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Hunting with the Bow and Arrow

S >> Saxton Pope >> Hunting with the Bow and Arrow




Conflicting emotions of compassion and exultation surged through me,
and I felt weak, but I ran to my quarry, lifted his head on my knee and
claimed him in the name of Robin Hood.

Looking him over, it was apparent that my second shaft had hit him in
the base of the heart, emerged through the breast and only stopped in
its flight by striking the foreleg. The first arrow had gone completely
through the back part of the chest, severed the aorta, and flown past
him. There it lay, sticking deep into the ground twenty yards beyond
the spot where he stood when shot.

After the body had been cleaned and cooled in the shade of an oak, we
packed it home in the twilight, an easy burden for a light heart. This
is the fulfilment of the hunter's quest. It was the sweetest venison we
ever tasted.

We have had little experience in trailing deer on the snow and none in
the use of dogs to run them. Doubtless, the latter method under some
conditions is admirable, particularly in very brushy countries.

But we have preferred the still hunt. Lying in wait at licks we have
done so to study animal life and in conjunction with the Indian to
learn his methods, but neither the lick nor the ambush appealed to us
as sport. In fact, we have hunted deer more for meat than for trophies,
and quite a number of our kills have been in a way incidental to
hunting mountain lions or other predatory animals.

Once, when on a lion trail, the dogs ran down a steep trail ahead of
me, and there in the creek bottom they started a fine large buck. On
each side of the path the brush was very high, and up this corridor
dashed the buck. There was no room for him to pass, and he came upon me
with a rush. When less than twenty yards away, I hastily drew my bow
and drove an arrow deep into his breast. With a lateral bound he
cleared the brushy hedge and was lost to view. The dogs had been
trained not to follow deer; but since they saw me shoot it, they ran in
hot pursuit. I sounded my horn and brought them back, and scolded them.
But fearing to lose the deer, I decided to go down to the ranch house,
a couple of miles away, and borrow Jasper and his dog, Splinters. Now
Splinters was some sort of a mongrel fise, an insignificant-looking
little beast that had come originally from the city and presumably was
hopelessly civilized. Jasper, however, had recognized in him certain
latent talents and had trained him to follow wounded deer. He paid no
attention to any scent except that of deer blood. In an accidental
encounter with the hind foot of a horse, Splinters had lost the sight
of one eye and the use of one ear; but in spite of the lopsided
progression occasioned by this disability, he was infallible with
wounded bucks.

So Jasper came, and Splinters trotted along at his heels. At the spot
where the deer leaped off the trail, we let the dog smell a drop of
blood. After a deliberate, unexcited investigation, he began to wander
through the brush. Occasionally he stopped to stand on his hind legs
and nose the chaparral above him, then wandered on. Just about this
time I stepped on a rattlesnake, and, after a hasty change of location,
directed my efforts toward dispatching the snake. By the time I had
finished this worthy deed, Jasper and Splinters were lost to view; so I
sat down and waited. After a quarter of an hour I heard a distant
whistle.

Following Jasper's signal, I descended to the creek below me, went a
short distance up a side branch, and there were all three--Jasper,
Splinters, and the deer. The latter had made almost a complete circle,
half a mile in extent, and dropped in the creek, not a hundred yards
from his starting point.

My arrow had caused a most destructive wound in the lungs and great
vessels of the chest, and it was remarkable that the animal could have
gone so far. We were of the opinion that if my own dogs had not started
to run him, the deer would have gone but a short distance and lain down
where in a few minutes we could have found him dead.

While, after all, the object of deer hunting is to get your deer, it
does seem that some of our keenest delight has been when we have missed
it. So far, we have never shot one of those massive old bucks with
innumerable points to his antlers; they have all been adolescent or
prospective patriarchs. But several times we have almost landed the big
fellow.

Out of the quiet purple shadow of the forest one evening there stepped
the most stately buck I ever saw. His noble crest and carriage were
superb. On a grassy hillside, some hundred and fifty yards away, he
stood broadside on. With a rifle the merest tyro might have bowled him
over. In fact, he looked just like the royal stag in the picture.

Two of us were together--a little underbrush shielded us. We drew our
bows, loosed the arrows and off they flew. The flight of an arrow is a
beautiful thing; it is grace, harmony, and perfect geometry all in one.
They flew, and fell short. The deer only looked at them. We nocked
again and shot. This time we dropped them just beneath his belly. He
jumped forward a few paces and stopped to look at us. Slowly we reached
for a third arrow, slowly nocked and drew it, and away it went,
whispering in the air. One grazed his withers, the other pierced him
through the loose skin of the brisket and flew past.

With an upward leap he soared away in the woods and we sent our
blessing with him. His wound would heal readily, a mere scratch. We
picked up our arrows and returned to camp to have bacon for supper,
perfectly happy.

An arrow wound may be trivial, as was this one, or it may be
surprisingly deadly, as brought out by an experience of Arthur Young.
Once when stalking deer, the animal became alarmed and started to run
away behind a screen of scrub oak. Young, perceiving that he was about
to lose his quarry, shot at the indistinct moving body. Thinking that
he had missed his shot, he searched for his arrow and found that it had
plowed up the ground and buried its head deep in the earth. When he
picked it up, he noted that it was strangely damp, but since he could
not explain it, he dismissed the matter from his mind.

Next day, hunting over the same ground, he and Compton found the deer
less than a hundred and fifty yards from this spot. It had run, fallen,
bled, risen and fallen down hill, where it died of hemorrhage. Their
inspection showed that the arrow had struck back of the shoulder, gone
through the lungs and emerged beneath the jaw. With all this it had
flown yards beyond, struck deeply in the earth, and was only a trifle
damp.

Upon another occasion, while hunting cougars with a hound, I came
abruptly upon a doe and a buck in a deep ravine. It was open season and
we needed camp meat. Gauging my distance carefully, I shot at the buck,
striking him in the flank. For the first time in my life, I heard an
adult deer bleat. He gave an involuntary exclamation, whirled, but
since he knew not the location or the nature of his danger, he did not
run.

My hound was working higher up in the canyon, but he heard the bleat,
when like a wild beast he came charging through the undergrowth and
hurled himself with terrific force upon the startled deer, bearing him
to the ground. There was a fierce struggle for a brief moment in which
the buck wrenched himself free from the dog's hold upon his throat and
with an effort lunged down the slope and eluded us. Because of the many
deer trails and because the hound was unused to following deer, night
fell before we could locate him.

Next day we found the dead buck, but the lions had left little meat on
his bones--in fact, it seemed that a veritable den of these animals had
feasted on him.

The striking picture in my mind today is the fierceness and the savage
onslaught of my dog. Never did I suspect that the amiable, gentle pet
of our fireside could turn into such an overpowering, indomitable
killer. His assault was absolutely bloodthirsty. I've often thought how
grateful I should be that such an animal was my friend and companion in
the hunt and not my pursuer. How quickly the dog adjusts himself to the
bow! At first he is afraid of the long stick. But he soon gets the idea
and not waiting for the detonation of the gun, he accepts the hum of
the bowstring and the whirr of the arrow as signals for action. Some
dogs have even shown a tendency to retrieve our arrows for us, and
nothing suits them better than that we go on foot, and by their sides
can run with them and with our silent shafts can lay low what they
bring to bay. In fact, it is a perfect balance of power--the hound with
his wondrous nose, lean flanks and tireless legs; the man with his
human reason, the horn, and his bow and arrow.

We who have hunted thus, trod the forest trails, climbed the lofty
peaks, breathed the magic air, and viewed the endless roll of mountain
ridges, blue in the distance, have been blessed by the gods.

In all, we have shot about thirty deer with the bow. The majority of
these fell before the shafts of Will Compton, while Young and I have
contributed in a smaller measure to the count. Despite the vague
regrets we always feel at slaying so beautiful an animal, there is an
exultation about bringing into camp a haunch of venison, or hanging the
deer on the limb of a sheltering tree, there to cool near the icy
spring. By the glow of the campfire we broil savory loin steaks, and
when done eating, we sit in the gloaming and watch the stars come out.
Great Orion shines in all his glory, and the Hunters' Moon rises golden
and full through the skies.

Drowsy with happiness, we nestle down in our sleeping bags, resting on
a bed of fragrant boughs, and dream of the eternal chase.




XII


BEAR HUNTING


Killing bears with the bow and arrow is a very old pastime, in fact, it
ranks next in antiquity to killing them with a club. However, it has
faded so far into the dim realms of the past that it seems almost
mythical.

The bear has stood for all that is dangerous and horrible for ages. No
doubt, our ancestral experiences with the cave bears of Europe stamped
the dread of these mighty beasts indelibly in our hearts. The American
Indians in times gone past killed them with their primitive weapons,
but even they have not done it lately, so it can be considered a lost
art.

The Yana's method of hunting bears has been described. Here they made
an effort to shoot the beast in the open mouth. Ishi said that the
blood thus choked and killed him. But after examining the bear skulls,
it seems to me that a shot in the mouth is more likely to be fatal
because the base of the brain is here covered with the thinnest layers
of bone. Arrows can hardly penetrate the thick frontal bones of the
skull, but up through the palate there would be no difficulty in
entering the brain. At any rate, it is here that the Yana directed
their shots. Apparently, from Ishi's description, it took quite a time
to wear down and slay the animal.

All Indians seem to have had a wholesome respect for the grizzly, the
mighty brother of the mountains, and they gave him the right of way.

The black bear is, of course, the same animal whether brown or
cinnamon, these color variations are simply brunette, blonde and auburn
complexions, the essential anatomical and habit characteristics are
identical.

The American black bear at one time ranged all over the United States
and Canada. He has recently become a rare inhabitant of the eastern and
more thickly populated districts; yet it is astonishing to hear that
even in the year of 1920 some four hundred and sixty-five bears were
taken in the State of Pennsylvania.

In the western mountains he is to be met with quite frequently, but is
not given to unprovoked attack, and with modern firearms an encounter
with him is not fraught with great danger. He, or more properly, she
will charge man with intent to kill upon certain rare occasions--when
wounded, surprised, or when feeling that her young are in danger. But
the bear, in company with all the other animals of the wilds, has
learned to fear man since gunpowder was invented. Prior to this time,
it felt the game was more equal, and seldom avoided a meeting, even
courted it.

Bears are a mixture of the curious comedy traits with cunning and
savage ferocity. In some of their lighter moods and pilfering habits,
they add to the gayety of life.

While hunting in Wyoming one night, on coming to camp we discovered a
young black bear robbing our larder. He had a ham bone in his jaws as
we approached. Hastily nocking a blunt arrow on my bowstring, I let fly
at sixty yards as he started to make his escape. I did not wish to
kill, only admonish him. The arrow flew in a swift chiding stroke and
smote him on his furry side with a dull thud. With a grunt and a bound,
he dropped the bone and scampered off into the forest while the arrow
rattled to the ground. His antics of surprise were most ludicrous. We
sped him on his way with hilarious shouts; he never came again.

Upon a different occasion with another party, where the camp was
bothered by the midnight foraging of a bear, our guide arranged to play
a practical joke upon a certain "tenderfoot." Unknown to the victim, he
tied a chunk of bacon to the corner of his sleeping bag with a piece of
bale wire. In the middle of the night the camp was awakened by a
pandemonium as the sleeping bag, man and all disappeared down the slope
and landed in the creek bed below, where the determined bear, hanging
on to the bacon, dragged the protesting tenderfoot. Here he abandoned
his noisy burden and left the scene of excitement. No doubt, this goes
down in the annals of both families as the most dramatic and stirring
moment of life.

Bear stories of this sort tend to give one the idea that these beasts
can be petted and made trustworthy companions. In fact, certain
sentimental devotees of nature foster the sentiment that wild animals
need naught but kindness and loving thoughts to become the bosom friend
of man. Such sophists would find that they had made a fatal mistake if
they could carry out their theories. The old feud between man and beast
still exists and will exist until all wild life is exterminated or is
semi-domesticated in game preserves and refuges.

Even domestic cattle allowed to run wild are extremely dangerous. Their
fear of man breeds their desperate assault when cornered.

The black bear has killed and will kill men when brought to bay or
wounded or even when he feels himself cornered.

Although largely vegetarian, bear also capture and devour prey. Young
deer, marmots, ground squirrels, sheep, and cattle are their diet. In
certain districts great damage is done to flocks by bears that have
become killers. In our hunts we have come across dead sheep, slain and
partially devoured by black bears. All ranchers can tell of the
depredations of these animals.

In Oregon and the northern part of California, there are many men who
make it their business to trap or run bears with dogs to secure their
hides and to sell their meat to the city markets. It is a hardy sport
and none but the most stalwart and experienced can hope to succeed at
it. In the late autumn and early winter the bears are fat and in prime
condition for capture.

Having graduated from ground squirrels, quail and rabbits, and having
laid low the noble deer, we who shoot the bow became presumptuous and
wanted to kill bear with our weapons. So, learning of a certain
admirable hunter up in Humboldt County by the name of Tom Murphy, we
wrote to him with our proposal. He was taken with the idea of the bow
and arrow and invited us to join him in some of his winter excursions.

In November, 1918, we arrived in the little village of Blocksburg, on
the outskirts of which was Murphy's ranch. In normal times, Tom cuts
wood, and raises cattle and grain for the market. In the winter months
he hunts bear for profit and recreation. In the spring after his
planting is done he also runs coyotes with dogs and makes a good income
on bounties.

We found Murphy a quiet-spoken, intelligent man of forty-five years,
married, and having two daughters. I was surprised to see such a
redoubtable bear-slayer so modest and kindly. We liked him immediately.
It is an interesting observation that all the notable hunters that have
guided us on our trips have been rather shy, soft-spoken men who
neither smoked nor drank.

Arthur Young and I constituted the archery brigade. We brought with us
in the line of artillery two bows and some two dozen arrows apiece. We
also brought our musical instruments. Not only do we shoot, but in camp
we sit by the fire at night and play sweet harmonies till bedtime.
Young is a finished violinist, and he has an instrument so cut down and
abbreviated that with a short violin bow he can pack it in his bed
roll. Its sound is very much like that of a violin played with a mute.

My own instrument was an Italian mandolin with its body reduced to a
box less than three inches square. It also is carried in a blanket roll
and is known as the camp mosquito.

Young is a master at improvising second parts, double stopping, and
obbligato accompaniments. So together we call all the sweet melodies
out of the past and play on indefinitely by ear. In the glow of the
camp-fire, out in the woods, this music has a peculiar plaintive appeal
dear to our hearts.

With these charms we soon won the Murphy family and Tom was eager to
see us shoot. He had heard that we shot deer, but he was rather
skeptical that our arrows could do much damage to bear. So one of the
first things he did after our arrival was to drag out an old dried hide
and hang it on a fence in the corral and asked me to shoot an arrow
through it. It was surely a test, for the old bear had been a tough
customer and his hide was half an inch thick and as hard as sole
leather.

But I drew up at thirty yards and let drive at the neck, the thickest
portion. My arrow went through half its length and transfixed a paw
that dangled behind. Tom opened his eyes and smiled. "That will do," he
said, "if you can get into them that far, that's all you need. I'll
take you out tomorrow morning, but I'll pack the old Winchester rifle
just for the sake of the dogs."

The dogs were Tom's real asset, and his hobby. There were five of them.
The two best, Baldy and Button, were Kentucky coon hounds in their
prime, probably being descendants of the English fox hound with the
admixture of harrier and bloodhound strains. Their breed has been in
the family for thirty years. Tom took great pride in his pack, trained
them to run nothing but bear and mountain lions, and never let anybody
else touch them. When not hunting they are kept fastened by a sliding
leash to a long heavy wire. Their diet was boiled cracked wheat and
cracklings, raw apples, and bear meat. They never tasted deer meat or
beef. I never saw more intelligent nor better conditioned hounds.

With the same stock he has hunted ever since he was a boy, and their
lineage is more important than that of the Murphys. He has taken from
ten to twenty bears every winter with these dogs for the past thirty
years.

We were to stay right in Tom's house, and go by horseback to the bear
grounds next morning. We had a supper which included bear steaks from a
previous hunt, and doughnuts fried in bear grease, which they say is
the best possible material for this culinary process, and later we
greased our bows with bear grease, and our shoes with a mixture of bear
fat and rosin. So we felt ready for bear.

Then we spent a delightful evening with the family before the big
fireplace, played our soft music, and all turned in for an early start
in the morning.

At four o'clock Tom began stirring around, building the fire and
feeding the horses. An hour later we breakfasted and were ready to
start. Light snow had fallen in the hills and the air was chill; the
moon was sinking in the valley mist. These early morning hours in the
country are strange to us who live so far from nature.

We mount and are off. As we go the horses see the trail that we cannot
discern, vague forms slip past, a skunk steals off before us, an owl
flaps noiselessly past, overhanging brush sweeps our faces, the dogs
leashed in couples trot ahead of us like spectres in procession.

Thus we journey for nearly ten miles in the darkness, going up out of
the valley, on to the foothills, through Windy Gap, past Sheep Corral,
over the divide, heading toward the Little Van Duzen River.


[Illustration: TOM MURPHY WITH HIS TWO BEST DOGS, BUTTON AND BALDY,
INDISPENSABLE IN GETTING BEARS]


All the while the dogs amble along, sniffing here and there at obscure
scents, now loitering to investigate a moment, now standing and looking
off into the dark. Tom knows by their actions what they think. "That's
a coyote's trail," he says, "they've just crossed a deer scent, but
they won't pay much attention to that." Their demeanor is
self-possessed and un-excited.

At last, just before dawn, we arrive on a pine-covered hillside and the
dogs become more eager. This is the bear country. They cross the canyon
here to get to the forest of young oak trees, beyond where the autumn
crop of acorns lies ready to fatten them for their long winter sleep.

Here is a bear tree, a small pine or fir, stripped of limbs and bark,
against which countless bears have scratched themselves.

Tom looses the dogs and sends them ranging to pick up a scent. They
take to it with eagerness, and soon we hear the boom of the hounds on a
cold track. Tom gets interested, but shakes his head. Last night's
snowfall and later drizzle have spoiled the ground for good tracking.
We dismount, tie our horses and follow the general direction of the
pack. They must be kept within earshot so that when they strike a hot
track we can keep up with them. If there is much wind and the forest
noises are loud, Tom will not run his dogs for fear of losing them.
Once on the trail of a bear, they never quit, but will leave the
country rather than give him up.

Expectation, stimulated by the distant baying of the running hounds,
the cold gray shadows of the woods, and the knowledge that any moment a
bear may come crashing through the undergrowth right where we stand,
tends to hold one in a state of exquisite suspense--not fear, just
chilly suspense. In fact, I was rather glad to see the sun rise.

But nothing came of this hunt. We worked over the creek bottom below,
rode over adjacent hills and canyons, struck cold trails here and there
to assure us that bear really existed, then at about ten o'clock Murphy
decided that weather conditions of the night before, combined with the
dissipating effect of sunshine and the lateness of the hour, all
dictated that we had best give up the game for that day.

So back we rode, the dogs a trifle footsore, for they had covered many
a mile in their ranging. Tom had shoes for them to wear when they are
very lame at the first of the season. Later on, their feet become tough
and need no protection. So we arrived back at the ranch empty-handed.

Next day we rested, and rain fell.

The day following we again tried a hunt and again failed to strike a
hot track. Tom was perplexed, for it was a rare thing for him to return
home without a bear. He rather suspected that the bows were a "jinx"
and brought bad luck. So again we rested the dogs and waited for a
change of fortune.

The time between hunts Young and I spent shooting rabbits. Once when
down on the stream bank looking for trout, Young saw a female duck
diving beneath the surface of the water. As it rose he shot it with an
arrow and nocking a second shaft, he prepared to deliver a finishing
blow if necessary, when up the stream he heard the whirring wings of a
flying duck; instantly he drew his bow, glanced to the left, and shot
at the rapidly approaching male. Pinioned through the wings, it dropped
near the first victim and he gathered the two as a tidbit for supper.

These things do happen between our larger adventures, and delight us
greatly.

The evenings we spent before the fire, played music, and I performed
sleights of hand, much to the wonderment of the rural audience that
gathered to see the strangers who expected to kill bears with bows and
arrows. After numerous coin tricks, card passes, mysterious
disappearances, productions of wearing apparel and cabbages from a hat,
and many other incredible feats of prestidigitation, they were almost
ready to believe we might slay bears with our bows.

Tom's dogs having recovered from our previous unsuccessful trips, we
started again one crisp frosty morning with the stars all aglitter
overhead. This time we were sure of good luck. Mrs. Murphy was positive
we would bring home a bear; she felt it in her bones.

It is cold riding this time in the morning, but it is beautiful. The
snow-laden limbs of the firs drop their loads upon us as we pass, the
twigs are whip-like in their recoil as they strike our legs; the horses
pick their way with surefooted precision, and we wonder what adventures
wait for us in the silent gloom.

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