CHAPTER XXIX.
R. George T. Pease lives in a log shanty, in the heart of the great Wisconsin pine woods, five miles west of Wausaukee station, on the Milwaukee & Northern Railroad. A beautiful little lake stretches out in front of his door, in which numerous black bass make their home, and several brooks meander through the wilderness not far away, all of which abound in the sprightly, sparkling brook trout. Deer roam over the hills far and near, and when the first "tracking snow" comes, in the van of icy winter, their hoof-prints may be found within a hundred yards of the cabin any morning. Pease is a genial, kind-hearted old man, in whose humble quarters the true sportsman is always welcome. Reared in these woods, and bred in the pure atmosphere that abounds here, a hunter by trade and from necessity, he is a simple, honest child of nature. With the exception of four or five years spent in the service of his country, during the war of the Rebellion, he has lived and hunted in this region since the days of his boyhood, and his gray hairs bespeak for him the respect men always feel for the honest old woodsman.
I spent several days hunting with him in November, 1885, and the intervening nights—or a large portion of each—in talking with him. I learned in that short time to esteem and value him as one of the best guides and hunters I ever knew, and one of the truest friends I have. Although he has been hunting so many years and has always been a close observer of the habits of game; although thoroughly posted on woodcraft in all its details, he is not egotistical as are so many old woodsmen. He never intrudes his opinions on any subject unless asked for them; never dictates what anyone under his guidance shall do. He modestly suggests, and if you do not agree with him, defers cheerfully to your judgment.
He is intelligent, well-informed generally, full of interesting reminiscences of his life in the wilderness, and relates many thrilling episodes in his experience in hunting deer, bear, wolves, etc. He told me that once, when hunting on the Menominee river, he saw a doe lying down, and raised his rifle to shoot her. But before firing he noticed that she had seen him and was struggling to get up. As she did not succeed in this, he concluded that she must have been wounded, and started toward her. She kept struggling, but was unable to rise, and on going to her he found that she had lain down near a large hemlock root, that had curved out of the ground, forming an arch or loop three or four inches high. One of her hind legs had slipped under this root to the knee, and when she had attempted to get up she had probably been thrown violently on her side, dislocating the hip joint and thus rendering it utterly impossible for her to draw the imprisoned leg from under the root. He said the poor creature had apparently been in this pitiable plight several days; that she was starved and emaciated almost to a shadow, and had tramped and pawed a hole in the earth more than a foot deep, over the entire space reached by her fore feet. Had she not been discovered, the poor creature must soon have died from starvation. As it was, she was so weak that when he released her leg from this strange trap she was unable to stand, and he reluctantly killed her, as the speediest, most humane, and, in fact, the only means of ending her misery.
I reached the old man's cabin at about noon. We hunted diligently all the afternoon, and though we saw plenty of fresh tracks everywhere in the newly-fallen snow, neither of us could get sight of a deer, and when we met at the shanty at dark and exchanged notes, Pease was sorely disappointed. The next forenoon was a repetition of this experience, and when we met again at the cabin for dinner, both empty-handed, his disappointment was intensified into despondency. We separated after the noon meal, and when we came in at night, I looked even more dejected and disgusted than ever, and asserted, with a good deal of emphasis, that I did not believe the "blasted" country was any good for game; that I thought he or someone had hunted the deer and shot at them until they were so wild that no man could get within 500 yards of one. He insisted that such was not the case; that he had been killing plenty of deer that fall, and that others had killed a few in the neighborhood, but not enough to spoil the hunting, as I claimed. He said our want of success utterly astonished him; that he was truly sorry; that he could not account for it, and that we should surely make a killing on the morrow.
"Have you seen any fresh tracks to-day?" I asked.
"Oh, yes, plenty of them; haven't you?"
"Well, yes, two or three; but I think the deer that made them were ten miles away when I got there."