Part 4

Moose frequently come down to the water, of which they are very fond, and in which they bathe and wallow. Caribou are less apt to frequent such spots. Calling is a favorite method of bringing moose within range, but great care has to be exercised, for a single false note and your noble quarry, instead of accepting an invitation to a funeral, which he is to grace, will retire to a place of safety.

When there are a few inches of snow on the ground, hunting becomes more attractive to the sportsman. Instead of sitting in his canoe waiting for something to come within range, he is vigorously exercising his muscles and his knowledge of woodcraft to secure a shot, and often his skill is put to a considerable test in shooting through thick timber.

There is nothing more improving to health and conducive to happiness than strenuous exercise in the cold, bracing air, with sport as an incentive. Whatever may be the outcome of your hunting, you are sure to take out of the woods with you an increased supply of vital energy and robustness, which, after all, is very important. If your hunting should not furnish you with such tangible results as you would like to see, console yourself with the reflection that a very wealthy man once offered “a million dollars for a new stomach,” and perhaps you have secured an equivalent for a great deal less.

Early in October of 1904 I joined my guide at the forks of the Tobique. We immediately started out in a canoe, into which I packed all my things, to pole up the Little Tobique. The water was pretty high, and this increased the difficulty of ascending the river, whose current, naturally strong, was interspersed by rocks and the débris of stray logs and woodland refuse. The sturdy skill of the guide was considerably taxed in spite of the small assistance rendered by me with the paddle; and yet I was of some assistance in forcing the canoe over places where there was no poling bottom. In about five hours we reached our destination and put up at the camp, which consisted of a very commodious log cabin, where we found the cook, who soon began to busy himself in preparing the evening meal. The two succeeding mornings I got up before day, while stars were still bright, and returned late in the morning, having as a reward for my pains a good appetite and plenty to satisfy it, when I could succeed in getting it down. The third morning both the guide and myself overslept, and with a blush of shame I encountered the glare of Old Sol as he fiercely showered his burning rays upon our heads.

That same morning a lazy bull moose had been guilty of the same offense, and appeared at the bank of the river to take his belated bath just as our canoe came dancing and twisting down the swift, turbid stream toward him. The big bull did not seem in the least concerned, although every moment we were rapidly drawing nearer. If he had been standing in the water, I believe he would have let us run into him had we been disposed to do so. With a quick movement of the paddle, the guide turned the canoe so that I could secure an easy position to shoot, and then a sharp crack of the Mauser rifle, followed by the heavy swaying motion of the animal as he sank down to pour out his life blood on the sand, closed the incident.

The head measured fifty-two inches, and was quite shapely. As I surveyed the prostrate form of this pride of the Canadian forest, I thought that it was no particular skill of mine which had brought it within easy reach and secured me a fine trophy. It seemed to me as though the original owner of the antlers had almost made me a present of them. We do not greatly appreciate things which come too easily into our possession. I would have been better pleased if the royal beast had made the shot more difficult and had given me a chance to exercise my skill. He may have mistaken me for one of those sportsmen who tremblingly pass the gun to the guide and ask him to shoot.

During that time I saw another moose, which I declined to shoot, because, as I informed a friend, I had all the law allowed, and for the further reason that “it had no head.” When I informed my friend that the moose “had no head,” he seemed somewhat incredulous, but after I explained that this was an Irish bull, he seemed better satisfied.

During the rest of my sojourn I had considerable amusement in shooting at a mark with my .22 automatic Winchester, which affords plenty of practice without making too much noise, and is also useful for small game.

The return trip home was diversified with the common experiences of the transition from the rough camp life to your own fireside, when you sit in an easy chair and talk it all over with your friends. Sixty miles’ paddling down the Tobique, ever impelled by its rapid though wayward current, which required the constant correction of your course, and gave delight in the survey of the beautiful banks, decorated by the virgin forest for miles, marked the first day’s journey. The next day a ride in stuffy cars over a second-class railroad, until you finally land in a Pullman coach and spin along at the rate of sixty miles an hour. Perhaps you pick up a chance acquaintance in one or two sportsmen who have just returned from a similar outing, and tell you of their mighty deeds which lose nothing by repetition; you shrink within your modest little self as you listen, for you know you have accomplished nothing which will stand well in comparison.

On my way back I met several sportsmen, one of whom related to me his exploits, which were very tame on first recital. We were sitting in the smoking apartment of the Pullman, when presently two other sportsmen came in and we got into conversation over our different hunting experiences. The two sportsmen who came in last related the wonderful feats which they had accomplished. After they had talked themselves out, my first acquaintance, who had been so modest in what he related, much to my surprise took a fresh start. I think a couple of good drinks, which stimulated his imagination and stirred his personal pride, had something to do with it. With an eloquence which truly surprised me, he added the “verisimilitude of truth to otherwise bald and uninteresting statement of facts.” It was evident that the newcomers were outclassed, for my modest friend was not only gifted of tongue, but he told his story last. I have discovered that there are more ways than one of establishing a reputation as a sportsman, and sometimes the “gift o’ gab” is more important than skill in handling a rifle.

ROUNDING UP CATS IN COLORADO

The mountain lion of the West is the panther or cougar of our Eastern States, sometimes called “painter” by the old-fashioned backwoodsman; in some localities it goes by the name of “Indian devil,” no doubt on account of the weird, unearthly noises it makes at night. In Mexico it is known as the “puma,” and grows to a larger size than elsewhere. In appearance the mountain lion is very similar to the African lioness, having a smooth, tawny skin, without any mane; a full-grown animal that will measure from seven to eight feet from its nose to the end of the tail and weighs about 180 pounds, is considered a large specimen. They seldom exceed this, and more frequently fall below it.

Although often engaged in hunting big game, I never saw a mountain lion at large except when one has been rounded up by a pack of dogs. In their habits they are stealthy and secretive, carefully keeping concealed, and never willing to fight unless cornered, with no chance of escape. Occasionally, when the odds are overwhelmingly in its favor, a lion will provoke a battle, but this is not often the case.

In disposition and character the mountain lion belies its name; of all carnivorous beasts it is, perhaps, the most cowardly. Being exceedingly destructive, it not only kills for food, but it also kills out of wantonness. I have run across numbers of deer that have been destroyed by the same animal within short distances of each other, the carcasses being allowed to remain almost entire. It has also been stated on good authority that one lion will be likely to kill in the course of a year about one hundred and fifty deer.

Considering its destructive disposition, I have no doubt that in a country where the deer are at all numerous, this statement is not far from the truth. The ranchman has a cordial hatred for this destroyer of his stock, and the cunning displayed by the lion in evading traps and turning away from poisoned meat makes him all the more unpopular. This animal will not eat of any kill unless it is his own or that of some other lion. Extremity of hunger may cause him to act differently, but it is exceptional. Most success in hunting this game is to be found in localities where the deer are plentiful. It is practically useless to attempt any hunting of this kind unless you have a pack of well trained dogs handled by some one who has complete control over them. Great care and patience has to be exercised in breaking a pack of dogs for this purpose, and to prevent them from running other game. If, for example, a pack should take after a timber wolf, that animal is so fleet that he would distance most of his pursuers and string them out considerably. The wolf has been known to turn on the pack thus separated and kill a number of the dogs, one after the other, before the pack could be united. The disappointed huntsman, reaching the end of the run on his jaded horse, might survey the remnants of his pack--first the survivors with downcast heads and apologetic tails between their legs--and then some dog fur scattered over the blood-bespattered ground, and here and there a mangled corpse. It is no joke to have a pack run for miles after the wrong game over rough country, your whole day’s sport broken up, and perhaps lose your dogs for several days.

The mountain lion has not much endurance in the chase, although very fast for a short distance, which he covers by a series of leaps. In a short time he is treed or driven to the ledge of a precipice or into some hiding place. If you are fond of hunting with a camera, you generally have ample time to take a photograph of your prize, perhaps posing in the branches of a tree and looking as pleasant as possible--for a mountain lion!

The lively serenade furnished by the dogs, which the lion recognizes by continual growls, displaying his whole set of ivories, completes a scene not soon forgotten. Your share of the business is very tame, although absolutely effective. A shot at close range behind the shoulder, and the lion tumbles among the savage dogs to engage in a losing fight; while in the agony of death, not infrequently he leaves some little reminders of his long claws and strong teeth upon his assailants.

In the month of January, 1900, I engaged the services of John B. Goff, who possessed a good pack of dogs to hunt “lions” and “cats” in Colorado. The “cats” referred to are bobcats, not the Canada lynx with which they are sometimes confounded. The winter was unusually free from snowfalls, and the ground being very dry, it made hunting difficult, because the dogs could hardly follow the scent.

My first destination was a ranch on Strawberry Creek belonging to the guide, about twelve miles from Meeker. Here for several days we engaged in a fruitless hunt, until one morning a fresh fall of snow covered the ground, when our efforts were rewarded by the dogs striking a couple of cat trails; these we followed a short distance, with the whole pack tearing away ahead of us in full cry. The dogs followed the trail to a great pile of massive rocks, which towered a hundred feet above our heads, and there became bewildered. What had become of the stealthy bobcats? The guide and myself climbed the rocks to search for them. Looking down from the summit I saw one of them lying in front of a cave surveying the dogs, which were silently and swiftly nosing around below it. It was easy enough to shoot the cat where it was, but as it rested on the ledge of a rock of some breadth, it was a grave question whether it might not die there where it would be practically inaccessible, and we would have all our pains for nothing.

To drive the cat from its position into a better one was more than a doubtful possibility, as it was likely to run back into the cave. So I took a chance and fired. Like a crash of lightning above their heads, the excited dogs heard the report and knew that “there was something doing.” The wounded cat gave a sudden leap into space and fell among them. If there is any question about a “cat having nine lives,” it seems that the dogs were bound to be on the safe side, for they mauled the remains until I began to fear that the fur might be damaged before I could come to the rescue. Through a fatal curiosity, the other cat peeped over the precipice, and paid for its rashness with its hide, which I added to my collection. The job of skinning the cats I turned over to the guide.

The big dogs sat around in sullen dignity, particularly avoiding any familiarity with smaller dogs and with each other. Each one seemed to consider himself the hero of the occasion. I have had occasion to observe that the pack would work and fight well together, but after the fray they seemed to be intensely jealous of each other.

Several of the dogs interested me considerably. One of them was called “Old Jim,” a big black-and-tan foxhound, with a deep bass voice which would swell the chorus when the pack was in full cry and sometimes almost drown it. Old Jim would occasionally provoke the not over angelic temper of the guide by leading the whole pack after a coyote. On one occasion he had distinguished himself by whipping a coyote, and whenever one of these “sassy” prairie wolves would show itself, he could not resist the temptation of giving chase, leading the whole pack after him.

Any one acquainted with Western hunting knows how useless it is for dogs to attempt to outrun a coyote. The coyotes would frequently come close to the pack, if there was no man nearby, as though to provoke a chase for our special annoyance. The dogs, however, would never run the coyotes’ trail; they were broken of that.

Another interesting acquaintance was a dog called Turk, a cross-breed, but a very strong and stubborn fighter, all seamed with scars. Turk kept near the guide, and did not run with the pack except when there was something in view. He was a good-natured dog ordinarily, but an ugly customer in a scrap.

There was another dog called Boxer which had a very keen scent; long before the rest could discover a trail one could hear Boxer’s knowing yelps, which would gradually develop into a chorus, as one by one the other dogs would detect the scent as it became warmer. Boxer had more judgment than any other dog in the pack, and was very good in puzzling out a broken trail.

We spent several days longer at the ranch on Strawberry Creek. While there the guide purchased a broken-down horse to feed to the dogs. It is not a particularly easy matter to keep twenty-one dogs supplied with food. When the horse was led out for execution the dogs became intensely excited and seemed to know “what was up.” The moment the animal was shot, and almost before it fell to the ground, the whole pack of dogs, big and small, was tearing eagerly at the carcass. No doubt the habit of attacking wild animals as soon as they have been shot developed their naturally savage dispositions.

At the suggestion of the guide, we decided to go to a ranch near the Bear River Cañon, two days’ journey from our present location. When we arrived at the ranch, after a long day’s ride on horseback, we found the ranchman’s wife keeping house; her husband had left for several days. She seemed in no condition to entertain us on account of a bad headache, but kindly offered to do whatever she could. We volunteered to help her out with her domestic duties. First of all I prescribed for her headache; the medicine went down the wrong way, which caused her to vomit, after which she declared she felt better. My professional pride did not permit me to enlighten her as to the unexpected result of my prescription. I say professional pride, because I went by the nickname of the Doctor on account of an emergency case I carried with me.

I made myself useful in doing most of the chores usual on such occasions, while the guide held the baby, which howled incessantly. The expression on his face while performing this duty was as angelic as I have seen it when Old Jim would lead the whole pack off on a chase after a coyote against his impotent protest. When the meal was served, two other children turned up, one a little girl nine years old, who was censured for not taking care of the baby; the other a boy of about eleven, who was particularly good, according to his mother’s account of him. Our first day’s experience with these interesting children caused us to reverse the parental opinion. When we returned from our hunt the evening of the following day, the guide missed his lasso; the good little boy had tried to lasso a cat which was selecting some delicacies from a tin can, the cat took a sudden leap to escape the lasso, and in doing so shoved its head into the can and cinched the lasso round its body; cat, can and lasso disappeared in the sage brush and were never found.