Wild Sports in the Far West

by Friedrich Gerstäcker

I was again alone, and on foot, and could only make short journeys, as my hand was very painful, and the wound in my side, though not deep, began to suppurate. Lounging slowly on, and keeping my direction as well as I could, I followed the course of a small stream, and was looking out for a convenient place to camp for the night, when I observed a young buck feeding, without the slightest suspicion of the approach of any being likely to disturb his peace. He passed away in the same happy thought, for my ball pierced his brain. On pulling out my knife to break him up, I could not avoid a shudder on observing the dark stains of blood—of human blood. I washed it carefully, for I could not bear the sight.

I did not take the trouble to skin the deer; in fact, I could not with my wounded hand. So, taking the liver and kidneys, with part of the back, I made a good fire, and soon lay stretched before it enveloped in my blanket, with my body, but not my mind in repose.

I lay for a long time staring at the burning embers, recalling my former life, and forming gloomy pictures of the future; at last I fell asleep from fatigue. A penetrating icy feeling awoke me; it was raining hard; the fire was out; all was dark, and the present was not calculated to sweeten the past. I pulled my wet blanket closer around me, and in the depths of my wretchedness, abused all the four elements, with the wind and rain into the bargain. Day came at last. Your dweller in towns, when he rises out of his warm bed, and hears the rain beat against the window, looks down for a minute or two on the people hurrying along in the street, pitying those who are driven out in such unpleasant weather by business or necessity; then turns carelessly to his breakfast, growling perhaps because he has let his tea or coffee get cold, and at last throws himself on a sofa. How different the case with the backwoodsman! Unrolling himself from his wet blanket, shaking his wet hair, shivering with cold, devouring a morsel of cold, wet venison, not as a dainty, but to satisfy hunger; then wringing his blanket, and laying another piece of venison in its folds, he hangs it on his back, and continues his journey through the cold, wet forest; the lock of his rifle, and the inside of the powder-horn, being the only dry things about the whole man. How various the course of things in this world. The cold and wet had inflamed and swelled my hand, which pained me much; I cut a long strip from the skin of the deer’s back, and made a sling of it for my arm, packed my other things over my shoulder, grasped my rifle, and wandered along under the dripping trees, turning my back on the cold wind and rain.

As the day advanced, I became less dissatisfied with my fate and with the weather. I was indifferent to both, and could even laugh when a bush knocked my cap off, and cast it into a pool, while the wet branches slapped my face. At length the rain ceased; a cold wind arose and dried my upper garments, though my leggings still flapped disagreeably about my feet. My course was directed towards Little Rock, without knowing exactly what I was to do there. I was desirous of revisiting New Orleans, yet did not like leaving the woods; so I walked on, trusting to my good luck, and leaving the rest to chance. Fortunately, I reached a house this evening, and obtained a good bandage for my wound and a dry couch.

On the 27th February I arrived at Slowtrap’s, who gave me a hearty welcome; but I only stopped one night, and crossed the river to Kelfer’s, who also received me kindly. Still I could not remain quiet, and in a few days I continued my journey to Little Rock.

Little Rock is, without any flattery, one of the dullest towns in the United States; and I would not have remained two hours in the place, if I had not met with some good friends, who made me forget its dreariness. Several Germans have settled here, some of whom are doing very well; many of them have good and prosperous farms in the neighborhood. The land above the town is as dry and barren as it can well be; but on the other side of the Arkansas, and at a short distance from the town, it is of the finest quality. On the north of the town, with the exception of the valley of the Arkansas, there is little except pine woods growing in a stony soil.

I made some excursions in the neighborhood, formed an acquaintance with a young American with a German wife, and was their guest for some time, employing myself in looking out for turkeys, but with little success; the mosquitoes in the various bayous or lagoons were so numerous as almost to drive any man mad, who camped out in the open air. I remained for some weeks, in spite of them, but if I had stayed any longer, I fear I should have given up shooting for ever.

My hunting shirt was in rags, and only held together by my belt; and as deer skins were now in a good state for dressing, I made up my mind to return to the Fourche le Fave, and shoot at the salt licks, till I had skins enough to make a good hunting shirt; intending to dress the skins myself for the purpose.

Not finding any letters, I gave up the idea of going to New Orleans, and started for the Fourche le Fave towards the end of April. I gained my old shooting ground on the second day, and leaving the frequented paths, struck through the forest to a lick, where I had killed several deer the year before, and where I hoped to find the platform I had erected, still in its place. I reached the spot just before sunset, and hastened to collect and split wood, and by working hard I managed to get enough before dark;—for the twilight is very short in this latitude. I then set to work on the stand, to raise one side which had given way: most of the earth remained on the platform, but on putting my shoulder to it, and exerting all my force, I succeeded in raising it to its old position. The effort, however, had been too much for my strength; I had tasted nothing since the previous evening, having taken no food with me; nor had I seen any game on the way; the long march, the hard work of hauling and splitting wood, the fatigue and exhaustion overpowered me, and I fell fainting or at least senseless to the ground. How long I may have remained so, I cannot say. When I recovered my senses, it was quite dark. I got up to collect myself and consider where I was, when I heard a deer, which had got scent of me, spring, blowing and snorting, out of the lick, and bound away over the dry leaves.

I went, in the first place, to a running stream, close by, and took a long hearty draught. Feeling considerably refreshed, I made a fire on the platform, and sat underneath, wrapped in my blanket, patiently awaiting the approach of game. In less than an hour a young buck advanced with light and cautious tread. I heard him for ten minutes on the dry rustling leaves, before he came within sight. When he appeared, he was about forty paces off, so that I could distinguish the outline of his form, as he stood still staring at the fire, his eyes shining like two stars out of the dark background. He cautiously advanced a few steps, coming nearer the lick, and looking almost white in the light of the fire. I whistled: he stopped and raised his head; my ball passed through both shoulder blades, and he died without a cry.