there,
almost in his tracks, lay my first buffalo. His
ignorance of my noisy and careless approach
was apparently accounted for by his great age.
His hide was almost hairless and his horns
worn blunt with many encounters. He must
have been quite deaf and almost blind, or his
behavior cannot be accounted for. The noise
made by our approach, even with the favorable
wind, was sufficient to frighten any animal, or
at least put it on its guard.

My men, who were dreadfully afraid of big
game of all sorts, when they saw the buffalo
lying dead, danced with joy and exultation.
They kicked the dead body and shouted curses
at it. Camp was distant a good two hours'
march, and the day was drawing to a close.
The hungry howl of the hyenas warned me
that my prize would soon be taken from me
were it left unguarded. So piles of firewood
were made and the carcass surrounded by a
low wall of flames. I left three men in charge
and set out for camp. There was but little
light and my way lay through bits of forest
and much bush. Our progress was slow, and
my watch read 10:30 P. M. before I reached
my tent and bed.

The following day I set out for a shooting
ground distant two days' march from where I
had been camped. Several rivers lay in my
path and two tribes of natives. These natives
inhabit thick forest and are in terror of strangers,
as they are continually harassed by their
neighbors. When they saw the smallness of
my force, however, they endeavored to turn me
aside, but without success. Quiet and determination
generally win with these people. The
rivers gave me more trouble, as they were deep
and swift of current, and my friends, the natives,
had removed all bridges. But none of the
streams exceeded thirty feet in width, and an
hour's hard work with our axes always provided
us with a bridge.

The second day from my former camp
brought me to the outskirts of the forest and
the beginning of open country. I had hardly
made camp before three Swahili traders came
to me, and after the usual greetings began to
weep in chorus. Their story was a common one.
They had set out from Mombasa with twelve
others to trade for slaves and ivory with the
natives who inhabit the slopes of Kilimanjaro.
Fortune had favored them, and after
four months they were on their way homeward
with eighteen slaves and five good sized tusks.
The first day's journey was just over when they
were attacked by natives, three of their number
slain and all their property stolen. In
the darkness they could not distinguish what
natives attacked them; but their suspicions
rested on the very tribe among whom they had
spent the four months, and from whom they
had purchased the ivory and slaves. I gave
them a little cloth and some food, and a note
to my people at Taveta to help them on their
way. Of course, they were slave traders, and
as such ought possibly to have been beaten
from my camp. But it is undoubtedly a fact
that Mahomedans look on slave trading as a
perfectly legitimate occupation; and if people
are not breaking their own laws, I cannot see
that a stranger should treat them as brigands
and refuse them the least aid when in distress.
I know that my point of view in this matter
has few supporters in civilization.

The next day, after a short march, I pitched
my tent on the banks of a small stream, and
then set out to prospect for game. I found
nothing, but that night my slumbers were disturbed
by the splashing and grunting of a
herd of buffalo drinking.

These sounds kept me awake, so that I was
enabled to make a very early start—setting out
with four men at 4:45. The natives had assured
me that the buffalo came to drink about
midnight, and then fed slowly back to their
favorite sleeping-places in the thick bush,
reaching there just about sunrise. By making
such an early start I hoped to come up with my
quarry in the open places on the edge of the
thick bush just before dawn, when the light is
sufficiently bright to enable one to see the foresight
of a rifle. Dew falls like rain in this part
of the world, and we had not gone fifty paces
in the long grass before we were soaking wet,
and dismally cold to boot. My guide, cheered
by the prospect of a good present, led us confidently
along the most intricate paths and
through the thickest bush. The moon overhead,
which was in its fifteenth day, gave excellent
light. Every now and then some creature
would dash across our path, or stand snorting
fearfully till we had passed. These were probably
waterbuck and bushbuck. Toward half
past five the light of the moon paled before
the first glow of dawn, and we found ourselves
on the outskirts of a treeless prairie, dotted
here and there with bushes and covered with
short dry grass. Across this plain lay the bush
where my guide assured me the buffalo slept
during the day, and according to him at that
moment somewhere between me and this bush
wandered at least 100 buffalo. There was little
wind, and what there was came in gentle puffs
against our right cheeks. I made a sharp
detour to the left, walking quickly for some
twenty minutes. Then, believing ourselves to
be below the line of the buffalo, and therefore
free to advance in their direction, we did so.

Just as the sun rose we had traversed the
plain and stood at the edge of what my men
called the nyumba ya mbogo (the buffalo's home).
We were too late. Fresh signs everywhere
showed that my guide had spoken the truth.
Now I questioned him as to the bush; how
thick it was, etc. At that my men fidgeted uneasily
and murmured "Mr. Dawnay." This
young Englishman had been killed by buffalo
in the bush but four months before. However,
two of my men volunteered to follow me, so I
set out on the track of the herd.

This bush in which the buffalo live is not
more than ten feet high, is composed of a network
of branches and is covered with shiny
green leaves; it has no thorns. Here and
there one will meet with a stunted acacia,
which, as if to show its spite against its more
attractive neighbors, is clothed with nothing
but the sharpest thorns. The buffalo, from
constant wandering among the bush, have
formed a perfect maze of paths. These trails
are wide enough under foot, but meet just over
one's shoulders, so that it is impossible to
maintain an upright position. The paths run
in all directions, and therefore one cannot see
far ahead. Were it not for the fact that here
and there—often 200 feet apart, however—are
small open patches, it would be almost
useless to enter such a fastness. These open
places lure one on, as from their edges it is
often possible to get a good shot. Once
started, we took up the path which showed
the most and freshest spoor, and, stooping low,
pressed on as swiftly and noiselessly as possible.
We had not gone far before we came upon
a small opening, from the center of which rose
an acacia not more than eight inches in thickness
of trunk and perhaps eighteen feet high.
It was forked at the height of a man's shoulder.
I carried the 8-bore, and was glad of an opportunity
to rest it in the convenient fork before
me. I had just done so, when crash! snort!
bellow! came several animals (presumably buffalo)
in our direction. One gun-bearer literally
flew up the tree against which I rested my rifle;
the other, regardless of consequences, hurled
his naked skin against another but smaller tree,
also thorny; both dropped their rifles. I stood
sheltered behind eight inches of acacia wood,
with my rifle pointed in front of me and still
resting in the fork of the tree. The noise of
the herd approached nearer and nearer, and my
nerves did not assume that steelly quality I had
imagined always resulted from a sudden danger.
Fly I could not, and the only tree climbable
was already occupied; so I stood still.

Just as I looked for the appearance of the
beasts in the little opening in which I stood, the
crashing noise separated in two portions—each
passing under cover on either side of the opening.
I could see nothing, but my ears were
filled with the noise. The uproar ceased, and
I asked the negro in the tree what had happened.
He said, when he first climbed the tree
he could see the bushes in our front move like
the waves of the sea, and then, Ham del illah—praise
be to God—the buffalo turned on either
side and left our little opening safe. Had they
not turned, but charged straight at us, I fancy
I should have had a disagreeable moment. As
it was, I began to understand why buffalo shooting
in the bush has been always considered unsafe,
and began to regret that the road back to
the open plain was not a shorter one. We
reached it in safety, however, and, after a short
rest, set out up wind.

I got a hartbeest and an mpallah before
noon, and then, satisfied with my day, returned
to camp. By 4 P. M. my men had brought in
all the meat, and soon the little camp was filled
with strips of fresh meat hanging on ropes of
twisted bark. The next day we exchanged the
meat for flour, beans, pumpkins and Indian
corn. I remained in this camp three more days
and then returned to Taveta. Each one of
these days I attempted to get a shot at buffalo,
but never managed it. On one occasion I
caught a glimpse of two of these animals in
the open, but they were too wary to allow me
to approach them.

When I reached Taveta, I found a capital
camp had been built during my absence, and
that a food supply had been laid in sufficient
for several weeks. Shortly after my arrival I
was startled by the reports of many rifles, and
soon was delighted to grasp the hands of two
compatriots—Dr. Abbott and Mr. Stevens.
They had just returned from a shooting journey
in Masai land, and reported game plenty
and natives not troublesome. My intention
was then formed to circumnavigate Mt. Kilimanjaro,
pass over the yet untried shooting
grounds and then to return to the coast.

I left five men in camp at Taveta in charge
of most of my goods, and, taking 118 men with
me, set out into Masai land. Even at this
late date (1895) the Masai are reckoned dangerous
customers. Up to 1889 but five European
caravans had entered their territory, and all
but the last—that of Dr. Abbott—had reported
difficulties with the natives. My head man, a
capital fellow, had had no experience with these
people, and did not look forward with pleasure
to making their acquaintance; but he received
orders to prepare for a start with apparent
cheerfulness. We carried with us one ton of
beans and dried bananas as food supply. This
was sufficient for a few weeks, but laid me
under the necessity of doing some successful
shooting, should I carry out my plan of campaign.
Just on the borders of Masai land live
the Useri people, who inhabit the northeast
slopes of Kilimanjaro. We stopped a day or
two with them to increase our food supply, and
while the trading was going on I descended to
the plain in search of sport.

I left camp at dawn and it was not till noon
that I saw game. Then I discovered three
rhinos; two together lying down, and one solitary,
nearly 500 yards away from the others.
The two lying down were nearest me, but were
apparently unapproachable, owing to absolute
lack of cover. The little plain they had chosen
for their nap was as flat as a billiard table and
quite bare of grass. The wind blew steadily
from them and whispered me to try my luck, so
I crawled cautiously toward them. When I got
to within 150 yards, one of the beasts rose and
sniffed anxiously about and then lay down again.
The rhinoceros is nearly blind when in the bright
sun—at night it can see like an owl. I kept on,
and when within 100 yards rose to my knees
and fired one barrel of my .577. The rhinos
leapt to their feet and charged straight at me.
"Shall I load the other barrel or trust to only
one?" This thought ran through my mind,
but the speed of the animals' approach gave
me no time to reply to it. My gun-bearer was
making excellent time across the plain toward
a group of trees, so I could make no use of the
8-bore. The beasts came on side by side, increasing
their speed and snorting like steam
engines as they ran. They were disagreeably
close when I fired my second barrel and rose
to my feet to bolt to one side. As I rose they
swerved to the left and passed not twenty feet
from me, apparently blind to my whereabouts.
I must have hit one with my second shot, for
they were too close to permit a miss. Perhaps
that shot turned them. Be that as it may, I
felt that I had had a narrow escape.

When these rhinos had quite disappeared,
my faithful gun-bearer returned, and smilingly
congratulated me on what he considered my
good fortune. He then called my attention to
the fact that rhinoceros number three was still
in sight, and apparently undisturbed by what
had happened to his friends. Between the
beast and me, stretched an open plain for some
350 yards, then came three or four small trees,
and then from these trees rose a semi-circular
hill or rather ridge, on the crest of which stood
the rhino. I made for the trees, and, distrusting
my gun-bearer, took from him the .577 and
placed it near one of them. Then, telling him
to retire to a comfortable spot, I advanced with
my 8-bore up the hill toward my game. The
soil was soft as powder, so my footsteps made
no noise. Cover, with the exception of a small
skeleton bush, but fifty yards below the rhino,
there was none. I reached the bush and knelt
down behind it. The rhino was standing broadside
on, motionless and apparently asleep. I
rose and fired, and saw that I had aimed true,
when the animal wheeled round and round in
his track. I fired again, and he then stood still,
facing me. I had one cartridge in my pocket
and slipped it in the gun. As I raised the
weapon to my shoulder, down the hill came my
enemy. His pace was slow and I could see
that he limped. The impetus given him by
the descent kept him going, and his speed
seemed to increase. I fired straight at him and
then dropped behind the bush. He still came
on and in my direction; so I leapt to my feet,
and, losing my head, ran straight away in front
of him. I should have run to one side and
then up the hill. What was my horror, when
pounding away at a good gait, not more than
fifty feet in front of the snorting rhino, to find
myself hurled to the ground, having twisted
my ankle. I thought all was over, when I had
the instinct to roll to one side and then scramble
to my feet. The beast passed on. When
he reached the bottom of the hill his pace
slackened to a walk, and I returned to where I
had left my .577 and killed him at my leisure.
I found the 8-bore bullet had shattered his off
hind leg, and that my second shot had penetrated
his lungs. I had left the few men I had
brought with me on a neighboring hill when I
had first caught sight of the rhinos, and now
sent for them. Not liking to waste the meat,
I sent to camp for twenty porters to carry it
back. I reached camp that night at 12:30 A. M.,
feeling quite worn out.

After a day's rest we marched to Tok-i-Tok,
the frontier of Masai land. This place is at
certain seasons of the year the pasture ground
of one of the worst bands of Masai. I found
it nearly deserted. The Masai I met said their
brethren were all gone on a war raid, and that
this was the only reason why I was permitted
to enter the country. I told them that I had
come for the purpose of sport, and hoped to
kill much game in their country. This, however,
did not appear to interest them, as the
Masai never eat the flesh of game. Nor do
they hunt any, with the exception of buffalo,
whose hide they use for shields. I told them
I was their friend and hoped for peace; but,
on the other hand, was prepared for war
should they attack me.

From Tok-i-Tok we marched in a leisurely
manner to a place whose name means in English
"guinea fowl camp." In this case it was
a misnomer, for we were not so fortunate as
to see one of these birds during our stay of
several days. At this place we were visited by
some fifty Masai warriors, who on the receipt
of a small present danced and went away. The
water at guinea fowl camp consisted of a spring
which rises from the sandy soil and flows a few
hundred yards, and then disappears into the
earth. This is the only drinking-place for several
miles, so it is frequented by large numbers
and many varieties of game. At one time
I have seen hartbeest, wildbeest, grantii, mpallah,
Thomson's oryx, giraffes and rhinoceros.
We supported the caravan on meat. I used
only the .450 Express; but my servant, George
Galvin, who used the Winchester, did better
execution with his weapon than I with mine.

Here, for the first and last time in my African
experiences, we had a drive. Our camp
was pitched on a low escarpment, at the bottom
of which, and some 300 feet away, lay the
water. The escarpment ran east and west, and
extended beyond the camp some 500 yards,
where it ended abruptly in a cliff forty or fifty
feet high. Some of my men, who were at the
end of the escarpment gathering wood, came
running into camp and said that great numbers
of game were coming toward the water.
I took my servant and we ran to the end of
the escarpment, where a sight thrilling indeed
to the sportsman met our eyes. First came
two or three hundred wildbeest in a solid
mass; then four or five smaller herds, numbering
perhaps forty each, of hartbeest; then
two herds, one of mpallah and one of grantii.
There must have been 500 head in the lot.
They were approaching in a slow, hesitating
manner, as these antelope always do approach
water, especially when going down wind.

Our cover was perfect and the wind blowing
steadily in our direction. I decided, knowing
that they were making for the water, and to
reach it must pass close under where we lay
concealed, to allow a certain number of them to
pass before we opened fire. This plan worked
perfectly. The animals in front slackened
pace when they came to within fifty yards of
us, and those behind pressed on and mingled
with those in front. The effect to the eye was
charming. The bright tan-colored skins of the
hartbeest shone out in pleasing contrast to the
dark gray wildbeest. Had I not been so
young, and filled with youth's thirst for blood,
I should have been a harmless spectator of this
beautiful procession. But this was not to be.
On catching sight of the water, the animals
quickened their pace, and in a moment nearly
half of the mass had passed our hiding-place.
A silent signal, and the .450 and the Winchester,
fired in quick succession, changed this
peaceful scene into one of consternation and
slaughter. Startled out of their senses, the
beasts at first halted in their tracks, and then
wheeling, as if at word of command, they
dashed rapidly up wind—those in the rear receiving
a second volley as they galloped by.
When the dust cleared away, we saw lying
on the ground below us four animals—two
hartbeest and two wildbeest. I am afraid that
many of those who escaped carried away with
them proofs of their temerity and our bad
marksmanship.

Ngiri, our next camp, is a large swamp, surrounded
first by masses of tall cane and then
by a beautiful though narrow strip of forest
composed of tall acacias. It was at this place,
in the thick bush which stretches from the
swamp almost to the base of Kilimanjaro, that
the Hon. Guy Dawnay, an English sportsman,
had met his death by the horns of a buffalo
but four months before. My tent was pitched
within twenty paces of his grave and just under
a large acacia, which serves as his monument,
upon whose bark is cut in deep characters
the name of the victim and the date of his
mishap.

Here we made a strong zariba of thorns, as
we had heard we should meet a large force of
Masai in this neighborhood. I stopped ten
days at Ngiri, and, with the exception of one
adventure hardly worth relating, had no difficulty
with the Masai. Undoubtedly I was
very fortunate in finding the large majority of
the Masai warriors, inhabiting the country
through which I passed, absent from their
homes. But at the same time I venture to
think that the ferocity of these people has been
much overrated, especially in regard to Europeans;
for the force at my disposal was not
numerous enough to overawe them had they
been evilly disposed.

One morning, after I had been some days at
Ngiri, I set out with twenty men to procure
meat for the camp. The sun had not yet risen,
and I was pursuing my way close to the belt of
reeds which surrounds the swamp, when I saw
in the dim light a black object standing close
to the reeds. My men said it was a hippo, but
as I drew nearer I could distinguish the outlines
of a gigantic buffalo, broadside on and
facing from the swamp. When I got to within
what I afterwards found by pacing it off to
be 103 paces, I raised my .577 to my shoulder,
and, taking careful aim at the brute's shoulder,
fired. When the smoke cleared away there
was nothing in sight. Knowing the danger of
approaching these animals when wounded, I
waited until the sun rose, and then cautiously
approached the spot. The early rays of the
sun witnessed the last breathings of one of the
biggest buffaloes ever shot in Africa. Its head
is now in the Smithsonian Institute at Washington,
and, according to the measurement
made by Mr. Rowland Ward, Piccadilly, London,
it ranks among the first five heads ever
set up by him.

After sending the head, skin and meat back
to camp, I continued my way along the shore
of the swamp. The day had begun well and
I hardly hoped for any further sport, but I was
pleasantly disappointed.

Toward 11 o'clock I entered a tall acacia
forest, and had not proceeded far in it before
my steps were arrested by the sight of three
elephants, lying down not 100 yards from me.
They got our wind at once, and were up and
off before I could get a shot. I left all my men
but one gun-bearer on the outskirts of the forest
and followed upon the trail of the elephant.
I had not gone fifteen minutes before I had
traversed the forest, and entered the thick and
almost impenetrable bush beyond it. And
hardly had I forced my way a few paces into
this bush, when a sight met my eyes which
made me stop and think. Sixty yards away,
his head towering above the surrounding bush,
stood a monstrous tusker. His trunk was
curled over his back in the act of sprinkling
dust over his shoulders. His tusks gleamed
white and beautiful. He lowered his head,
and I could but just see the outline of his
skull and the tips of his ears. This time my
gun-bearer did not run. The sight of the ivory
stirred in him a feeling, which, in a Swahili,
often conquers fear—cupidity. I raised some
dust in my hand and threw it in the air, to see
which way the wind blew. It was favorable.
Then beckoning my gun-bearer, I moved forward
at a slight angle, so as to come opposite
the brute's shoulder. I had gone but a few
steps when the bush opened and I got a good
sight of his head and shoulder. He was apparently
unconscious of our presence and was
lazily flapping his ears against his sides. Each
time he did this, a cloud of dust arose, and a
sound like the tap of a bass drum broke the
stillness. I fired my .577 at the outer edge of
his ear while it was lying for an instant against
his side. A crash of bush, then silence, and no
elephant in sight. I began to think that I had
been successful, but the sharper senses of the
negro enabled him to know the contrary. His
teeth chattered, and for a moment he was motionless
with terror. Then he pointed silently
to his left. I stooped and looked under the
bush. Not twenty feet away was a sight which
made me share the feelings of my gun-bearer.
The elephant was the picture of rage; his forelegs
stretched out in front of him, his trunk
curled high in the air, and his ears lying back
along his neck. I seized my 8-bore and took
aim at his foreward knee, but before I could
fire, he was at us. I jumped to one side and
gave him a two-ounce ball in the shoulder,
which apparently decided him on retreat. The
bush was so thick that in a moment he was out
of sight. I followed him for some time, but
saw no more of him. His trail mingled with
that of a large herd, which, after remaining together
for some time, apparently separated in
several directions. The day was blazing hot,
and I was in the midst of a pathless bush, far
away from my twenty men.

By 2 P. M., I had come up with them again
and turned my face toward camp. On the way
thither, I killed two zebras, a waterbuck and a
Thomsonii. By the time the meat was cut up
and packed on my men's heads the sun had set.
The moon was magnificently bright and served
to light our road. For one mile our way led
across a perfectly level plain. This plain was
covered with a kind of salt as white as snow,
and with the bright moon every object was
as easily distinguished as by day. The fresh
meat proved an awkward load for my men, and
we frequently were forced to stop while one
or the other re-arranged the mass he carried.
They were very cheery about it, however, and
kept shouting to one another how much they
would enjoy the morrow's feast. Their shouts
were answered by the mocking wails of many
hyenas, who hovered on our flanks and rear
like a pursuing enemy. I shot two of these
beasts, which kept their friends busy for a while,
and enabled us to pursue our way in peace.

This white plain reaches nearly to the shores
of Ngiri Swamp on the north, and to the
east it is bounded by a wall of densely thick
bush. We had approached to within 400
yards of the point where the line of bush joins
the swamp, when I noticed a small herd of
wildbeest walking slowly toward us, coming
from the edge of the swamp. A few moments
later, a cry escaped from my gun-bearer, who
grasped my arm and whispered eagerly, simba.
This means lion. He pointed to the wall of
bush, and near it, crawling on its belly toward
the wildbeest, was the form of a lion. I
knelt down and raised the night sight of my
.450, and fired at the moving form. The white
soil and the bright moon actually enabled me
to distinguish the yellow color of its skin. A
loud growl answered the report of my rifle, and
I could see the white salt of the plain fly as
the lion ran round and round in a circle, like a
kitten after its tail. I fired my second barrel
and the lion disappeared. The wildbeest had
made off at the first shot. I tried, in the
eagerness of youth, to follow the lion in the
bush; but soon common sense came to my
rescue, and warned me that in this dark growth
the chances were decidedly in favor of the
lion's getting me, and so gave up the chase.
Now, if I had only waited till the great cat
had got one of the wildbeest, I feel pretty
sure I should have been able to dispose of it
at my leisure. When I returned to camp, I
ungratefully lost sight of the good luck I had
had, and gnashed my teeth at the thought
that I had missed bringing home a lion and
an elephant. I was not destined to see a lion
again on this journey, but my annoyance at
my ill fortune was often whetted by hearing
them roar.

However, by good luck and by George's
help, I succeeded in securing one elephant.
The story of how this happened shall be the
last hunting adventure recorded in this article.
We had left Ngiri and were camped at the
next water, some ten miles to the west. I had
been out after giraffes and had not been unsuccessful,
and therefore had reached camp in
high good humor, when George came to me
and said things were going badly in camp—that
the men had decided to desert me should
I try to push further on into the country; and
that both head men seemed to think further
progress was useless with the men in such
temper. I was puzzled what to do, but wasted
no time about making up my mind to do something.
I went into the tent and called the
two head men to me. After a little delay, they
came, greeted me solemnly and at a motion
from me crouched on their hams. There is
but little use in allowing a negro to state a
grievance, particularly if you know it is an
imaginary one. The mere act of putting their
fancied wrongs into words magnifies them in
their own minds, and renders them less likely
to listen to reason. My knowledge of Swahili
at this time did not permit me to address them
in their own language, so I spoke to them in
English, knowing that they understood at least
a few words of that tongue. I told them that
I was determined to push on; that I knew
that porters were like sheep and were perfectly
under the control of the head men; consequently,
should anything happen, I would
know on whom to fix the blame. I repeated
this several times, and emphasized it with
dreadful threats, then motioned for them to
leave the tent. I cannot say that I passed a
comfortable night. Instead of songs and
laughter, an ominous stillness reigned in the
camp, and, though my words had been brave,
I knew that I was entirely at the mercy of
the men.

Before dawn we were under way, keeping a
strict watch for any signs of mutiny. But,
though the men were sullen, they showed no
signs of turning back. Our road lay over a
wide plain, everywhere covered thickly with
lava, the aspect of which was arid in the
extreme.

No more green buffalo bush, no more acacias,
tall and beautiful, but in their place rose
columns of dust, whirled hither and thither by
the vagrant wind. Two of my men had been
over this part of the road before, but they professed
to be ignorant of the whereabouts of
the next water place. Any hesitation on my
part would have been the signal for a general
retreat, so there was nothing for it but to assume
a look of the utmost indifference, and to
assure them calmly that we should find water.
At noon the appearance of the country had
not changed. My men, who had incautiously
neglected to fill their water bottles in the
morning, were beginning to show signs of
distress.

Suddenly my gun-bearer, pointing to the
left, showed me two herds of elephants approaching
us. The larger herd, composed
principally of bulls, was nearer to us, and
probably got our wind; for they at once
turned sharply to their right and increased
their pace. The other herd moved on undisturbed.
I halted the caravan, told the men
to sit down and went forward to meet the elephants,
with my servant and two gun-bearers.
I carried a .577, my servant carried the old
12-bore by Lang, his cartridges crammed to
the muzzle with powder. We were careful
to avoid giving the elephants our wind, so we
advanced parallel to them, but in a direction
opposite to that in which they were going. As
they passed us we crouched, and they seemed
unconscious of our presence. They went about
400 yards past us, and then halted at right
angles to the route they had been pursuing.
There were five elephants in this herd—four
large, and one small one, bringing up the rear.
Some 60 yards on their right flank was a small
skeleton bush, and, making a slight detour, we
directed our course toward that. The leading
animal was the largest, so I decided to devote
our attention to that one. I told George to
fire at the leg and I would try for the heart.
We fired simultaneously, George missing and
my shot taking effect altogether too high.

Two things resulted from the discharge of
our rifles: the gun-bearers bolted with their
weapons and the elephants charged toward us
in line of battle. As far as I can calculate, an
elephant at full speed moves 100 yards in
about ten seconds, so my readers can judge
how much time elapsed before the elephants
were upon us. We fired again. My shot did
no execution, but George, who had remained
in a kneeling position, broke the off foreleg of
the leading animal at the knee. It fell, and
the others at once stopped. We then made
off, and watched from a little distance a most
interesting sight.

The condition of the wounded elephant
seemed to be known to the others, for they
crowded about her and apparently offered her
assistance. She placed her trunk on the back
of one standing in front of her and raised herself
to her feet, assisted by those standing
around. They actually moved her for some
distance, but soon got tired of their kindly
efforts. We fired several shots at them, which
only had the effect of making two of the band
charge in our direction and then return to
their stricken comrade. Cover there was none,
and with our bad marksmanship it would have
been (to say the least) brutal to blaze away
at the gallant little herd. Besides, cries of
"water!" "water!" were heard coming from my
thirsty caravan. So there was nothing for it
but to leave the elephant, take the people to
water, if we could find it, and then return and
put the wounded animal out of its misery.

An hour and a half later we reached water,
beautiful and clear, welling up from the side
of a small hill. This is called Masimani. On
reaching the water, all signs of discontent
among my people vanished, and those among
them who were not Mahomedans, and therefore
had no scruples about eating elephant
meat, raised a cheerful cry of tembo tamu—elephant
is sweet. I did not need a second
hint, but returned, and, finding the poor elephant
deserted by its companions, put it out of
its misery. It was a cow with a fine pair of
tusks. The sun was setting, and my men,
knowing that activity was the only means of
saving their beloved elephant meat from
hyenas, attacked the body with fury—some
with axes, others with knives and one or two
with sword bayonets. It was a terrible sight,
and I was glad to leave them at it and return
to camp, well satisfied with my day's work.

From Masimani, for the next four days, the
road had never been trodden by even an Arab
caravan. I had no idea of the whereabouts
of water, nor had my men; but, having made a
success of the first day's march, the men followed
me cheerfully, believing me possessed
of magic power and certain to lead them over
a well-watered path. A kind providence did
actually bring us to water each night. The
country was so dry that it was absolutely
deserted by the inhabitants, the Masai, and
great was the surprise of the Kibonoto people
when we reached there on the fourth day.
They thought that we had dropped from the
clouds, and said there could not have been
any water over the road we had just come.
These Kibonoto people had never been visited
by an European, but received us kindly. The
people of Kibonoto are the westernmost inhabitants
on the slopes of Kilimanjaro.

From there to Taveta our road was an easy
one, lying through friendly peoples. After a
brief rest at Taveta, I returned to the coast,
reaching Zanzibar a little over six months
after I had set out from it.

Perhaps a word about the climate of the
part of the country through which I passed
will not be amiss. Both my servant and myself
suffered from fever, but not to any serious
extent. If a sedentary life is avoided—and
this is an easy matter while on a journey—if
one avoids morning dews and evening damps,
and protects his head and the back of his neck
from the sun, I do not think the climate of
East Africa would be hurtful to any ordinarily
healthy person. For my part, I do not think
either my servant or myself have suffered any
permanent ill effects from our venture; and
yet the ages of twenty-one and seventeen are
not those best suited for travels in the tropics.

W. A. Chanler.

A MOUNTAIN SHEEP.

To the Gulf of Cortez

About a year ago, my brother, who is a
very sagacious physician, advised me to take
the fresh liver of a mountain sheep for certain
nervous symptoms which were troublesome.
None of the local druggists could fill the prescription,
and so it was decided that I should
seek the materials in person. With me went
my friend J. B., the pearl of companions, and
we began the campaign by outfitting at San
Diego, with a view to exploring the resources
of the sister republic in the peninsula of
Lower California. Lower California is very
different from Southern California. The latter
is—well, a paradise, or something of that
kind, if you believe the inhabitants, of whom
I am an humble fraction. The former is what
you may please to think.

At San Diego we got a man, a wagon, four
mules and the needed provisions and kitchen—all
hired at reasonable rates, except the
provisions and kitchen, which we bought.
Then we tried to get a decent map, but
were foiled. The Mexican explorer will find
the maps of that country a source of curious
interest. Many of them are large and elaborately
mounted on cloth, spreading to a great
distance when unfolded. The political divisions
are marked with a tropical profusion of
bright colors, which is very fit. A similar
sense of fitness and beauty leads the designer
to insert mountain ranges, rivers and towns
where they best please the eye, and I have
had occasion to consult a map which showed
purely ideal rivers flowing across a region
where nature had put the divide of the highest
range in the State.

My furniture contained a hundred cartridges,
a belt I always carry, given by a friend, with a
bear's head on the buckle (a belt which has
held, before I got it, more fatal bullets than
any other west of the Rockies), and my usual
rifle. J. B. prepared himself in a similar way,
except the belt.

Starting south from San Diego, we crossed
the line at Tia Juana, and spent an unhappy
day waiting on the custom house officials.
They, however, did their duty in a courteous
manner, and we, with a bundle of stamped
papers, went on. The only duties we paid
were those levied on our provisions. The
team and wagon were entered free under a
prospector's license for thirty days, and an
obliging stableman signed the necessary bond.

The main difficulty in traveling in Lower
California lies in the fact that you can get
no feed for your animals. From Tia Juana
east to Tecate, where you find half a dozen
hovels, there is hardly a house and not a
spear of grass for thirty miles. At Tecate
there is a little nibbling. Thence south for
twenty-five miles we went to the Agua Hechicera,
or witching water; thence east twenty-five
miles more to Juarez, always without
grass; thence south to the ranch house of the
Hansen ranch, at El Rayo, twenty-five miles
more. There, at last, was a little grass, but
after passing that point we camped at Agua
Blanca, and were again without grass for
thirty miles to the Trinidad Valley, which
once had a little grass, now eaten clean.
Fortunately we were able to buy hay at
Tia Juana, and took some grain. Fortunately,
also, we found some corn for sale at
Juarez. So, with constant graining, a little
hay and a supply of grass, either absent or
contemptible, we managed to pull the stock
through.

Besides our four hired mules there was another,
belonging to our man, Oscar, which we
towed behind to pack later. The animal was
small in size, but pulled back from 200 pounds
to a ton at every step. Its sex was female, but
its name was Lazarus, for the overwhelming
necessity of naming animals of the ass tribe
either Lazarus or Balaam tramples on all distinctions
of mere sex. We started, prepared
for a possible, though improbable, season of
rain; but we did not count on extreme cold,
yet the first night out the water in our bucket
froze, and almost every night it froze from a
mere skin to several inches thick. To give an
idea of the country, I will transcribe from a
brief diary a few descriptions. Starting from
Tia Juana, we drove or packed for nearly 200
miles in a southeasterly direction, until we
finally sighted the Gulf and the mountains of
Sonora in the distance. At first our road lay
through low mountains, in valleys abounding
in cholla cactus. From Tecate southward,
the country was rolling and clotted with
brushwood, until you reach Juarez. Juarez
is an abandoned, or almost abandoned, placer
camp. Here, amid the countless pits of the
miners, the piñons begin, and then, after a
short distance, the pine barrens stretch for
forty miles. Beyond again you pass into hills
of low brush, and plains covered with sage and
buckweed, until finally you cross a divide into
the broad basin of the Trinidad Valley. This
is a depression some twenty miles long and
perhaps five miles wide on the average, with a
hot spring and a house at the southwestern
end, walled on the southeast by the grim
frowning rampart of the San Pedro Martir
range, and on the other sides by mountains of
lesser height, but equal desolation.

We had intended at first to strike for the
Cocopah range, near the mouth of the Colorado
River, and there do our hunting. Several
reasons induced us to change our plan and
make for the Hansen ranch, where deer were
said to be plenty and sheep not distant; so we
turned from Tecate southward, made one dry
camp and one camp near Juarez, and on the
fifth day of our journeying reached a long
meadow, called the Bajio Largo, on the Hansen
ranch. We turned from the road and followed
the narrow park-like opening for four
miles, camping in high pines, with water near,
and enough remnants of grass to amuse the
animals. This region of pine barrens occurs
at quite an elevation, and the nights were
cold. The granite core of the country crops
out all along in low broken hills, the intervening
mesas consisting of granite sand and
gravel, and bearing beside the pines a good
deal of brush. Thickets of manzanita twisted
their blood-colored trunks over the ground,
and the tawny stems of the red-shank covered
the country for miles. The red-shank is a lovely
shrub, growing about six or eight feet high,
with broom-like foliage of a yellowish green,
possessing great fragrance. If you simply
smell the uncrushed shoots, they give a faint
perfume, somewhat suggestive of violets; and
if you crush the leaves you get a more pungent
odor, sweet and a little smoky. Also,
the gnarled roots of the red-shank make an
excellent cooking fire, if you can wait a few
hours to have them burn to coals. All things
considered, the pine barren country is very
attractive, and if there were grass, water and
game, it would be a fine place for a hunter.

From our camp at Bajio Largo, J. B. and I
went hunting for deer, which were said to be
plentiful. We hunted from early morning till
noon, seeing only one little fellow, about the
size of a jack rabbit, scuttle off in the brush.
Then we decided to go home. This, however,
turned out to be a large business. The lofty
trees prevented our getting any extended
view, and the stony gulches resembled each
other to an annoying degree. At last even
the water seemed to flow the wrong way. So
we gave up the attempt to identify landmarks,
and, following our sense of direction and taking
our course from the sun, we finally came again
to the long meadow, and, traveling down that,
we came to camp. Here we violated all rules
by shooting at a mark—our excuse was that
we had decided to leave the vicinity without
further hunting; and, at all events, we spoiled
a sardine box, to Oscar's great admiration.

In order to get a fair day's journey out of a
fair day, we had to rise at 4 or 5 o'clock.
Oscar once or twice borrowed my watch to
wake by, but the result was only that I had to
borrow J. B.'s watch to wake Oscar by; so I
afterwards retained the timepiece, and got up
early enough to start Oscar well on his duties.

The question of fresh meat had now become
important. We left Bajio Largo and drove to
Hansen's Laguna, a shallow pond over a mile
long, much haunted by ducks. Here we made
a bad mistake, driving six or eight miles into
the mountains, only to reach nowhere and be
forced to retrace our steps. Night, however,
found us at El Rayo, the Hansen ranch house,
and, as it turned out, the real base of our
hunting campaign. The Hansen ranch is an
extensive tract, named after an old Swede, who
brought a few cattle into the country years
ago. The cattle multiplied exceedingly, to the
number, indeed, of several thousand, and can
be seen at long range by the passer-by. They
are very wild and gaunt at present, and will
prance off among the rocks at a surprising
rate before a man can get within 200 yards of
them. Ex-Governor Ryerson now owns these
cattle, and his major-domo, Don Manuel Murillo,
a fine gray-haired veteran, learning that I
had known the Governor, gave me much
friendly advice, and sent his son to guide us
well on the road to the Trinidad Valley and
the sheep land. He also provided us with
potatoes and fresh meat, so that we lived
fatly thenceforth.

Our track lay past an abandoned saw-mill,
built by the International Company. Thence
we were to go to Agua Blanca, the last water
to be had on the road; for the next thirty
miles are dry. The saw-mill was built to
supply timber to the mining town of Alamo,
some twenty-five miles south. The camp is
now in an expiring state and needs no timber,
but is said to shelter some rough and violent
men. The road from the mill was deep
in sand, and our pace was slow. The darkness
was coming cold and fast when we finally
drove on to the water and halted to camp.

Two men were there before us, with a saddle-horse
each, and no other apparent equipment.
When we arrived, the men were watering
their animals, and at once turned their
backs, so as not to be recognized. Then they
retired to the brush. We supped and staked
out the mules, and then sent Oscar to look up
our neighbors. Oscar went and shouted, but
got no answer, and could find no men. We
thought that our mules were in some danger,
and J. B., who is a yachtsman, proposed to
keep anchor watch. So Oscar remained awake
till midnight, when he awoke me and retired
freezing, saying that he had seen the enemy
prowling around. I took my gun and visited
the mules in rotation till 2:30. Then J. B.
awoke, chattering with cold, but determined,
and kept faithful guard until 5, when we began
our day with a water-bucket frozen solid.

All our property remained safe, and a distant
fire twinkling in the brush showed that
our neighbors were still there. After breakfast
Oscar again sought the hostile camp, and
finally found a scared and innocent Frenchman,
who cried out, on recognizing his visitor:

"Holy Mary! I took you for American
robbers from the line, and I have lain awake
all night, watching my horses."

From Agua Blanca we drove across the
Santa Catarina ranch, for the most part plain
and mesa, covered with greasewood and buckbrush.
This latter shrub looks much like sage,
except that its leaves are of a yellow-green
instead of a blue-green. It is said to furnish
the chief nutrition for stock on several great
ranches. Certainly there was no visible grass,
but buckbrush can hardly be fattening. Toward
night, we crossed the pass into the Trinidad
Valley and drove down a grade not steep
only, but sidelong, where the wagons both
went tobogganing down and slid rapidly toward
the gulch. The mules held well, however,
and before dark we were camped near
the hot spring at the house of Alvarez.

Our friend, Don Manuel Murillo, had recommended
us both to Alvarez and to his sister,
Señora Paula, but both of these were absent.
Don Manuel had also urged us to get the
Indian Anastasio for a guide.

"For heaven's sake," he said, "don't venture
without a guide. You may perish from thirst,
as others have done before you."

We tried at first to hire burros and let our
mules rest, but the Indian who owned the
burros stated that his terms were "one burro,
one day, one dollar"—an impudent attempt at
robbery, which we resented.

We interviewed Anastasio, however, who
said he would start at any moment; and, leaving
Oscar to guard the wagon, we packed two
mules, saddled two more for J. B. and myself,
and, giving Anastasio the tow-rope of a pack-mule,
we started after him. Anastasio was
the most interesting figure of the trip, and I
must be pardoned if I go into some detail
about him. He spoke some Spanish and
understood a good deal. When he did not
understand, he never stated that fact, but
either assumed a stony look or answered at
cross-purposes; so that we did not get to know
a great deal about each other for some time.

He had, too, a lingering remnant of the
distrust of horses and mules that his ancestors
must have felt in Spanish times, and when
his pack-mule got a stone in her hoof, he
observed it with anxiety from a distance, but
could not summon resolution to meddle with
so serious a matter.

Moreover his measure of distance was primitive.
I would ask, for instance, how many
miles it was to our next stop. He might say
three miles for an all-day journey of six times
that length, or he might tell you that we were
nine miles from a spot which we reached in
half an hour.

I then substituted leagues for miles, thinking
that the Mexican usage would be more
familiar to him; but at last Anastasio said,
rather impatiently, that all this business of
leagues and miles was rather confusing and
outside of his experience. We would reach
the next water shortly before sunset, and that
was all the calculation he was accustomed to,
and quite close enough.

Aside from his knowledge of Spanish, Anastasio
was indeed a fine representative of the
best of the stone age, and as we journeyed on,
one got an excellent idea of the life of the savage
here in early times. About 3 o'clock in
the afternoon, we reached the only water spot
on the trail. Anastasio parted some withered
reeds, and, looking earnestly, said, "Dry." A
short distance further up, he repeated the
word, and yet again, till, at his fourth attempt,
he said, "Very little," and we camped. By
scraping away the mud and grass, we got a
small gravelly hole, and dipped out the slowly
seeping water, a cup at a time. We thus
managed to give each of the mules a little in
a pan, and to get a canteen full for cooking.

Then I noticed Anastasio gathering wood,
which I thought at first was for general use,
but I found it was a private pile, to be used, so
to speak, for bedding. Anastasio did not take
the ax to secure his wood, but smashed off
mesquite branches with a rock or pulled out
some old root. He quite despised piñon and
juniper logs, saying they gave no heat—meaning,
probably, that they burned out too soon.

We turned in soon after supper, and the
night was cold. Anastasio said he feared
snow. The reason for his fear was soon evident.
My bed was about twenty feet from
Anastasio's, and during the night I would turn
and watch him. He carried but one small
blanket of about the texture of a gunny sack.
He lighted a long smouldering fire, stripped
himself naked, except a breech-clout, and, with
his back to the coals and his front protected
by his gauzy blanket, he slept until the cold
roused him, when he put on more wood and
slept again. I offered him four pairs of warm
horse blankets to sleep in, but that was not
the thing. He said that he needed to have
the fire strike him in the small of the back,
and that he slept in that way always. So
throughout the night, in my wakeful moments,
I saw the light reflected from his mahogany
person. Evidently snow or cold rain would be
disastrous to people who need a fire all night;
for, with no covering against the cold and with
fires extinguished by storm, they might easily
freeze to death.

We were packed and marching at 7:30 next
morning, and to those who know the inwardness
of packing in winter, that statement means
a good deal. It means, for instance, that J. B.
got up, at my summons, long before dawn and
cooked a splendid breakfast, and that the
mules were caught and grained and saddled,
and the packs made and lashed, by the earliest
sun.

J. B. was a wonder. He seemed to enjoy
giving his fellow mortals the best breakfasts
and suppers—for we never had any midday
meals—that our supplies could furnish. Always
rising at the first call, in the dark, sometimes
with an accompaniment of snow or rain,
he managed the commissariat to perfection.

I in my humble way packed and saddled
and did other necessary work, and Anastasio
regarded us with benevolent curiosity, though
always ready to get wood or water or mules
when we asked him to do so.

We were now approaching the true desert.
This term is not restricted to the broad level
sand wastes along the Gulf, but includes the
arid and waterless mountains adjacent, and
this must be borne in mind when the Mexicans
tell you that sheep are to be found in
the desert.

We passed the last of the brushy hills, and,
crossing a small divide, came over slopes of
volcanic cinders to a little water spot with
dwarf willows and grass. This was our hunting
camp. The country through which our
route had lain heretofore was altogether granitic,
though one could see hills apparently of
stratified material in the distance. Toward
the desert, we met beds of conglomerate and
trachyte, and mountains covered with slide-rock,
ringing flint-like clinkers from some
great volcanic furnace. But doubtless some
accurate and industrious German has described
all this, in a work on the geology of
the peninsula, and to that valuable treatise
I will refer you for further facts.

The vegetation had somewhat changed.
There were more cactuses, particularly the
fleshy kind called venaga, though I noticed
with surprise the absence of the great fruit-bearing
cactuses, the saguarro and pitaya, all
along our route. The Spanish daggers were
very numerous, as were also mescal plants,
both of these forming veritable thickets in
places.

The venaga cactus is similar to the bisnaga,
found in other parts of Mexico, except
in the disposition and curvature of the thorns.
They are stumpy plants, growing from a foot
to three feet or so in height, and a foot or
more in diameter, like a thickset post. Those
of us who delighted in Mayne Reid's "Boy
Hunters" will remember how the adventurous
young men saved themselves from dying of
thirst by laying open these succulent cactuses
with their long hunting knives and drinking
the abundant juices. I have often and faithfully
tried to perform the same feat, out of
reverence for my heroes, but failed to find
anything juicier than, say, a raw turnip—by no
means satisfying as a drink. The venagas are
found on the mountains where sheep haunt,
with their hard prickly rinds broken and the
interior hollowed out, and Anastasio said that
the sheep do this by knocking holes in the
cactus with their horns and then eating the
inside.

This cactus country makes the third variety
of wilderness encountered in the peninsula.
There are four: first, and best, the pine
barrens; second, the brushy hills and plains,
covered with sage, greasewood and buckweed;
third, this spike-bearing volcanic region; and
fourth, the appalling desolation of the acknowledged
desert.

The moment we had unloaded and watered
our animals, Anastasio and I set out to look
for deer. Anastasio wore the spotted and tattered
remnant of a frock-coat, once green,
given him by an Englishman, of whom I shall
say more later. He had guarachis, or sandals,
on his feet, bare legs, a breech-clout, and on
his head a reddish bandanna handkerchief in
the last stages of decay; and as he peered
over some rock, glaring long and earnestly in
search of game, he reminded one of those lean
and wolfish Apaches that Remington draws in
a way so dramatic and so full of grim significance.

Anastasio was fifty-one years old and had
no upper incisors, but the way he flung his
gaunt leathern shanks over those mountains
of volcanic clinkers, armed with the poisoned
bayonets of myriads of mescal, cactus and
Spanish dagger, was astonishing.

I told him that I was not racing and that he
would scare the game. In fact, he did start
one little fellow, but he said he always saw
the game first, and for this day I was quite
powerless to hold him in; so I decided to
return to camp before dark. This disgusted
Anastasio greatly. "In this way we shall
never kill," said he. "We are going to suffer
from hunger." I assured him that we had
plentiful supplies, but he had come for meat.
Unbounded meat had been the chief incentive
for his trip, and hungry he was determined
to be.

The next day J. B. set out early with the
red man. I arranged camp, and two or three
hours later took what I supposed was a different
direction, but soon encountered the pair
returning. J. B. had a painful knee, and Anastasio
had started his racing tactics and kept
them up until J. B. was quite lame.

The Indian reported that he had seen sheep.
J. B. had used the glass without finding them,
and then Anastasio had captured it and looked
through the wrong end, nodding and saying
he could count five, very big. This, I am
sorry to say, was false and affected on Anastasio's
part, and J. B. was skeptical about the
sheep altogether; but I knew how hard it was
to find distant game, when you don't know
exactly how it should appear. To reach the
supposed sheep, the mountain must be climbed
and the crest turned, for the wind permitted
no other course. J. B. did not feel up to the
task, and I directed him to camp. Anastasio
and I climbed for about four hours, and reached
a position whence his sheep would be visible.
He was now discontented because J. B. had
not lent him his gun. No request had been
made for the gun, to be sure, but I confess
that a request would have met with my earnest
opposition in any event. Evidently Anastasio's
expectations of fresh meat were now so
dim as to cast serious shadows on my skill as a
hunter; but, resigning himself to the inevitable,
he crawled to the summit of the ridge for
a view. He stared long and said he could
make out one ewe lying down under a juniper.
I tried the glass. He was right. His unaided
sight seemed about equal in definition to my
field-glass. On this occasion he declined to
use the glass, even with some appearance of
disgust. We could get no nearer unseen, and,
though the distance was very great, I decided
to risk a shot.

I fired, in fact, two or three shots at the
ewe, alarming her greatly, when from beneath
a cliff which lay below us a band streamed out.
Two big rams started off to the right. Anastasio
and I ran down a bit, and I tried a long
shot at the leading ram. The distance was
great, and the run had pumped me a little. I
missed. The second ram was still larger. He
stopped a moment at 150 yards and I dropped
him. Anastasio grunted satisfaction. I swung
to the left, where the rest of the band was
journeying, sighted at the shoulder of a young
ram and fired. The ball passed through my
intended victim, dropping him, and entered
the eye of a yearling ram who stood behind,
thus killing two rams at one shot—a most
unusual accident.

ROCKY MOUNTAIN AND POLO'S SHEEP, DRAWN TO SAME SCALE.

The rest of the band were now quite distant,
and, though I fired several shots, at Anastasio's
desire—he said he wanted a fat ewe—none
took effect.

I cleaned the sheep and skinned out the big
head. Anastasio took one small ram entire
on his back, supporting it by a rope passed
over the top of his head, and started down
with it, while I followed after with the big
horns. It was 1 o'clock. The head might
have weighed thirty-five pounds fresh. It
grew to weigh 1,500 pounds before dark.
Stumbling down through the slide-rock, with
legs full of venomous prickers, I passed below
camp without noticing it, and was well on the
other side, when I thought I had gone about
far enough, and shouted. J. B.'s voice answered
across a small hill, and I discovered
that he had never reached camp at all, but
had found a water spot, and wisely decided
not to leave it without good reason.

I scouted a bit to the west, but found unfamiliar
country, and, as the sun had set, we
were seemingly about to stay by that water all
night, when I turned around and saw a pale
column of smoke rising above the crest of the
ridge against the evening sky.

At once we marched around the ridge, and,
as we rose over the divide, we saw the whole
hillside flaming with signal fires. Our dear
old Anastasio had become alarmed and set fire
to fifteen or twenty dead mescals in different
places to guide us home. God bless a good
Indian!

With vast content we prepared and ate a
luxurious supper. Anastasio, however, fearing
that he might be hungry in the night, impaled
all the ribs of one side of the ram on a
pole and planted it in a slanting position over
the fire. Thus he was enabled to put in his
time during his wakeful moments, and face
the prospect of a remote breakfast without
discouragement.

The next day, I spent the morning in washing,
resting, and cutting spikes out of my legs.
Anastasio packed in the second small ram,
and ate ribs and slept. Then, in the afternoon,
we got the rest of the big fellow down.
Anastasio, to make his load lighter, smashed off
the shanks with a stone, although he carried
a knife in his belt—a striking trick of heredity.

And then we talked. "The Trinidad Valley
is not my country," said Anastasio; "this
is my country. Yonder, under that red rock
on the mountain side, about five miles away,
there is a spring in the gulch on the edge of
the desert. I was born there, and lived there
twenty years with my father's family. Here
where your camp is"—about twenty feet square
of slide-rock level enough to stand on—"we
sowed crops. We scraped a hole between
the stones with our hands, put in squash
seeds, watered them by carrying water from
the spring in our hands and raised several
hills."

So he went on, not in so connected a way,
but showing, bit by bit, his manner of life.
His tribe, which he called the Kil-ee-ou, must
have been very restricted in numbers at best.
His territory was a few leagues of desert, or
almost desert, mountains, every yard of which
he knew by heart, while just over the ridge
dwelt the Cocopahs, his mortal enemies.
Sometimes a score of men armed with bows
would start a tribal hunt for deer, though the
sheep were beyond their means of attack.
Sometimes they journeyed a few leagues to
the Gulf to eat mussels. We could see the
great blue sheet and the leagues of salt incrustations
glimmering white on the hither
side, and at one spot on the horizon the blue
peak of some Sonora mountain rose out of the
seeming ocean.

But a few deer and mussels and a half dozen
hills of squashes could not fill the abyss of the
Indian appetite. The stand-by was roasted
mescal. These plants grow in great numbers
in the country adjoining the desert, and at
every season there are some just right for
roasting. The Indians selected these and
cooked them for two or three days in a hole
in the ground, by a process called tatema,
similar in principle to a clam-bake. This
roasting converts the starchy leaves and
heart into a sugary mass, so that the resulting
food is something like a sweet fibrous
beet. The Indian's life really lay in gathering
and roasting mescal. And when a storm
prevented the necessary fires, the tribe passed
days, often many days, without food.

So much for Anastasio's early life. A year
ago, he told us, he went hunting with two
Americans. One of them came from under
the earth, where there were six months of
night, and had passed two seas and been a
month on the train. We supposed, from this,
that Anastasio had served as guide to an
Englishman, whose home he described at the
Antipodes. The six months of night were,
perhaps, represented by the London fogs, and,
if he passed a month on the train, he must
have come by the Southern Pacific. The
Englishman had presented Anastasio with the
very undesirable gaberdine I have before described.
Anastasio said that the Englishman
shot quail in the head every time with his
rifle, but on meeting a band of eleven sheep
he fired nine shots without hitting. Anastasio
said he trembled, but I incline to think
that the Indian had run him out of breath.
Finally the Englishman secured two ewes and
a lamb, after three weeks of hunting.

Look at my fortune! A single day on the
mountain, and three rams to show for it; one
with horns that are an abiding splendor—sixteen
inches around the base and forty-two
inches on the outer sweep.

I thought at first that the horns made more
than one complete spiral, but, on leveling them
carefully, I saw that the entire curve would not
be complete without the points, which were
smashed off. In this connection it is only fair
to consider that I carried my lucky bear's head
belt, and invariably sacrificed to the Sun, as
several ragged garments, hung on spikes and
branches, may still testify.

The weather threatened storm. J. B.'s leg
would not permit him to hunt. Anastasio
was full of meat, eating roasted ribs night and
day, beside his regular meals, and we decided
to retreat.

I noticed that the sheep hides had little of
the under wool that the Northern sheep have
in December, nor were the animals fat, though
the flesh was sweet and tender, and the livers
had their desired medicinal effect.

Anastasio said it was customary to hunt in
summer, when the sheep were fat, and were
compelled to resort to the water holes. Aside
from the meanness of taking advantage of the
animals' necessities, the summer is a bad season
for hunting, both because the flesh is rank
and spoils quickly, and the heat and insects
are intolerable.

We packed our mules in a gentle rain, and
Anastasio made a great bundle of rejected
meat for his own use. To get rope, he slightly
roasted the leaves of the Spanish dagger, tore
the hot spikes in shreds with his tough fingers
and knotted the fragments into a strong, pliable
cord.

In two days we were again in the Trinidad
Valley, and in two days more—one of them
passed in facing a cold, driving storm, of great
violence—we had reached our old friend, Don
Manuel Murillo, at El Rayo. Here we lay
over a day to rest the animals, and Don
Manuel again played the part of a good angel
in letting us have some hay.

I tried a shot at a duck on a little pond.
The shot was a costly success. The duck
died, but I had to wade for his remains
through many yards of frozen mud and dirty
water. The duck, though lean, was tender.
My last hunt was for deer at El Rayo, with
a boy of Don Manuel's for guide. Toward
noon I saw two deer and shot them. I do not
at present know just how to class them. The
tail is that of the ordinary mule-deer, or blacktail,
of Colorado and Montana, but there is no
white patch on the rump.

The most of the deer in Lower, as well as
in Southern, California have little white on
their rumps, as in these specimens, but the
upper surface of the tail is generally dark.
The majority of the animals also are smaller
than the typical mule-deer of our Northern
States, but whether the differences between
the two are great enough and constant enough
to form a defined variety, some more competent
naturalist must decide. Pending authoritative
decision, I will submit, as a working
theory of a purely amateur kind, this suggestion:
that the Mexicans are right in saying
that the northern zone of their country contains
two varieties of deer—one a large animal,
called "buro," identical with our Northern
mule-deer; the other called "venado," a
mule-deer too, but only a cousin of the "buro,"
much smaller, and with the white parts of the
mask, throat, rump and tail either absent or
much diminished in extent.

Our journey home was accomplished in the
worst weather. Snow, cold rain, gales of surprising
fury, made life a struggle; but we
jumped at every chance for progress, and
finally crossed the line twenty-five days after
we had left it—tired, ragged, dirty, but with
our mules alive and our hearts contented.

Our experience of the peninsula indicated
that there were few inhabitants of any kind,
brute or human. We saw hardly a dozen rabbits
on the trip. There were some quail and
many ducks, but the latter were visitors only.
Deer were very scarce, and there were but a
few half-wild cattle visible.

As for human beings, there was not an inhabited
house on our road from Alvarez Place,
in the Trinidad Valley, to El Rayo, a distance
of fifty-five miles; nor from El Rayo to Juarez,
twenty-five miles more. Indeed, except for the
few hovels at Tecate, the houses for the rest
of the way were hardly more numerous. And
yet we had a strong impression that the country
had nearly all the population it could support.
Given a moderately dry year, and the
part of Lower California which we visited can
be thought fit only for bogus land companies
and goose-egg mines; or, yes, it might be an
ideal spot for a health resort or a penal
colony.

George H. Gould.

A Canadian Moose Hunt

In October, 1893, I made an extended trip
with my brother into the country around the
head waters of the Ottawa. Our original plan, to
push northward toward the "Height of Land"
after caribou, was frustrated by high winds,
which made travel on the large lakes slow and
dangerous. The crossing of a ten-mile lake,
which could be accomplished in a morning if
calm, would consume several days with a high
wind blowing, necessitating a tedious coasting
on the windward shore. After much delay
from this cause and from heavy rains, which
made hunting difficult in the extreme, we at
length abandoned the hope of caribou on this
trip, and turned southward from Birch Lake
into Lake Kwingwishe—the Indian name for
meat bird. This was about the northern limit
of moose, although a few are found beyond it.

Our repeated failures to see this great deer
would not form interesting reading, although,
if recorded, they would, no doubt, bring to the
mind of many a moose hunter memories of
times when the hunt was hard and the result—a
blank. It is my purpose in this article to
merely sketch one or two instances of this
sort, which, in contrast to days of unrewarded
watching, were red-lettered with excitement.
I only give the episodes because too often we
relate our victories alone, and missed shots
and barren tramps are consigned to ill-merited
oblivion, however real they were.

A MOOSE OF THE UPPER OTTAWA.

After hunting the country around Lake
Kwingwishe, we at length camped on a small
pond near the east shore. Here we watched
and called every night and morning; then we
visited neighboring swamps and ponds, carrying
a canoe through the forest by compass.
It was always the same—wet and hungry,
tired out with tramping through tamarack
swamps, we would call half the night, sometimes
startled with false alarms from hoot owl
or loon, and then lie down in a rain-soaked
tent without a fire, for smoke always scares a
moose. The first streaks of dawn came, and
again we were up and anxiously watching the
shore for the appearance of the monster we
were after. There were his tracks a few hours
old but we could never catch him making
them. It was too early in the season to trail
them down, as the bulls were traveling continuously
in impenetrable swamps, and our
best chance was to run across them on the
waterways.

One morning, on a pond we had named
"Little Trout Pond," because it looked as
though it should have trout in it, but did not;
we awoke, after some specially exhausting
and disappointing "back pond" expeditions,
and found Chabot, one of our two Indian
guides, gone. Late in the afternoon he returned.
He had been seeing the country, and
had found a swamp about three miles off full
of fresh tracks, "so big moose," and he described
tracks such as must have belonged to
the Irish elk. Soon after sunrise on the following
day we were there. Cold lunch, no
dinner and lots of beautiful fresh tracks, one
the largest I ever saw.

We watched motionless all day, saw the sun
cross the zenith and sink out of sight, saw
the twilight fade away and the moon come
up. About midnight we went back to camp,
through the woods. Night travel in a forest
that you can scarcely get through in the daytime
is beyond description.

"So good swamp," said Chabot sadly that
night as he crawled into his tent.

The next day we pitched a rough camp on
a hogback between two barren plains, about
five miles from our main camp. It rained hard
as soon as we got the tent up, and we watched
a runway at the foot of the hill until dark and
then turned in.

The next morning it rained so heavily that
we lay in our tent, four of us, until about 11
A. M., when it slacked up a little. My diary
says, "No fire and little breakfast." Before
this "little breakfast" was finished we heard a
moose call close by. Seizing our rifles, we
started with Chabot to stalk him. The brevity
of a diary is sometimes eloquent. Mine says,
"Walked from 12 M. to 4.30 P. M. through the
bush. Didn't hear that moose again."

The latter hour found us back in camp to
get breakfast, when our other guide, Jocko,
who had gone to the main camp for food,
came back in great excitement, having found
some fresh signs close at hand. Breakfast
was dropped and again we started. We got
back just after dark from that trip and ate—for
the first time that day—some cold partridge
and pork.

This was a fair sample of our hunting day,
but did not equal the following one. It rained
all that night, and the tent, not having been
properly stretched, leaked. We were awakened
by the crackling of a fire the guides had made.
It was direct disobedience of orders, and contrary
to the most elementary rules of moose
hunting; but, cold and faint for want of food,
we yielded to the innate perversity of the Indian.
We made a wild-eyed, starved group,
warming our fingers around the little blaze as
it snapped up through the still, wet morning
air. The teapot was just beginning to boil,
the pork was just sizzling, when we sprang to
our feet. A crash of antlers, as though two
bulls were fighting, sounded not a hundred
yards away. The noise was perfectly clear,
having a metallic ring to it, and was caused
by moose horns striking a hard substance.

Again. Without a word, we seized our rifles,
and left our breakfast and fire, and I never
saw that spot afterward. Again came the
sound, still distinct, but further off, this time
like a birch canoe dragged through alders.
The animal had been on the runway which
crossed at the foot of the hill we were camped
on when he scented the fresh-lit fire. Well, to
make a long story short, we followed that trail
three weary hours of running and creeping
through frightful swamps and thickets, hearing
every few minutes the sound just ahead of us,
but with never a sight of the game. His
huge tracks, which we crossed now and again,
showed he was not even trotting. Nearly
exhausted, we kept following the sound directly,
and so cutting across and gaining on
him. Once he seemed just ahead, and we
expected to see him each second; but we had
to pay for the luxury of that fire, as for other
good things in life, so we never saw a hair of
him. When, at last, completely used up, we
burst out on a lake and saw the muddy tracks
and the water still "riled up" where he had
crossed, Jocko swore he heard him crash up
the opposite bank; but we were at the end
of our strength and could go no further. A
man must eat sometimes, even on a moose
hunt.

Now comes the really tragical part of this
episode; our canoe was not twenty feet from
where this perverse animal had entered the
water, and we were on the little pond where
our permanent camp stood. Still we felt encouraged,
for, as Chabot said that night,
"Hear him now, see him pretty soon." But
not for many days.

One more sample to encourage would-be
moose hunters, and then we will kill a moose
just to show how easy it is. Two nights after
the above adventure we changed our camp
and the weather at the same time. It was
clear now, but it grew very cold, and made
night work in the canoe a horror.

It was my brother's turn to call, and I was
just dropping off to sleep in my tent, within a
few feet of the lake shore, when from the other
side of the water, about a quarter of a mile
distant, a bull moose called. On the cold,
still air it rang out like a trumpet—a long
call, very different from the call made by
Indian hunters. Jocko, who was with me in
camp, was frantic with excitement, especially
as my brother, who must have heard it, did
not answer. Again the call sounded. The
bull must be on the shore. I thought he
might swim over. Then came the answering
call, close at hand, of a cow. Jocko laughed
and whispered, "Chabot call him." Then
there was silence for a few minutes, followed
by a final bellow, evidently further off. The
mock cow bawled and screamed and bleated
frantically, but no sound came back. My
brother and his man kept it up until late that
night, and then came to the camp almost
frozen. That incident ruined my faith in calling,
for every condition of wind and weather
was perfect, and Chabot's calling apparently
most enticing.

After this and similar episodes, we left the
Kwingwishe country, after hunting it carefully
as far north as Sassanega Lake. We passed
Sair's Lake and the Bois Franc, and finally
reached the Little Beauchene. Near the last
lake my brother killed a young bull moose,
whose meat was the first fresh food, except
partridge, we had had for over three weeks.
It was delicious, and we felt the change of
diet at once in increased strength and energy.
For continuous use moose meat is much
superior to other venison, as it is of a rich
flavor which does not readily pall on the taste.
The myth about moose muffle being such a
hunters' delicacy has never allured me to
actually eat it, but I suppose a starving man
might, after consuming his boots, manage to
swallow it.

There were many fresh signs in the neighborhood
of the Little Beauchene Lake, but
some lumbermen had arrived a few days
before us and had scared the game away.
This starting the quarry is the real difficulty
in moose hunting; for, when once disturbed,
the bull leaves with all his kith and kin, so the
only chance in these regions is to find him
immediately on arrival in a new district and
before he comes across your tracks.

Still working slowly southward, we hunted
more back ponds, until at last my turn came
on the twenty-seventh hunting day. Let no
man say that moose hunting is a picnic.

We had camped on a little strip of land,
between a pond and a long narrow swamp,
about 4 o'clock on a beautiful afternoon.
Leaving my brother and Jocko to eat dinner
in comfort, I started to the head of the
swamp. The water was so low that we could
barely force the light canoe through the
lily-pads. Old moose signs were plenty. A
family of moose had evidently been there
all summer, but until we reached the upper
end we saw no fresh tracks. The sluggish
stream we were on drained a shallow lake,
and, after a few hard plunges, our canoe
floated clear of the mud into the silent
waters of a circular pond. It was a basin
about a half mile across, surrounded by low
hardwood hills, and so shallow that a moose, I
think, could have waded across the deepest
part. The shores were marked up with some
very large tracks, but fresh signs had long
since ceased to excite in me anything more
than a passing interest. We made the tour of
the lake slowly and quietly. Nothing was in
sight except four wood ducks. This was
"last chance" pond, and if I got no moose
here, we must return to Mattawa for another
outfit, which I had about made up my mind to
do. The night settled still and cold—oh, so
cold!—and the stars came out with wonderful
distinctness.

What was that?

Chabot had started up, listened, and a second
later was driving the birch across the lake
noiselessly. As we neared the shore, it was
inky black—a mammoth would not have been
visible ten yards away. Twigs breaking at
long intervals told that something was on
shore just in cover of the bushes. We waited
some time and at last I whispered to Chabot,
"Muckwa?" (bear).

"Not muckwa—cow," answered the guide.

As he spoke, the short call of a bull floated
out on the cold air from the side of the pond
that we had just left. I think Chabot was
right about the cow being in the bushes, but
he may have been mistaken—one's hearing
becomes unnaturally sensitive after a few
weeks' continuous straining to catch and distinguish
the most distant sounds. But there was
no mistake about that bull's call. He was well
back from the shore on the hillside. The
wind was wrong, and, although he grunted
at intervals for an hour, he paid no attention
to Chabot's most seductive pleadings. We
imitated with paddles the splashings of a
cow walking in the shallow water, but this and
other devices had no effect. When at last
even my Indian could no longer bear the
bitter cold of the wind which had sprung up,
we started for camp. Long past midnight
we crawled into our blankets, and I dropped
asleep cursing the day I had first gone after
moose.

We were on that pond again before daylight.
Not a sound to be heard, not a living thing
to be seen, when the sun rose. We took our
stand on a small point opposite the outlet and
watched. I sat on a fallen tree motionless,
hour after hour. Chabot dozed beside me.
Those four ducks played and fed within thirty
feet, and a muskrat worked at house-building
a few yards away. The silence was intense.
There was not a breath of wind. I knew my
brother was doing the same thing on a neighboring
pond, and I fell to thinking whether
there was some special Nemesis about this
hunt, or it was the fault of the guides. I
glanced at the outlet in front of me, about
a half mile distant.

There was a moose, stalking with the utmost
deliberation along the edge of the woods and
then into the shallow water.

Chabot was roused by a hasty shake, and a
second later the canoe was flying across the
lake. As we crossed, I inspected the moose
closely. He was walking slowly, nibbling the
long reed-like grass that stuck up from the
water. His neck seemed very stiff, and he
swung his legs from his hips and shoulders.
The hump was extremely conspicuous, perhaps
because his head was carried low to get at the
grass. He was a young bull, nearly full grown,
and with small antlers. He looked occasionally
at the canoe, now fast nearing him; but
we had the advantage of the wind, and the sun
was going down behind us. It was just 5
o'clock. He walked, now out toward us, now
back to shore, as though about to bolt for the
bush, but working slowly toward the north,
where we afterwards found a much-used runway,
leading to the marsh my brother was
watching, two miles away. I opened fire about
fifty yards off, when the moose was standing
in about a foot of water, looking suspiciously
at us. The shot was too high, but struck him
in the shoulder. He started in a lumbering
gallop along the shore. I fired again. This
turned him into the woods at an old lumber
road. We heard the twigs snap sharply for a
minute, and then a heavy crash and silence.
I thought we had lost him, but Chabot declared
that he was down. I sprang ashore
the moment the canoe grounded, and dashed
in on his trail, which was perfectly clear on
the soft moss. Looking ahead through the
open woods for the animal, which I thought
had turned, I almost fell over his prostrate
body.

His head rested against a small windfall,
which he had tried to clear—an effort which
appeared to have cost him his life. Moss hung
from some small spruce trees close by, which
had been kicked up in the death struggle.
The shoulder shot had been the fatal one, but
he had been hard hit in the side too.

He was not full grown, and measured only 5
feet 6-1/2 inches in height, and 8 feet 3-1/4
inches in length, from the nose to root of tail.
His girth at the shoulder was 5 feet 11-1/4
inches. His nose showed none of the Jewish
characteristics which taxidermists are fond of
giving their mounted moose heads. The forehead
and shoulders were brownish instead of
black, like the rest of the body. The hindlegs
were wholly white, as were the forelegs
below the knee. I am inclined to think he
was a ranger moose, but could not tell with
certainty, as his horns were too undeveloped.
The velvet was still hanging in places, but
very dry. This was unusual, as it was the
10th of October.

Ordering Chabot to dress the moose, I
went back to the canoe, having decided to
watch until dark, although there seemed no
possibility of seeing another moose after the
firing. My lazy guide, instead of obeying my
order, merely cut the skin, with the result that
all the meat spoiled—probably just what he
wanted, fearing he would have to portage it
out of the bush. We returned to our point
and dozed again. At a quarter of 7 it was
getting dark fast, and in the north a black,
ugly-looking cloud was gathering. We might
as well go back to camp if it was going
to blow and rain, so I told Chabot to shove
off and to give one last toot of his horn,
just for luck.

The air was still as death with the dread of
the impending storm. Chabot took up the
coiled birch, and the echoes rang out with a
short grunting call, which so much resembles
a man chopping wood. Before they died
away, there came from behind us, just to our
right, the unmistakable answering grunt of a
bull moose. He was probably on his way to
the lake, and our call merely hastened him
and brought him out into the open before it
was too dark to shoot. He was very near and
came steadily forward, stopping now and then
to listen. We could hear him plainly as his
horns broke the twigs at every step—once or
twice he lashed the bushes with them. He
repeated his grunts, ungh! ungh! every few
steps. He was so evidently reckless that, to
take no chance, I allowed Chabot to answer
only once—with the short call. I say short call,
in distinction to the long modulated call which
is used to good purpose in Maine and New
Brunswick, but which I have never known to
succeed in this part of Canada. The moose
paused for a moment in the alders that formed
a close thicket at the water's edge, and I
feared he had seen or scented us; then suddenly
and noiselessly he stepped out from a
cove a short hundred yards away. He had
taken less than ten minutes from the first call
to his appearance.

At the first alarm we had pushed off and
were floating quietly just by the shore. The
water was so shallow that the birch made, to
my ears at least, a frightful scraping as it
pushed over the dead sticks that lay in the
water, and the wind was unfavorable. I never
shall forget the appearance that bull made as
he stepped fiercely and proudly out, with his
head up, swinging a splendid set of antlers as
lightly as straws. He did not see us, but
strode about ten yards into the shallow lake,
where the water scarcely covered his hoofs,
and, first glancing away for a second, turned
like a flash and faced us full, looking down on
us in surprised disgust. He was greatly excited
and the mane on his hump was erect, increasing
his natural height, and there was
nothing timid or deer-like in his appearance.
I have seen in the arena a bull step out from
the darkened stall into the glare of sunlight,
and gaze for a moment at the picadors with a
sort of indignant surprise; so this great bull
moose looked.

We gazed motionless at each other, I knowing
that it was one of the grandest and rarest
sights on the American continent, and he
thinking, no doubt, what a disgraceful imitation
of a cow the motionless canoe made.
Chabot's breath was coming hard behind me,
and I felt the birch bark quiver.

As I raised my rifle, I realized that it had
suddenly grown very dark under this western
bank, and the bull precisely resembled in color
the background, and, large as he was, made a
very poor mark. The tall grass, which I had
looked over in watching him, now sticking up
in front of the sights, bothered me. I fired at
the root of his neck, and the rifle gave a suppressed
roar in the heavy air and the smoke
hung like a pall. The bull ran straight forward,
hesitated as though about to charge,
then turned and made wonderful speed along
the lake shore. The moment I could see him
I fired again. In the dim twilight he was
almost out of sight. When the smoke cleared
he was gone.

Neither of us moved. It was too frightful
to miss such an immense creature at that
range. We heard him crash up the hillside
and then stop a short distance back in the
wood. Then I knew he either was down or
had turned, unless he had found an open lumber
road, where his horns would make no
sound; for a moose can go in the most mysterious
manner when he chooses to be quiet—but
there was nothing quiet about this bull.

Chabot declared that he had heard him
cough, but I did not believe it. I pointed to
the spot where he had entered the bush, and
a moment later the canoe grated on the beach.
There were the huge tracks with the hoofs
wide spread, and the trail entering an old
lumber road.

All this took less time to happen than to
read, and yet it was now dark, so quickly had
night fallen. By straining my eyes I saw it
was 7 o'clock—just two hours after the first
bull was killed. Chabot wanted to go back to
camp, which was the proper thing to do, especially
as I had now just one cartridge left. I
had only taken a handful with me that morning.

We entered the forest foot by foot, Chabot
following the trail where I could scarcely see
to step. A few yards in and the track turned
from the old road into the thick bush, and we
knew the moose was near. A little further,
and we scarcely moved—stepping like cats
from tree to tree, expecting every second to
hear an angry grunt and have the bull emerge
from the impenetrable veil of night that hung
around us.

At last we came to a windfall, and we were
for some time at a loss to find whether he had
gone across or around it. In lighting a match
with extreme caution, the light fell on a tall
moose wood stem about as large as one's finger.
Four feet from the ground it was dripping
with bright red blood. The coughing
Chabot had heard was now, we thought, explained,
and the game hard hit. We decided
to go back to camp; for, as my guide put it
very clearly, the wounded bull would either
fight or run. I wasn't anxious for the first
alternative in the dark and tangled wood, with
one cartridge; and the second meant a long
chase on the morrow. If we left him until
the morning, he would be either dead or too
stiff from his wound to go far.

So back we went to camp, amply repaid by
the events of two hours for weeks of hardship
and exposure. Just at daylight the next
morning, as we were leaving camp, prepared
to take and keep the trail of that bull if it
led to Hudson Bay, my brother appeared with
Jocko. He had had no breakfast, and had
come a long distance through a frightful bush
in order to be in at the death, as he had heard
the firing, and shrewdly suspected that in the
dusk a wounded moose was the result.

"From the tracks at my lake," said he, as
he strode up to the fire, "there are two bull
moose around here—a large and a small one;
which did you get?"

"Both," replied Chabot.

We took the trail at the water's edge, and
found it smeared with blood. The bull could
not have gone far. A short walk brought us
to the windfall where we had turned back the
night before, and which had seemed so deep
in the woods.

A hundred yards beyond it lay the bull on
his right side. The second shot had struck
him in the center of the left ham and ranged
through him. The meat was spoiled, as was
the hide—that is, the hair came out so badly
that it was not worth while to prepare it; but
the neck and scalp were perfect, except a bad
scar on the forehead, received in fighting.

He was a grand sight as he lay dead in
that silent autumn forest—for I never can get
over the impression that somehow or other
the moose is a survival of a long past order
of nature, a fit comrade for the mammoth and
the cave bear. He was short and thickset,
with immense chest power—probably a swamp
moose. The neck was short and stout, and he
had a Jewish cast of nose. No bell—merely
the common dewlap. He measured at the
shoulder 6 feet 6 inches; 9 feet 8-1/2 inches
from nose to tip of tail; girth at shoulders,
6 feet 2-1/2 inches. We skinned and decapitated
the moose, one after the other. The
meat of both was completely spoiled, and it
seemed wicked to leave those two huge carcasses
to the bears and wolves; but there was
no help for it, so we started for Mattawa. I
doubt if we could have carried out any of the
meat if we had tried, for we had to throw
away everything not absolutely necessary on
the long portages that followed. At last we
reached Rosiceau's, on Snake Lake, and, with
the welcome the old man gave us, felt quite
at home once more. Then passing by the
scenes of a former hunt, we reached Fort
Eddy, an old Hudson Bay post, and then
the Ottawa River. We ran the Cave rapids,
and at sundown on a beautiful day the town
of Mattawa swung in sight, and the hunt
was over.

The country we had traversed contained
little except bears and moose. We saw a few
caribou tracks, and brought home with us a
curious caribou antler, which we found in the
woods.

The fur animals have, within the last five
years, been exterminated, and the very few
beaver that survive have abandoned their old
habits, and live in holes in the banks of the
larger streams. We found traces of one of
these bank beaver, but he was probably traveling
and we could not catch him. A few mink
were shot, but the country is completely stripped
of everything else of value. If the present
law, prohibiting the trapping of otter and
beaver, can be enforced, perhaps the land
may be restocked, but it will take years. It
is fit for nothing except fur and timber, and,
with efficient game wardens, could be made to
produce a large return from these sources.
Partridges and loons abounded, but ducks
were seldom seen.

The lakes form a complete system of communication
by means of easy portages, but
there are no streams that contain trout and no
springs to supply drinking water. This lack
of fresh water caused us considerable suffering,
as the lake water is supposed to be dangerous,
and a pail of spring water, which we got at the
start, was carried for days over portages as our
most precious baggage. We did not see a
sign of a brook trout during the entire trip,
and I do not believe that there were any in
the waters we traversed. There may have
been lake trout, but our trolling produced
only pike and pickerel.

This absence of small game and fish makes
the country very uninteresting, and the long
monotony between most exciting events is the
greatest drawback to hunting on the Upper
Ottawa.

Madison Grant.

A Hunting Trip in India

Early in 1881 I landed at Bombay, intending
to get as many varieties of big game shooting
as possible during the course of the year.
I was well armed with introductions, including
many from the Department of State, and during
my stay in India was treated by the
English military officers, civil officials, planters
and merchants with a hearty hospitality
which I cordially appreciated. Thanks to this
hospitality, and to the readiness with which all
to whom I was introduced fell into my plans,
I was able to get a rather unusually varied
quantity of sport.

My first trip was in March, after tigers. On
the 1st of March I started from Hyderabad
with Colonels Fraser and Watson, and traveled
by palanquin that day and night, and most
of the next day, striking the foot of the Gāt
at a place called Rungapore, and then going
on over a great plain, beyond which we
camped. The scenery was magnificent, and
we heard much news of the devastation of
tigers among the large herds of miserable-looking
cattle belonging to the poor villagers
roundabout. The thermometer went up to
96 degrees in the shade during the day, but
the nights were lovely and cool. Thanks to
Colonel Fraser, we were fitted out as comfortably
as we could be, and the luxury of the
camp life offered the strongest possible contrast
to my experiences in roughing it on the
buffalo range in northwestern Texas.

For the first two days we accomplished
nothing, though several of the cattle we had
put out for baits were killed, and though we
started and beat the jungles with our elephants
whenever we received khubber, or news. Our
camp equipage included twenty elephants,
forty camels and bullocks, thirty horses for
the troopers, and fifty baggage horses. We
had seventeen private servants, twenty-six
police, fifty-two bearers, and an indefinite
number of attendants for the elephants and
camels, and of camp followers. An Indian of
high position, Sir Salar Jung, was along also;
so our total retinue comprised 350 men, in
addition to which we employed each day of
beaters 150 or 200 more.

On March 5th, one of the shikaris brought
word that he had seen and heard a tigress and
two cubs at a nullah about six miles away.
Immediately we started up the valley, Col.
Fraser, Col. Watson and myself, each on his
own elephant. The jungle was on fire and
the first beat was not successful, for we had to
fight the fire, and in the excitement the brute
got off. However, some of the watchers saw
her, and marked her down in another small
ravine. Through this we again beat, the excitement
being at fever heat. I was, of course,
new to the work, and the strangeness of the
scene, the cries of the beaters and watchers,
the occasional explosion of native fireworks,
together with the quantity of other game that
we saw, impressed me much. In this ravine I
was favored by good luck. The tigress broke
right in front of me, and I hit her with a ball
from a No. 12 smooth-bore. She sickened at
once and crawled back into the jungle. In
we went on the elephants, tracking her up.
She made no attempt to charge, and I finished
her off with another barrel of the smooth-bore
and two express bullets. The crowd of natives
ran up, abusing the tigress and praising me,
while the two colonels drank my health. We
then padded the tigress and rode back to
camp, having been gone from half past 9 in
the morning till 7 in the evening. This tigress
weighed, when we brought her in, 280
pounds; her living weight must have been
much more.

Next day we again got news of a tigress,
with one cub, but we failed to find her. The
following day, for a change, I tried still-hunting
through the woods. There was not much
game, but what we did see was far from shy,
and the shooting was easy. The camp was on
a terrace, and from it we went up a range of
hills to the stalking ground. It was a stony
country and the trees were scrubby. I shot
two cheetul, or spotted deer, and also two of
the little jungle cocks. The next day again
was a blank, but on the 9th we got another
tiger. Thanks to the courtesy of my friends,
I was given the first shot, again hitting it with
one barrel of the smooth-bore. The heat was
very great on this day. It was not possible to
touch the gun barrels without a glove, and the
thirst was awful. In the evening the cool bath
was a luxury indeed. By moonlight the camp
was very fine. The next morning I was off at
daybreak, snipe shooting around a big tank,
seven miles away. On my return I found that
my companions had gone out for a beat, and
so, after a hurried breakfast, I jumped on my
horse and rode after them. That afternoon
we beat two ravines and got a tiger. This
was the last tiger that we killed. The weather
was getting very warm, and, though we stayed
a week longer out, we failed to get on terms
with Mr. Stripes again. However, I shot three
sambur stags. Two of them were weighed
in camp, their weight being, respectively, 450
and 438 pounds.

It was now getting hot, and I determined
to start northward for my summer's hunting
in the Himalayas and Cashmere, although it
was rather early to try to get through the
mountains. I left Lahore on April 6th for the
Pir Pinjal. My transportation consisted of
eight pack ponies and three native single-horse
carts. I was shown every courtesy by
Mr. McKay, a member of the Forest Department,
at Gujarat. I intended to make a hunt
for gorals and bears in the mountains around
the Pir Pinjal before striking through to Cashmere.
The goral is a little mountain antelope,
much like the chamois, only with straight
horns. The bear in the region in which I
was hunting was the black bear, which is very
much like our own black bear. Further on in
the Himalayas is found the red or snow bear,
which is a good deal like the great brown bear
of Europe, or a small and inoffensive grizzly.
After leaving Gujarat, I traveled for several
days before coming to my hunting ground
proper, although on the way I killed some
peacocks, partridges, and finally some very
handsome pheasants of different kinds. The
country offered the greatest possible contrast
to that in which I had been hunting tigers.
Everything was green and lovely, and the
scenery was magnificent beyond description—the
huge steep mountains rising ahead of me,
while the streams were crystal-clear, noisy torrents.
The roads were very rough, and the
wild flowers formed great carpets everywhere.

On the 16th of April I began my shooting,
having by this time left my heavy baggage
behind, and having with me only what the
coolies could carry. I had two shikaris, four
servants and twelve coolies, besides myself.
On April 16th I killed my first goral. I had
hunted in vain all day, but about 5 o'clock one
of the shikaris advised my starting out again
and climbing around the neighboring cliffs. I
did this for two and one-half hours, and then
got a close shot and killed the little beast.
This was my first trial of grass-shoes, and my
first experience in climbing over the stupendous
mountain masses; for stupendous they
were, though they were only the foothills of
the Himalayas proper. Without grass-shoes
it is impossible to climb on these smooth,
grassy slopes; but I found that they hurt my
feet a great deal. The next day I again went
off with my two shikaris over the mountains.
Each of them carried a gun. I had all I could
do to take care of myself without one, for a
mis-step would have meant a fall of a thousand
or two feet. In the morning we saw five
gorals and I got one. At 10 I stopped and a
coolie came up with a lunch, and I lay reading,
sleeping and idly watching the grand mountains
until the afternoon, when we began again
to examine the nullahs for game, being all the
time much amused by the monkeys. At 4 we
started again, and in a jagged mass of precipices
I got another goral. The next day I
repeated my experience, and had one of the
characteristic bits of bad luck, offset by good
luck, that come to every hunter—missing a
beautiful shot at fifty yards, and then, by a
fluke, killing a goral at 300 yards. The animal,
however, fell over 1,000 feet and was
ruined. I myself had a slip this day and went
down about fifty feet. The following day I
again went off to climb, and the first ascent
was so steep that at the top I was completely
blown, and missed a beautiful shot at a goral
at fifty yards. I then arranged a beat, but
nothing came from it, and the morning was a
blank. In the afternoon I gave up beating
and tried still-hunting again. It was hard
work, but I was very successful, and killed
two gorals and a bear.

At this time I was passed by two English
officers, also going in to shoot—one of them,
Captain S. D. Turnbull, a very jolly fellow and
a good sportsman, with whom I got on excellent
terms; the other, a Captain C., was a very
bad walker and a poor shot, and was also a
disagreeable companion, as he would persist
in trying to hang around my hunting grounds,
thus forcing me continually to shift.

On April 21st I tried driving for gorals,
and got four, and on the next two days I got
three gorals and two bears. So far I had had
great luck and great sport. The work was
putting me in fine trim, except my feet, which
were getting very sore. It was very hard
work going after the gorals. The bears offered
easier stalking, and, like our American black
bear but unlike our grizzly, they didn't show
fight. The climbing was awful work. The
stones and grass-shoes combined bruised and
skinned the soles of my feet, so that I could
not get relief without putting them in clarified
butter and then keeping them up in the air.
Accordingly I tried resting for a day, and
meant to rest the following day too; but
could not forbear taking a four hours' stroll
along the banks of the brawling, snow-fed
river, and was rewarded by shooting a surow—a
queer, squatty, black antelope, about the
size of a Rocky Mountain white goat and with
similar horns. The next day I rested again,
hoping my feet would get better. Instead
they got worse, and I made up my mind that,
as they were so bad, I might as well get some
hunting anyhow, so off I tramped on the 27th
for another all-day jog. It would be difficult
to describe the pain that my feet gave me all
day long. However, it was a real sporting
day. I suffered the tortures of the damned,
but I got two gorals and one tahr—a big species
of goat with rather small horns—and then hobbled
back to camp. Next day I stayed quietly
in camp, and then started back to the camp
where I had left my heavy baggage. On the
way I picked up another black bear. My feet
were in a frightful condition, but I had had a
fortnight's excellent sport.

I then went on to Cashmere, and on May 6th
reached Siringur. The scenery was beautiful
beyond description, and the whole life of the
natives very attractive to look at. However,
something did not agree with me, for I was
very sick and had to go to bed for several
days. There were one or two American
friends there, and these and the Englishmen,
to whom I had letters of introduction, treated
me with extreme courtesy. As soon as I got
well, I started off for the real mountains, hoping
especially to get ibex and markhoor. The
ibex is almost exactly the same as the European
animal of that name. The markhoor is
a magnificent goat, with long whitish hair and
great spiral horns. They also have in these
Cashmere valleys a big stag called the barramigh,
which is a good deal like our wapiti,
only not half so large. On May 21st I started
off, first by boat, but I was bothered from the
beginning by chills and fever. I was weak,
and glad I didn't have to march. At first, all
I did in shooting was to have my coolies beat
some brush patches near camp. Out of one
of them they started a little musk-deer, which
I shot. Soon I began to get very much better
and we took up our march. I was going toward
Astor, but encountered much snow, as it
was still early in the season for these high
mountains. I saw some grand barramigh, but
their horns were, of course, only just growing,
and I didn't molest them.

Very soon I got into a country where the
red bears literally swarmed. From May 26th
to June 5th, during which time I was traveling
and hunting all the time, I shot no less than
sixteen, together with two musk-deer, but saw
nothing else. The marching was very hard,
and some of the passes dangerous. I met a
British officer, Lieutenant Carey, on the 30th,
who treated me very well indeed. The scenery
was very beautiful, although rather bleak. I
did not pick up strength as much as I had
hoped. On June 3d I christened my camp
Camp Good Luck, because of the phenomenal
success I had with the bears. That morning
we left by 4 to cross the river before the snow
had melted. The thermometer would go down
to 30 degrees, even in the valleys, at night, so
that everything would freeze, and then would
go up to 110 in the day, and when the snow
melted the streams would come down in a perfect
torrent. Not two miles beyond the river
I saw three bears on the side of a hill, a she
and two two-year-old cubs. My shikari made
a splendid stalk and brought me within forty
yards, and I got all three with a shot apiece.
The delight of my camp followers was amusing.
I then left the tents, and, taking only my
blankets and a lunch basket with me, started
off again. At midday I slept, and at 2 o'clock
started up the nullah, seeing a number of
bears. One of them I got within fifty yards,
and two others, right and left, at 100 yards.
The skinning took a long time, and the stream
which I had to cross was up with the evening
flood, so that I didn't get back to camp until
10 o'clock. I had shot unusually well, I had
been happy and was all tired out, and it is
needless to say how I slept.

Soon after this I began to suffer from fever,
and I had to work very hard indeed, as I was
now on the ibex ground. For several days,
though I saw ibex, I was unable to get near
them. Finally, on June 9th, I got my first
one, a young buck with small horns. I had to
hunt way up the mountain, even beyond bush
vegetation, and the hot sun at midday was
awful. Nevertheless, by very hard climbing,
I managed on this day to get within shot first
of a herd of nine females, which I did not
touch, and then of the young buck, which I
killed. On June 13th, by another heart-breaking
climb, very high up, I got a second small
buck. I did not get back to camp that night
till half past 9—tired out, feet badly cut with
the stones and bruised all over; but in spite of
the fever I enjoyed every day—the scenery
was so grand and the life so exhilarating.
Four days afterwards came a red-letter day.
I started early in the morning, clambering up
among the high mountains. Until noon I saw
nothing; then several flocks of ibex came in
sight, one of them of eleven big bucks. I had
to wait four hours to get into a position to
stalk; then by quick work and awful climbing
I came within close range and killed three. It
was half past 10 in the evening before I got
back to camp, very nearly done up, but exultant
over my good luck.

The traveling now became very severe and
I had a great deal of difficulty even with the
coolies, and though I hunted hard I got little
game until July 8th. I had been shifting, trying
to get on markhoor ground, and on this
day I killed my first markhoor. The shikaris
and I left the coolies to go around the path
while we went over the mountain, a five hours'
climb, keeping a sharp lookout for game. Just
at the beginning of the ascent we saw three
fine-looking markhoor grazing in a nullah, and
after a stalk of about a mile, during which
time it began to rain, the beasts went into a
jungle on the steep side of the mountain.
Through this we still-hunted and I got a shot
through the bushes at 100 yards. By good
luck I hit and great was the rejoicing. Five
days later I got two ibex, which at a distance
we had mistaken for markhoor. Then I was
attacked by a terrible dysentery and was within
an ace of dying. For a fortnight I was unable
to leave camp, excepting when I was carried
slowly along by the coolies in the effort
to get me out of the mountains. On August
1st I shot a second markhoor. We were journeying
at the time. In the very rough places
I had to walk, though awfully weak; elsewhere
the coolies carried me. The markhoor was
just below us, round a turn in the Indus Valley.
I was in advance with one of the shikaris
and got a quiet shot, and more by good luck
than anything else—for I was very weak—I
killed. I now began gradually to pick up
strength, and when near Astor I got a urial, a
kind of wild sheep.

I had no other experience of note till I got
back to Siringur, where I stayed to recuperate,
and at the end of August went off once more
into the foothills, this time after barramigh.
In a week's work I killed three, but again
became sick, and had to give up and come in.

I forthwith returned to India, the hot weather
being by this time pretty well over. As I
was very anxious to kill an elephant, I went
down to Ceylon, reaching that island the end
of October and going out to Kandy. I met
a number of Englishmen, who were very kind
to me, as were some Eurasian gentlemen. On
November 16th I left Minerva for a regular
hunt. It was very interesting shooting through
the tropical jungle and I had good luck. There
were plenty of elephants, but at first I didn't
get any, though I shot five spotted deer and a
boar. Finally, however, I got two of the big
brutes I was mainly after. One of them, which
I killed on the 20th of the month, was said to
be a rogue that had killed two villagers and
done at intervals a good deal of damage to the
crops. An old native tracker had guaranteed
to show me this elephant. He kept his word.
For three or four miles we had a very exciting
track, and then came on him standing in the
jungle, occasionally flapping his ears, and crept
up to within thirty yards. I think he was
asleep and I got a perfectly good shot, but,
extraordinary to say, I missed. However,
when he ran I went after him, and, getting
very close, I shot him in the hip, so injuring
his leg that he could not get away. He could
still get round after us, and we passed a most
lively half-hour, he trumpeting and charging
incessantly, until, after expending a great
quantity of cartridges, I finally put a bullet
behind his eye, and down he went.

Soon after this I went back to Kandy, and
early in December left India for good.

Elliott Roosevelt.

HOW OUR OUTFIT WAS CARRIED.

Dog Sledging in the North

A good many years ago, my friends, Boies
Penrose, Granville Keller, and I concluded
that it would be a fitting termination to a very
successful summer and fall hunting trip in the
Rocky Mountains to endeavor to kill some
moose and caribou in the Lake Winnipeg
country, Manitoba. Thus we should combine
very different kinds of sport amid surroundings
more dissimilar than we imagined at the
time. The whole of this rather memorable
trip occupied nearly six months.

Our adventures during the latter part of the
hunt, that is, during our sojourn in the far
north—while a part of the every-day experience
of those familiar with the winter life in
the woods of that country—were of a character
totally unknown to the majority of sportsmen
in the United States, and for this reason it has
been thought worth while to give a short
account of them.

If my recollection serves me correctly, we
arrived at Selkirk, at the lower end of Lake
Winnipeg, in the latter part of October, to
find navigation already closed. We had hoped
to reach the upper part of the lake by means
of a steamer, but found this impossible, and
were therefore obliged to go on sleds to our
first hunting ground—a moose country to the
south of the head waters of the Fisher River,
between Lake Winnipeg and Lake Winnipegosis.

At Selkirk we were joined by a Mr. Phillips,
and we had there employed an Indian boy
to look after the dogs. This Indian was a
magnificent specimen physically, and certainly
the best walker that I have ever known. With
the exception of a pardonable fondness for our
whisky, he behaved very well at first, but afterward
became so insufferably lazy that he was
scarcely fit for the simple work of driving one
of the dog teams—a change which was to be
attributed entirely to our kind treatment of
him. He was, however, a good trailer, but
the worst shot that I remember to have met.
He seemed to have no difficulty in finding
moose, but could not hit them, which was the
exact reverse of our experience.

Portions of the country between Lakes
Winnipeg and Winnipegosis, visited by our
party, are as flat as the flattest portions of
New Jersey, and for great distances nothing
could be more level except possibly a billiard
table. It is traversed by very few rivers or
even creeks, there being immense stretches of
territory where the only guide back to camp is
the sun when it shines, or when it does not
your compass, or the dog-sled trail through the
snow leading to the camp. The different portions
of this region are so much alike that it is
almost impossible to tell one from another.

Owing to the fact that it is very dangerous
to be caught out over night, with the thermometer
ranging anywhere from zero to 50
degrees below, we took the precaution to
mount a big red flag in the top of the highest
spruce we could find near our camp, so that, by
climbing a high tree anywhere within a radius
of a mile or so, one could easily see this flag.
To still further reduce the chance of getting
lost, we blazed the trees in a straight line for
four miles due south of the camp, and, as the
dog-sled trail came into our camp (which was
in the heavy timber) from the north, it was
not difficult to find one's way home in the
evening. These precautions—needless elsewhere,
but wise in this country—were taken
principally because each of us had always been
in the habit for years of hunting alone—a
practice which I would recommend to anyone
who desires to be really successful in killing
big game.

This vast expanse of flat country is quite
heavily wooded over large areas, the timber
being spruce, tamarack, poplar, birch, etc., with
a great abundance of red and gray willow.
The underbrush is sometimes very thick.
There are, however, innumerable open places,
which bear the local name of muskegs. These
are, of course, marshes in summer, and covered
with a heavy growth of grass; in winter they
are frozen hard, and traveling over them is
comparatively easy.

The moose seem to be fond of remaining
close to the edges of these muskegs, which are
usually fringed with a heavy growth of willows.
It would appear, however, that they
venture out into these open places either during
the night, early in the morning, or late in
the afternoon; and, as these were the times
when we were very glad either to be in camp
or to be returning to it, we had more success
in finding the moose in the timber, or on the
little so-called ridges, which sometimes attain
the remarkable height of four or five feet.

Up to the time of leaving this camp we had
very little opportunity to use snowshoes, as
the snow was not yet—about the last of November—deep
enough to make these necessary.
We hunted all of the time in moccasins,
boots of any description being simply out
of the question, as they would soon freeze as
hard as iron. After the cold weather set in,
one day's experience with boots was quite sufficient
for me, and I came to the conclusion, as
I had often before in other regions, that it is
very difficult to improve, in the matter of
clothing, upon the customs of the country.
The sudden change to moccasins was very
tiring at first, but after one gets used to walking
in them he will find that he can walk further
and hunt better in them than any other
style of foot-gear. We used, as I remember,
first one or two pairs of heavy woolen socks,
then a very heavy so-called "German" sock,
coming up to the knee, over which we wore
the high laced moccasin of the country.

Before we had very long been engaged in
moose hunting we all learned that we were not
so expert in the art of killing big game as we
previously imagined ourselves. In all my experience
I have never met with any animal
which is so difficult to get a shot at, even when
quite numerous, as the moose in this region.
It must always be borne in mind that to kill
a moose—especially in a country where they
have been hunted for generations by the Indians—by
the thoroughly sportsmanlike method
of following the trail of one until you
finally get a shot at it and kill it, is a totally
different thing from killing the same moose
either by calling him at night in the autumn
or by paddling on him in a canoe in the summer.
In fact, of all the difficult things I have
ever undertaken in the way of sport, I regard
this as the most difficult; and before I got my
first shot I began to think that there was a
great deal of truth in the Indian's sneering
remark, "White man no kill moose." Finally
one day my luck turned, but that it did so was
due more to the realization of my own inferiority,
and lack of the proper kind of knowledge,
than to anything else.

It happened in this way: having thoroughly
convinced myself that the moose either smelt
me or in some other way found out that I was
in their neighborhood before I could be made
aware of the same fact, I concluded that there
was something radically wrong in my manner
of hunting them, although I employed every
method known to me—methods which had
been acquired in an experience during which
I had killed considerably over one hundred
head of big game, throughout the Rockies and
the Alleghanies. In short, I was exceedingly
painstaking and careful. Notwithstanding all
my precautions, however, I remember that I
had the satisfaction one night of knowing that
I had started during the day eight different
moose, each separately, without hearing or
seeing a single one of them. This sort of
thing lasted for twenty-two consecutive days,
or until I finally concluded that, as our Indian
seemed to have no trouble in seeing moose, I
would follow his tactics. Waiting, therefore,
one morning until I was sure that the Indian
had left camp, I changed my course so as to
intersect his trail, followed this for some distance,
and watched carefully his foot-prints, so
as to read the record of his hunt.

Pretty soon it became apparent that he had
come across a moose trail. He tried it first
with the toe of his moccasin, then with the
butt of his gun, and satisfied himself that it
was too old to follow. He went on until he
came across another trail, and evidently had
spent considerable time in making up his mind
whether it was worth while to follow this trail
or not. He then followed it for a few yards,
and, to my surprise, suddenly left it, and went
off almost at right angles to the leeward. I
supposed that he had given up the moose
trail, but nevertheless I followed further on
his track. Again to my surprise, I presently
found him gradually coming around in a circuitous
fashion to the trail again, until he
finally reached it. He then immediately retraced
his steps, making another semi-circle,
bearing generally, however, in the direction
the moose had gone, and again came to the
trail. This occurred four or five times, until
finally the explanation of his conduct flashed
upon me, for there lay his cartridge. I saw—as
he afterward described it to me—where he
had shot at the moose, which had just arisen
out of its bed a short distance away, but, as
usual, he had missed it. Now I had noticed,
in my three weeks' experience, that I had
come upon the moose either lying down or
standing in some thicket, but that they had
been able to wind me considerably before my
arrival at the spot marked by their beds in
the snow. Not until then had occurred to me
what is well known to many who still-hunt
moose, namely, that before lying down they
generally make a long loop to the leeward,
returning close to their trail, so that they
can readily get the wind of anyone following
upon it long before he reaches them, when, of
course, they quietly get up and sneak away.
In fact, they do not seem to have an atom of
curiosity in their composition, and in this are
different from most other wild animals that I
have known. By making these long loops to
the leeward the hunter reduces to a minimum
the likelihood of being smelt or heard by the
moose; and in these animals the senses of
smell and hearing are very acute, although
their eyesight seems to be bad.

Having quite satisfied myself as to what it
was necessary to do, I waited until the next
day to put it into execution, because by the
time I had made my discovery it was about
half past 2 o'clock, and the sun was near the
horizon.

The following day I went out bright and
early, and, after varying success in finding a
good trail, I ran across a trail made by five
bull moose, a photograph of one of which is
shown. After satisfying myself that the trail
had been made during the previous night, I
began making the long loops to the leeward
which I had found to be so necessary. I
finally came to the place where the moose had
lain down—a bed showing one of them to
have unusually large horns—but they had
gone on again, in a manner, however, that
showed that they were merely feeding, and
not alarmed. I redoubled my precautions,
stepping as if on eggs, so as not to break the
twigs underneath my feet. In a short time I
heard the significant chattering of one of the
little red pine squirrels so abundant in that
region. I at once knew that the squirrel had
seen something, but had not seen me. It did
not take me long to make up my mind that
the only other living things in that vicinity
which would be likely to cause him to chatter
were these moose, and that they were probably
startled, although I had not been conscious
of making any noise. At any rate, I
ran quite rapidly toward the end of a small
narrow muskeg on my left, but some distance
away, to which chance conclusion and prompt
action I owe probably one of the most fortunate
and exciting pieces of shooting that has
occurred in my experience. I was shooting at
that time a little double rifle (.450-120-375
solid bullet), which had been made for me by
Holland & Holland, and which was fitted with
one of my conical sights.

Before I was within fifty yards of the end
of the muskeg, I saw one of the moose dash
across it, about 150 yards away. I fired quickly,
and in much the same way that I would
shoot at a jacksnipe which had been flushed in
some thicket; but had the satisfaction of seeing
the animal lurch heavily forward as he
went out of sight into the timber. Almost
immediately, and before I had time to reload,
the second moose followed. I gave him the
other barrel, but I did not know until afterward
that he was hit. In fact, it was hard to
get a bullet through the timber. I reloaded
quickly, and ran forward to get to the opening;
but before I reached it, the third moose passed
in immediately behind the others. I again
shot quickly, and felt that I had probably hit
him. By running on rapidly I reached the
edge of the opening in time to intercept the
fourth moose. As he came into the opening I
got a good shot at him, not over eighty yards
distant, and felt very sure of this one at least.
I then reloaded, when, to my amazement, the
fifth, in a very deliberate manner, walked, not
trotted, into the muskeg, which at the point
where the moose crossed it was not over sixty
or seventy feet wide. He first looked up and
down, as if undetermined what to do, and then,
probably seeing one of the other moose on the
ground, commenced walking up toward me.
As luck would have it, I got a cartridge jammed
in my rifle, and could not pull it out or
knock it in, although I nearly ruined my fingers
in my attempt to do so. Of course, this
was the biggest bull of all, and I had the supreme
satisfaction of seeing him deliberately
walk out of my sight into the woods, and he
was lost to me forever. His horns were much
larger than those which I got. Up to that
time I had no idea that I had killed any
except the last moose that I shot at, but
thought that perhaps I had wounded one or
two of the others, feeling that I would be very
lucky if I should ever come up with them.

Going down to the place where the moose
had disappeared, after I had got my rifle fixed—that
is, had extracted the cartridge and put
in another—I found one of the moose dead;
another, a big one, on his knees, and the
third a short distance away, looking very dejected
and uncomfortable. I did not know
then that the largest bull of all had stopped
on the other side of a little thicket; and when
I commenced to give the finishing touches to
the wounded moose in sight, he, accompanied
by another wounded one, got away. As I shot
the big one on his knees, I was surprised by a
noise, and upon turning around found the dejected
looking small bull coming full drive toward
me. I had only time to turn around and
shoot him in the breast before he was on me.
I do not think that he intended to charge; his
coming toward me was probably entirely accidental.
Still it had the effect of sending my
heart in my mouth. I then started out after
the wounded one, but when I saw that he was
not bleeding much concluded that, as it was
growing late, and I was seven or eight miles
from camp, I would not have more than time
to cover up the three moose with snow so that
I could skin them the next morning. Before
doing so, however, I sat down on top of my
biggest moose, and, as these were the first
moose that I had ever seen, I surveyed them
with a great deal of satisfaction.

About this time Phillips, who had been attracted
by the shooting, appeared in the distance,
and I hailed him by a shot, when he
came to me. We then carefully covered up
the moose with snow and pulled out for camp.
When we arrived there and told our story, a
more disconsolate looking Indian you could
not have found in the whole region, and he
doubtless came to the conclusion that his
sweeping assertion as to the inability of a
white man to kill a moose in that country
was perhaps a little too broad.

Our luck seemed to turn from this time and
we got several very good moose, but unfortunately
no other large heads. After telling this
story I do not wish to go upon record as a
game slaughterer, for those who know anything
of my hunting know that I am strongly
opposed to anything of the kind. We usually
have killed only enough game for meat in
camp, but at this time we had to feed beside
ourselves ten dogs. Moreover, I have never
thought that the killing of bulls made very
much difference in the amount of the game,
although in shooting them we have usually
made it a rule to kill only such heads as we
wished to take home. I should add, moreover,
that all the meat that we did not use of the
moose that we killed in this country was distributed
among some Indians whom we met
on our return, and who, hearing of our luck,
followed our dog trail to the hunting grounds
after our departure.

Having had enough moose hunting, and
anxious to kill caribou, we concluded to cross
Lake Winnipeg, which by this time—early
in December—was frozen hard with nearly six
feet of ice, the cracking of which, especially at
night, produces a very curious and never-to-be-forgotten
sound, which can be heard for miles.
We soon reached the lake, but were detained
a day or two waiting for a favorable day to
cross—that is to say, one when the wind did
not blow, as when it does the exposure in
crossing on the ice is terrific. After finally
venturing upon the ice, we made some forty or
fifty miles the first day, and reached the edge
of an island, in the middle of which there were
a few houses occupied principally by Icelandic
immigrants. These earn a precarious livelihood
by fishing for whitefish and jackfish principally
in the summer. They keep up this
fishing all through the winter, however, to
supply their own needs, by setting their nets
underneath the ice, employing a very simple
method, which, if De Long and his party had
known and provided for, they would never
have perished so miserably in the Lena delta.
Here we were witnesses to the fact which entitles
us to claim that the common domestic
cow is not, strictly speaking, properly to be
classed among the herbivora. We distinctly
saw a very ordinary looking cow devour with
evident relish, while she was being milked, a
large jackfish, which had been taken from a
frozen pile stacked up outside of the house
and thawed for her evening meal.

These Icelanders live as a rule in a primitive
but very comfortable way. They are
much more neat and cleanly than many of the
immigrants who come to the United States,
and it is a pity that we do not have them in
this country, for they seem to be very industrious
and would make good citizens. However,
it is probable that they were in search of
cold weather, and would not be happy unless
they had it. If this is the case, they most certainly
have chosen the best spot on this continent
which is at all accessible; for the region
around Lake Winnipeg is, I am told, one of
the coldest places where any reliable record
of the temperature is kept. During our trip,
and especially while we were on the east side
of the lake, the temperatures recorded were
very low, often 45 degrees below zero. In
fact, during our absence there was a record
of 50 degrees below zero at Selkirk and
Winnipeg; and, as we were over a hundred
miles to the north, it is not unreasonable to
suppose that the temperature was quite as
low, if not lower, with us. It must not be forgotten,
however, that, except for the cracking
of the frozen trees, it is deathly still and quiet
in these regions when the temperature drops
to 10 degrees below zero. Indeed, when the
temperature is below that point, it is usually
much more comfortable for one who is out in
such weather than a temperature of zero, or
even 20 degrees above, with a heavy wind.
Under these conditions, however, an ordinary
man when out hunting cannot occasionally sit
down on a log and smoke his pipe, for any
length of time, with a great amount of pleasure.
Like the persecuted boy in the play,
although there are no policemen about, he is
compelled, and indeed is usually perfectly willing,
to keep "movin' on."

After leaving Big Island, as I remember the
name, we made our way across to the mouth
of the Bad Throat River, where there was an
old lumber camp, which a great many years
ago was the scene of an important conflict between
the Hudson Bay Company's men and
the men of the Northwest Fur Company, in
which quite a number were killed. Here we
got another team of dogs, and picked up another
member for our party in the person of an
Englishman, who by choice had drifted into
this country and lived there, marrying an Indian
squaw shortly after our return. Unfortunately,
the good old-fashioned plan of performing
the marriage ceremony by running
together under a blanket had been abolished,
so he had to wait until the yearly visit of the
priest. This marrying of squaws is of course
common among the white men of this region.

As we had only a few things to get before
starting out for the famous caribou country
between the head waters of the Hole, the Askandoga
and the Blood Vein rivers, we were
not delayed long at this place. The snow was
now quite heavy, at least enough so for comfortable
snowshoe traveling, and we made
rapid time after leaving the Bad Throat River.
In this connection it is to be remarked that
comparatively little snow falls in this region.
This seems singular, and I do not know the
meteorological explanation of the fact. There
is certainly very much less, for instance,
than in Minnesota, hundreds of miles to the
south. The snow, however, is usually a dry
powder all through winter, and very rarely
becomes crusted.

In traveling over broken timbered country
with dog-sleds, very much the same routes are
followed that one takes with a canoe in summer—that
is to say, you avoid the rough
country by traveling on the rivers, which are
usually covered with thick ice, or over the
same portages that are used in summer. It
was necessary for either Penrose, Keller or
myself to lead the way with our snowshoes,
while the others took care of the dog-sleds
behind. The dogs followed accurately in the
trail beaten out by our snowshoes for them.

The country on this side of the lake, unlike
that of the west, is very rough, rocky and rugged,
and especially so near the lake shore. It
is quite thickly timbered. As one advances
into the interior, however, this aspect changes,
so that the country near the height of land is
more open, and there are long stretches of
nearly level country traversed by rocky, moss-covered
and roughly parallel ridges. There is
more or less timber on these ridges, and in the
so-called muskegs between them. This is the
country which the caribou seem to prefer.

After about two weeks' hard traveling, we
reached the country which had been recommended
to us and came upon great abundance
of caribou sign. In fact, there were millions
of tracks, but, curiously enough, no caribou
were to be seen. We afterward found that
they had been driven out by a lot of wolves,
which probably had followed them down from
the north. While this explanation was interesting,
it was not productive of any great
amount of satisfaction to the party, for we had
been counting definitely upon fresh meat, and
so had our dogs. At least, after doing the terrific
work necessary to make this journey, it is
fair to presume that they had counted upon
being fed, and not being left to starve miserably
while tied to a tree.

To add to our hardships, our Indian tepee,
made of canvas, began to smoke so excessively
as to cause us the greatest discomfort,
and we all thought we had pneumonia;
but afterward concluded it was nothing but
irritation of the lungs, due to breathing pine
smoke a good many hours each day. In fact,
it was almost unbearable. An Indian tepee
of this kind, properly made by a squaw, is beyond
doubt the most comfortable of all hunting
tents in any respectable climate; but in a
climate of 40 degrees below zero it is an
abomination. We used frequently to crawl
into our sheep-skin sleeping bags, wrap several
blankets around the bags and put the fire out,
merely to get relief from the annoyance of the
smoke. In the morning the steam which arose
from our bodies, and from the meal which we
might be cooking, got mixed up with the
smoke, so that it was impossible to distinguish
each other when four feet apart. In fact, we
were sometimes inclined to think that the dogs
on the outside were better off than ourselves,
though the appearance they presented in the
morning was not such as to cause us to wish
to change places with them. They were each
tied by a short chain to the pine trees about
the camp, and after a night of low temperature
there were to be seen in the morning only
twelve white mounds of snow; not that any
snow had fallen during the night, or that the
dogs had crawled underneath that already on
the ground. Their white appearance was simply
due to the dense coating of frost which
had been produced from the condensation
caused by the heat of their bodies. It must
not be forgotten, however, that they are as
hardy and as well able to withstand this rigorous
climate as the wolves, from which many of
them are directly descended. All of the so-called
"huskies" are of this type.

Altogether things were not very pleasant
about this time. Our Christmas Day rations
consisted of one small roll each with a little
coffee for breakfast, and in the evening each
man was given a small piece of rabbit.

The rabbits in this country were unfortunately
not as abundant as they were on the
opposite side of the lake, where the Indian
boy one day went out with one of our rifles to
visit his rabbit snares and to shoot rabbits for
the dogs. Before long we heard him shoot
four times. He came back to camp with eight
rabbits, which had certainly been killed with
the rifle, none of them having been snared.

Those of us who were able to hunt at all
hunted with the greatest perseverance, but
with little success, until finally some one
brought in the report that caribou had been
seen, and in a very few days the country again
contained numbers of them.

One morning, shortly after the first caribou
had been seen, Keller, who had been quite
sick, was unable longer to tolerate the smoke
of the tepee, and took a little walk with
his rifle close around our camp. He soon
came upon the fresh trail of a bunch of caribou.
He had followed it only a few hundred
yards when he saw one of the caribou lying
down. He is a dead shot, the best I have
ever known in my life. He carefully steadied
himself, raised his .45-90 Winchester, aimed at
the caribou lying down and fired. When he
went up to look at it, to his amazement,
he came across another dead caribou, between
the spot where he had fired and the one at
which he had aimed. It had been shot straight
through the temples. On going further, he
found the other caribou shot exactly where he
had aimed at it, some twenty yards distant
from the first one. The only possible way in
which he could explain this remarkable occurrence
is that the caribou which had been shot
through the head, and which he had not seen,
had risen out of its bed just as he was in the
act of firing and interposed his head directly
in the line of fire. The fact of having fresh
meat in camp, of course, brought great joy to
us all, and especially to the semi-starved dogs.
As in the case of killing the first moose, it
seemed to have the effect of changing our
luck, for we afterward killed a number of caribou,
although we were not successful in getting
good heads.

These caribou are totally different from the
moose in the kind of food they live upon and
in their general habits. They prefer a different
sort of a country, the two rarely being
found together. They spend much of their
time in the muskegs, which seem to be characteristic
of all of that region of the country; but
these muskegs are not open, like those on the
west side of the lake, being more or less covered
with a growth of stubby jack pine, from
which usually hangs an abundance of long gray
moss. The caribou feed upon this moss, while
the moose, on the other hand, are fond of the
tender sprouts of the red and gray willow.
The caribou, however, are often found on the
rocky ridges, where they find good feed on the
moss growing upon the rocks. Indeed, they
seem to have no settled place of abode, like
moose, being probably one of the most restless
animals on the face of the earth. They
seem to be always on the move. Unlike the
moose, they are very inquisitive, in this respect
being more like the antelope than any other
animal. They are found singly, or in twos or
threes, or in small bunches of ten to twenty,
but often in great herds of a hundred or perhaps
a thousand. They spend a great deal of
their time on the lakes in the winter, where
they play with each other like kittens. They
are wonderfully quick in their actions. They
are also very sure of their footing, and we saw
a number of places in the snow where they
had slid down quite steep rocks for some distance,
probably by putting their four feet close
together. Great herds often come down from
the region on the western shore of Hudson
Bay and return the following summer.

Very few people have any idea of the immense
numbers of caribou which are found in
the great tract of country to the west of Hudson
Bay. By many who are familiar with
this country they are believed to be as numerous
as the buffaloes ever were in the early
days. When more or less scarce, as they
were during the greater portion of our hunt,
they afford excellent hunting; but I should
imagine that when they are very numerous
there would be little sport in killing them, for
as a rule they are not at all shy or difficult to
approach. In general it may be said that the
caribou of this region, known as the woodland
caribou, live in the wooded districts during
the summer and autumn, but in the winter
time go to the higher land. Wind and cold
seem to have no terror for them, and I doubt
very much whether there is an animal in the
world, with the exception perhaps of the
musk-ox or the polar bear, that is so well
fitted by nature to withstand the intense cold
of the region in which they live. When one
sees a caribou's track for the first time, he is
amazed at its size, and its difference from the
long, narrow, sharp-toed track of the moose,
and naturally comes to the conclusion that the
animal must be much larger than it really is.
As a matter of fact, they are not much larger
than the black-tailed deer, and considerably
smaller than the elk of the Rocky Mountains.
Until he has seen them, one is likely to imagine
that the caribou is an ungainly, misshapen
animal. This is a great mistake. Not only
are they as a rule well proportioned, but they
are extremely graceful. Their curious horns
give them, of course, rather an odd appearance.
The meat we found to be delicious,
and rather better than moose meat.

After having remained as long as we desired
in this country, and as long as we could
stand the infernal smoke of the tepee, and
after having secured a good supply of meat
for our return journey, we loaded our toboggans
and retraced our steps without especial
incident to the mouth of the Bad Throat
River. From there we took a sleigh to Selkirk,
driving over the lake on the ice, and
arriving at Selkirk the latter part of January
or the 1st of February.

To those who may contemplate taking a
similar trip to the Canadian woods in winter, I
would say that it will prove a very interesting
and never-to-be-forgotten experience, and that
the hardships of such a trip are not necessarily
severe if one will be guided entirely by the advice
of the inhabitants of the region, especially
as to his clothing and general outfit. I feel
certain that, if one goes to the right locality,
not only will he get good sport, but he will
get it under very pleasant and novel conditions,
and return home more benefited in
every way than if he had taken a trip of the
same duration to some warm climate. Under
no circumstances, however, let him imagine
that he knows more than the people of the
country as to what he should do and wear.

D. M. Barringer.

OUTESHAI, RUSSIAN BARZOI.

Wolf-Hunting in Russia

The enormous extent and diversified conditions
of the various localities of this empire
would naturally suggest a variety of sport in
hunting and shooting, including perhaps something
characteristic. In the use of dogs of the
chase especially is this suggestion borne out
by the facts, and it has been said that in no
other country has the systematic working together
of fox-hounds and greyhounds been successfully
carried out.

Unfortunately, this sort of hunting is not
now so general as prior to the emancipation of
the serfs in 1861. A modest kennel for such
sport consists of six to ten fox-hounds and four
to six pairs of barzois,[1] and naturally demands
considerable attention. Moreover, to use it
requires the presence of at least one man with
the fox-hounds and one man for each pair or
each three greyhounds. To have a sufficient
number of good huntsmen at his service was
formerly a much less expensive luxury to a
proprietor than now, and to this fact is due
the decline of the combined kennel in Russia.

This hunt is more or less practised throughout
the entire extent of the Russian Empire.
In the south, where the soil is not boggy, it is
far better sport than in Northern Russia, where
there are such enormous stretches of marshy
woods and tundra. Curiously enough, nearly
all the game of these northern latitudes, including
moose, wolves, hares, and nearly all
kinds of grouse and other birds, seem to be
found in the marshiest places—those almost
impracticable to mounted hunters.

Though the distances covered in hunting,
and also in making neighborly visits in Russia,
are vast, often recalling our own broad Western
life, yet in few other respects are any similarities
to be traced. This is especially true of
Russia north of the Moscow parallel; for in
the south the steppes have much in common
with the prairies, though more extensive, and
the semi-nomadic Cossacks, in their mounted
peregrinations and in their pastoral life, have
many traits in common with real Americans.
Nor is it true of the Caucasus, where it would
seem that the Creator, dissatisfied with the
excess of the great plain,[2] extending from the
Finnish Gulf to the Black Sea, resolved to
establish a counterpoise, and so heaved up the
gigantic Caucasus. There too are to be found
fine hunting and shooting, which merit description
and which offer good sport to mountain
amateurs.

The annual hunt in the fall of 1893 in the
governments of Tver and Yaroslav, with the
Gatchino kennels, will give a good idea of
the special sport of which I have spoken. It
is imperative that these hounds go to the hunt
once a year for about a month, although for
the most part without their owner. The master
of the hunt and his assistant, with three or
four guests, and oftentimes the proprietors of
the lands where the hounds happen to hunt,
usually constitute the party. The hunt changes
locality nearly every year, but rarely does it go
further from home than on this occasion, about
450 versts from Gatchino. As a rule it is not
difficult to obtain from proprietors permission
to hunt upon their estates, and this is somewhat
surprising to one who has seen the freedom
with which the fences are torn down and
left unrepaired. It is true that they are not of
the strongest and best type, and that peasant
labor is still very cheap; yet such concessions
to sport would rarely be made in America.

It was at Gatchino, on the 10th day of September,
that the hunting train was loaded with
men, horses, dogs, provisions and wagons. The
hunt called for twenty-two cars in all, including
one second-class passenger car, in one end
of which four of us made ourselves comfortable,
while in the other end servants found
places. The weather was cold and rainy, and,
as our train traveled as a freight, we had two
nights before us. It was truly a picturesque
and rare sight to see a train of twenty-two cars
loaded with the personnel, material and live
stock of a huge kennel. The fox-hounds, seventy
in number, were driven down in perfect,
close order by the beaters to the cracks of the
Russian hunting whip and installed in their
car, which barely offered them sufficient accommodation.
The greyhounds, three sorts,
sixty-seven in number, were brought down on
leashes by threes, fours or fives, and loaded in
two cars. Sixty saddle and draft horses, with
saddles, wagons and hunting paraphernalia,
were also loaded. Finally the forty-four gray
and green uniformed huntsmen, beaters, drivers
and ourselves were ready, and the motley
train moved away amid the uttered and unuttered
benedictions of the families and relatives
of the parting hunt.

Our first destination was Peschalkino, in the
government of Tver, near the River Leet, a
tributary of the Volga, not far from the site of
the first considerable check of the Mongolian
advance about 1230. I mention this fact in
passing to give some idea of the terrain, because
I think that it is evident to anyone who
has visited this region that the difficulty of
provisioning and of transportation in these
marshes must have offered a greater obstacle
to an invading army than did the then defenders
of their country.

We passed our time most agreeably in playing
vint[3] and talking of hunting incidents along
the route. Many interesting things were told
about the habits of wolves and other game, and,
as they were vouched for by two thorough gentlemen
and superb sportsmen, and were verified
as far as a month's experience in the field
would permit, I feel authorized to cite them
as facts.

The bear has been called in folk-lore the
moujik's brother, and it must be conceded that
there are outward points of resemblance, especially
when each is clad in winter attire;
moreover the moujik, when all is snow and ice,
fast approximates the hibernating qualities of
the bear. One strong point of difference is
the accentuated segregative character of the
former, who always live in long cabin villages.[4]

But it is rather of the wolf's habits and domestic
economy that I wish to speak—of him
who has always been the dreaded and accursed
enemy of the Russian peasant. In the question
of government the wolf follows very closely the
system of the country, which is pre-eminently
patriarchal—the fundamental principle of the
mir. A family of wolves may vary in number
from six to twenty, and contain two to four
generations, usually two or three, yet there is
always one chief and one wife—in other words,
never more than one female with young ones.
When larger packs have been seen together
it was probably the temporary marshaling of
their forces for some desperate raid or the preliminaries
of an anarchistic strike. The choruses
of wolves and the special training of the
young for them are interesting characteristics.
Upon these choruses depends the decision of
the hunter whether or not to make his final
attack upon the stronghold of the wolves; by
them he can tell with great precision the number
in the family and the ages of the different
members. They are to wolf-hunters what tracks
are to moose- and bear-hunters—they serve to
locate the game. When the family is at home
they occur with great regularity at twilight,
midnight and dawn.

In camp near Billings, Montana, in the fall
of 1882, we heard nightly about 12 o'clock the
howling of a small pack of coyotes; but we
supposed that it was simply a "howling protest"
against the railway train, passing our
camp at midnight, that had just reached that
part of the world. Possibly our coyotes have
also howling choruses at regular intervals, like
the Russian wolves.

There was such a fascination in listening to
the wolves that we went out several times
solely for that purpose. The weirdness of the
sound and the desolateness of the surroundings
produced peculiar sensations upon the listener.
To an enthusiastic lover of sport and nature
these pleasurable sensations might be well
compared with the effect of the Niebelungen
songs upon an ardent Wagnerite. The old
professional huntsmen could tell just what
members of the family and how many were
howling; they scarcely disagreed upon these
points.

These old hunters pretended to interpret
the noisy assemblies of the wolves as regards
content or discontent, satisfaction or dissatisfaction.

Owing to the difficulty of securing wolves
under most favorable circumstances, especially
old ones, it would be considered folly to make
a drive if the matinal howl had not been
heard. But to make a successful drive in a
large marshy forest many beaters must be employed,
and, as they are gathered from far and
near, considerable time is necessary to collect
them; therefore it is almost essential to know
that the wolves were "at home" at midnight
as well as dawn.

While in the vicinity of a certain wolf family
whose habitat was an enormous marshy wood,
entirely impossible to mounted men, we were
compelled to await for forty-eight hours the return
of the old ones, father and mother. At
times during this wait only the young ones, at
other times the young and the intermediate
ones, would sing. Not hearing the old ones,
we inferred they were absent, and so they
were—off on a raid, during which they killed
two peasant horses ten miles from their stronghold.
It was supposed that the wolves of intermediate
age also made excursions during
this time, as indicated by the howlings, but not
to such great distances as the old ones. It
was perfectly apparent, as we listened one
evening, that the old ones had placed the
young ones about a verst away and were making
them answer independently. This seemed
too human for wolves.

After one day and two nights of travel we
arrived at the little station of Peschalkino, on
the Bologoe-Rybinsk Railway, not far from
the frontier between the two governments,
Tver and Yaroslav, where we were met by
two officers of the guard, a Yellow Cuirassier
and a Preobiajensky, on leave of absence on
their estates (Koy), sixteen versts from the
rail. They were brothers-in-law and keen
sportsmen, who became members of our party
and who indicated the best localities for game
on their property, as well as on the adjoining
estates.

Peschalkino boasts a painted country tavern
of two stories, the upper of which, with side
entrance, we occupied, using our own beds and
bed linen, table and table linen, cooking and
kitchen utensils; in fact, it was a hotel where
we engaged the walled-in space and the brick
cooking stove. As to the huntsmen and the
dogs, they were quartered in the adjacent unpainted
log-house peasant village—just such
villages as are seen all over Russia, in which a
mud road, with plenty of mud, comprises all
there is of streets and avenues. After having
arranged our temporary domicile, and having
carefully examined horses and dogs to see how
they had endured the journey, we made ready
to accept a dinner invitation at the country
place of our new members. Horses were put
to the brake, called by the Russians Amerikanka
(American), and we set out for a drive
of sixteen versts over a mud road to enjoy
the well-known Slav hospitality so deeply engrafted
in the Ponamaroff family.

I said road, but in reality it scarcely merits
the name, as it is neither fenced nor limited in
width other than by the sweet will of the traveler.
Special mention is made of this road
because its counterparts exist all over the empire.
It is the usual road, and not the exception,
which is worse, as many persons have
ample reasons for knowing. This condition
is easily explained by the scarcity of stone,
the inherent disregard of comfort, the poverty
of the peasants, the absence of a yeoman
class, and the great expense that would be
entailed upon the landed proprietors, who live
at enormous distances from each other. The
country in these and many other governments
has been civilized many generations, but so
unfinished and primitive does it all seem that
it recalls many localities of our West, where
civilization appeared but yesterday, and where
to-morrow it will be well in advance of these
provinces. The hand-flail, the wooden plow-share,
the log cabin with stable under the
same roof, could have been seen here in the
twelfth century as they are at present. Thanks
to the Moscow factories, the gala attire of the
peasant of to-day may possibly surpass in brilliancy
of color that of his remote ancestry,
which was clad entirely from the home loom.
With the exception of the white brick churches,
whose tall green and white spires in the
distance appear at intervals of eight to ten
versts, and of occasional painted window casings,
there is nothing to indicate that the colorings
of time and nature are not preferable
to those of art. The predominating features
of the landscape are the windmills and the
evenness of the grain-producing country, dotted
here and there by clumps of woods, called
islands. The churches, too, are conspicuous
by their number, size, and beauty of architecture;
school-houses, by their absence. Prior to
1861 there must have been a veritable mania
here for church-building. The large and beautiful
church at Koy, as well as two other pretentious
brick ones, were constructed on his
estates by the grandfather of our host.

Arrived at Koy, we found a splendid country
place, with brick buildings, beautiful gardens,
several hot-houses and other luxuries, all
of which appeared the more impressive by contrast.
The reception and hospitality accorded
us at Koy—where we were highly entertained
with singing, dancing and cards until midnight—was
as bounteous as the darkness and rainfall
which awaited us on the sixteen versts'
drive over roadless roads back to our quarter
bivouac at Peschalkino.

The following morning marked the beginning
of our hunting. About 10 o'clock all was
in readiness. Every hunter[5] had been provided
with a leash, a knife and a whip; and,
naturally, every huntsman with the two latter.
In order to increase the number of posts,
some of the huntsmen were also charged with
leashes of greyhounds. I shall in the future
use the word greyhound to describe all the
sight hounds, in contradistinction to fox-hound;
it includes barzois (Russian greyhounds),
greyhounds (English) and crosses
between the two. The barzois numbered
about 75 per cent. of all the greyhounds, and
were for the most part somewhat less speedy
than the real greyhounds, but better adapted
for wolf-hunting. They also have greater
skill in taking hold, and this, even in hare
coursing, sometimes gives them advantage
over faster dogs. One of the most interesting
features of the coursing was the matching of
Russian and English greyhounds. The leash
system used in the field offers practically the
same fairness as is shown by dogs at regular
coursing matches. The leash is a black narrow
leather thong about fifteen feet long, with
a loop at one end that passes over the right
shoulder and under the left arm. The long
thong with a slit at the end, forming the hand
loop, is, when not in use, folded up like a lariat
or a driving rein, and is stuck under the knife
belt. To use it, the end is put through the
loop-ring collars, which the greyhounds continually
wear, and is then held fast in the left
hand until ready to slip the hounds. Where
the country is at all brushy, three dogs are the
practical limit of one leash, still for the most
part only two are employed. It is surprising
to see how quickly the dogs learn the leash
with mounted huntsmen; two or three days
are sufficient to teach them to remain at the
side of the horse and at a safe distance from
his feet. Upon seeing this use of the leash
with two dogs each, I was curious to know
why it should be so; why it would not be
more exciting to see half a dozen or more
hounds in hot pursuit racing against each
other and having a common goal, just as it
is more exciting to see a horse race with a
numerous entry than merely with two competitors.
This could have been remedied, so
I thought, by having horsemen go in pairs,
or having several dogs when possible on one
leash. Practice showed the wisdom of the
methods actually employed. In the first place,
it is fairer for the game; in the second, it
saves the dogs; and finally, it allows a greater
territory to be hunted over with the same
number of dogs.

There are two ways of hunting foxes and
hares, and, with certain variations, wolves also.
These are, by beating and driving with fox-hounds,
and by open driving with greyhounds
alone. In the first case a particular wood
(island) is selected, and the fox-hounds with
their mounted huntsmen are sent to drive it
in a certain direction. The various leashes of
greyhounds (barzois alone if wolves be expected)
are posted on the opposite side, at the
edge of the wood or in the field, and are
loosed the second the game has shown its intention
of clearing the open space expressly
selected for the leash. The mounted beaters
with the fox-hounds approach the thick woods
of evergreens, cottonwood, birch and undergrowth,
and wait on its outskirts until a bugle
signal informs them that all the greyhound
posts are ready. The fox-hounds recognize
the signal, and would start immediately were
they not terrorized by the black nagaika—a
product of a country that has from remotest
times preferred the knout[6] to the gallows, and
so is skilled in its manufacture and use. At
the word go from the chief beater the seventy
fox-hounds, which have been huddled up as
closely as the encircling beaters could make
them, rush into the woods. In a few minutes,
sometimes seconds, the music begins—and
what music! I really think there are too
many musicians, for the voices not being classified,
there is no individuality, but simply a
prolonged howl. For my part, I prefer fewer
hounds, where the individual voices may be
distinguished. It seemed to be a needless use
of so many good dogs, for half the number
would drive as well; but they were out for
exercise and training, and they must have it.
Subsequently the pack was divided into two,
but this was not necessitated by fatigue of the
hounds, for we hunted on alternate days with
greyhounds alone.

One could well believe that foxes might remain
a long time in the woods, even when
pursued by such noise; but it seemed to me
that the hares[7] would have passed the line of
posts more quickly than they did. At the
suitable moment, when the game was seen,
the nearest leash was slipped, and when they
seemed to be on the point of losing another
and sometimes a third was slipped. The poor
fox-hounds were not allowed to leave the
woods; the moment the game appeared in the
open space they were driven back by the stiff
riders with their cruel whips. The true fox-hound
blood showed itself, and to succeed in
beating some of them off the trail, especially
the young ones, required most rigorous action
on the part of all. This seemed to me a prostitution
of the good qualities of a race carefully
bred for centuries, and, while realizing
the necessity of the practice for that variety
of hunt, I could never look upon it with complaisance.

It is just this sort of hunt[8] for which the
barzoi has been specially bred, and which has
developed in him a tremendous spring; at the
same time it has given him less endurance
than the English greyhound. It was highly
interesting to follow the hounds with the beaters;
but, owing to the thickness of the woods
and the absence of trails, it was far from being
an easy task either for horse or rider. To remain
at a post with a leash of hounds was
hardly active or exciting enough for me—except
when driving wolves—especially when the
hounds could be followed, or when the open
hunt could be enjoyed. In the second case the
hunters and huntsmen with leashes form a line
with intervals of 100 to 150 yards and march
for versts straight across the country, cracking
the terrible nagaika and uttering peculiar exciting
yells that would start game on a parade
ground. After a few days I flattered myself
that I could manage my leash fairly and slip
them passably well. To two or three of the
party leashes were not intrusted, either because
they did not desire them or for their
want of experience in general with dogs and
horses. To handle a leash well requires experience
and considerable care. To prevent
tangling in the horse's legs, especially at the
moment the game is sighted, requires that the
hounds be held well in hand, and that they be
not slipped until both have sighted the game.
I much prefer the open hunt to the post system.
There is more action, and in fact more
sport, whether it happens that one or several
leashes be slipped for the same animal. When
it is not possible to know whose dogs have
taken the game, it belongs to him who arrived
first, providing that he has slipped his leash.

So much for the foxes and hares, but the
more interesting hunting of wolves remains.
Few people except wolf-hunters—and they
are reluctant to admit it—know how rarely
old wolves are caught with hounds. All admit
the danger of taking an old one either by a
dagger thrust or alive from under[9] barzois,
however good they be. There is always a
possibility that the dogs may loosen their hold
or be thrown off just at the critical moment.
But the greatest difficulty consists in the inability
of the hounds to hold the wolf even
when they have overtaken him. When it is
remembered that a full-grown wolf is nearly
twice as heavy as the average barzoi, and that
pound for pound he is stronger, it is clear that
to overtake and hold him requires great speed
and grit on the part of a pair of hounds.

A famous kennel,[10] which two years since
caught forty-six wolves by the combined system
of hunting, took in that number but one
old wolf—that is, three years or more old.
The same kennel last year caught twenty-six
without having a single old one in the number.
We likewise failed to include in our captures a
single old wolf. I mention these facts to correct
the false impression that exists with us
concerning the barzois, as evidenced by the
great disappointment when two years since a
pair, in one of the Western States, failed to
kill outright a full-grown timber wolf. At the
field trials on wolves, which take place twice
a year at Colomiaghi, near Petersburg, immediately
after the regular field trials on
hares, I have seen as many as five leashes
slipped before an old wolf could be taken, and
then it was done only with the greatest difficulty.
In fact, as much skill depends upon
the borzatnik (huntsman) as the dogs. Almost
the very second the dogs take hold he simply
falls from his horse upon the wolf and endeavors
to thrust the unbreakable handle of his
nagaika between the jaws of the animal; he
then wraps the lash around the wolf's nose
and head. If the hounds are able to hold
even a few seconds, the skilled borzatnik has
had sufficient time, but there is danger even to
the best. I saw an experienced man get a
thumb terribly lacerated while muzzling a wolf,
yet he succeeded, and in an incredibly short
time. On another occasion, even before the
brace of hounds had taken firm neck or ear
holds, I saw a bold devil of a huntsman swing
from his horse and in a twinkling lie prone
upon an old wolf's head. How this man,
whose pluck I shall always admire, was able
to muzzle the brute without injury to himself,
and with inefficient support from his hounds,
it is not easy to understand, though I was
within a few yards of the struggle. Such
skill comes from long experience, indifference
to pain and, of course, pride in his profession.

Having hunted foxes and hares, and having
been shooting as often as the environs of Peschalkino
and our time allowed, we changed
our base to a village twenty-two versts distant
over the border in the government of Yaroslav.
It was a village like all others of this
grain and flax district, where the live stock
and poultry shared the same roof with their
owners. A family of eleven wolves had been
located about three versts from it by a pair of
huntsmen sent some days in advance; this explained
our arrival. In making this change, I
do not now recall that we saw a single house
other than those of the peasant villages and
the churches. I fancy that in the course of
time these peasants may have more enlightenment,
a greater ownership in the land, and
may possibly form a yeoman class. At the
present the change, slow as it is, seems to
point in that direction. With their limited
possessions, they are happy and devoted subjects.
The total of the interior decorations of
every house consists of icons, of cheap colored
pictures of the imperial family and of samovars.
In our lodgings, the house of the village
starost, the three icons consumed a great part
of the wall surface, and were burdened with
decorations of various colored papers. No
one has ever touched upon peasant life in Russia
without mentioning the enormous brick
stove (lezanka[11]); and having on various hunts
profited by them, I mean to say a word in behalf
of their advantages. Even as early as
the middle of September the cold continuous
rains cause the gentle warmth of the lezanka
to be cordially appreciated. On it and in its
vicinity all temperatures may be found. Its
top offers a fine place for keeping guns, ammunition
and various articles free from moisture,
and for drying boots;[12] while the horizontal
abutments constitute benches well adapted
to thawing out a chilled marrow, or a sleeping
place for those that like that sort of thing. A
generous space is also allowed for cooking purposes.
In point of architecture there is nothing
that can be claimed for it but stability; excepting
the interior upper surface of the oven,
there is not a single curve to break its right
lines. It harmonizes with the surroundings,
and in a word answers all the requirements of
the owner as well as of the hunter, who always
preserves a warm remembrance of it.

The wolves were located in a large marshy
wood and, from information of the scouts based
on the midnight and dawn choruses, they were
reported "at home." Accordingly we prepared
for our visit with the greatest precautions.
When within a verst of the proposed curved
line upon which we were to take our stands
with barzois, all dismounted and proceeded
through the marsh on foot, making as little
noise as possible. The silence was occasionally
broken by the efforts of the barzois to
slip themselves after a cur belonging to one of
the peasant beaters, that insisted upon seeing
the sport at the most aggravating distance for
a sight hound. It was finally decided to slip
one good barzoi that, it was supposed, could
send the vexatious animal to another hunting
ground; but the cur, fortunately for himself,
suddenly disappeared and did not show himself
again.

After wading a mile in the marshy bog, we
were at the beginning of the line of combat—if
there was to be any. The posts along this
line had been indicated by the chief huntsman
by blazing the small pine trees or by hanging
a heap of moss on them. The nine posts were
established in silence along the arc of a circle
at distances from each other of about 150
yards. My post was number four from the
beginning. In rear of it and of the adjoining
numbers a strong high cord fence was put up,
because it was supposed that near this part of
the line the old wolves would pass, and that
the barzois might not be able to stop them.
The existence of such fencing material as part
of the outfit of a wolf-hunter is strong evidence
of his estimate of a wolf's strength—it speaks
pages. The fence was concealed as much as
possible, so that the wolf with barzois at his
heels might not see it. The huntsmen stationed
there to welcome him on his arrival
were provided with fork-ended poles, intended
to hold him by the neck to the ground until
he was gagged and muzzled, or until he had
received a fatal dagger thrust.

While we were forming the ambuscade—defensive
line—the regular beaters, with 200
peasant men and women, and the fox-hounds,
were forming the attack.

Everything seemed favorable except the incessant
cold rain and wind. In our zeal to
guard the usual crossings of the wolves, we
ignored the direction of the wind, which the
wolves, however, cleverly profited by. It could
not have been very long after the hounds were
let go before they fell upon the entire family
of wolves, which they at once separated. The
shouts and screams of the peasants, mingled
with the noises of the several packs of hounds,
held us in excited attention. Now and then
this or that part of the pack would approach
the line, and, returning, pass out of hearing
in the extensive woods. The game had approached
within scenting distance, and, in spite
of the howling in the rear, had returned to depart
by the right or left flank of the beaters.
As the barking of the hounds came near the
line, the holders of the barzois, momentarily
hoping to see a wolf or wolves, waited in
almost breathless expectancy. Each one was
prepared with a knife to rush upon an old
wolf to support his pair; but unfortunately
only two wolves came to our line, and they
were not two years old. They were taken at
the extreme left flank, so far away that I could
not even see the killing. I was disappointed,
and felt that a great mistake had been made
in not paying sufficient attention to the direction
of the wind. Where is the hunter who
has not had his full share of disappointments
when all prospects seemed favorable? As often
happens, it was the persons occupying the
least favorable places who had bagged the
game. They said that in one case the barzois
had held the wolf splendidly until the fatal
thrust; but that in the other case it had been
necessary to slip a second pair before it could
be taken. These young wolves were considerably
larger than old coyotes.

FOXHOUNDS OF THE IMPERIAL KENNELS.

So great was the forest hunted that for
nearly two hours we had occupied our posts
listening to the spasmodic trailing of the
hounds and the yelling of the peasants. Finally
all the beaters and peasants reached our
line, and the drive was over, with only two
wolves taken from the family of eleven. Shivering
with cold and thoroughly drenched, we
returned in haste to shelter and dry clothes.

The following morning we set out on our
return to Peschalkino, mounted, with the barzois,
while the fox-hounds were driven along
the road. We marched straight across the
country in a very thin skirmish line, regardless
of fences, which were broken down and
left to the owners to be repaired. By the time
we had reached our destination, we had enjoyed
some good sport and had taken several
hares. The following morning the master of
the imperial hunt, who had been kept at his
estates near Moscow by illness in his family,
arrived, fetching with him his horses and a
number of his own hounds. We continued
our hunting a number of days longer in that
vicinity, both with and without fox-hounds,
with varying success. Every day or two we
also indulged in shooting for ptarmigan, black
cocks, partridges, woodcocks and two kinds of
snipe—all of which prefer the most fatiguing
marshes.

One day our scouts arrived from Philipovo,
twenty-six versts off, to report that another
family of wolves, numbering about sixteen,
had been located. The Amerikanka was sent
in advance to Orodinatovo, whither we went
by rail at a very early hour. This same rainy
and cold autumnal landscape would be intolerable
were it not brightened here and there by
the red shirts and brilliant headkerchiefs of
the peasants, the noise of the flail on the dirt-floor
sheds and the ever-alluring attractions of
the hunt.

During this short railway journey, and on
the ride to Philipovo, I could not restrain
certain reflections upon the life of the people
and of the proprietors of this country. It
seemed on this morning that three conditions
were necessary to render a permanent habitation
here endurable: neighbors, roads and
a change of latitude; of the first two there are
almost none, of latitude there is far too much.
To be born in a country excuses its defects,
and that alone is sufficient to account for the
continuance of people under even worse conditions
than those of these governments. It is
true that the soil here does not produce fruit
and vegetables like the Crimean coast, and
that it does not, like the black belt, "laugh
with a harvest when tickled with a hoe"; yet
it produces, under the present system of cultivation,
rye and flax sufficient to feed, clothe
and pay taxes. What more could a peasant
desire? With these provided his happiness is
secured; how can he be called poor? Without
questioning this defense, which has been
made many times in his behalf, I would simply
say that he is not poor as long as a famine or
plague of some sort does not arrive—and then
proceed with our journey.

From Orodinatovo to Philipovo is only ten
versts, but over roads still less worthy of the
name than the others already traveled. The
Amerikanka was drawn by four horses abreast.
The road in places follows the River Leet, on
which Philipovo is situated. We had expected
to proceed immediately to hunt the wolves,
and nearly 300 peasant men and women had
been engaged to aid the fox-hounds as beaters.
They had been assembled from far and near,
and were congregated in the only street of
Philipovo, in front of our future quarters, to
await our arrival. What a motley assembly,
what brilliancy of coloring! All were armed
with sticks, and carried bags or cloths containing
their rations of rye bread swung from the
shoulders, or around the neck and over the
back. How many pairs of boots were hung
over the shoulders? Was it really the custom
to wear boots on the shoulders? In any case
it was de rigueur that each one show that he
or she possessed such a luxury as a good pair
of high top boots; but it was not a luxury to
be abused or recklessly worn out. Their system
of foot-gear has its advantages in that the
same pair may be used by several members of
a family, male and female alike.

It was not a pleasure for us to hear that the
wolves had been at home at twilight and midnight,
but were not there at dawn; much less
comforting was this news to those peasants
living at great distances who had no place
near to pass the night. The same information
was imparted the following day and the
day following, until it began to appear doubtful
whether we could longer delay in order to
try for this very migratory pack.

Our chances of killing old wolves depended
largely upon this drive, for it was doubtful
whether we would make an attack upon the
third family, two days distant from our quarters.
Every possible precaution was taken to
make it a success. I was, however, impressed
with the fact that the most experienced members
of the hunting party were the least sanguine
about the old wolves.

Some one remarked that my hunting knife,
with a six-inch blade, was rather short, and
asked if I meant to try and take an old wolf.
My reply was in the affirmative, for my intentions
at that stage were to try anything in the
form of a wolf. At this moment one of the
land proprietors, who had joined our party,
offered to exchange knives with me, saying
that he had not the slightest intention of attacking
a wolf older than two years, and that
my knife was sufficient for that. I accepted
his offer.

At a very early hour on this cold rainy autumnal
morning we set out on our way to the
marshy haunts of the game. Our party had
just been reinforced by the arrival of the commander
of the Empress's Chevalier Guard
regiment, an ardent sportsman, with his dogs.
All the available fox-hounds, sixty in number,
were brought out, and the 300 peasants
counted off. The latter were keen, not only
because a certain part of them had sportsmanlike
inclinations, but also because each one received
thirty copecks for participation in the
drive. Besides this, they were interested in
the extermination of beasts that were living
upon their live stock.

The picture at the start was more than
worthy of the results of the day, and it remains
fresh in my mind. The greater portion
of the peasants were taken in charge by the
chief beater, with the hounds, while the others
followed along with us and the barzois. Silence
was enforced upon all. The line of posts was
established as before, except that more care
was exercised. Each principal post, where
three barzois were held on leash, was strengthened
by a man with a gun loaded with buckshot.
The latter had instructions not to fire
upon a wolf younger than two years, and not
even upon an older one, until it was manifest
that the barzois and their holder were unequal
to the task.

My post was a good one, and my three dogs
were apparently keen for anything. At the
slightest noise they were ready to drag me off
my feet through the marsh. Thanks to the
nagaika, I was able to keep them in hand.
One of the trio was well known for his grit in
attacking wolves, the second was considered
fair, while the third, a most promising two-year-old,
was on his first wolf-hunt. Supported
by these three dogs, the long knife of
the gentleman looking for young wolves and
the yellow cuirassier officer with his shotgun, I
longed for some beast that would give a struggle.
The peasants accompanying us were
posted out on each flank of our line, extending
it until the extremities must have been separated
by nearly two miles.

The signal was given, and hunters, peasants
and hounds rushed into the woods. Almost
instantly we heard the screams and yells of
the nearest peasants, and in a short time the
faint barking of the fox-hounds. As the sounds
became more audible, it was evident that the
hounds had split into three packs—conclusive
that there were at least three wolves. My
chances were improving, and I was arranging
my dogs most carefully, that they might be
slipped evenly. My knife, too, was within convenient
grasp, and the fox-hounds were pointing
directly to me. Beastly luck! I saw my
neighbor, the hunter of young wolves, slip his
barzois, and like a flash they shot through the
small pine trees, splashing as they went. From
my point of view they had fallen upon an animal
that strongly resembled one of themselves.
In reality it was a yearling wolf, but he was
making it interesting for the barzois as well
as for all who witnessed the sight. The struggle
did not last long, for soon two of the barzois
had fastened their long teeth in him—one
at the base of the ear, the other in the throat.
Their holder hastened to the struggle, about
100 yards from his post, and with my knife
gave the wolf the coup de grace. His dogs
had first sighted the game, and therefore had
the priority of right to the chase. So long as
the game was in no danger of escaping no
neighboring dogs should be slipped. His
third barzoi, on trial for qualifications as a
wolf-hound, did not render the least aid.

Part of the fox-hounds were still running,
and there was yet chance that my excited dogs
might have their turn. We waited impatiently
until all sounds had died away and until the
beaters had reached our line, when further indulgence
of hope was useless. Besides the
above, the fox-hounds had caught and killed a
yearling in the woods; and Colonel Dietz had
taken with his celebrated Malodiets, aided by
another dog, a two-year-old. What had become
of the other wolves and where were
most of the hounds? Without waiting to
solve these problems, we collected what we
could of our outfit and returned to Philipovo,
leaving the task of finding the dogs to the
whippers-in. The whys and wherefores of the
hunt were thoroughly discussed at dinner, and
it was agreed that most of the wolves had
passed to the rear between the beaters. It
was found out that the peasants, when a short
distance in the woods, had through fear formed
into squads instead of going singly or in pairs.
This did not, however, diminish the disappointment
at not taking at least one of the old ones.

The result of this drive logically brought up
the question of the best way to drive game.
In certain districts of Poland deer are driven
from the line of posts, and the same can be
said of successful moose-hunts of Northern
Russia. Perhaps that way may also be better
for wolves.

After careful consideration of the hunting
situation, we were unanimous in preferring
hare and fox coursing with both fox-hounds
and barzois, or with the latter alone, at discretion,
to the uncertainty of wolf-hunting; so we
decided to change our locality. Accordingly
the following day we proceeded in the Amerikanka
to the town of Koy, twenty-five
versts distant. We arrived about noon, and
were quartered in a vacant house in the large
yard of Madam Ponamaroff. Our retinue of
huntsmen, dogs, horses, ambulance and wagons
arrived an hour later.

There was no more wolf-hunting.

Henry T. Allen.

A Bear-Hunt in the Sierras

A few years ago, a friend and I were cruising
for our amusement in California, with outfit
of our own, consisting of three pack horses,
two saddle animals, tent and camp furnishings.
We had started from Los Angeles; had explored
various out-of-the-way passes and valleys
in the San Bernardino and San Rafael
Mountains, taking care the while to keep our
camp supplied with game; had killed deer and
exceptionally fine antelope in the hills adjoining
the Mojave Desert; had crossed the San
Joaquin Valley and visited the Yosemite, where
the good fortune of finding the Half Dome,
with the Anderson rope, carried away by ice,
gave us the opportunity for one delicious climb
in replacing it.

Returning to Fresno, we had sold our ponies
and ended our five months' jaunt. My friend
had gone East, and I had accepted the invitation
of a member of the Union Club in San
Francisco, to whom I bore a letter of introduction,
to accompany him upon a bear-hunt in
the Sierras. He explained to me that the
limited extent of his ranch in the San Joaquin
Valley—a meager and restricted demesne of
only 7,000 acres, consisting of splendid pasturage
and arable land—made it necessary for
the sheep to look elsewhere than at home for
sustenance during the summer months.

Many of the great ranches in the valley possessed
prescriptive rights to pasturage over
vast tracts in the high Sierras. These, although
not recognized by the law, were at
least ignored, and were sanctioned by custom.
The land belonged to nobody—that is, it belonged
to Uncle Sam, which, so far as a Texas
or California stockman was concerned, amounted
to exactly the same thing. The owner of
such a right to pasturage zealously maintained
his claim; and if, for any reason, he could not
use it himself during a particular season, he
formally gave his consent to some one else to
enjoy the privilege in his stead. It was considered
a gross violation of etiquette for a
stockman to trespass upon that portion of the
forest habitually used by other sheep. Such
intrusions did occur, particularly upon the part
of Mexicans with small flocks—"tramp sheep"
they were called; but when the intruder was
shot, small sympathy accompanied him to the
grave, and the deep damnation of his taking
off, in more senses than one, served as a salutary
reminder to other gentlemen with discourteous
tendencies to maraud. The consequence
of all this was that a big ranchman spoke of
his summer range with the same sense of proprietorship
and security of possession as of his
alfalfa field or pits of ensilage.

We arrived at my friend's ranch in the evening,
and the next morning but one were in the
saddle and on our way—it having been arranged
that the younger brother of my host
was to take his place upon the hunt. As we
were to arrive at the sheep-herders' camps on
the fourth day from the ranch, no elaborate
preparations were necessary; we took but a
single animal for the pack, besides the horses
we rode. A Mexican herder, Leonard, was
the third member of the party—cook, packer,
guide, general storehouse of information and
jest. The first night we camped in the foot
hills, in a grove of big-cone pines, curiously
enough in the exact place where, a fortnight
before, my friend Proctor and I had pitched
our tent on the way from the Yosemite to
Fresno, and which we had left without the
slightest expectation, on the part of either, of
ever seeing again.

Little of the journey to the mountains remains
in my memory. We passed a great
timber chute of astonishing length—twenty or
forty miles, or something of the sort—down
which timber is floated from the great pine
and spruce forests to the railroad, with little
trouble and at slight expense; the water being
of commercial value for purposes of irrigation
during the summer, and bringing a good price
after it has fulfilled its special function as carrier.
The drinking water for my friend's ranch
was taken from this, a supply being drawn in
the cool of the morning sufficient to last
throughout the day, and most grateful we
found it during sultry August days in a part
of the country where ice is not to be procured.

Each of the four days of our journey we
were climbing higher among the mountains,
into a thinner and more invigorating atmosphere.
The days were hot so long as one remained
exposed to the sun, but the shadows
were cool and the nights most refreshing.
Upon the last morning of our journey, crossing
a mountain creek, my attention was called
to a rude bridge, where had occurred a battle
of the ranchmen upon the occasion of an attempted
entry by a "tramp" owner with his
flock into somebody's "summer range." The
intruder was killed, and I believe in this particular
instance the possessor of the unwritten
right of exclusive pasturage upon Government
land found the laws of California awkward
to deal with; not so deadly, it may be,
as a six-shooter, but expensive and discouraging
to quiet pastoral methods.

Another point of interest was Rattlesnake
Rock, which we rounded upon the trail. This
was a spot peculiarly sheltered and favored by
the winds, the warmest corner that snakes wot
of, and here they assemble for their winter's
sleep. In the mild days of early spring, when
the rest of the world is still frozen and forbidden,
this one little nook, catching all the sun,
is thawed and genial. From beneath the ledge
crawl forth into the warmth great store of rattlers,
big and little. Coming out from the Yosemite
Valley, I had killed one quite four feet
in length and of exactly the same girth as my
wrist, which I was assured was not at all an
extraordinary size for them "in these parts."
Near this rock, in an unfeeling manner, I shot
the head off another big one, and he will no
longer attend the yearly meeting of his kind
at Rattlesnake Rock.

Upon this stage of our journey we met no
one, yet the noble forest of spruce through
which we were traveling bore only too plainly
the signs of man's presence in the past, and of
his injurious disregard of the future. Everywhere
were the traces of fire. The trees of
the Sierras, at the elevation at which we were,
an altitude of 8,000 or 10,000 feet, grow more
sparsely than in any forest to which we are
accustomed in the East. Their dry and unimpeded
spaces seem like heaven to the hunter
familiar only with the tangled and perplexing
undergrowth of the "North Woods," where
the midday shadow, the thick underbrush, the
uneven and wet, mossy surface, except upon
some remote hardwood ridge, are the unvarying
characteristics. In the Rocky Mountains,
and that part of the Sierras with which I am
familiar, it is quite different. In California
the trees do not crowd and jostle one another,
but have regard for the sacredness of the person
so far as the mutual relation of one and
all are concerned. Broad patches of sunshine
beneath the trees encourage the growth of rich
grasses, none so sweet as those which are
found at a great altitude; and, although the
prevailing tint under foot is that of the reddish
earth, tufts of succulent feed abound sufficient
to repay the sheep for cruising everywhere,
while occasional glades furnish the most
delicious and abundant pasturage. As in every
forest, the processes of nature are slow—it takes
a long time for the dead past to bury its dead.
On every side lie fallen trees; and a generation
of rain and snow, sunshine and wind and
tempest, must elapse before these are rotted
away, and by the enrichment of the soil can
furnish nourishment and life to their progeny
and successors. Naturally these trees are a
hindrance and annoyance to the sheep herder;
they separate his flock and greatly increase his
labors. The land is not even his master's,
whose one idea is temporary gain, hence there
is no restraining influence whatever for their
preservation. "So long as it lasts my lifetime,
what matter?" is the prevailing sentiment.

As there is no rain during the summer
months, the fallen trees become perfectly dry;
a handful of lighted twigs is all that is required
to set fire to them, when they blaze or
smoulder until consumed. Owing to the absence
of underbrush, forest fires are far less
common than would be expected; but, of
course, the soil is impoverished by the deprivation
of its natural enrichment, the decaying
wood, and the centuries to come will
there, as well nigh everywhere in our country,
point the finger of scorn at our spendthrift
forestry.

Although this is the chief economic injury,
the beauty of the woods is sadly marred; all
large game is frightened away, except the
bear, which is half human and half hog in
his methods, and minds it not at all—in fact,
finds the presence of man perfectly intelligible,
and his fat flocks a substantial addition to
his own bill of fare. Leonard pointed out to
us a certain mountain shrub, a rank poison to
sheep. Every cluster of it in his range is
known to the herder, who keeps the sheep in
his charge at a safe distance. This is one of
his important duties; for, if a sheep eats of this
plant, he is a "goner."

In one particular the pasturage of the high
Sierras has greatly suffered. The ranchmen
naturally wish to get their sheep off the home
range as early in the spring as possible—in
fact, the last month there is one of starvation.
The new crops have not yet grown, nothing
remains standing of the old but a few dead
stalks of weeds, the supply of alfalfa cut the
year before has long since been exhausted,
and, metaphorically speaking, the sheep and
cattle have to dine, as the hungry Indian is
said to do, by tightening his belt half a dozen
holes and thinking of what he had to eat week
before last. Only the weaklings die, however;
the others become lean and restless, and as
eager as their masters to start for the mountains.
The journey supplies them with scant
pickings, just enough to keep body and soul
together, but morally it is a relief from the
monotony of starvation at home, and they
work their way stubbornly and expectantly up
the mountains and into the forest as soon as
the sun permits and anything has grown for
them to eat. The consequence of this close
grazing is that certain species of the grasses
upon which they feed are never allowed to
come to flower and mature their seed; hence
those with a delicate root, the more strictly
annual varieties, which rely upon seed for perpetuation
of the plant, have a hard time of it.
Where the sheep range, the wild timothy, for
example—a dwarf variety and an excellent,
sweet grass—has almost disappeared, although
formerly it grew in abundance.

The forest glades through which we passed
had the appearance of a closely-cropped pasture,
as different as possible from the profusion
of tall grasses and beautiful flowering
plants which grow in similar openings untroubled
by sheep. So far as the grasses are
concerned—or "grass," by which, I take it, is
ordinarily designated the foliage of the plant—I
doubt if it is molested to any great extent
by deer. Their diet is mainly the tender
leaves of plants—"weeds" to the unscientific
person. The heads of wild oats and of a few
of the grasses might prove sufficiently sweet
and tempting to arrest their fancy; but as for
grazing, as sheep or cattle do, it is not their
habit. When deer shall have come to trudge
up hill in the plodding gait of the domestic
beasts, and shall have abandoned their present
method of ascending by a series of splendid
springing leaps and bounds, the very embodiment
of vigor and of wild activity, time enough
then for them to take to munching grass, the
sustenance of the harmless, necessary cow. At
present they are most fastidious in their food,
and select only the choicest, tenderest tips and
sweetest tufts of herbage, picking them here
and there, wandering and meditating as they
eat. I will not say that they never touch
grass, for I have seen deer feeding among
cattle in the open, but it is not by any means
the chief article of their diet, and when they
partake of it under such circumstances, it is
more as a gratification of their social instincts,
I think, than from any particular love of the
food itself.

A little before noon upon the fourth day,
we arrived at one of the sheep camps, to which
we had been directed by a stray herd, and
where we were to find the foreman of the
sheep gang. At that hour of the day there
were naturally in camp but a few men. The
cook was there, of course. His functions were
simple enough—to make bread, tea, and boil
mutton, or bake it in a Mexican oven beneath
the coals. With him was the chief herder and
a half-witted Portuguese, who, upon the day
following, in the plenitude of his zeal and
mental deficiency, insisted upon offering himself
as live bait for a grizzly, as will be narrated.

During the afternoon I strolled further up
the mountain with my rifle, in the hope of a
shot at a stray deer, and to have a look at the
lay of the land. Bear tracks I saw and a little
deer sign also, but it was too early in the day
regularly to hunt. All nature nodded in the
dozy glare of the August afternoon, and after
the hot journey in the saddle I found a siesta
under the clean spruce trees refreshing. Toward
sunset I awoke to find a pine martin in a
tree across the gulch reconnoitering, and evidently
turning over in his mind the probabilities
whether the big creature curled up on the
hillside "forninst" him were of the cast of
hunter or hunted. I soon brought him out
of that, and upon my return to camp the hide
was graciously accepted by the chief herder,
who converted the head of it into a tobacco
pouch with neatness and dispatch. At the
evening meal there were good-natured references
to chile con oso—bear's meat cooked with
red peppers—regret expressed that the camp's
larder could at present afford none, and expressions
of confidence that this delicacy would
soon be set before us—all most politely and
comfortably insinuated. They had the gratification
of their desire; it was on the next day
but one.

That night there was a great jabbering of
bad Spanish around the camp-fire. Had this
been the rendezvous of Sicilian brigands, it
doubtless would have had a slightly more picturesque
appearance, but the difference would
have been only of degree, not at all of kind. The
absence of rain made tents unnecessary. Piles
of bedding, of cooking and riding equipment,
defined the encampment. Around the fire a
dozen Mexicans clustered, of whom, except
the chief herder and Leonard, not one spoke
English. They wore the broad hats of their
race, and were arrayed for protection against
the cool night winds of the Sierras in old and
shabby cloaks, some of which had been originally
bright in color, but now were subdued by
age and dirt into comfortable harmony with
the quiet tones of the mountain and the forest.
Old quilts and sheepskins carpeted a small
space where we had been invited to seat ourselves
upon our arrival. Then, as throughout
our stay, every possible mark of hospitality
was shown us—a delicious, faint survival of
Castilian courtesy.

Long after I had turned in, somewhere in
the dead vast and middle of the night, I was
aroused by the sound of scurry and scampering
among the bunch of sheep which was rounded
up near the camp. Experience has taught
these creatures to efface themselves at night,
and they are only too glad to sleep quietly, as
near as possible to humans, with no disposition
to wander after dark. They realize their
danger from bears, yet the protection which a
Mexican affords is a purely imaginary thing,
as unsubstantial as the baseless fabric of a
vision, of as little real substance for the protection
of the flock as the dream of mutton
stew and fat bear, by no means a baseless fabric,
which engrosses the sleeping shepherd,
body and mind. The disturbance upon this
occasion soon subsided. One and another of
the shepherds sleepily moved in his blankets—perhaps
swore to himself a hurried prayer
or two—but not one of them spoke aloud or
indicated the slightest intention of investigating
the cause of the commotion. Only too
well they and the sheep knew what it signified.
Quiet reigned again, and, attaching no importance
to the incident, I was promptly asleep.

In the morning I learned that the disturbing
cause had been the charge of a grizzly
into the flock within a stone's throw of us, a
sound too familiar to occasion comment at the
time. There were the tracks, to leeward of
the sheep, of a she grizzly and two cubs.
Their approach had been without a sound;
not the snap of a twig, or the faintest footfall,
had given any signal of their presence. The
mother had critically overhauled the flock in
her mind from a slight rise of ground, on a
level with their backs or slightly higher, and
made deliberate choice of a fat wether, having
a discriminating eye, and being too good a
judge of sheep flesh to take any but such as
are in prime condition. A single quick rush
and she has secured her victim, in an instant,
before the rest are fairly upon their feet, and
is off, carrying the sheep in her mouth as
easily as a cat would her kitten, her delighted
cubs trotting behind. Every two or three
nights this occurrence was repeated, with no
interference upon the part of the Mexicans.
"What recks it them?" "The hungry sheep
look up and are not fed." On the contrary,
the bears are. As for the Mexicans, they
have "lost no bear!" To have seen the intruder
would have been only a gratuitous
anxiety, since nothing in the world would
have tempted them to fire at it. Should they
risk life and limb for a sheep? and that the
patron's, who had so many! It was not their
quarrel! The charge of the grizzly was a
thing as much to be accepted as an incident
of the Sierras as the thunderbolt—equally
dangerous to him who should interfere as the
lightning stroke to one daring to interpose his
rifle between the angry heavens and the fore-doomed
tree.

We may feel sure that the lesson is not lost
upon the cubs. They are taught energy, sagacity,
craft in maturing their plans, courage
and promptness in their execution. They are
taught reverence for the ursine genius, unbounded
admiration for their mother's leadership
and steadiness of nerve, at the same time
that they are taught contempt for the stupidity
of sheep and the pusillanimity of humans.
It may be that an apologist for the latter
might find a word to mitigate their too severe
sentence. A she grizzly of the Sierras, at
night, with hungry cubs to feed, is not an
altogether pleasant thing to face when infuriated
by wounds, none of which may be bad
enough to cripple her, yet combined are amply
sufficient to make her pretty cross and dangerous.
The Mexican is a poor shot, but what
can you expect? His vocation is a humble
one. Were he of more positive and determined
temperament, he would be a vaquero of
the plains, or boyero (Anglicè "bull-whacker")
on the Santa Fé trail or down in old Mexico;
and not the dry nurse of these "woolly idiots,"
in whose race, for innumerable centuries, man
has elaborately cultivated stupidity, and, by
systematic process of artificial selection, has
faithfully eliminated every sign of insubordination
and the last trace of individuality of
temperament, and that which in our race is
called character. No native-born white man
in this country can be induced to follow, for
any length of time, the vocation of shepherd.
The deadly monotony of the occupation drives
him either to imbecility or desperation. It is
well known that men who habitually care for
any animal come in time to resemble him.
Stable boys, bred to the vocation of groom,
become horse-faced and equine of disposition,
eventually they wheeze and whistle like a
curry-comb. Cowboys partake of the scatter-brained
recklessness of the Texas steer which
they tend. No one can admit dogs to be daily
and familiar companions without absorbing
into his system somewhat of their sense of humor
and of their faithfulness. The lion-tamer,
who enters unscathed the den of his charge,
must share the robustious courage and determination
of the beast with which he associates.
The rat-catcher, whether he be ferret or man,
partakes of the fierce slyness of the game he
follows; and I remember that, years ago, before
I ever heard mention of this peculiarity
of resemblance, I could detect, plainly writ in
the face of the attendant of "Mr. Crowley,"
when he was kept in the old arsenal building
in Central Park, the reflected temperament
and animalism of the poor, indolent, captive
chimpanzee, whose fellow and all too sympathetic
friend he had made himself. Naturalists
are well aware of this phenomenon.

If this be so, and stupidity catching, what
more potent influence of fatty degeneration of
the intellect could there be than the uninterrupted
society of sheep, with nothing in the
world to think of except their care—without
even the stimulating influence of gain to redeem
the paralyzing service. The sheep are
not their own, and if the bears eat them up the
keepers do not feel the stimulating ache in
their money-pocket that might tempt them,
however feebly, to resist aggression. Moreover,
as a rule, they are wretchedly armed.
Each of these men carried an old six-shooter
of an outlandish and forgotten pattern, good
enough to try a chance shot at another Mexican
with, but only a source of more or less
pleasurable titillation to a bear, were one ever
to be discharged at him, and about as effective
as pelting an alligator with strawberries. If
the last stage of misery for a horse be to drag,
along its rigid road of stone and iron, the city
horse-car with its thankless freight of fares,
the corresponding degradation of the "gun"
is to rest upon the hip of a degenerate sheep-herder,
half Spaniard, half Indian and half coyote.
Any self-respecting weapon reduced to
such straits would be conscious of its low estate;
its magazine would revolve in a creaky,
half-hearted, reluctant fashion; it would doubtless
fire an apologetic bullet; its report would
be something between "scat" and "beg your
pardon," to which a bear would pay but slight
heed. Others of the Mexicans were armed
with old muskets, somewhat rusty and ramshackly,
but with a furry longitudinal perforation
throughout their length, along which—it
could not creditably be called a bore—a ball
could after a fashion, if you gave it time
enough, be propelled. Leonard was exceptionally
fortunate in this respect; he carried an
old rim-fire .44-40 Winchester, the action of
which occasionally worked and occasionally did
not. Comparatively speaking, he was rather a
swell in the matter of firearms; but if one
should put his trust in him in case of emergency
as a sheet anchor to windward, there was
always the remote possibility, were the strain
too intense, that he might not be a dependence
of absolute security.

The afternoon of this day, much against my
real inclination, but in accordance with the
prevailing desire, we started out, the whole
rabble of us, to follow the she grizzly's trail.
It could not be called a "still-hunt," for the
reason that six men hunting in a pack are
never still; however, it did not matter. We
found in a neighboring gulch bits of the fleece,
bones and hides of three sheep, and the sufficiently
plain evidence, upon the trampled and
bloody ground, of recent feasts. Yet this was
the banqueting hall and not the children's
nursery. A bear thinks nothing of a little
stroll of ten miles or so before or after eating.
It aids digestion, and in case of a female, as
this was, wards off an attack of the nerves.
Particularly a bear with cubs would put at
least that distance between herself and hunters.
Moreover they are so clever that I doubt
not this one knew already by scent and subtle
process of ratiocination how many of us there
were in camp, where we were from, the color
of our hair, what sort of rifles we carried, their
caliber, how heavy a bullet and how many
grains of powder they fired. This is said in the
light of after events and of further experience.

That afternoon, in our unjustifiably sanguine
forecast, we had hopes of finding this
particular bear. The half-witted "Portugee,"
of whom I have spoken, showed especial
zeal in the presence of the patron, and insisted,
in spite of mild and repeated caution,
in going ahead and scrupulously investigating
every possible ambuscade where there was the
remotest chance of finding the bear, or, what
was much more likely, of the bear finding him.
In consideration of the fact that this was a she
one which we were after, that she was proud
and well fed, and on the lookout for pursuit,
had the "Portugee" found her, she would in
all probability have received his visit with cordial
warmth. Not speaking his tongue fluently,
I was unable to express my solicitude except
by signs and admonitory gestures. The rest
of the party apparently seemed to think that,
while the bear was interested and occupied
with him, a good opportunity would be offered
for getting in a shot; and as Portuguese were a
drug in the market in that part of California,
and grizzly bears, dead, a great rarity, he was
suffered to contribute his mite to the success of
la chasse, and all went merrily. Not a thicket
or a den did he leave unprobed.

An hour or two were spent in beating
up the gulch to its head. Then a barren
mountain side presented itself, three or four
miles of it, with no shelter. Leonard ran
the trail here like a dog, literally ran it, and
the pack of hunters tailed behind him for a
half or three-quarters of a mile. A bit before
sundown we were at the edge of the chaparral—a
tangle of bushes and quaking asp—rather a
baddish place in which to stumble upon her serene
highness. However, my companions did
me the honor to promote me to the "Portugee's"
place and function. With rifle across
the crook of arm, we stole as silently as might
be—the United States army would have made
more noise—into the jungle. Sunset overtook
us up on the far edge, with a stretch of open
forest in sight, and, I doubt not, with Madam
Bruin and her cubs miles ahead in some inaccessible
snarl of bushes, where the crackling
underbrush would warn her of approach as
fully as could the most complete system of
burglar alarms.

That night, leaving word that whoever might
be the first to stir in the morning should call
me, I unrolled my blankets under a spruce
somewhat apart from the crowd, and was soon
asleep. Before daylight I was astir, had a cup
of coffee and a bite, and was off. Upon the
previous afternoon I had picked the direction
I would take, which was to skirt certain openings
in the forest below. Fresh sign I saw
that assured me of the excellence of the range
for bear, but I encountered nothing alive worth
powder and ball, and returned to camp about
9 o'clock. I was greeted by Leonard with
the joyful news that during my absence he
had seen from camp a big bear cross the side
of the mountain only a mile or so away, and
disappear over the ridge. This happened
about 7 o'clock. The chief herder and my
companion received the information somewhat
in a spirit of respectful incredulity, but
Leonard assured me that it was so, and we
made preparations to follow the trail toward
night. Meanwhile I breakfasted and slept.

We left camp about 3 o'clock in the afternoon,
and without the slightest difficulty found
the beast's trail exactly where the Mexican
had said we should. Before this time I had
killed an odd bear or so in Colorado, and had
had some little experience in unraveling the
trail of game. It may be rather priding myself
upon the accomplishment, but let me here
acknowledge the superiority of professional
talent. Leonard, to all intents and purposes,
had been born and raised on a sheep range.
His earliest recollections had been of the
sheep camps of the Sierras, of the reputation
of the arch-enemy of the flock and of the
havoc which he works. From infancy he, like
all the herders, had been constantly upon the
lookout for bear sign; it was his one keenest
intellectual accomplishment and diversion.
The result of this special training was such
an acuteness of vision and nice discrimination
of eye that he could clearly distinguish a bear's
footprints upon the naked sand and gravel
where at a quick glance I was unable to see
any indication whatever. A single grain of
sand displaced was sufficient to arrest his eye;
he detected it instantly. To him the minutest
particle had its weather-beaten side as well as
a boulder. A bear could not put his foot
upon the ground without leaving an impress
which he could detect. His talent was so
quick and unerring that we soon organized a
division of labor. He was to concentrate his
energies and attention upon the trail, while I,
by his side or a step in advance, when the
trail read itself and permitted such a course,
was to watch ahead and around for both of us.
Fortunately this arrangement was satisfactory
to him. The hardest of the trail to decipher
was where it was written in condensed shorthand
across a mountain slide or coulisse of
naked granite boulders. Here not one trace
was to be found in a dozen yards. Fortunately
we could trust in the genius of the bear; he
was aware, as well as La Place, that a straight
line is the shortest distance between two
points. He undoubtedly knew exactly where
he was heading. We had his general direction,
and by beating about for a tuft of grass
here with a blade displaced, a stray gooseberry
bush there with a leaf awry, and yonder a
patch of thicker vegetation, betraying interference,
we soon succeeded, owing mainly to
Leonard's genius as a pathfinder, in getting
through a couple of acres of this most vague
and illegible pedography. At last we had the
trail upon the mountain side once more, where,
after such difficulties surmounted, following it
was a comparative luxury.

After having proceeded in this manner for
perhaps two hours, we entered timber, and
were obliged to advance with greater caution
to avoid the slightest sound which might betray
our presence and give the alarm. With
two men the risk of doing this is increased in
geometrical ratio. One person alone, traveling
through the woods, may, and almost certainly
will, break an occasional twig under
foot. If game is within hearing, the sound
will inevitably be detected; the deer, if it be a
deer, will lift his head and listen; but if the
hunter stops and waits for a time, the chances
are that the animal will, after due interval of
silence, resume his feeding if so engaged, or
his rumination, be it physical or moral, and
the alarm may not prove fatal. Not so when
companions are hunting together. It would
seem as if the second man, with dreadful
promptness, never failed to snap his twig also,
which sounds as loud as a pistol coming upon
the strained attention of the listening beast,
who is off like a streak, leaving the disappointed
hunter, as he hears him crashing
away, to moralize that company in the chase
halves the pleasure and doubles the sorrow.
The only safety where union is necessary
is to proceed with exaggerated and fantastic
caution.

Leonard was a treasure in this. He had
dreamt of grizzlies all his life, yet had never
been in at the death. His heart was in the
hunt—he fairly sighed for gore. We crept
into the woods as silent as panthers and as
"purry" in the ardor of the chase. After a
mile or so our bear had come to an immense
fallen spruce, lying across the trail, with the
big butt, five or six feet in diameter, to our
right, the top pointing up the hill. Over the
middle of this, at right angles, lay another
large tree, with the point toward us. I felt
that behind the first of these, if I had been the
original and unmolested settler in these parts,
as the bear was, with all the world before me
where to choose, I should have made the bed
for my morning nap. It was long after daylight
when he had reached this covert. He
had doubtless been stirring soon after sunset
the evening before; he had, it is not unlikely,
been traveling all night; had feasted heartily
upon a sheep during that interval, and by the
time he reached this place, which may have
been in his mind from the start, was feeling
comfortably lazy and inclined to the refreshment
of sleep. Behind that tree, so admirably
suited for the purpose, I trusted that he might
still remain. The big end would protect a
cool space from the heat of the morning sun,
and we might yet be so lucky as to find him in
his lair beneath its shelter. A signal to Leonard
was enough, and we proceeded to circle
the fallen timber, which fortunately the wind
permitted, with all the caution of which we
were capable. Had the gentleman we were
after been our dearest friend at the crisis of a
fever, we could not have tiptoed about his bed
with more solicitude lest we disturb sweet
slumber. The big tree lay in front of us; by
this we crept at a respectful distance, and then
approached the further end of the tree lying
across it. With great care I sneaked up until
I could look over its trunk at the desired
point. Alas! no bear had made his nest
there.

Sorrowfully, but without a sound, I crawled
upon the intervening log and slowly stood
erect. There, directly beneath me, where I
could have jumped into it most comfortably,
was the deserted form of the bear, which he
had dug in the morning within an hour after
Leonard had seen him, and in which the greater
part of the day had been spent, until he had
stirred abroad for water, with which to wash
down the recollection of his muttons. Although
ardently hoping that he was behind
the tree, I had not in the least expected to
find his bed in this particular place. Had he
stayed quietly there until our arrival, he would
have given one of us a delicious surprise, and
the mutual agitation of the moment might
have induced a shot with unpremeditated
haste, and possibly have caused me to get
off that fallen spruce tree in somewhat quicker
time than I had climbed it. One naturally
would not feel any keen desire to display his
acrobatic skill in walking a log for the entertainment
of an infuriated grizzly. A few hairs
proclaimed him a cinnamon, who is either a
variety of the grizzly or his first cousin—authorities
differ; at all events, he closely resembles
him except in color, which, although of a
uniform light, fady brown, might be an extreme
type of the "sorrel top" of the Rockies.
In size the cinnamon fully holds his own with
the grizzly; I should say that his head was
rather longer. The generous excavation which
this one had made showed that he was no
mean representative of his species.

Not twenty yards away, and near the end of
the big tree where I had expected to find him,
was a little spring. To this, still without a
word, we proceeded, saw where he had stood
to drink more than once, doubtless long and
deep. To our left, in the soft earth, lay his
retreating footsteps—a continuation of the
general direction of his previous course. A
moment's pause for closer scrutiny, a smile
and a whispered word exchanged—just to
show that we were not bored; then, respectful
of the silence of the darkening woods, we
were again upon the trail. It was now easy
to see why he had left his lair; it faced the
west, and the heat of the afternoon sun had
annoyed him, warmly clad and irritable with
high living.

We had proceeded only about a stone's
throw further when I caught a glimpse of our
bear. Within twenty paces, under the shadow
of a tree at the edge of a cool, umbrageous
thicket, between him and the setting sun, lay
the beast we were after; or, as I for a moment
thought, judging from the great inchoate mass
of brown fur, a pair, perhaps male and female,
or one, it might be, a yearling cub. With finger
lifted I signaled Leonard to stop. A
great head was slowly raised and turned my
way. A bullet between the eyes and down it
went again, and I threw another cartridge into
the chamber, expecting to see the second bear
spring to his feet, ready to do whatever, in his
judgment, the occasion required, either to fight
or to run. Whichever he might elect to do, it
was well to be prepared. "Give him another
shot," said the prudent Leonard, and I fired a
second time, sending this ball quartering and,
like the first, through the brain; then I realized
that there was but one, and he of creditable size.
We soon had him out in the open, for nothing
is easier to roll about than a bear just killed.
He is like a great jelly-fish, and I have seen a
little terrier no larger than a rabbit worry and
shake a great carcass four times as large as
the most commodious kennel he could desire,
provided he were a sensible pup and had the
comfortable instinct of wild things for snugness
rather than ostentatious display. Enough
of daylight remained for us to get his pelt off,
with head and claws unskinned and attached,
and to hurry over the mountain by moonlight
with our trophy, a junk of rank meat for such
as might desire it not forgotten.

We were cordially welcomed back to camp,
and, after the usual pow-wow, the cook, with
due formality, with Mexican chile and Spanish
politeness, proceeded to concoct the boasted
chile con oso—a much overrated dish when
made of a tough old cinnamon he bear. After
I had turned in I heard much laughter, and
subsequently learned that it was at an incident
of the day. As we were starting out in the
afternoon, and before we had struck the bear's
trail, in order to avoid any possibility of a premature
shot I had casually inquired of Leonard
if he wished to earn five dollars.

"Certainly, Señor, I am always glad to get
the chance."

"Well, don't shoot then until I give the
word, and you shall have it."

This circumstance Leonard had innocently
narrated to the group around the camp-fire
in the fuller elaboration of the hunt, and the
story had an immediate success, the idea seeming
to prevail that nothing in the world could
have tempted him to fire before he was compelled
to—which, as a matter of fact, I think
was only prudent on his part, considering the
arms he bore.

The next morning, to the infinite chagrin of
some of us, the younger patron discovered that
his presence was required at home, where, if
he was mildly chid by my friend, his elder
brother, who in generosity to his junior had
yielded his own place and the leadership of
this expedition, I should not greatly grieve.

Upon the third day thereafter we regained
the ranch.

Alden Sampson.

The Ascent of Chief Mountain

In the most northern corner of the Piegans'
country, in northwestern Montana, almost
grazing the Canadian border with its abrupt
side, stands a turret-shaped mountain. Behind
it the great range of the Rockies, which
for hundreds of miles has been trending steadily
northwood, bends sharply away toward the
west, leaving the corner on which the mountain
stands a huge protruding pedestal for its
weird shape. Ninety years ago Lewis and
Clarke saw it from far to southward as they
passed along the dwindling Missouri and called
it Tower Mountain; but to the Indians it
has always been The Chief Mountain. Even
those prosaic German geographers to whom
we owe so much for information about our
own and other lands have either seen it and
fallen under the spell of its strange power, or
have taken their nomenclature directly from
the Piegans, for they have crowned it Kaiser
Peak.

For more than a year we had been numbered
with the Chief's subjects. During the
previous summer we had been seeking the
acquaintance of the mountain goat; not the
shorn degenerate which throngs the slopes of
the Cascades and straggles among the southern
peaks of Montana, but the true snowy buffalo
of the northern Rockies; and from the ledges
of the St. Mary Mountains, where we had
sought him, could be seen still further to the
northward the Piegans' Chief. Of the range,
yet not in it, like a captain well to the front of
his battle-line, he pressed out into the broad
prairie, as if leading a charge of Titans toward
the far distant lakes. And through the long
months of an Eastern winter, and the still
longer months of an Eastern summer, above
all the memories of that wondrous land where
every butte and mountain peak teems with
legend, and where every bison skull on the
prairie tells its story, had towered the clear-cut
image of that Northern mountain, a worthy
sovereign of any man's allegiance. Now, as
inevitably as an antelope returns to its lure, we
had returned for a closer look at our mountain.
Down deep in our hearts, battling with
the awe which we felt for him, was the almost
unspoken hope that perhaps in some way we
might struggle up his sheer sides and make
him, in a way he was to no one else, our king.

We were a party of three, the Doctor and I,
and our faithful packer, Fox. A cold storm
was blowing spitefully across the open foothills
and out on to the prairie as we broke
camp under the high banks of Kennedy Creek
on the morning of the last stage of our journey.
The clouds, driving over the range from
the northwest, swung so low that they hid the
peaks, and the great pedestal of the Chief met
them all uncrowned, indistinguishable from the
others about him. It was one of those doubtful
mornings with which the mountains love to
warn off strangers, or to greet their friends—one
which might presage a week of storm or
usher in a fortnight of surpassing beauty.

We had camped for the night at the last of
those ranches which stretch along the bottom
lands of the St. Mary River, and just as we
started, its owner, Indian Billy, decided to go
with us.

Even he had never been to the foot of his
tribe's famous peak, and the dark-skinned
idlers of the ranch who gathered about us as
we flung the lash ropes over our horses could
tell us little more than legends of it. Several
Bloods from across the Canadian border declared
that the boundary line ran, not where
the white men had marked it on the prairie
with their insignificant piles of stones, but
through the deep cleft in the Chief's wall,
where the Great Spirit himself had placed it;
thus giving to the Bloods, who knew it best,
their proper share of the mountain. And,
getting warmer in their enthusiasm, they reminded
Billy of their standing challenge to
his tribe, the Piegans—fifty horses to anyone
who should run around that wall, small as it
seemed, in half a day.

For our part it was hard to realize even on
that cold September morning that the long
dreaming was over and the reality before us.
It took all the straining of the pack ponies on
the wet lead-ropes to remind us that we were
at last climbing the foothills of the great peak.
Our presence there, far from breaking the long
enchantment, surrendered us bodily to it, and
Billy, riding over the successive slopes before
us, swaying in the saddle with the hawk-like
motion of the prairie Indian, seemed a fit ambassador
to lead us to his king. As the day
passed, the clouds gradually lightened; and
finally, just as we surmounted one of the higher
foothills, at the summit of the long, sloping,
forest-clad pedestal before us broke through
the crown of the Chief. Toward us, on the
east, it showed a black rectangular wall 2,000
feet in length, 1,500 in height, and from its
sharp corners the broken mists streamed away
southward like tattered garments.

A few hasty pictures, taken while Fox
mended a broken pack cinch, and we pressed
on toward the foot of the mountain. Some
benign influence was with us even thus early,
and we were guided into the easiest way.
Streaks of burned forest, bristling with windfalls,
were slowly but successfully threaded,
long rock slides luckily avoided, while we
mounted steadily slope after slope; until
finally, late in the afternoon, we pulled our
panting horses out, just above timber line,
upon the comparatively level summit of the
pedestal. The foot of the great crown wall
was still a mile away and 1,000 feet above us,
but we were near enough and high enough for
our purpose; and in a deep basin, sheltered
from the wind and carpeted with softest mountain
grass, and with the only water in the
neighborhood sparkling up from a spring in
the bottom, we found a perfect camp. As
soon as the tents were pitched, Fox set about
preparing dinner, while the seven horses, freed
from their loads, buried their noses in the grass
in perfect contentment.

As he sat in the door of the tent, the Doctor's
eyes seemed glued to his field glass, while
the object lenses ever pointed in the one direction,
westward; under the brim of the Indian's
broad hat, as he lay apparently dozing before
the fire, I could see his black eyes fixed on
the same point; and even Fox, constantly
shifting his position about the fire, rarely took
one which placed his back toward that black
wall behind which the sun was now gradually
sinking. For myself, all the longing of the
past year had concentrated itself into a desire
to rush over this last remaining distance; to
get to that magic crown, to feel it with hand
and foot, and to see whether, as the Piegans
aver, it denied even a single foothold for a
mortal man.

After dinner the Doctor and I did go to it.
We clambered out of our little basin on to the
higher portion of the domelike pedestal, and
from this platform, on which rests the great
crown, looked past its two edges at the vast
mountain range behind it, stretching north
and south. Then we picked our way toward
it, through the loose boulders and broken
rock; saw the summit hang further and further
over us as we advanced into the gloom at
its foot, and after finally reaching it and pressing
ourselves against it where it rose sheer
from its pedestal, we hurried back to camp
through the twilight, thoroughly awed by the
solemnity of the place.

The storm of the morning had cleared into
a most perfect night; and, as we lay about the
fire, Billy told us all that the old men had told
him of the Chief. A full-blooded Piegan, in
his new life as a ranchman he had not lost
touch with the traditions of his tribe. Only
one Piegan, he said, had ever attempted to
climb the mountain. Years ago a hunting
party of their young men had been encamped
on the opposite side, where the cliffs do not
overhang so much, and ledges run temptingly
up for a distance; and one of them, the
youngest and most ambitious of the band, declared
that he would go to the summit. He
started, and his companions watched him from
below until he passed along one of the very
highest ledges, out of sight. Then the spirit
of the mountain must have met him; for,
though they waited many days, and searched
for him all around the base, he never came
back. And the Piegans, being a prairie tribe
and not over fond of the mountains at best,
thereafter avoided any close acquaintance with
their king.

A story had come to them, however, from
the Flatheads across the range—a tribe whose
prowess they always respected in war, as they
believed in their truthfulness in peace—and
as the story related to their mountain, they
had treasured it among their own legends.
Still earlier, many years before even the oldest
Piegan was a boy, there had lived a great Flathead
warrior, a man watched over by a spirit
so mighty that no peril of battle or of the hunt
could overcome him. When at last in his old
age he came to die, he told the young men his
long-kept secret. Many years before, as the
time approached for him to go off into the
forest and sleep his warrior sleep, in which he
hoped to see the vision which should be his
guide and protection through life, he had decided
to seek a spot and a spirit which had
never before been tried. So, carrying the
usual sacred bison skull for his pillow, he had
crossed the mountains eastward into the far-off
Piegan country. Then, with none to aid him
save the steady power of his own courage, he
had ventured upon the ledges of the Chief of
the Mountains, and, choking down each gasp
of panic when at overhanging corners the
black walls seemed striving to thrust him off
and down, he had finally forced his way to the
very summit. For four days and nights he had
fasted there, sleeping in the great cleft which
one can see from far out on the prairie. On
each of the first three nights, with ever increasing
violence, the spirit of the mountain
had come to him and threatened to hurl him
off the face of the cliff if he did not go down
on the following day. Each time he had refused
to go, and had spent the day pacing the
summit, chanting his warrior song and waving
his peace pipe in the air as an offering, until
finally, on the fourth night, the spirit had
yielded, had smoked the pipe, and had given
him the token of his life. None of the young
Flatheads, however, said Billy, had dared to
follow their great warrior's example; so that to
this day he was the only man who had braved
the spirit of the Chief and made it his friend.

THE CHIEF'S CROWN, FROM THE EAST.

After we were rolled in our blankets, and
the late moon, rising from the prairie ocean
behind us, had turned the dark, threatening
wall to cheering silver, we thought again of
the old warrior's steadfastness and longed to
make his example ours.

The Doctor's thermometer marked 20 degrees
Fahrenheit when Fox called us, and the
morning bucket which he dashed over us was
flavored with more of the spirit of duty than
usual. But otherwise the weather had been
made for us. Yesterday's storm had beaten
down the smoke from Washington forest fires,
which had clouded everything for the past
month, and the Sweet Grass Hills twinkled
across one hundred miles of prairie as if at
our feet; and yet there was hardly a breath
of wind. Under the lee of the wall itself absolute
stillness brooded over ledges which even
a moderate breeze could have made dangerous.
We did not make an early start. The thing
could be done quickly if it could be done at
all, for there was only 1,500 feet of cliff.

Our men did not give the attempt to reach
the summit from this, the eastern side, even
the scant compliment of a doubt; in their
minds its failure was certain, but they were
willing to see how far we could get up. The
Doctor, too, had at first suggested, and with
perfect correctness, that to try a difficult side
of a mountain before reconnoitering the other
was bad mountaineering, to say the least. But,
on the other hand, this east side was the famous
side of the Chief—the side which every
passer-by on the prairie saw and wondered at.
With our glasses we had mapped a course
which seemed not impossible; was it not better
to meet our king face to face than to steal
on him from behind? Besides, this wonderful
weather might not last long enough for us to
reach the other side. And so our final conclusion
was to try the east face.

Half way up the sheer face of the cliff was
divided horizontally by a broad, steep shelf
which ran nearly the length of the mountain.
That shelf could clearly be crossed at any
place; the difficulty would lie with the walls
below and above it. The lower one was bad
enough at best, but it was easy to recognize as
least bad a place where a slope of shale abutted
against it, shortening it some 300 feet.
The upper wall in general seemed even worse,
but it was furrowed by two deep chimneys,
side by side, one of which led into the mountain's
well-known cleft. The other chimney
seemed to lead directly to the summit, but its
lower mouth was inaccessible—cut off by overhanging
cliff. Our plan, therefore, if we could
ever reach the halfway shelf, was to use the
first chimney in the beginning, then try to find
a way around the dividing shoulder into the
second, then follow that to the top. And at
9 o'clock we began on the lower wall.

Of course, the work which followed was not
so difficult as it had promised from below—rock
work rarely is—but it thoroughly taxed
our slender experience, and, for a single man
without a rope, must have been far worse.
The Doctor and I took turns in leading, carrying
up or having thrown to us from below a
rope, on which the others then ascended. Most
of the difficulty was thus confined to one man,
and he could often be assisted from beneath.
We were not skilled enough in the use of the
rope to risk tying ourselves together.

Two hundred feet up came our first trouble,
perhaps the worst of the day. We were sidling
along a narrow shelf, with arms outstretched
against the wall above, when we
reached a spot where the shelf was broken
by a round protruding shoulder. Beyond it
the ledge commenced again and seemed to
offer our only way upward. I was leading at
the time, and, after examining it, turned back
to a wider portion of the shelf for consultation.
It was not a place one would care to
try if there was an alternative.

We braced the Indian against the wall, and
his skillful hand sent the lariat whirling up at
a sharp rock above our heads. Time after
time the noose settled fairly around it, but
found no neck to hold it, and came sliding
down. Then, almost before we knew it, the
Doctor had run out along the ledge to the
shoulder and had started around. For a moment
he hung, griping the rounded surface
with arms and knees; then a dangerous wriggle
and he was on the other side.

Under his coaching the Indian and I followed;
but Fox, when half way, lost his head,
and barely succeeded in getting back to the
starting point. He would not try again. The
poor fellow's moccasins had lost some of their
nails and he had slipped once or twice that
morning, thus destroying the nerve of one
who had at other times shown himself a good
climber. But of the Indian's companionship
for the rest of the day we were now sure.

Again, when near the top of that first wall,
and when the halfway ledge seemed almost
within our grasp, the shallow cleft—up which
we were scrambling—ended in a deep pocket
in the cliff's face, with no outlet above. The
Doctor tried it at one corner, but the treacherous
crumbling rock warned him back. I
tried it at another, but was stopped by an
overhang in the cliff. No help for it but to
go back and try to find a way around.

Fifty feet below we landed on a small shelf
running horizontally along the mountain's face,
and, after following it northward a few moments,
we found another channel leading up.
The Doctor started to investigate it, while
Billy and I continued on slowly looking for
a better. Almost immediately, however, we
heard the Doctor shout "All right," and, following
him, came out at last upon the great
halfway shelf of the mountain.

This was a steep slope of shale, which
seemed in places quite ready to slide in an
avalanche of loose rock over the edge of the
cliff below; but the relief of being out upon it,
and able once more to stand upright without
the sensation of a wall against your face,
apparently trying to shove you outward
from your slender foothold, was simply indescribable.

After crossing the shelf and eating our
lunch in the mouth of the first or left-hand
chimney, we attacked the upper wall. Following
up the chimney a short distance, we
found at last a narrow ledge leading to the
right, and, creeping around on it, I looked into
the right-hand chimney above its forbidding
mouth. It led as a broad, almost easy, staircase
clear to the top of the wall above, and
for the first time we felt as if our king were
really ours.

Six or seven hundred feet more of steady
work, and we could feel the summit breeze
beginning to blow down the narrow mouth of
the chimney. Billy was then sent to the front,
and at half past one the first Piegan stepped
out on the summit of the Chief Mountain.

It is a long ridge of disintegrated rock,
flanked at either end by lower rounded turrets,
and at its highest part is no wider than a
New England stone wall. On the opposite
western side the cliffs fell away as on our own,
but they seemed shorter, were composed of
looser rock, and far down below we could see
steep slopes of shale meeting them part way.
After we had picked out our various landmarks
in the wonderful outlook about us, and
I had made my record from compass and barometer,
we pushed our way carefully along
to the highest point of the narrow ridge, in
order to mark it with a cairn of rocks. Just as
we reached it, the Indian, who was still in the
lead, suddenly stopped and pointed to the
ground. There, on the very summit of Chief
Mountain, safely anchored by rocks from the
effect of wind or tempest, lay a small, weather-beaten
bison skull. It was certainly one of
the very oldest I have ever seen. Even in the
pure air of that mountain top it had rotted
away until there was little else than the frontal
bone and the stubs on which had been the
horns. Billy picked it up and handed it to us
quietly, saying with perfect conviction, "The
old Flathead's pillow!"

We left the skull where it had been found.
Much as we should have treasured it as a
token of that day, the devotion of the old
warrior who had brought it was an influence
quite sufficient to protect this memorial of his
visit. We shared his reverence far too much
to allow us to remove its offering. And then,
too, as Billy suggested, we were still on top of
the Chief, and the Chief had certainly been
very forbearing to us. Those long walls, now
darkened by the afternoon shade, those narrow
ledges whence the downward climber could no
longer avoid seeing the stone he dislodged
bound, after two or three lengthening jumps,
clear to the pedestal below, loomed very suggestively
before his mind. But the Chief still
remained gracious, and Billy worked even
more steadily and sure-footedly going down
than in the morning. We had all gained confidence,
and besides we were certain of our
course. By 5 o'clock we had reached the last
bad place—where Fox had left us—and, after
avoiding that by swinging down hand over
hand on the rope from a ledge above, it was
only a few moments to the bottom.

That night, after we were all safe in camp,
and the great cliff beamed down on us more
kindly than ever in the moonlight, the Doctor
and I decided that we had been more favored
than the old Flathead warrior, for the spirit of
our mountain had been with us even before we
reached its top.

And for our success an explanation beyond
our physical powers seemed necessary to
others also; for, when a few days later we
returned to the ranch in the St. Mary's Valley,
Billy, who had preceded us, met us with
the mien of the prophet who is denied by his
own, and told us that his cousins, the Bloods
from across the border, had suggested that,
when next he returned from a trip to the
range, he should bring them a likelier story
than that he had climbed the east face of the
Chief Mountain.

Henry L. Stimson.

The Cougar

It was upwards of twelve years ago that I
had been down to one of the Rio Grande River
towns herding up Mexicans, whom I expected
to aid me in discovering gold where none existed.
On my way down I had run across a
mountain lion making off with a lamb, and
shot and secured him after a little strategic
maneuvering. On the return journey, after I
had hired as many of the greasers as I desired,
I camped at night about twenty miles from
home, in a log cabin that had lost the door,
the roof and all the chinking from between
the logs.

There was no reason to fear wild beasts—and
the cabin would have been no protection
for me even if there had been; nor was the
structure any protection from the numerous
cut-throat, horse-stealing Mexicans who flourished
in that section of the country as thickly
as cactus. However, I lariated my horse and
threw down my blankets in this tumble-down
shack, and turned in. I have quite a habit of
sleeping on my back, and I was awakened some
time in the night by a feeling of oppression on
my chest. Having been accustomed to life
in a country where the Indians were rampant,
and where the wise man on awakening looked
about him before stirring, I opened my eyes
without moving, and there, standing directly
on my breast, looking me squarely in the face,
was a skunk, with its nose not, I swear, six
inches from my own.

It was a bright moonlight night, and I could
see that the little devil was of the kind whose
bite is said to convey hydrophobia. But that
did not worry me; it was not the bite I feared.
I realized perfectly that if I moved I might
get myself into trouble. I knew that the only
thing for me to do was to let the skunk gambol
over me until he wearied of the pastime
and went out of the cabin.

I have a lurking suspicion that that skunk
knew I was awake and in mental agony; for,
after looking me in the face, he ran down my
body on one leg and then up again, actually
smelling of one of my ears; and then he trotted
off me on to the floor of the cabin, where
he nosed about awhile, then up again on my
body; and, after sprinting a few seconds over
my person, he went down and out of the cabin.

So soon as he had disappeared out of the
door I jumped to my feet and, drawing my
gun, rushed out after him. He was plainly
visible just to the right of the cabin, and I
blazed away. Immediately after I had shot
him I regretted it, for I had to move camp.

The next day, on my way back to camp, I
journeyed over a divide that was more or less
noted as a den for mountain lions; though to
designate any particular locality as a "den"
for cougars is incorrect, for it is not an animal
that remains in any one place for any great
length of time. He is a wandering pirate,
who makes no one district his home for any
long period.

However, this especial divide was said to
harbor more of them than any other; or, at
least, there were more signs of them, and
more were reported to be started from there
by hunters than elsewhere in the territory.
Be that as it may, on the particular day of
which I write I accidentally ran across the
only cougar I ever have killed which gave me
a fight and stampeded my horse, so that I
was obliged to foot it into camp.

I do not think the bronco is as fearful of
the cougar as of the bear, at least my experience
has not been such. I have had a mustang
jump pretty nearly from under me on
winding a bear, and I have wasted minutes
upon minutes in getting him near the carcass
of a dead one, that I might pack home a bit of
bruin's highly-scented flesh, and I never had
any similar experience where the cougar was
concerned. I have had my pony evince reluctance
to approach the slain lion, but not show
the absolute terror which seizes them in the
neighborhood of bear.

My experience at this particular time, as I
say, was novel in two respects—first, the fright
with which my bronco was stricken; and second,
the fight shown by the cougar. I had
reached the top of the divide, and was picking
my way across the fallen timber, which so
often blocks the trail over the tops of divides
in New Mexico. I remember distinctly having
gained a clear spot that was pretty well
filled with wild violets, which grew in great
profusion thereabouts, and was guiding my
pony that I should not trample upon them;
for in that God-forsaken district, 10,000 feet
above the level of the sea, it seemed too bad
to crush the life out of the dainty little flowers
that hold up their heads to the New Mexico
sunshine.

Without warning, my bronco, which was
traveling along at a fox-trot, stopped suddenly,
and looking up I saw, not more than
fifty yards away, about as large a mountain
lion as I had ever encountered, standing motionless
and looking at us with utmost complacency.
To throw myself out of the saddle
and draw my Sharps-forty from the saddle
holster was the work of a very few seconds.
Throwing the bridle rein over my arm, I
slipped in a cartridge, and was just pulling
down on him when the cougar started off at a
swinging trot to one side at right angles to
where he had stood, and through some small
quaking aspens. Without thinking of the
bridle being over my arm, I knelt quickly in
order to get a better sight of the animal, and
almost simultaneously pressed the trigger.

As I did so my bronco threw up his head,
which spoiled my aim, and, instead of sending
the ball through the cougar's heart, as I had
hoped to do, it went through the top of his
shoulders, making a superficial wound—not
sufficiently severe to interfere with his locomotion,
as I immediately discovered; for, with
a combined screech and growl, that lion
wheeled in my direction, and made for me
with big jumps that were not exactly of
lightning rapidity, but were ground-covering
enough to create discomfort in the object of
his wrath.

My bronco, meanwhile, was jumping all over
the ground, and I realized I could not hold
him and make sure of my aim. To swing
myself into the saddle and make away would
have been simple, but I knew enough of the
cougar to know that if I retreated, he, in his
fury, would be sure to follow; and on that
mountain side, with its fallen timber and rough
going, I should have little chance in a race
with him. I had no revolver to meet him in
the saddle at short range, and a knife was not
to my liking for any purpose, so far as an
infuriated cougar was concerned, except for
skinning him, once I had put sufficient lead
into his carcass to quiet his nerves. There
was nothing for me to do but fight it out on
foot; therefore I dropped the bridle rein and
turned the bronco loose (thinking he would
run his fright off in a short distance), and gave
myself up to the business of the moment,
which, with the beast getting nearer every
instant, was becoming rather serious. I do
not know how others have felt under like
conditions; but there is something about the
look of a cougar on business bent, with its
greenish, staring eyes, that produces a most
uncomfortable sensation. I have been sent
up a tree post-haste by a bear, and I have
had an old bull moose give me an unpleasant
quarter of an hour, but I am sure I never
experienced a more disagreeable sensation
than when I looked through my rifle sights
at that loping lion. He did not seem to be in
any feverish anxiety to reach me, but there
was an earnest air about his progression that
was ominous.