Letters on an Elk Hunt

by Elinore Pruitt Stewart

We had lunch, and the men covered the elk with pine boughs to keep the camp robbers from pecking it full of holes. Next day the men would come with the horses and pack it in to camp. We all felt refreshed; so we started on the trail of those that got away.

For a while walking was easy and we made pretty good time; then we had a rocky hill to get over. We had to use care when we got into the timber; there were marshy places which tried us sorely, and windfall so thick that we could hardly get through. We were obliged to pick our way carefully to avoid noise, and we were all together, not having come to a place where it seemed better to separate. We had about resolved to go to our horses when we heard a volley of shots.

“That is somebody bunch-shooting,” said Mr. Struble. “They are in Brewster Lake Park, by the sound. That means that the elk will pass here in a short time and we may get a shot. The elk will be here long before the men, since the men have no horses; so let’s hurry and get placed along the only place they can get out. We’ll get our limit.”

We hastily secreted ourselves along the narrow gorge through which the elk must pass. We were all on one side, and Mr. Haynes said to me, “Rest your gun on that rock and aim at the first rib back of the shoulder. If you shoot haphazard you may cripple an elk and let it get away to die in misery. So make sure when you fire.”

It didn’t seem a minute before we heard the beat of their hoofs and a queer panting noise that I can’t describe. First came a beautiful thing with his head held high; his great antlers seemed to lie half his length on his back; his eyes were startled, and his shining black mane seemed to bristle. I heard the report of guns, and he tumbled in a confused heap. He tried to rise, but others coming leaped over him and knocked him down. Some more shots, and those behind turned and went back the way they had come.

Mr. Haynes shouted to me, “Shoot, shoot; why don’t you shoot!”

So I fired my Krag, but next I found myself picking myself up and wondering who had struck me and for what. I was so dizzy I could scarcely move, but I got down to where the others were excitedly admiring the two dead elk that they said were the victims of Mrs. O’Shaughnessy’s gun. She was as excited and delighted as if she had never declared she would not kill anything. “Sure, it’s many a meal they’ll make for little hungry mouths,” she said. She was rubbing her shoulder ruefully. “I don’t want to fire any more big guns. I thought old Goliar had hit me a biff with a blackthorn shilaley,” she remarked.

Mr. Haynes turned to me and said, “You are a dandy hunter! you didn’t shoot at all until after the elk were gone, and the way you held your gun it is a wonder it didn’t knock your head off, instead of just smashing your jaw.”

The men worked as fast as they could at the elk, and we helped as much as we could, but it was dark before we reached camp. Supper was ready, but I went to bed at once. They all thought it was because I was so disappointed, but it was because I was so stiff and sore I could hardly move, and so tired I couldn’t sleep. Next morning my jaw and neck were so swollen that I hated any one to see me, and my head ached for two days. It has been snowing for a long time, but Clyde says he will take me hunting when it stops. I don’t want to go but reckon I will have to, because I don’t want to come so far and buy a license to kill an elk and go back empty-handed, and partly to get a rest from Mr. Murry’s everlasting accordion.

Mr. Murry is an old-time acquaintance of Mrs. O’Shaughnessy’s. He has a ranch down on the river somewhere. Mrs. O’Shaughnessy has not seen him for years,—didn’t know he lived up here. He had seen the game-warden from whom she had procured her license, and so hunted up our camp. He is an odd-looking individual, with sad eyes and a drooping mouth which gives his face a most hopeless, reproachful expression. His nose, however, seems to upset the original plan, for it is long and thin and bent slightly to one side. His neck is long and his Adam’s apple seems uncertain as to where it belongs. At supper Jerrine watched it as if fascinated until I sent her from the table and went out to speak to her about gazing.