Owen Wister.
A Day with the Elk
Early in September of 1890, we were in camp in the northern part of Colorado, an easy day's ride from the Wyoming line. Our party, eight in all, consisted of myself, three friends, three packers, and a cook. We had been out nearly a month, and after the first week our success had been good. We were taking life very easily—hunting a little, fishing now and then, and doing a great deal of healthy "lying round camp."
Game was very plentiful. There were black-tail and elk all around us. The antelope, than whom the ammunition manufacturer has no truer friend, were within easy reach. One of the party had bagged two bears, and a packer had found a dead one, whose fore-paws and ears were sufficiently preserved to be worth a $10 bounty to the finder.
The outfit with two exceptions was content. Our cook, having surreptitiously drunk all the whisky, was struggling with an increasing thirst provoked by an empty demi-john. My cup of happiness, unlike the cook's, had never been emptied, but it was far from full. I had not shot an elk. They were all round us, and had been for a fortnight. I had hunted them alone and in company. I had had many chances at young bulls, but had hitherto held my hand, waiting in vain for a good head. We had plenty of meat—a condition of things forbidding useless slaughter. Spike bulls and cows were therefore sacred, and seemed to know it, for they gave me every chance to take advantage of their youthful inexperience or sex. Twice I had stumbled on a large band in timber. I had heard the musical challenges of the young bulls answered by the patriarch, with his squealing whistle ending in a deep grunt of conscious superiority. The young bulls were provokingly plentiful—but the patriarchs always invisible. Of course every other member of the outfit saw the "biggest bull yet" whenever I happened to be absent. Each of my three friends had a good head or two to his score, and their accounts were closed. Our time was nearly up, and I began to despair of getting what I wanted. For two days I sulked in my tent, and then one morning Robert Bruce's historic spider fell into my lap from the tent-pole, and I arose and went forth for a last try.
Our camp was by a stream in an aspen grove, on the edge of one of those open spaces which, be they large or small, are known in Colorado as parks. Behind us to the south lay heavily timbered ridges, alternating with little valleys full of shade-trees, long, sweet grass, and pleasant brooks. There, I thought, was as good a place as any in which to find the "faultless monster that the world ne'er saw," and thither I accordingly went.
It was about noon when I started, and my intention was to work away to the south, and then hunt back to camp toward evening. I know that there are those who say that if you want to kill game you must get up early. They are perfectly right, and I agree with them entirely. But there are others who maintain with equal truth that toward sundown is the best time. One time is as good as the other, and inasmuch as an empty belly and the dark before the dawn are bitter things to me, and to be avoided if possible, I prefer the evening shooting. So, fortified with a good night's rest, and a breakfast calculated to last me till the morrow, I set forth alone and on foot.
In hunting, as in most cases where real work is to be done, one is best alone. Two people are apt to talk just at the wrong time. And even if you do not talk at all, four feet make—of necessity—more noise than two, and two bodies are easier seen than one. I left my horse behind, because I did not wish to burden myself with an extra responsibility. A horse can be a dreadful nuisance. You may want to go where he cannot, and so you must either leave him tied up somewhere, or else suit your way to his. Again, you lose valuable time in dismounting and tying up, before stalking or shooting your game. And both time and temper suffer when you can't find the place where you left your horse. Some men have the true woodsman's instinct, and never get lost or turned round. These are fortunate beings, and worthy of respectful admiration. But woe to him who, unendowed by nature with their gifts, seeks to imitate them. For my part I have always had quite enough to do to keep my head and feet agreed as to the direction of camp. Any extra strain, such as the necessity of looking for a mislaid horse, is sure to cause a disagreement between the members, and so bring on a catastrophe.