“As to that beaver I was speaking about, it took me three years to capture him, for he was an old fellow, and remarkably cunning. He was the last, from all that I can learn, that was ever taken in the State. One of the Long Lake Indians often attempted to trap him, but without success; he usually found his trap sprung, but could never get a morsel of the beaver’s tail; and so it was with me, too; but I finally fixed a trap under the water, near the entrance to his dam, and it so happened that he one day stepped into it and was drowned.
“I was going to tell you something about my dogs, Buck and Tiger. I’ve raised some fifty of these animals in my day, but I never owned such a tormented smart one as that fellow Buck. I believe there’s a good deal of the English mastiff in him, but a keener eye than he carries in his head I never saw. Only look at that breast of his; did you ever see a thicker or more solid one? He’s handsomely spotted, as you may see, but some of the devilish Lake Pleasant Indians cut off his ears and tail about a year ago, and he now looks rather odd. You may not believe it, but I have seen a good many men who were not half as sensible as that very dog. Whenever the fellow’s hungry he always seats himself at my feet and gives three short barks, which is his way of telling me that he would like some bread and meat. If the folks happen to be away from home, and he feels a little sharp, he pays a regular visit to all the houses in the village, and after playing with the children, barks for a dry crust, which he always receives, and then comes back to his own home. He’s quite a favorite among the children, and I’ve witnessed more than one fight because some wicked little scamp had thrown a stone at him. When I speak to him he understands me just as well as you do. I can wake him out of a sound sleep, and by my saying, ‘Buck, go up and kiss the baby,’ he will march directly to the cradle and lick the baby’s face; and the way he watches that baby when it’s asleep, is perfectly curious,—he’d tear you to pieces in three minutes if you were to try to take it away. Buck is now four years old, and though he’s helped me to kill several hundred deer, he never lost one for me yet. Whenever I go a hunting, and don’t want him along, I have only to say, ‘Buck, you must not go,’—and he remains quiet: there’s no use in chaining him, I tell you, for he understands his business. This dog never starts after a deer until I tell him to go, even if the deer is in sight. Why ’twas only the other day that Tiger brought in a doe to Lake Colden, where the two had a desperate fight within a hundred yards of the spot where Buck and myself were seated. I wanted to try the metal of Tiger, and told Buck he must not stir, though I went up to the doe to see what the result would be between the fighters. Buck didn’t move out of his tracks, but the way he howled for a little taste of blood was perfectly awful. I almost thought the fellow would die in his agony. Buck is of great use to me, when I am off hunting, in more ways than one. If I happen to be lost in a snow storm, which is sometimes the case, I only have to tell him to go home, and if I follow his tracks I am sure to come out in safety; and when sleeping in the woods at night, I never have any other pillow than Buck’s body. As to my black dog Tiger, he isn’t quite two years old yet, but he’s going to make a great hunter. I am trying hard now-a-days to break him of a very foolish habit of killing porcupines. Not only does he attack every one he sees, but he goes out to hunt them, and often comes home all covered with their quills. It was only the other day that he came home with about twenty quills working their way into his snout. It so happened, however, that they did not kill him, because he let me pull them all out with a pair of pincers, and that too without budging an inch. About the story people tell, that the porcupine throws its quills, I can tell you it’s no such thing,—it is only when the quills touch the dog, that they come out and work their way through his body.
“As to deer hunting, I can tell you more stories in that line than you’d care about hearing. They have several ways of killing them in this quarter, and some of their ways are so infernal mean. I’m surprised that there should be any deer left in the country. In the first place, there’s the ‘still hunting’ fashion, when you lay in ambush near a salt lick, and shoot the poor creatures when they’re not thinking of you. And there’s the beastly manner of blinding them with a ‘torch light’ when they come into the lakes to cool themselves, and get away from the flies, during the warm nights of summer. Now I say, that no decent man will take this advantage of wild game, unless he is in a starving condition. The only manly way to kill deer is by ‘driving’ them, as I do, with a couple of hounds.
“There isn’t a creature in this whole wilderness that I think so much of as a deer. They are so beautiful, with their bright eyes, graceful necks, and sinewy legs; and they are so swift, and make such splendid leaps when hard pressed; why, I’ve seen a buck jump from a cliff that was forty feet high, and that, too, without injuring a hair. I wish I could get my living without killing this beautiful animal!—but I must live, and I suppose they were made to die. The cry of the deer, when in the agonies of death, is the awfulest sound I ever heard;—I’d a good deal rather hear the scream of the panther, provided I have a ball in my pistol, and the pistol is in my hand. I wish they would never speak so.
“The time for taking deer is in the fall and winter. It’s a curious fact, that when a deer is at all frightened, he cannot stand upon smooth ice, while, at the same time, when not afraid of being caught, he will not only walk, but actually trot across a lake as smooth as glass. It’s a glorious sight to see them running down the mountains, with the dogs howling behind; but I don’t think I ever saw a more beautiful race than I once did on Lake Henderson, between a buck deer and my dog Buck, when the lake was covered with a light fall of snow. I had put Buck upon a fresh track, and was waiting for him on the lake shore. Presently, a splendid deer bounded out of the woods upon the ice, and as the dog was only a few paces off, he led the race directly across the lake. Away they ran as if a hurricane was after them; crossed the lake, then back again. Then they made another wheel, and having run to the extreme southern point of the lake, again returned, when the deer’s wind gave out, and the dog caught and threw the creature, into whose throat I soon plunged my knife, and the race was ended.
“I never was so badly hurt in hunting any animal as I have been in hunting deer. It was while chasing a buck on Cheney’s Lake, (which was named after me by Mr. Henderson in commemoration of my escape,) that I once shot myself in a very bad way. I was in a canoe, and had laid my pistol down by my side, when, as I was pressing hard upon the animal, my pistol slipped under me in some queer way, and went off, sending a ball into my leg, just above the ankle, which came out just below the knee. I knew something terrible had happened, and though I thought that I might die, I was determined that the deer should die first; and I did succeed in killing him before he reached the shore. But, soon as the excitement was over, the pain I had felt before was increased a thousand-fold, and I felt as if all the devils in hell were dragging at my leg, the weight and the agony were so great. I had never suffered so before, and I thought it strange. You may not believe it, but when that accident happened, I was fourteen miles from home, and yet, even with that used-up leg, I succeeded in reaching my home, where I was confined to my bed from October until April. That was a great winter for hunting which I missed; but my leg got entirely well, and is now as good as ever.