Inter-Ocean Hunting Tales

by Edgar Fritz Randolph

In the fall of 1896 I decided upon taking a hunting trip to the White River country in Colorado. At that time the White River country was well supplied with game and might almost be considered a sportsman’s paradise, or, as an Indian described it to me, like the “happy hunting grounds.” Deer were very plentiful, and around Hayden and in California Park antelope were numerous, although very shy. Bull elk occasionally adorned the landscape with their imposing presence and splendid spread of antlers. The cougar was heard occasionally, although never seen unless hunted with dogs. Old “Silver Tip” frequented the neighborhood, but had a way of making his bulky form vanish like some apparition. His depredations, where he had mangled the carcass of some animal or disturbed the habitations of a lot of small fry under a rotten log, furnished evidence of his presence. There was enough large game in the country to give some idea of what it had been at a time when the Redskin was the undisputed proprietor of the soil.

I had secured, through correspondence, the services of a guide who had been well recommended. Having heard considerably about the cowboy, my curiosity had been somewhat excited, and I desired to form a better acquaintance from actual experience. The West was then, to my mind, a geographical area possessing a certain wildness and wooliness, which my imagination pictured to me. The rapid trend of events makes a book describing its general conditions seem behind the times almost as soon as it is published. Much of what I had read and heard, however, seemed to me like a fairy tale in the face of actual experience, although, allowing for exaggeration, back of it all it had a foundation of facts. Every time I have visited the West I have noticed the rapid progress of change.

During my first hunting experience, I noticed that the typical bad man, of whom I had heard so much, with his rough-and-ready manner, accoutred with dangerous weapons, his social position established by the size of his private graveyard, was wanting. The facetious desperado, who had a pleasant way of requesting the “tenderfoot” to dance while he marked time with his six-shooter, was “non est.” An unappreciative community had organized from time to time a few “necktie parties,” and the experience of such gentlemen has since become an interesting theme for romance. The large settled communities of course had the same cosmopolitan air and character that one finds in the East. There was, nevertheless, something in the social atmosphere which impressed you with the feeling that everything was very different. The cowboy, of whom I had heard so much, I learned to recognize as generally a very quiet, civil person, never going out of his way to do extraordinary things nor to make himself conspicuous. A man of few words and not inclined to familiarity, he is essentially a man of action, and prefers to take a short cut to accomplish his purpose. If one should conclude that his reserve and his reticence were the result of mental torpor, he would make a great mistake. Apparently taking little interest in a new acquaintance, and seeming to lack ordinary curiosity, I find that he is, notwithstanding, a very close observer and has a quiet way of extracting information without appearing eager to do so.

My guide engaged to meet me at Buford, Colo. Being unacquainted with the locality, I wrote to obtain information concerning the railroad station nearest my destination, and learned that it was Rifle. When I arrived at Rifle, I inquired about the best way to get to Buford, and was informed, to my surprise, that I had a journey by wagon of sixty miles to make. This was my first experience with the magnificent distances of the West. The result was that I miscalculated the time of meeting my guide by an entire day. When I arrived at Buford on the evening of the next day, my guide, whom I saw for the first time, rode up on a mustang, seated in a big Mexican saddle. With an easy air, as though we had been acquainted all our lives, he expressed his pleasure at meeting me and advised all necessary arrangements for the morrow’s start on our hunt back in the mountains.

PACKING A BRONCHO.

Blindfolding a vicious animal is an expedient that generally attains its purpose.

It is interesting to notice how quickly and skillfully an experienced man can pack a lot of horses, apportioning the loads with great fairness, and balancing the dead weight so that it will ride easily on the backs of the not overwilling animals. Packing seems easy, and if you want to know how easy it is, try it. After you have ridden a mile or so, perhaps, some critical beast will begin to subject your work to a severe test by bucking. To express the state of your feelings when this happens would be impossible, unless your sympathetic guide, who is generally an expert in swearing, can help you out.

The first day’s journey was rather long and tedious, a large part of it through monotonous stretches of sage brush. When at length the timber was reached, the change was most agreeable. We arrived at the location of our first camp without a mishap, unless having my legs squeezed between the horse and a tree a couple of times could be considered as such. Although my guide knew his business as a guide, I could not recommend him as a first-rate cook. His efforts at making bread proved a flat failure, and we had to do without the staff of life. The canned provisions, which required practically no skill in their preparation, made the inefficiency of the cooking less apparent.

The camp being pitched in a well timbered and picturesque spot, we spent the rest of the afternoon in arranging everything and laying our plans for the next day. The waning sunlight found us spread comfortably around a big camp-fire, which sent its genial glow far into the dark recesses of the gloomy forest. When a great heap of burning faggots had sunk into a bed of smouldering ashes and the rising wind murmuring through the pines gave warning of an approaching storm, I concluded to crawl under the bedding and sleep. The hard, frozen ground is not as comfortable as a spring mattress, but I had to get used to it, and was sleeping soundly, when I was awakened in the morning by the cheerful voice of the guide, who called out, “Breakfast!” as if he were summoning all the guests of a boarding house to a feast. When I crawled out of my sleeping bag into the chilly atmosphere, I found the guide doing the chores in his stocking feet. A few dashes of ice-cold water from the stream hard by drove away all feeling of drowsiness, and made me conscious of the fact that I had an appetite.