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Hunting with the Bow and Arrow

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




This time we rode far. If bears were to be had any place, they could be
found in Panther Canyon, below Mt. Lassie.

By sunrise we reached the ridge back of the desired spot where we tied
our horses preparatory to climbing up the gulch. The dogs were made
ready; there were only three of them this time: Button, Baldy, and old
Buck, the shepherd dog. Immediately they struck a cold trail and danced
around in a circle, baying with long deep bell tones, pleading to be
released. My breath quivers at the memory of them. Murphy unclasped the
chains that linked them together and they scampered up the precipitous
ravine before us. As they passed, Tom pointed out bear tracks, the
first we had seen.

In less than ten minutes the full-throated bay of the hounds told us
that they had struck a hot track and routed the bear from his temporary
den.

That was the signal for speed, and we began a desperate race up the
side of the mountain. Nothing but perfect physical health can stand
such a strain. One who is not in athletic training will either fail
completely in the test or do his heart irreparable damage.

But we were fit; we had trained for the part. Stripped for action, we
were dressed in hunting breeches, light high-topped shoes spiked on the
soles, in light cotton shirts, and carried only our bows, quivers of
arrows, and hunting knives. Tom was a seasoned mountain climber, born
on the crags, and had knees like a goat. So we ran. Up the side and
over the crest we sped. The bay of the hounds pealed out with every
bound ahead of us. As we crossed the ridge, we heard them down the
canyon below us, the crashing of the bear and the cry of the dogs
thrilled us with a very old and a very strong flood of emotions.
Panting and flushed with effort we rushed onward; legs, legs, and more
air, 'twas all we wanted. Tom is tough and used to altitudes, Young is
stronger and more youthful than I am, and besides a flapping quiver, an
unwieldy bow, my camera banged me unmercifully on the back. Still I
kept up very well, and my early sprinting on the cinder track came to
my aid. We stuck together, but just as I had about decided that running
was a physical impossibility, Tom shouted, "He is treed." That was a
welcome word. We slackened our pace, knowing that the dogs would hold
him till we arrived, and we needed our breath for the next act. So on a
trot we came over a rise of ground and saw, away up on the limb of a
tall straight fir tree, a bear that looked very formidable and large.
The golden rays of the rising sun were shining through his fur.

That was the first bear I had ever seen in the open, first wild bear,
first bear with no iron bars between him and me. I felt peculiar.

The dogs were gathered beneath the tree keeping up a chorus of yelps
and assaulting its base as if to tear it to pieces. The bear apparently
had no intention of coming down.

Tom had instructed us fully what to do; so we now helped him catch his
dogs and tie them with a rope which he held. He did this because he
knew that if we wounded the bear and he descended there was going to be
a fight, and he didn't want to lose his valuable dogs in an experiment.
He had his gun to take care of himself, and Young and I were supposed
to stand our share of the adventure as best we could.

Keen with anticipation of unexpected surprises; wondering, yet willing
to take a chance, we prepared to shoot our first bear. We stationed
ourselves some thirty yards from the base of the tree. The bear was
about seventy-five feet up in the air, facing us, looking down and
exposing his chest.

We drew our arrows together and a second later released as one man.
Away flew the two shafts, side by side, and struck the beast in the
breast, not six inches apart. Like a flash, they melted into his body
and disappeared forever. He whirled, turned backward, and began sliding
down the tree.

Ripping and tearing the trunk, he descended almost as if falling, a
shower of bark preceding him like a cartload of shingles. Tom shouted,
"You missed him, run up close and shoot him again!" From his side of
the tree he couldn't see that our arrows had hit and gone through, also
he was used to seeing bear drop when he hit them with a bullet.

But we were a little diffident about running up close to a wounded
bear, for Tom had told us it would fight when it got down.
Nevertheless, we nocked an arrow again, and just as he reached the
ground we were close by to receive him. We delivered two glancing blows
on his rapidly falling body. When he landed, however, he selected the
lower side of the tree, away from us, and bounded off down the canyon.
We protested that we had hit him and begged Tom to turn his dogs loose.
After a moment's deliberation, Tom let old Buck go and off he tore in
hot pursuit. The shepherd was a wily old cattle dog and would keep out
of harm.

Soon we heard him barking and Murphy exclaimed incredulously, "He's
treed again!" Button and Baldy were unleashed and once more we started
our cross-country running. Through maple thickets, over rocky sides,
down the wooded canyon we galloped. Much sooner than we expected, we
came to our bear. Hard pressed, he had climbed a small oak and crouched
out on a swaying limb. We could see that he was heaving badly, and was
a very sick animal. His gaze was fixed on the howling dogs. Young and I
ran in close and shot boldly at his swaying body. Our arrows slipped
through him like magic. One was arrested in its course as it buried
itself in his shoulder. Savagely he snapped it in two with his teeth,
when another driven by Young with terrific force struck him above the
eye. He weakened his hold, slipped backward, dropped from the bending
limb and rolled over and over down the ravine. The dogs were on him in
a rush, and wooled him with a vengeance. But he was dead by the time he
reached the creek bottom. We clambered down, looked him over with awe,
then Young and I shook hands across the body of our first bear. We took
his picture.

Tom opened up the chest and abdominal cavity, explored the wounds and
was full of exclamations of surprise at the damage done by our arrows.
He agreed that our animal was mortally wounded with our first two
shots, and had we let him alone there would have been no necessity for
more arrows. But this being our very first bear, we had overdone the
killing.

So he gave the liver and lungs to the waiting hounds as a reward for
their efforts, and cleaned the carcass for carrying. We found the
stomach full of acorn mush, just as clean and sweet as a mess of
cornmeal.

Murphy left us to pack the bear up on the pine flat above, while he
went around three or four miles to get the horses. After a strenuous
half hour, we got our bear up the steep bank and rested on the flat.
Here we ate our pocket lunch.

As we sat there quietly eating, we heard a rustle in the woods below
us, and looking up, saw another good-sized black bear about forty yards
off. I had one arrow left in my quiver, Young only two broken shafts,
the rest we had lost in our final scramble. So we passed no insulting
remarks to the bear below, who suddenly finding our presence, vanished
in the forest. We had had enough bear for one day, anyhow.

Tom came with the horses, and loaded our trophy on one. Ordinarily a
horse is greatly frightened at bears, and difficult to manage, but
these were long ago accustomed to the business. It interested us to see
the method of tying the carcass securely on a common saddle. By placing
a clove hitch on the wrists and ankles and cinching these beneath the
horse's belly with a sling rope through the bear's crotch and around
its neck, the body was held suspended across the saddle and rode easily
without shifting until we reached home.

Adult black bear range in weight from one hundred to five hundred
pounds. Ours, although he had looked very formidable up the tree, was
really not a very large animal and not fully grown. After cleaning, it
tipped the scales at a little below two hundred pounds. But it was
large enough for our purposes, and we couldn't wait for it to grow any
heavier. It was no fault of ours that it was only some three or four
years old. We felt that even had it been one of those huge old boys, we
would have conquered him just the same. In fact, we had begun to count
ourselves among the intrepid bear slayers of the world. So we returned
to the ranch in triumph.


[Illustration: YOUNG AND I ARE VERY PROUD OF OUR MAIDEN BEAR]


Next day we took our departure from Blocksburg and bade the Murphys an
affectionate farewell. The bear we carried with us wrapped in canvas to
distribute in luscious steaks to our friends in the city. The beautiful
silky pelt now rests on the parlor floor of Young's home with a
ferocious wide open mouth waiting to scare little children, or trip up
the unwary visitor.

Since this, our maiden bear, we have had various other encounters with
bruin. Once while hunting mountain lions, we came upon the body of an
angora goat recently killed by a bear. The ground was covered with his
ungainly footprints. We set the dogs on the scent and off they went,
booming in hot pursuit. Running like wild Indians, Young and I followed
by ear, bows ready strung and quivers held tightly to our sides. In
less than ten minutes, we burst into a little open glade in the forest
and saw up in a large madrone tree, a good-sized cinnamon bear
fretfully eyeing the dogs below.

We had lost our apprehension concerning the outcome of an encounter
with bears, so we coolly prepared to settle his fate. In fact, we even
discussed the problem whether or not we should kill him. We were not
after bears, but lions. This fellow, however, was a rogue, a killer of
sheep and goats. He had repeatedly thrown our dogs off the track with
his pungent scent and we were strictly within our hunting rights if we
wanted him. We therefore drew our broadheads to the barb and drove two
wicked shafts deep into his front. As if knocked backwards, the bear
reared and threw himself down the slanting tree trunk. As he reached
the ground, one of our dogs seized him by the hind leg and the two went
flying past us within a couple of yards, the dog hanging on like grim
death. Furiously, the other dogs followed and we leaped to the chase.

This time the course of the bear was marked by a swath of broken brush.
It dashed headlong through the forest regardless of obstruction. Small
trees in his way meant nothing to him; he ran over them, or if old and
brittle, smashed them down. Into the densest portion of the woods he
made his way. Not more than three hundred yards from the spot he
started, he treed again. In an almost impenetrable thicket of small
cedars, the dogs sent up their chorus of barks. I dashed in, fighting
my way free from restraining limbs, the bow and quiver holding me again
and again. Young got stuck and fell behind, so that I came alone upon
our bear at bay. He had mounted but a short distance up a mighty oak
and hung by his claws to the bark. I had run beneath him before seeing
his position. Instantly I recognized the danger of the situation and
backed off, away from the tree, at the same time nocking an arrow on
the string. I glanced about for Young, but he was detained, so I drew
the head and discharged my arrow right into the heart region of our
beast, where it buried its point. Loosening his hold, the bear fell
backward from the tree and landed on the nape of his neck. He was weak
with mortal wounds, and even had he wanted to charge me, the combat
could not have progressed far. But instantly the dogs were on him.
Seizing him by the front and back legs, they dragged him around a small
tree, holding him firmly in spite of his struggles, while he bawled
like a lost calf. The din was terrific; snarling, snapping dogs, the
crashing underbrush, and the bellowing of bear made the world hideous.
It seemed that the pain of our arrows was nothing to him compared to
his fear of the dogs, and when he felt himself helpless in their power,
his morale was completely shattered.

It was soon over; hardly a minute elapsed before his resistless form
lay still, and even the dogs knew he was dead. Poor Young arrived at
this moment, having just extricated himself from the brush.

We skinned the pelt to make quivers, took his claws for decorations,
and cut some sweet bear steaks from his hams; the rest we gave to the
pack.

It seems a very proper thing that the service of the dogs should always
be recognized promptly, that they be given their share of the spoils
and that they be praised for their courage and fidelity. This makes
them better hunters. Stupid men who drive off their dogs from the
quarry, defer their rewards, and grudge them praise, kill the spirit of
the chase within them and spoil them for work.

Hounds have the finest hunting spirit of any animal. The team work of
the wolf and their intelligent use of strategy is one of the most
striking evidences of community interests in animal life.

The fellowship between us and our dogs is a most satisfactory relation.
Since prehistoric times, the hunter has taken advantage of the
comradeship and on it rests the mutual dependence and trust of the two.

Altogether, bringing bears to bay is among the most thrilling
experiences of life. It is a primitive sport and as such it stirs up in
the human breast the primordial emotions of men. The sense of danger,
the bodily exhaustion, the ancestral blood lust, the harkening bay of
the hounds, the awe of deep-shadowed forests, and the return to an
almost hand-to-claw contest with the beast, call upon a latent manhood
that is fast disappearing in the process of civilization.

I hope there always will be bears to hunt and youthful adventurers to
chase them.




XIII


MOUNTAIN LIONS


The cougar, panther, or mountain lion is our largest representative of
the cat family. Early settlers in the Eastern States record the
existence of this treacherous beast in their conquest of the forests.
The cry of the "painter," as he was called, rang through the dark woods
and caused many hearts to quaver and little children to run to mother's
side. Once in a while stories came of human beings having met their
doom at the swift stealthy leap of this dreaded beast. He was bolder
then than now. Today he is not less courageous, but more cautious. He
has learned the increased power of man's weapons.

Our Indians knew that he would strike, as they struck, without warning
and at an advantage. It is a matter of tradition among frontiersmen
that he has upon rare occasions attacked and killed bears. Even today
he will attack man if provoked by hunger, and can do so with some
assurance of success, the statements of certain naturalists to the
contrary notwithstanding.

John Capen Adams, in his adventures, [1]
[Footnote 1: _The Adventures of James Capen Adams of California_, by
Theodore H. Hittell.]
describes such an episode. The lion in this instance sprang upon a
companion, seized him by the back of the neck, and bore him to the
ground. He was only saved from death by a thick buckskin collar to his
coat and the ready assistance of Adams who heard the cry for help.

I know of an instance where a California lion leaped upon some bathing
children and attempted to kill them, but was driven off by the heroic
efforts of a young woman school teacher, who in turn died of her
wounds.

Those of us who have roamed the wilds of the western country have had
varying experiences with this animal, while others have lived their
lives in districts undoubtedly infested with cougars and have never
seen one, although nearly every mountain rancher has heard that
hair-raising, almost human scream echo down the canyon. It is like the
wail of a woman in pain. Penetrating and quavering, it rings out on the
night gloom, and brings to the human what it must, in a similar way,
bring to the lesser animals a sense of impending attack, a death
warning. It is part of the system of the predatory beast that he uses
fear to weaken the powers of his prey before he assaults it. Animal
psychology is essentially utilitarian. Cowering, trembling, muscularly
relaxed, on the verge of emotional shock, we are easier to overcome.

The cougar lives principally on deer. His kill averages more than one a
week, and often we may find evidence that this murderer has wantonly
slain two or three deer in a single night's expedition.

It is not his habit to lie in wait on the limb of a tree, though he
often sleeps there; but he makes a stealthy approach on the
unsuspecting victim, then, with a series of stupendous bounds, he
throws himself upon the deer, and by his momentum bears it to the
ground. Here, while he holds on with teeth and forelegs, he rips open
the flank with his hind claws and immediately plunges his head into the
open abdomen, where he tears the great blood vessels with his teeth and
drinks its life blood.

These are facts learned from lion hunters whose observations are
accurate and reliable. A lion can jump a distance greater than
twenty-four feet, and has been seen to ascend at a single leap a cliff
of rock eighteen feet high.

Their weight runs from one hundred to two hundred pounds, and the
length from six to nine feet. The skin will stretch farther than this,
but we count only the carcass from the tip of the nose to the tip of
the extended tail. The speed of a lion for a short distance is greater
than that of a greyhound, less than five seconds to the hundred yards.

Some observers contend that the lion never gives that blood-curdling
cry assigned to him. They say he is silent, and that this classic
scream is made by a lynx in the mating period. However, popular
experience to the contrary seems to be too strong and counterbalances
this iconoclastic opinion.

For many years, off and on, we have hunted lions, but sad to say, we
have done more hunting than finding. They are a very wary creature.
Practically, one never sees them unless hunting with dogs; they may be
in the brush within thirty yards, but the human eye will fail to
discern them.

Our camps have been robbed by lions, our horses killed by them, cattle
and sheep ruthlessly murdered; lion tracks have been all about, and yet
unless trapped or treed by dogs, we have never met.

Camping at the base of Pico Blanco, in Monterey County, several years
ago, a lion was seen to bound across the road and follow a small band
of deer. At this very spot a few seasons before one leaped upon an old
mare with foal and broke her neck as she crashed through the fence and
rolled down the hill. Three years later I rode the young horse. As we
passed the tree from which it is thought the lion sprang, where the
broken fence was still unmended, my colt jumped and reared, the memory
of his fright was still vivid in his mind. Up the trail a half mile
beyond we saw other fresh lion tracks. At night we camped on the ridge
with our dogs in hope that our feline friend would come again.

It was too late to hunt that evening, so we turned in. Nothing happened
save that in the middle of the night I was roused by the whine of our
dogs, and looking up in the face of the pale moon, I saw two deer go
bounding past, silhouetted like graceful phantoms across the silvered
sky. They swept across the lunar disc and melted into blackness over
the dark horizon.

No sound followed them, and having appeased the fretful hounds, we
returned to sleep. In the morning, up the trail, there were his tracks;
too wise to cross the human scent, and knowing that there are more deer
in the brush, he had turned upon his course and let his quarry slip.

Because of the heat and the inferior tracking capacity of our dogs, we
never got this panther. A lion dog is a specialist and must be so
trained that no other track will divert him from his quest. These dogs
were willing, but erratic.

The best dogs for this work are mongrels. By far the finest lion dog I
ever saw was a cross between a shepherd and an airedale. He had the
intelligence of the former and the courage of the latter. The airedale
himself is not a good trailer, he is too temperamental. He will start
on a lion track, jump off and chase a deer and wind up by digging out a
ground squirrel. After a good hound finds a lion, the airedale will
tackle him.

We once started an airedale on a lion track, followed him at a fiendish
pace, dashed down the side of a mountain, and found that he had an
angora goat up a tree.

This cougar on Pico Blanco still roams the forests, so far as I know,
and many with him. Once we saw him across a canyon. He appeared as a
tawny slow-moving body as large as a deer but low to the earth and
trailing a listless tail, while his head slowly swung from side to
side. He seemed to be looking for something on the ground. For the
space of a hundred yards we watched him traverse an open side hill,
deep in ferns and brakes. Seeing him thus was little satisfaction to
us, for we had lost our dogs. Ferguson and I were returning from one of
our unsuccessful expeditions.

We started with two saddle horses, a pack animal, and five good lion
dogs. On the trail to the Ventana Mountains we came across lion tracks
and followed them for a day, then lost them; but we knew that a large
male and young female were ranging over the country. Their circuit
extended over a radius of ten miles; they are great travelers.

The track of a lion is characteristic. The general contour is round,
from three to four inches in diameter. There are four toe prints
arranged in a semicircle which show no claw marks. But the ball of the
foot is the unmistakable feature. It consists of three distinct
eminences or pads which lie parallel, antero-posteriorly, and appear in
the track as if you had pressed the terminal phalanges of your fingers
side by side in the dust. These marks are nearly equal in length and
absolutely identify the big cat.

On the morning of the second day of our trailing this lion, our pack
was working down in the thick brush below the crest of Rattlesnake
Ridge, when suddenly they raised a chorus of yelps. There was a rush of
bodies in the chamise brush, and the chase was on at a furious pace. We
rode up to an observation point and saw the dogs speeding down the
canyon side, close on the heels of a yellow leaping demon. They
switched from side to side, as cat and dog races have been carried on
since time immemorial.

The undergrowth was so dense we could not follow, so we sat our horses
and waited for them to tree. But further and further they descended.
They crossed the bottom, mounted a cliff on the opposite side, came
scrambling down from this and plunged into the bed of the stream, where
their voices were lost to hearing.

We rode around to a spur of the hill that dipped into the brush and
overhung the canyon. From this we heard occasional barks away down at
least a mile below us. It was a difficult situation. Nothing but a
bluejay could possibly get down to the creek below. I never saw such a
jungle! So we waited for the indications that the lion was treed, but
all became silent.

Evening approached, we ate our supper and then sat on the hill above,
sounding our horns. Their vibrant echoes rang from mountain to mountain
and returned to us clear and sweet.

Way down below us, where a purple haze hung over the deep ravine, we
faintly heard the answering hounds. In their voices we caught the dog's
response to his master and friend. It said, "We have him. Come! Come!"
We blew the horns again. The elf-land notes returned again and again,
and with them came the call of the faithful hound, "We are here. Come!
Come!"

Now, there was a pitiful plight. No sane man would venture down such a
chasm, impenetrable with thorns, and night descending. So we built a
beacon fire and waited for dawn. All during the long dark hours we
heard the distant appeal of the hounds, and we slept little.

At the first rays of dawn we took a hasty meal, fed our horses, and
stripping ourselves of every unnecessary accoutrement, we prepared to
descend the canyon. Our bows and quivers we left behind because it
would have been impossible to drag them through the jungle. Ferguson
carried only his Colt pistol; I took my hunting knife.

Having surveyed the topography carefully, we attacked the problem at
its most available angle and slid from view. We literally dived beneath
the brush. For more than two hours we wormed our way down the face of
the mountain, crawling like moles at the base of the overhanging
thickets of poison oak, wild lilac, chamise, sage, manzanita, hazel and
buckthorn. At last we reached the depth of the canyon and, finding a
little water, we bathed our sweat-grimed faces and cooled off.

No sound of the dogs was heard, but pressing forward we followed the
boulder-strewn bottom of the creek for a mile or more, almost
despairing of ever finding them, when suddenly we came upon a strange
sight. There was the pack in a circle about a big reclining oak. They
were voiceless and utterly exhausted, but sat watching a huge lion
crouched on a great overhanging limb of the tree. The moment we
appeared they raised a feeble, hoarse yelp of delight. The panther
turned his head, saw us, sprang from the tree with a prodigious bound,
landed on the side hill, tore down the canyon, and leaped over a
precipice below.

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