Inter-Ocean Hunting Tales

by Edgar Fritz Randolph

After breakfast, without waiting to put camp in order, for the morning was already advanced, we started out in search of game. On coming to the edge of the timber, where the country opened up into one of the little parks which we frequently found in that locality, I saw the tall form of my guide slowly stoop behind some bushes, while, at the same time, he motioned me to be cautious. I soon saw what had arrested his attention. A magnificent blacktail deer, with a fine set of antlers, stood out in full view, not more than a hundred yards away. There were a half a dozen does nearby, but they did not interest me. I brought “Old Meat in the Pot” to my shoulders, for that is what my guide had christened my .45-90, and after taking deliberate aim, fired. Which was the most astonished, the buck, or myself, I could not say. He stood perfectly motionless, like an image in bronze. I had evidently missed him. A second shot fared the same; then the whole bunch of deer began to scamper off unharmed by any of the shots I had fired at the buck. I could not account for the bad marksmanship, for I knew that I did not have the buck fever. The guide said that I had killed one of the deer, which I disputed, until he pointed to a dying animal lying in a dense thicket just to the rear of the deer that had served as my target. I had not even seen it, until it was pointed out to me after I had shot it. After making several experiments with the rifle without satisfactory results, I found that the sight had been knocked out of place. I then handed the rifle over to the guide without correcting the error and requested him to let me see how a cowboy could shoot. With evident pride in his skill he brought the gun to his shoulder, but he shot as badly as any tenderfoot.

In the meantime, the air was full of sounds more terrible than the report of the rifle. Any one who has heard a cowboy swear when he is really in earnest can understand what I mean.

At last it occurred to him that the sights might be out of order, and when he examined them and discovered the trouble, he looked at me, and seeing my complacent smile, the whole truth dawned upon him. We both laughed heartily at our mutual discomfiture and pledged each other’s health from the flask to celebrate the occasion.

I returned to the camp without a trophy to commemorate my first success in killing deer, although I had secured an abundant supply of meat.

The next day we covered considerable ground on horseback, without success. I had, however, an interesting experience in climbing a mountain known as Old Sleepy Cap, sometimes, because of its peculiar formation at the summit, called the Razor Back. The ascent of this mountain was not particularly easy, on account of its abrupt elevation, although the height above the surrounding country was not great. The formation at the summit, which gave the unpoetical name of Razor Back to the mass, consisted of a long, narrow ridge, not more than eighteen inches to two feet in width, bristling with sharp projections of rock of quite uniform height extending nearly its entire length of about ninety yards. At each end it broadens out in a space conveniently large for a temporary resting place. After satisfying my curiosity, I suggested a descent into the valley, where the cool atmosphere would afford a welcome relief from the blazing rays of the sun. Much to my surprise, the guide informed me that the ascent was much easier at the point we came up than the descent, unless I wished to reach the bottom in a fashion that would imperil my neck. After discussing the matter with him a few moments and carefully studying the position, I came to the conclusion that he was right. We observed that at the other end we could find an easy way to descend. That meant a rather long and disagreeable walk on the serrated ridge, attended with considerable danger, or a still more unpleasant experience if I should attempt to crawl on hands and knees for greater safety. Like a couple of tomcat serenaders promenading on the top of a brick wall liberally strewn with broken bottles, we crawled to the far end of the ridge, where, with some difficulty, we descended. We returned to camp with no better luck than securing a snowshoe rabbit, which I shot through the head.

For some days I conscientiously hunted, but found it difficult to come close enough to get a good shot at deer. I saw quite a number bounding away far out of range, often stopping at a safe distance to observe our movements. For lack of better sport, I occasionally practiced on the “fool grouse”—a bird very similar in appearance to our Eastern partridge, but about the tamest game I have ever shot. I could generally have three trials at one before it would move. I would pace off the proper space, and then aim at the head. The flesh was not particularly delicate, and would certainly not please the palate of an epicure.

One day as we were traveling in a blinding snow flurry, we came to a precipice thickly fringed with undergrowth and small trees. Impelled by curiosity, I got off my horse and went near the edge to get a view of the country below. The waving tops of the pines beneath were barely visible, the force of the wind coming through the great long valley at my feet, sounded like the hollow roar of the ocean. As I stood upon the cliff, gratifying my fancy with the weird and strange impressions the surroundings made upon me, the storm began to abate, and through the diminishing fall of snow the sun gradually diffused its light, and presently the atmosphere cleared up, and the entire landscape was revealed to view as though a great white sheet concealing nature’s panorama had been pulled aside. On a ledge jutting out from the base of the precipice, about two hundred feet below, I observed the shapely form of a deer with a fawn lying on the rock alongside of it. As far as the eye could distinguish, a great forest of aspen with white trunks and branches sparsely decorated with yellow leaves, filled the valley. Dense masses of pines, which completely covered the steep mountain sides, except where the ragged projections broke through, formed a dark setting to the brilliant landscape which lay between. My reverie was finally broken by a voice nearby: “Well, pardner, it’s pretty late and we are a long way from camp.” Traveling in that rough country after dark is not attractive to one who is not looking for trouble. So I mounted my horse and began to occupy myself with observing game signs and incidentally thought of the camp-fire and kettle.

It is interesting to notice how strangely the element of luck will enter into a sportsman’s experience. One day, after hunting faithfully from early dawn until evening without success, I concluded to vary the monotony by shooting at a mark. I had not been engaged in that pastime very long before my attention was arrested by hearing something crashing through the brush at the foot of the hill where I stood, and presently I saw a fine blacktail buck come bounding up the slope directly toward me, accompanied by a doe. My rifle was just ready to bring up to my shoulder, but I remained motionless in plain view, waiting for the game to come within easy range. A more picturesque sight than that blacktail, easily and gracefully clearing the fallen timbers, I have rarely seen. My eagerness did not interfere with my sizing up the well-proportioned and beautifully poised antlers, which I regarded as already mine. As I raised my rifle to shoot, although the action was quite deliberate, it was immediately noticed. The deer changed its course when not over forty yards away, exposing its broad flank to my aim. It ran some distance after I fired, clearing with ease the trunk of a large fallen tree, and giving me no little concern for a few moments. Following his tracks, I soon came upon the deer, dead. It was indeed a fine specimen, weighing perhaps two hundred and fifty pounds, in good condition and with a perfect set of antlers.

I had often heard of the remarkably acute senses of wild animals; the timidity and keenness of deer are proverbial, and yet here was an instance which seemed to belie all former stories and past experience. Standing in plain view while firing at a mark, the buck ran directly toward me. One would naturally suppose that the noise of the shooting would have driven the animal away. My theory about the occurrence is, that when the report of the rifle is first heard, the tendency is for a wild animal to become alarmed and run in the opposite direction, but presently when it catches the echo, the real direction of the sound is misconceived, and it will then run in the direction of the firing. Other sportsmen have agreed with me in this view. There is no doubt that deer and other wild animals can tell the direction of sound, and consequently, when one becomes alarmed by the shooting and runs toward the place where the sportsman is located, it is not the ear, but the judgment that is at fault. A wild animal can have no correct idea of an echo, but undoubtedly imagines that it is an entirely different sound, and being last heard determines its final course.

This, however, does not explain the action of the deer in running directly toward me when I was in plain view. All sportsmen soon learn to recognize the fact that animals, although keen of sight, are not very discriminating. Birds, as well as wild animals, will frequently continue their course when it lies in the direction of a human being, provided there is no perceptible movement to attract their attention. Any kind of motion is immediately noticed, particularly if it is at all sudden. Stationary objects are not apt to attract much attention unless there is something very strange in their appearance, especially if the coloring does not harmonize with the general surroundings and happens to be different from what is ordinarily seen.