At sunset I was no closer to him, and as he was taking me further and further away from the chalet, a decision whether to sleep out or whether to return for the night to the hut became imperative. Sleeping out, quite unprepared as I happened to be, was, at the altitude I was on and in the chilly October nights, a contingency which if not really necessary was better avoided, particularly as the weather was rapidly assuming a threatening look, and the sky became covered with leaden-hued clouds indicative of coming snow. Taking the shortest route, it was, however, pitch dark when I finally reached the hut. A couple of hours later, when I turned in, a strong wind was blowing, which soon afterwards rose to a fierce gale that made the timbers of the ramshackle old hut groan and creak. It was still quite dark when I woke up, an ominous stillness contrasting strangely with the preceding uproar of the elements. The cause was soon explained, for on going to the door and trying to open it I found a couple of feet of snow had drifted against it, and I had to take it off its primitive raw-hide hinges to get it open at all. The air was thick with big flakes, and the ground was covered to a depth of four or five inches. It was noon before it stopped snowing, though the leaden, sunless sky did not look even then very promising. To search for the wounded buck under such circumstances seemed almost hopeless, and entirely so if he had died during the night, but eventually I decided to make an attempt. Making my way as best I could by the easiest approach to the ledge where I last saw the buck, I was of course wet to the skin long ere I reached the spot, for forcing one’s way through the twisted and tangled masses of the dwarf pine, snow clinging to every twig and branch, is the reverse of agreeable. However, I was to be rewarded, for I had not gone far when I heard the whistle emitted by the chamois when suddenly alarmed. Looking up, I saw him standing on the ledge above me, his shaggy coat outlined against the sky. It was his last tottering effort to fly from his pursuer, and I believe I almost could have caught him, so enfeebled had he become by loss of blood. A bullet placed in a better place than the last one soon put him out of his misery. It was a good five or six year old buck, and my first bullet had struck him rather high between the spine and the lungs, but ranging downwards had cut a furrow in the one lung on the side of its exit. Overshooting game when firing downwards should be specially guarded against. For shots under similar circumstances and at ordinary distances, it is a safe rule to see daylight between the top of the bead and the body; where otherwise, if the shot were fired on level ground, one would hold the bead right on the body.
Cutting a branch or two from the nearest dwarf pine and making use of the cord in my rücksack, a sort of sleigh was easily improvised, and seeing a steep and uninterrupted slope near at hand, I bundled the buck and myself down it in capital time, and in a flying cloud of snow. At the bottom I brittled the animal, for from there on I had to carry him, and finally reached the hut just as dusk and snow were simultaneously commencing to fall upon the landscape. A roaring fire and the fact that I had brought a change of underclothing with me, and discovered a pair of discarded old sabots in the adjoining cowshed, together with the solacing effects of a delicious stew of liver and brain, soon put a rosier hue upon things generally, and the fact that a good buck was hanging by the crooks of his horns to the eaves outside had probably also something to do with it.
One more chamois stalking incident may perhaps be permitted to find space here, as it will illustrate another aspect of the sport obtainable in a peasant-shoot. The shoot in question skirted for many miles the boundary between Tyrol and Bavaria; the preserve on the latter side marching with it, being a favourite hunting ground of the late King, was hence particularly strictly guarded. Preparing myself for a three or four days’ absence in the mountains, I left the main valley one August morning and reached the Alp-hut which I proposed to make my headquarters late the same afternoon. In the locality referred to, the duty of herding the cattle driven up to these elevated pasturages is performed by girls instead of by men. The stout-armed and stout-hearted lass will often be for weeks quite alone in her hut, miles of mountain wilds between her and the nearest habitation. On getting to the hut I found installed in it, instead of buxom Moidl, her brother Hans, a bold climber, inveterate stalker, and best of fellows withal. Hans and I were acquaintances of old, and he had no secrets from me. What that meant will be better understood when it is mentioned that the Bavarian frontier line was within rifle-shot of the hut, following the backbone of a steep ridge. Beyond that invisible line death awaited the poacher; for the Bavarian keepers were well known to entertain no scruples about reversing the order prescribed by law, and would shoot first and then only call upon their foe to surrender, a condition of things which naturally led to retaliation and sanguinary feuds. Hans and I were sitting in front of the hut smoking our pipes, and it needed no glasses to see that those black specks on yonder arête were the game of game, and Hans’ eyes, sparkling with excitement, involuntarily travelled from the chamois on the far cliff towards a huge old larch-tree a couple of hundred yards from where we were sitting, shattered ages ago by lightning, and now affording in its hollow trunk a safe hiding-place for his rifle and capacious rücksack, in the folds of which more than one buck had, I suspect, been ‘extradited’ back to Tyrol. There was really no reason for Hans to hide his rifle, for he was here on his own ground, but being a wild and uninhabited stretch of country and only peasants their victims, the Bavarian keepers would often defy the rules of international intercourse, and would cross into Tyrol to search Alp-huts they suspected of harbouring poachers—a proceeding which was all the more aggravating to the Tyrolese, for in consequence of topographical reasons the chamois were, if length of residence counted, really more their own than the Bavarian King’s—the peculiar lay of the country causing the chamois to leave the Tyrolese mountains, which faced the south, during the hot summer months to seek the cooler northern aspect on the Bavarian side of the line, returning to their home-range with the first September or October snowstorm, after which period the south aspect of the mountains remained their home for eight or nine months of the year. The King usually held his big drives in August, an exceptionally early period, and, as the Tyrolese persisted in maintaining, they were held so early for the special purpose of getting their chamois, a pretension which received some colour in their eyes by the circumstance that the keepers used to take special precautions at this season to prevent them escaping over the line.
My only hope for sport in that neighbourhood, those hot August days, lay in the circumstance that at one point the boundary line, instead of following the watershed, crossed from point to point, leaving the northern declivities of one of the higher peaks down to its base on the Tyrolese side. Towards this spot, about two hours’ climb from the hut, I shaped my course early the next morning after a comfortable night in the hayloft. It was necessary to get to the spot at sunrise, for otherwise the chamois, who used the narrow ledges that ran across the face of the exceedingly precipitous slope only for their night quarters, would have moved down towards their feeding ground near some snow patches beyond the base of the rock, where the ground was already in Bavaria. On getting to the top of the hill, which I did just as the sun was rising over the great glaciers of the distant Zillerthal, I found that the wind was still drawing down the slope, so the change in its direction, which usually occurs about sunrise, had to be patiently awaited. After shivering for some time in the piercing breeze, the wind at last began to shift, and five minutes later it was blowing up the slope. Only now did I venture to creep forward to the edge of the precipice, and craning over, scan the declivity below me. There, sure enough, right at the foot of the cliff, about 250 yards off, but already on Bavarian ground, was a single chamois slowly feeding away from me. My glass soon told me that it was a prize worthy of every effort, nay, almost worth turning poacher oneself. How unjust that this animal, which passed the greater part of the year on Tyrolese soil, should, because it happened to stray across an invisible boundary line, become the property of the King, just at the very time when the big royal chamois drives would, perhaps, cause him to run up to the rifle barrels of some pampered sportsman sitting on his camp-stool behind a bush, and anything but deserving the luck of bagging such a rare old buck, who was worthy of the hardest stalk man ever had! How unlucky, too, that the wind had not changed five minutes earlier, for I felt convinced that my lordly old buck had passed the night on some of the ledges within easy reach of my rifle! But these ruminations were useless, and as nothing further was to be done that day, I determined to return to the Alp-hut and repeat the experiment the following morning, when I hoped the wind would prove more propitious. On reaching the hut, I found that flaxen-tressed Moidl had returned from her errand to her distant home, and as both she and her brother knew every inch of the country I had been over, I talked matters over with them. My comment that the ‘Hohe Geschnürr’ was a fickle place for wind found the assent of experience. Moidl was quite a fair cook, and as I had some time before rendered her lover, who was serving his three years’ military service in the nearest garrison town, the much-prized favour of obtaining for him an unexpected leave of absence, she was, so far as the primitive means at her command allowed her, an attentive hostess, and, as the sequel proved, an energetic strategist. ‘And you are sure that you will return to the Hohe Geschnürr to-morrow morning?’ queried the lass as I was settling myself for a comfortable afternoon smoke at the open hearth. To my affirmative answer she replied with a smile and a nod, and soon afterwards left the hut, bent, as I supposed, on some errand connected with the guardianship of the kine in her charge, and from which she had not returned when I turned in for a second night in the hay. My start next morning was an early one, and I reached the top of the cliff in good time. Awaiting sunrise and the wind being favourable, I was soon creeping with bated breath through the low brush that grew to the very edge of the cliff, and looked down to renew my acquaintance, if possible, with the old lord of the manor. But, alas! the rising morning mist still hid the lower portion of the vast amphitheatre-shaped declivity. What wonderful effects do not those fleecy clouds produce as, drifting from pinnacle to pinnacle, assuming every minute different fantastic shapes, they finally begin to melt away, disclosing as they do so bit after bit of the details of the sublime landscape! When the base of the cliff at last became visible, I saw, somewhat to my surprise, quite a number of chamois congregated and evidently made uneasy by some sign of danger which was invisible to me; I could even hear their ‘whistle.’ With my glasses I soon picked out my buck of yesterday, and near him I saw a second veteran. It was much too far to shoot, so I awaited with imaginable impatience what the next move of the game would be. Slowly, with frequent stops to look back in the direction where their scent detected danger, they at last commenced an upward course which would bring them, if nothing changed their bearing, to within fifty yards of where I lay concealed, waiting till they reached the top of the cliff—in front the leading doe, then several yearlings and two-year-olds, and last, straggling at some distance behind, the two fathers of the tribe. The latter’s doom was sealed, for a minute later a right and left had added two good heads to my collection. Far over the mountains did the breeze carry the sound of my shots, and presumably more than one many-jointed German oath came as echo from the angry keepers, whose ideas respecting the ownership of those chamois were not exactly the same as those of the proprietors of the soil where the chamois lived for the greater part of the year. After brittling the bucks and hiding the larger one under some brush, I made for home with the other one in my rücksack. On my way down I stopped at the Alp-hut and sent Hans back for the former, which he was to take to the main valley the following day, an arrangement which prevented my hearing the sequel of the story, and the explanation why those chamois had come my way that morning, until some weeks later. My artful friend Moidl, it appeared, together with another girl from a neighbouring Alp-hut, had planned and had executed the following ruse. Starting long before sunrise from the latter’s hut, the two girls with large baskets on their backs had penetrated by break of day into the very heart of the royal preserve, situated on the lower slopes of the peak, on the top of which they knew I would presently be posted. When the wind changed, all the chamois above the girls got scent of them, and the result was soon afterwards communicated to them by my shots. But, unfortunately for the girls, my shots also put the keepers on the qui vive, and before the girls could get back to the Tyrolese side a keeper had spied them and promptly arrested them. Their excuse that they were collecting medicinal roots for their cattle, and had unwittingly wandered across into Bavaria, did not help them, and they were taken down in triumph to the nearest forest-master. Fortunately, however, the judge who heard their case took a more reasonable view, and found that there were no proofs of poaching or of abetting poaching, and after a brief confinement they were set at liberty.
RIFLES AND KIT
Tyrolese, Swiss and German sportsmen, as a rule, use only single-barrelled rifles, and much smaller charges than are used out of English Expresses; indeed, in some royal shoots the use of double-barrelled rifles is against local etiquette. Thus the Emperor of Austria, one of the keenest sportsmen born, never uses other than single-barrelled arms, and his guests are expected to do the same. The reason is a good one—namely, to discourage wild shooting at long ranges, causing numbers of chamois to be wounded, many of whom escape only to die in places where they never can be got at. To a person who is accustomed to shoot at long ranges and who knows exactly what the rifle in his hands can do if held steadily, the shoulder of a chamois standing at two hundred yards is not, as most German sportsmen will insist on, an impossible mark; but of course practice and fine sights on a really accurate weapon with the necessary steadiness of aim are essential to accomplish it. A hinged peepsight behind the hammers, which turns down when not required, or a Lyman sight, is a desirable aid for fine shooting, provided one is accustomed to its use; and the same might be said of hair triggers. A peepsight of my own invention, which has been copied by some who have seen it, is constructed so as to fold down when not in use, fitting into a recess of exactly its shape. Its chief merit is that when not required it is invisible, and when required the pressure of the thumb against a tiny knob (the size of a No. 1 shot) behind the right hammer releases a spring, and the sight jumps into position, and without requiring any further adjustment is ready for immediate use. Messrs. Holland & Holland, of New Bond Street, have built me an excellent rifle with this sight. To the question which is the best rifle, the reply may safely be given: a light .450 Express, with a sling to carry it in the Continental fashion, which latter leaves one the free use of the hands and arms for climbing. For all ordinary purposes in driving and also in stalking chamois the solid bullet should be used, for the disfiguring effect of the hollow bullet at short ranges on such comparatively small game as chamois is to be avoided, and in many shoots there is a standing rule against them. For stalking, when one is alone, and a wounded chamois is likely to baulk one’s best efforts to get it, the hollow bullet has certain advantages, for wounded game succumbs as a rule much sooner, and it is also much more easily tracked. Considering that the hollow and the solid bullets have very different trajectories, the promiscuous use of both out of the same barrel is fatal to good marksmanship.[9]
Good field-glasses, preferably of aluminium, being much lighter than other metal, are quite indispensable, and are better than telescopes in the hands of all but the most experienced, for they give a much larger field and can be used more constantly. Chamois, particularly early in the season, are, on account of their dun coats, hard to see against a background of rocks, and, even with some practice in knowing where to look for them, a close scrutiny is necessary. ‘Steigeisen,’ or crampons, are most useful when once one has become used to them; to the tiro they are, however, often a source of danger, and in really bad places when stalking alone bare feet answer the same purpose. The already mentioned ‘rücksack,’ or Tyrolese game-bag, is the stalker’s best friend, not only in the Alps, but in any part of the world for rough work. It is a bag of canvas, with two broad leather straps to pass the arms through. Its lightness—it weighs only a few ounces—and extreme simplicity are advantages apparent to everybody who has used it once. When empty one can put it into one’s coat-pocket, and when required one can carry in it a roebuck or chamois in the manner least fatiguing, for the weight is distributed between the shoulders and the small of the back, leaving the arms and muscles perfectly free play. The writer has used them for years in the Rockies, and the alacrity exhibited by the Indians in one’s employ in taking to them in lieu of headstraps and crossbands showed that there was one improvement that the old world could show the new one. A well-known writer on sporting subjects not long ago, when recommending this bag to young shooters, stated that it was originally introduced by a gentleman in Carlisle. If so, it must have been a good many years ago; for the Prince Consort used them in Scotland from the first year he shot in the Highlands, and the writer’s father used them in the Highlands forty-five or fifty years ago. In Tyrol it has been in use for at least four hundred years, for we see it in prints of Maximilian’s day. As for clothing, the best nether garments for really rough work are dark-coloured chamois leather breeches, reaching to the knee, leaving it bare, with worsted stockings long enough to reach well over the knees in snowy weather. Ordinary woollen knickerbockers will not stand many hard days of chamois stalking in a limestone formation; in fact, the end of the first stalk will probably find them seatless.
CHAMOIS DRIVING
What has been said will show that, to become a successful stalker, practice and early training in mountain work are, if not absolutely essential, at least very desirable, and even the possessor of these advantages has cause to pray for perpetual youth. As years roll by, even the keenest stalker gradually becomes more and more reconciled to the assistance afforded by beaters and other extraneous aids to outwit this wary game, and more and more satisfied with the buck carefully picked from the band as it rushes past one’s post in headlong flight, or in cutting short the earthly career of a tricky old veteran whose oft-repeated practice of sneaking through the line of guns unobserved was attempted once too often.