"While sojourning with my hunter-friend, I heard of a singular method practised by the Indians, of capturing the vicuna in large numbers. This was called the 'chacu.'

"Of course I became very desirous of witnessing a 'chacu,' and the hunter promised to gratify me. It was now the season of the year for such expeditions, and one was to come off in a few days. It was the annual hunt got up by the tribe to which my host belonged; and, of course, he, as a practised and professional hunter, was to bear a distinguished part in the ceremony.

"The day before the expedition was to set out, we repaired to the village of the tribe—a collection of rude huts, straggling along the bottom of one of the deep clefts or valleys of the Cordilleras. This village lay several thousand feet below the level of the Puna plains, and was therefore in a much warmer climate. In fact, the sugar-cane and yucca plant (Jatropha mainhot) were both seen growing in the gardens of the villagers, and Indian corn flourished in the fields.

"The inhabitants were 'Indios mansos' (civilised Indians). They attended part of the year to agriculture, although the greater part of it was spent in idleness, amusements, or hunting. They had been converted—that is nominally—to Christianity; and a church with its cross was a prominent feature of the village.

"The cure, or priest, was the only white man resident in the place, and he was white only by comparison. Though of pure Spanish blood, he would have passed for a 'coloured old gentleman' in any part of Europe or the States.

"My companion introduced me to the padre, and I was at once received upon terms of intimacy. To my surprise I learnt that he was to accompany the chacu—in fact to take a leading part in it. He seemed to be as much interested in the success of the hunt as any of them—more so, perhaps, and with good reason too. I afterwards learnt why. The produce of the annual hunt was part of the padre's income. By an established law, the skins of the vicunas were the property of the church, and these, being worth on the spot at least a dollar a-piece, formed no despicable tithe. After hearing this I was at no loss to understand the padre's enthusiasm about the chacu. All the day before he had been bustling about among his parishioners, aiding them with his counsel, and assisting them in their preparations. I shared the padre's dwelling, the best in the village; his supper too—a stewed fowl, killed for the occasion, and rendered fiery hot with 'aji,' or capsicum. This was washed down with 'chica,' and afterwards the padre and I indulged in a cigarette and a chat.

"He was a genuine specimen of the South-American missionary priest; rather more scrupulous about getting his dues than about the moral welfare of his flock; fat, somewhat greasy, fond of a good dinner, a glass of 'Yea' brandy, and a cigarette. Nevertheless, his rule was patriarchal in a high degree, and he was a favourite with the simple people among whom he dwelt.

"Morning came, and the expedition set forth; not, however, until a grand mass had been celebrated in the church, and prayers offered up for the success of the hunt. The cavalcade then got under weigh, and commenced winding up the rugged path that led toward the 'Altos,' or Puna heights. We travelled in a different direction from that in which my companion and I had come.

"The expedition itself was a picturesque affair. There were horses, mules, and llamas, men, women, children, and dogs; in fact, almost every living thing in the village had turned out. A chacu is no common occasion—no one day affair. It was to be an affair of weeks. There were rude tents carried along; blankets and cooking utensils; and the presence of the women was as necessary as any part of the expedition. Their office would be to do the cooking, and keep the camp in order! as well as to assist in the hunt.

"Strung out in admirable confusion, we climbed up the mountain—a picturesque train—the men swinging along in their coloured ponchos of llama wool, and the women dressed in bright mantas of 'bayeta' (a coarse cloth, of native manufacture). I noticed several mules and llamas packed with loads of a curious character. Some carried large bundles of rags—others were loaded with coils of rope—while several were 'freighted' with short poles, tied in bunches. I had observed these cargoes being prepared before leaving the village, and could not divine the use of them. That would no doubt be explained when we had reached the scene of the chacu, and I forbore to trouble my companions with any interrogatories, as I had enough to do to guide my horse along the slippery path we were travelling.

"About a mile from the village there was a sudden halt. I inquired the cause.

"'The huaro,' was the reply.

"I knew the huaro to be the name of a peculiar kind of bridge, and I learnt that one was here to be crossed. I rode forward, and found myself in front of the huaro. A singular structure it was. I could scarcely believe in the practicability of our getting over it. The padre, however, assured me it was a good one, and we should all be on the other side in a couple of hours!

"I at first felt inclined to treat this piece of information as a joke: but it proved that the priest was in earnest. It was full two hours before we were all crossed with our bag and baggage.

"The huaro was nothing more than a thick, rope stretched across the chasm, and made fast at both ends. On this rope was a strong piece of wood, bent into the shape of the letter U, and fastened to a roller which rested upon the rope, and moved along it when pulled by a cord from either side. There were two cords, or ropes, attached to the roller, one leading to each side of the chasm, and their object was to drag the passenger across: of course, only one of us could be carried over at a time. No wonder we were so long in making the crossing, when there were over one hundred in all, with numerous articles of baggage.

"I shall never forget the sensations I experienced in making the passage of the huaro. I had felt giddy enough in going over the 'soga' bridges and 'barbacoas' common throughout Peru, but the passage of the huaro is really a gymnastic feat of no easy accomplishment. I was first tied, back downwards, with my back resting in the concavity of the bent wood; my legs were then crossed over the main rope—the bridge itself—with nothing to hold them there farther than my own muscular exertion. With my hands I clutched the vertical side of the wooden yoke, and was told to keep my head in as upright a position as possible. Without farther ado I felt myself jerked out until I hung in empty air over a chasm that opened at least two hundred feet beneath, and through the bottom of which a white torrent was foaming over black rocks! My ankles slipped along the rope, but the sensation was so strange, that I felt several times on the point of letting them drop off. In that case my situation would have been still more painful, as I should have depended mainly on my arms for support. Indeed, I held on tightly with both hands, as I fancied that the cord with which I had been tied to the yoke would every minute give way.

"After a good deal of jerking and hauling, I found myself on the opposite side, and once more on my feet!

"I was almost repaid for the fright I had gone through, by seeing the great fat padre pulled over. It was certainly a ludicrous sight, and I laughed the more, as I fancied the old fellow had taken occasion to laugh at me. He took it all in good part, however, telling me that it caused him no fear, as he had long been accustomed to those kind of bridges.

"This slow and laborious method of crossing streams is not uncommon in many parts of the Andes. It occurs in retired and thinly-populated districts, where there is no means for building bridges of regular construction. Of course, the traveller himself only can be got over by the huaro. His horse, mule, or llamas must swim the stream, and in many instances these are carried off by the rapid current, or dashed against the rocks, and killed.

"The whole cavallada of the expedition got safely over, and in a short while we were all en route, once more climbing up toward the 'altos.' I asked my companion why we could not have got over the stream at some other point, and thus have saved the time and labour. The answer was, that it would have cost us a twenty miles' journey to have reached a point no nearer our destination than the other end of the huaro rope! No wonder such pains had been taken to ferry the party across.

"We reached the heights late in the evening. The hunt would not begin until the next day.

"That evening was spent in putting up tents, and getting everything in order about the camp. The tent of the padre was conspicuous—it was the largest, and I was invited to share it with him. The horses and other animals were picketted or hoppled upon the plain, which was covered with a short brown grass.

"The air was chill—cold, in fact—we were nearly three miles above ocean level. The women and youths employed themselves in collecting taquia to make fires. There was plenty of this, for the plain where we had halted was a pasture of large flocks of llamas and horned cattle. It was not there we expected to fall in with the vicunas. A string of 'altos,' still farther on were their favourite haunts. Our first camp was sufficiently convenient to begin the hunt. It would be moved farther on when the plains in its neighbourhood had been hunted, and the game should grow scarce.

"Morning arrived; but before daybreak, a large party had set off, taking with them the ropes, poles, and bundles of rags I have already noticed. The women and boys accompanied this party. Their destination was a large table plain, contiguous to that on which we had encamped.

"An hour afterwards the rest of the party set forth—most of them mounted one way or other. These were the real hunters, or 'drivers.' Along with them went the dogs—the whole canine population of the village. I should have preferred riding with this party, but the padre took me along with himself, promising to guide me to a spot where I should get the best view of the chacu. He and I rode forward alone.

"In half an hour we reached the plain where the first party had gone. They were all at work as we came up—scattered over the plain—and I now saw the use that was to be made of the ropes and rags. With them a pound, or 'corral,' was in process of construction. Part of it was already finished, and I perceived that it was to be of a circular shape. The poles, or stakes, were driven into the ground in a curving line at the distance of about a rod from each other. When thus driven, each stake stood four feet high, and from the top of one to the other, ropes were ranged and tied, thus making the inclosure complete. Along these ropes were knotted the rags and strips of cotton, so as to hang nearly to the ground, or flutter in the wind; and this slight semblance of a fence was continued over the plain in a circumference of nearly three miles in length. One side, for a distance of several hundred yards, was left unfinished, and this was the entrance to the corral. Of course, this was in the direction from which the drove was to come.

"As soon as the inclosure was ready, those engaged upon it withdrew in two parties to the opposite flanks, and then deployed off in diverging lines, so as to form a sort of funnel, at least two miles in width. In this position they remained to await the result of the drive, most of them squatting down to rest themselves.

"Meanwhile the drive was proceeding, although the hunters engaged in it were at a great distance—scarcely seen from our position. They, too, had gone out in two parties, taking opposite directions, and skirting the hills that surrounded the plain. Their circuit could not have been less than a dozen miles; and, as soon as fairly round, they deployed themselves into a long arc, with its concavity towards the rope corral. Then, facing inward, the forward movement commenced. Whatever animals chanced to be feeding between them and the inclosure were almost certain of being driven into it.

"The padre had led me to an elevated position among the rocks. It commanded a view of the rope circle; but we were a long while waiting before the drivers came in sight. At length we descried the line of mounted men far off upon the plain, and, on closely scrutinising the ground between them and us, we could distinguish several reddish forms gliding about: these were the vicunas. There appeared to be several bands of them, as we saw some at different points. They were crossing and recrossing the line of the drive, evidently startled, and not knowing in what direction to run. Every now and then a herd, led by its old male, could be seen shooting in a straight line—then suddenly making a halt—and the next minute sweeping off in a contrary direction. Their beautiful orange-red flanks, glistening in the sun, enabled us to mark them at a great distance.

"The drivers came nearer and nearer, until we could distinguish the forms of the horsemen as they rose over the swells of the plain. We could now hear their shouts—the winding of their ox-horns, and even the yelping of their dogs. But what most gratified my companion was to see that several herds of vicunas were bounding backwards and forwards in front of the advancing line.

"'Mira!' he cried exultingly, 'mira! Senor, one, two, three, four— four herds, and large ones—ah! Carrambo! Jesus!' continued he, suddenly changing tone, 'carrambo! esos malditos guanacos!' (those cursed guanacos). I looked as he was pointing. I noticed a small band of guanacos springing over the plain. I could easily distinguish them from the vicunas by their being larger and less graceful in their motions, but more particularly by the duller hue of brownish red. But what was there in their presence to draw down the maledictions of the padre, which he continued to lavish upon them most unsparingly? I put the question.

"'Ah! Senor,' he answered with a sigh, 'these guanacos will spoil all— they will ruin the hunt. Caspita!'

"'How? in what manner, mio padre?' I asked in my innocence, thinking that a fine herd of guanacos would be inclosed along with their cousins, and that 'all were fish,' etcetera.

"'Ah!' exclaimed the padre, 'these guanacos are hereticos—reckless brutes, they pay no regard to the ropes—they will break through and let the others escape—santissima virgen! what is to be done?'

"Nothing could be done except leave things to take their course, for in a few minutes the horsemen were seen advancing, until their line closed upon the funnel formed by the others. The vicunas, in several troops, now rushed wildly from side to side, turning sharply as they approached the figures of the men and women, and running in the opposite direction. There were some fifty or sixty in all, and at length they got together in a single but confused clump. The guanacos, eight or ten in number, became mixed up with them, and after several quarterings, the whole flock, led by one that thought it had discovered the way of escape, struck off into a gallop, and dashed into the inclosure.

"The hunters, who were afoot with the women, now rushed to the entrance, and in a short while new stakes were driven in, ropes tied upon them, rags attached, and the circle of the chacu was complete.

"The mounted hunters at the same time had galloped around the outside, and flinging themselves from their horses, took their stations, at intervals from each other. Each now prepared his 'holas,' ready to advance and commence the work of death, as soon as the corral should be fairly surrounded by the women and boys who acted as assistants.

"The hunters now advanced towards the centre, swinging their bolas, and shouting to one another to direct the attack. The frightened vicunas rushed from side to side, everywhere headed by an Indian. Now they broke into confused masses and ran in different directions—now they united again and swept in graceful curves over the plain. Everywhere the bolas whizzed through the air, and soon the turf was strewed with forms sprawling and kicking. A strange picture was presented. Here a hunter stood with the leaden balls whirling around his head—there another rushed forward upon a vicuna hoppled and falling—a third bent over one that was already down, anon he brandished a bleeding knife, and then, releasing the thong from the limbs of his victim, again swung his bolas in the air, and rushed forward in the chase.

"An incident occurred near the beginning of the melee, which was very gratifying to my companion the padre, and at once restored the equanimity of his temper. The herd of guanacos succeeded in making their escape, and without compromising the success of the hunt. This, however, was brought about by a skilful manoeuvre on the part of my old friend the Puna hunter. These animals had somehow or other got separated from the vicunas, and dashed off to a distant part of the inclosure. Seeing this, the hunter sprang to his horse, and calling his pack of curs after him, leaped over the rope fence and dashed forward after the guanacos. He soon got directly in their rear, and signalling those who stood in front to separate and let the guanacos pass, he drove them out of the inclosure. They went head foremost against the ropes, breaking them free from the stakes; but the hunter, galloping up, guarded the opening until the ropes and rags were freshly adjusted.

"The poor vicunas, nearly fifty in number, were all killed or captured. When pursued up to the 'sham-fence' they neither attempted to rush against it or leap over, but would wheel suddenly round, and run directly in the faces of their pursuers!

"The sport became even more interesting when all but a few were hors de combat. Then the odd ones that remained were each attacked by several hunters at once, and the rushing and doubling of the animals—the many headings and turnings—the shouts of the spectators—the whizzing of the bolas—sometimes two or three of these missiles hurled at a single victim—all combined to furnish a spectacle to me novel and exciting.

"About twenty minutes after the animals had entered the rope inclosure the last of them was seen to 'bite the dust,' and the chacu of that day was over. Then came the mutual congratulations of the hunters, and the joyous mingling of voices. The slain vicunas were collected in a heap— the skins stripped off, and the flesh divided among the different families who took part in the chacu.

"The skins, as we have said, fell to the share of the 'church,' that is, to the church's representative—the padre, and this was certainly the lion's share of the day's product.

"The ropes were now unfastened and coiled—the rags once more bundled, and the stakes pulled up and collected—all to be used on the morrow in some other part of the Puna. The meat was packed on the horses and mules, and the hunting party, in a long string, proceeded to camp. Then followed a scene of feasting and merriment—such as did not fall to the lot of these poor people every day in the year.

"This chacu lasted ten days, during which time I remained in the company of my half-savage friends. The whole game killed amounted to five hundred and odd vicunas, with a score or two guanacos, several tarush, or deer of the Andes (Cervus antisensis) and half a dozen black bears (Ursus ornatus). Of course only the vicunas were taken in the chacu. The other animals were started incidentally, and killed by the hunters either with their bolas, or guns, with which a few of them were armed."

The "chacu" of the Andes Indians corresponds to the "surround" of the Indian hunters on the great plains of North America. In the latter case, however, buffaloes are usually the objects of pursuit, and no fence is attempted—the hunters trusting to their horses to keep the wild oxen inclosed. The "pound" is another mode of capturing wild animals practised by several tribes of Indians in the Hudson's Bay territory. In this case the game is the caribou or reindeer, but no rope fence would serve to impound these. A good substantial inclosure of branches and trees is necessary, and the construction of a "pound" is the work of time and labour. I know of no animal except the vicuna itself, that could be captured after the manner practised in the "chacu."



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

SQUIRREL-SHOOTING.

We were now travelling among the spurs of the "Ozark hills," and our road was a more difficult one. The ravines were deeper, and as our course obliged us to cross the direction in which most of them ran, we were constantly climbing or descending the sides of steep ridges. There was no road except a faint Indian trail, used by the Kansas in their occasional excursions to the borders of the settlements. At times we were compelled to cut away the underwood, and ply the axe lustily upon some huge trunk that had fallen across the path and obstructed the passage of our waggon. This rendered our progress but slow.

During such halt most of the party strayed off into the woods in search of game. Squirrels were the only four-footed creatures found, and enough of these were shot to make a good-sized "pot-pie;" and it may be here remarked, that no sort of flesh is better for this purpose than that of the squirrel.

The species found in these woods was the large "cat-squirrel" (Sciurus cinereus), one of the noblest of its kind. Of course at that season, amid the plenitude of seeds, nuts, and berries, they were as plump as partridges. This species is usually in good condition, and its flesh the best flavoured of all. In the markets of New York they bring three times the price of the common grey squirrel.

As we rode along, the naturalist stated many facts in relation to the squirrel tribe, that were new to most of us. He said that in North America there were not less than twenty species of true squirrels, all of them dwellers in the trees, and by including the "ground" and "flying" squirrels (tamias and pteromys), the number of species might be more than forty. Of course there are still new species yet undescribed, inhabiting the half-explored regions of the western territory.

The best-known of the squirrels is the common "grey squirrel," as it is in most parts of the United States the most plentiful. Indeed it is asserted that some of the other species, as the "black squirrel" (Sciurus niger), disappear from districts where the grey squirrels become numerous—as the native rat gives place to the fierce "Norway."

The true fox squirrel (Sciurus vulpinus) differs essentially from the "cat," which is also known in many States by the name of fox squirrel. The former is larger, and altogether a more active animal, dashing up to the top of a pine-tree in a single run. The cat-squirrel, on the contrary, is slow and timid among the branches, and rarely mounts above the first fork, unless when forced higher by the near approach of its enemy. It prefers concealing itself behind the trunk, dodging round the tree as the hunter advances upon it. It has one peculiarity, however, in its mode of escape that often saves it, and disappoints its pursuer. Unless very hotly pursued by a dog, or other swift enemy, it will not be treed until it has reached the tree that contains its nest, and, of course, it drops securely into its hole, bidding defiance to whatever enemy—unless, indeed, that enemy chance to be the pine-martin, which is capable of following it even to the bottom of its dark tree-cave.

Now most of the other squirrels make a temporary retreat to the nearest large tree that offers. This is often without a hole where they can conceal themselves, and they are therefore exposed to the small shot or rifle-bullet from below.

It does not always follow, however, that they are brought down from their perch. In very heavy bottom timber the squirrel often escapes among the high twigs, even where there are no leaves to conceal it, nor any hole in the tree. Twenty shots, and from good marksmen too, have been fired at a single squirrel in such situations, without bringing it to the ground, or seriously wounding it! A party of hunters have often retired without getting such game, and yet the squirrel has been constantly changing place, and offering itself to be sighted in new positions and attitudes!

The craft of the squirrel on these occasions is remarkable. It stretches its body along the upper part of a branch, elongating it in such a manner, that the branch, not thicker than the body itself, forms almost a complete shield against the shot. The head, too, is laid close, and the tail no longer erect, but flattened along the branch, so as not to betray the whereabouts of the animal.

Squirrel-shooting is by no means poor sport. It is the most common kind practised in the United States, because the squirrel is the most common game. In that country it takes the place that snipe or partridge shooting holds in England. In my opinion it is a sport superior to either of these last, and the game, when killed, is not much less in value. Good fat squirrel can be cooked in a variety of ways, and many people prefer it to feathered game of any kind. It is true the squirrel has a rat-like physiognomy, but that is only in the eyes of strangers to him. A residence in the backwoods, and a short practice in the eating of squirrel pot-pie, soon removes any impression of that kind. A hare, as brought upon the table-cloth in England, is far more likely to produce degout—from its very striking likeness to "puss," that is purring upon the hearth-rug.

In almost all parts of the United States, a day's squirrel-shooting may be had without the necessity of making a very long journey. There are still tracts of woodland left untouched, where these animals find a home. In the Western States a squirrel-hunt may be had simply by walking a couple of hundred yards from your house, and in some places you may shoot the creatures out of the very door.

To make a successful squirrel-hunt two persons at least are necessary. If only one goes out, the squirrel can avoid him simply by "dodging" round the trunk, or any large limb of the tree. When there are two, one remains stationary, while the other makes a circuit, and drives the game from the opposite side. It is still better when three or four persons make up the party, as then the squirrel is assailed on all sides, and can find no resting-place, without seeing a black tube levelled upon him, and ready to send forth its deadly missile.

Some hunt the squirrel with shot-guns. These are chiefly young hands. The old hunter prefers the rifle; and in the hands of practised marksmen this is the better weapon. The rifle-bullet, be it ever so small, kills the game at once; whereas a squirrel severely peppered with shot will often escape to the tree where its hole is, and drop in, often to die of its wounds. No creature can be more tenacious of life—not even a cat. When badly wounded it will cling to the twigs to its last breath, and even after death its claws sometimes retain their hold, and its dead body hangs suspended to the branch!

The height from which a squirrel will leap to the ground without sustaining injury, is one of those marvels witnessed by every squirrel-hunter. When a tree in which it has taken refuge is found not to afford sufficient shelter, and a neighbouring tree is not near enough for it to leap to, it then perceives the necessity of returning to the ground, to get to some other part of the woods. Some species, as the cat-squirrel, fearing to take the dreadful leap (often nearly a hundred feet), rush down by the trunk. Not so the more active squirrels, as the common grey kind. These run to the extremity of a branch, and spring boldly down in a diagonal direction. The hunter—if a stranger to the feat—would expect to see the creature crushed or crippled by the fall. No danger of that. Even the watchful dog that is waiting for such an event, and standing close to the spot, has not time to spring upon it, until it is off again like a flying bird, and, almost as quick as sight can follow, is seen ascending some other tree.

There is an explanation required about this precipitous leap. The squirrel is endowed with the capability of spreading out its body to a great extent, and this in the downward rush it takes care to do—thus breaking its fall by the resistance of the air. This alone accounts for its not killing itself.

Nearly all squirrels possess this power, but in different degrees. In the flying squirrels it is so strongly developed, as to enable them to make a flight resembling that of the birds themselves.

The squirrel-hunter is often accompanied by a dog—not that the dog ever by any chance catches one of these creatures. Of him the squirrel has but little fear, well knowing that he cannot climb a tree. The office of the dog is of a different kind. It is to "tree" the squirrel, and, by remaining at the root, point out the particular tree to his master.

The advantage of the dog is obvious. In fact, he is almost as necessary as the pointer to the sportsman. First, by ranging widely, he beats a greater breadth of the forest. Secondly, when a squirrel is seen by him, his swiftness enables him to hurry it up some tree not its own. This second advantage is of the greatest importance. When the game has time enough allowed it, it either makes to its own tree (with a hole in it of course), or selects one of the tallest near the spot. In the former case it is impossible, and in the latter difficult, to have a fair shot at it.

If there be no dog, and the hunter trusts to his own eyes, he is often unable to find the exact tree which the squirrel has climbed, and of course loses it.

A good squirrel-dog is a useful animal. The breed is not important. The best are usually half-bred pointers. They should have good sight as well as scent; should range widely, and run fast. When well trained they will not take after rabbits, or any other game. They will bark only when a squirrel is treed, and remain staunchly by the root of the tree. The barking is necessary, otherwise the hunter, often separated from them by the underwood, would not know when they had succeeded in "treeing."

The squirrel seems to have little fear of the dog, and rarely ascends to a great height. It is often seen only a few feet above him, jerking its tail about, and apparently mocking its savage enemy below.

The coming up of the hunter changes the scene. The squirrel then takes the alarm, and shooting up, conceals itself among the higher branches.

Taking it all in all, we know none of the smaller class of field sports that requires greater skill, and yields more real amusement, than hunting the squirrel.

Our Kentuckian comrade gave us an account of a grand squirrel-hunt got up by himself and some neighbours, which is not an uncommon sort of thing in the Western States. The hunters divided themselves into two parties of equal numbers, each taking its own direction through the woods. A large wager was laid upon the result, to be won by that party that could bring in the greatest number of squirrels. There were six guns on each side, and the numbers obtained at the end of a week—for the hunt lasted so long—were respectively 5000, and 4780! Of course the sport came off in a tract of country where squirrels were but little hunted, and were both tame and plenty.

Such hunts upon a grand scale are, as already stated, not uncommon in some parts of the United States. They have another object besides the sport—that of thinning off the squirrels for the protection of the planter's corn-field. So destructive are these little animals to the corn and other grains, that in some States there has been at times a bounty granted, for killing them. In early times such a law existed in Pennsylvania, and there is a registry that in one year the sum of 8000 pounds was paid out of the treasury of this bounty-money, which at threepence a head—the premium—would make 640,000, the number of the squirrels killed in that year!

The "migration of the squirrels" is still an unexplained fact. It is among the grey squirrels it takes place; hence the name given to that species, Sciurus migratorius. There is no regularity about these migrations, and their motive is not known. Immense bands of the squirrels are observed in a particular neighbourhood, proceeding through the woods or across tracts of open ground, all in one direction. Nothing stays their course. Narrow streams and broad rivers are crossed by them by swimming, and many are drowned in the attempt.

Under ordinary circumstances, these little creatures are as much afraid of water as cats, yet when moving along their track of migration they plunge boldly into a river, without calculating whether they will ever reach the other side. When found upon the opposite bank, they are often so tired with the effort, that one may overtake them with a stick; and thousands are killed in this way when a migration has been discovered.

It is stated that they roll pieces of dry wood, or bark, into the water, and, seating themselves on these, are wafted across, their tails supplying them with a sail: of course this account must be held as apocryphal.

But the question is, what motive impels them to undertake these long and perilous wanderings, from which it is thought they never return to their original place of abode? It cannot be the search of food, nor the desire to change from a colder to a warmer climate. The direction of the wanderings forbids us to receive either of these as the correct reason. No light has been yet thrown upon this curious habit. It would seem as if some strange instinct propelled them, but for what purpose, and to what end, no one can tell.



CHAPTER TWENTY.

TREEING A BEAR.

The doctor was the only one not taking part in the conversation. Even the rude guides listened. All that related to game interested them, even the scientific details given by the hunter-naturalist. The doctor had ridden on in front of us. Some one remarked that he wanted water to mix with the contents of his flask, and was therefore searching for a stream. Be this as it may, he was seen suddenly to jerk his spare horse about, and spur back to us, his countenance exhibiting symptoms of surprise and alarm.

"What is it, doctor?" inquired one.

"He has seen Indians," remarked another.

"A bear—a bear!" cried the doctor, panting for breath; "a grizzly bear! a terrible-looking creature I assure you."

"A bar! d'you say?" demanded Ike, shooting forward on his old mare.

"A bar!" cried Redwood, breaking through the bushes in pursuit.

"A bear!" shouted the others, all putting spurs to their horses, and galloping forward in a body.

"Where, doctor? Where?" cried several.

"Yonder," replied the doctor, "just by that great tree. I saw him go in there—a grizzly, I'm sure."

It was this idea that had put the doctor in such affright, and caused him to ride back so suddenly.

"Nonsense, doctor," said the naturalist, "we are yet far to the east of the range of the grizzly bear. It was a black bear you saw."

"As I live," replied the doctor, "it was not black, anything but that. I should know the black bear. It was a light brown colour—almost yellowish."

"Oh! that's no criterion. The black bear is found with many varieties of colour. I have seen them of the colour you describe. It must be one of them. The grizzly is not found so far to the eastward, although it is possible we may see them soon; but not in woods like these."

There was no time for farther explanation. We had come up to the spot where the bear had been seen; and although an unpractised eye could have detected no traces of the animal's presence, old Ike, Redwood, and the hunter-naturalist could follow its trail over the bed of fallen leaves, almost as fast as they could walk. Both the guides had dismounted, and with their bodies slightly bent, and leading their horses after them, commenced tracking the bear. From Ike's manner one would have fancied that he was guided by scent rather than by sight.

The trail led us from our path, and we had followed it some hundred yards into the woods. Most of us were of the opinion that the creature had never halted after seeing the doctor, but had run off to a great distance. If left to ourselves, we should have given over the chase.

The trappers, however, knew what they were about. They asserted that the bear had gone away slowly—that it had made frequent halts—that they discovered "sign" to lead them to the conclusion that the animal's haunt was in the neighbourhood—that its "nest" was near. We were, therefore, encouraged to proceed.

All of us rode after the trackers. Jake and Lanty had been left with the waggon, with directions to keep on their route. After a while we heard the waggon moving along directly in front of us. The road had angled as well as the bear's trail, and the two were again converging.

Just at that moment a loud shouting came from the direction of the waggon. It was Lanty's voice, and Jake's too.

"Och! be the Vargin mother! luck there! Awch, mother o' Moses, Jake, such a haste!"

"Golly, Massa Lanty, it am a bar!"

We all heard this at once. Of course we thought of the trail no longer, but made a rush in the direction of the voices, causing the branches to fly on every side.

"Whar's the bar?" cried Redwood, who was first up to the waggon, "whar did ye see't?"

"Yander he goes!" cried Lanty, pointing to a pile of heavy timber, beset with an undergrowth of cane, but standing almost isolated from the rest of the forest on account of the thin open woods that were around it.

We were too late to catch a glimpse of him, but perhaps he would halt in the undergrowth. If so we had a chance.

"Surround, boys, surround!" cried the Kentuckian, who understood bear-hunting as well as any of the party. "Quick, round and head him;" and, at the same time, the speaker urged his great horse into a gallop. Several others rode off on the opposite side, and in a few seconds we had surrounded the cane-brake.

"Is he in it?" cried one.

"Do you track 'im thur, Mark?" cried Ike to his comrade from the opposite side.

"No," was the reply, "he hain't gone out this away."

"Nor hyur," responded Ike.

"Nor here," said the Kentuckian.

"Nor by here," added the hunter-naturalist.

"Belike, then, he's still in the timmor," said Redwood. "Now look out all of yees. Keep your eyes skinned; I'll hustle him out o' thar."

"Hold on, Mark, boy," cried Ike, "hold on thur. Damn the varmint! hyur's his track, paddled like a sheep pen. Wagh, his den's hyur—let me rout 'im."

"Very wal, then," replied the other, "go ahead, old fellow—I'll look to my side—thu'll no bar pass me 'ithout getting a pill in his guts. Out wi' 'im!" We all sat in our saddles silent and watchful. Ike had entered the cane, but not a rustle was heard. A snake could not have passed through it with less noise than did the old trapper.

It was full ten minutes before the slightest sound warned of what he was about. Then his voice reached us.

"This way, all of you! The bar's treed."

The announcement filled all of us with pleasant anticipations. The sport of killing a bear is no everyday amusement, and now that the animal was "treed" we were sure of him. Some dismounted and hitched their horses to the branches; others boldly dashed into the cane, hurrying to the spot, with the hope of having first shot.

Why was Ike's rifle not heard if he saw the bear treed? This puzzled some. It was explained when we got up. Ike's words were figurative. The bear had not taken shelter in a tree, but a hollow log, and, of course, Ike had not yet set eyes on him. But there was the log, a huge one, some ten or more feet in thickness, and there was the hole, with the well-beaten track leading into it. It was his den. He was there to a certainty.

How to get him out? That was the next question.

Several took their stations, guns in hand, commanding the entrance to the hollow. One went back upon the log, and pounded it with the butt of his gun. To no purpose. Bruin was not such a fool as to walk out and be peppered by bullets.

A long pole was next thrust up the hollow. Nothing could be felt. The den was beyond reach.

Smoking was next tried, but with like success. The bear gave no sign of being annoyed with it. The axes were now brought from the waggon. It would be a tough job—for the log (a sycamore) was sound enough except near the heart. There was no help for it, and Jake and Lanty went to work as if for a day's rail splitting.

Redwood and the Kentuckian, both good axemen, relieved them, and a deep notch soon began to make its appearance on each side of the log. The rest of us kept watch near the entrance, hoping the sound of the axe might drive out the game. We were disappointed in that hope, and for full two hours the chopping continued, until the patience and the arms of those that plied the axe were nearly tired out.

It is no trifling matter to lay open a tree ten feet in diameter. They had chosen the place for their work guided by the long pole. It could not be beyond the den, and if upon the near side, of it, the pole would then be long enough to reach the bear, and either destroy him with a knife-blade attached to it, or force him out. This was our plan, and therefore we were encouraged to proceed.

At length the axes broke through the wood and the dark interior lay open. They had cut in the right place, for the den of the bear was found directly under, but no bear! Poles were inserted at both openings, but no bear could be felt either way. The hollow ran up no farther, so after all there was no bear in the log.

There were some disappointed faces about—and some rather rough ejaculations were heard. I might say that Ike "cussed a few," and that would be no more than the truth. The old trapper seemed to be ashamed of being so taken in, particularly as he had somewhat exultingly announced that the "bar was treed."

"He must have got off before we surrounded," said one.

"Are you sure he came into the timber?" asked another—"that fool, Lanty, was so scared, he could hardly tell where the animal went."

"Be me soul! gintlemen, I saw him go in wid my own eyes, Oil swear—"

"Cussed queer!" spitefully remarked Redwood.

"Damn the bar!" ejaculated Ike, "whur kid the varmint a gone?"

Where was A—? All eyes were turned to look for the hunter-naturalist, as if he could clear up the mystery. He was nowhere to be seen. He had not been seen for some time!

At that moment, the clear sharp ring of a rifle echoed in our ears. There was a moment's silence, and the next moment a loud "thump" was heard, as of a heavy body falling from a great height to the ground. The noise startled even our tired horses, and some of them broke their ties and scampered off.

"This way, gentlemen!" said a quiet voice, "here's the bear!"

The voice was A—'s; and we all, without thinking of the horses, hurried up to the spot. Sure enough, there lay the great brute, a red stream oozing out of a bullet-hole in his ribs.

A— pointed to a tree—a huge oak that spread out above our heads.

"There he was, in yonder fork," said he. "We might have saved ourselves a good deal of trouble had we been more thoughtful. I suspected he was not in the log when the smoke failed to move him. The brute was too sagacious to hide there. It is not the first time I have known the hunter foiled by such a trick."

The eyes of Redwood were turned admiringly on the speaker, and even old Ike could not help acknowledging his superior hunter-craft.

"Mister," he muttered, "I guess you'd make a darned fust-rate mountain-man. He's a gone Injun when you look through sights."

All of us were examining the huge carcass of the bear—one of the largest size.

"Your sure it's no grizzly?" inquired the doctor.

"No, doctor," replied the naturalist, "the grizzly never climbs a tree."



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

THE BLACK BEAR OF AMERICA.

After some time spent in recovering the horses, we lifted the bear into Jake's waggon, and proceeded on our journey. It was near evening, however, and we soon after halted and formed camp. The bear was skinned in a trice,—Ike and Redwood performing this operation with the dexterity of a pair of butchers; of course "bear-meat" was the principal dish for supper; and although some may think this rather a savage feast, I envy those who are in the way of a bear-ham now.

Of course for that evening nothing was talked of but Bruin, and a good many anecdotes were related about the beast. With the exception of the doctor, Jake and Lanty, all of us had something to say upon that subject, for all the rest had more or less practice in bear-hunting.

The black or "American bear" (Ursus Americanus) is one of the best-known of his tribe. It is he that is oftenest seen in menageries and zoological gardens, for the reason, perhaps, that he is found in great plenty in a country of large commercial intercourse with other nations. Hence he is more frequently captured and exported to all parts.

Any one at a glance may distinguish him from the "brown bear" of Europe, as well as the other bears of the Eastern continent—not so much by his colour (for he is sometimes brown too), as by his form and the regularity and smoothness of his coat. He may be as easily distinguished, too, from his congeners of North America—of which there are three—the grizzly (Ursus ferox), the brown (Ursus arctus), and the "polar" (Ursus maritimus). The hair upon other large bears (the polar excepted) is what may be termed "tufty," and their forms are different, being generally more uncouth and "chunkier." The black bear is, in fact, nearer to the polar in shape, as well as in the arrangement of his fur,—than to any other of the tribe. He is much smaller, however, rarely exceeding two-thirds the weight of large specimens of the latter.

His colour is usually a deep black all over the body, with a patch of rich yellowish red upon the muzzle, where the hair is short and smooth. This ornamental patch is sometimes absent, and varieties of the black bear are seen of very different colours. Brown ones are common in some parts, and others of a cinnamon colour, and still others with white markings, but these last are rare. They are all of one species, however, the assertion of some naturalists to the contrary notwithstanding. The proof is, that the black varieties have been seen followed by coloured cubs, and vice versa.

The black bear is omnivorous—feeds upon flesh as well as fruit, nuts, and edible roots. Habitually his diet is not carnivorous, but he will eat at times either carrion or living flesh. We say living flesh, for on capturing prey he does not wait to kill it, as most carnivorous animals, but tears and destroys it while still screaming. He may be said to swallow some of his food alive!

Of honey he is especially fond, and robs the bee-hive whenever it is accessible to him. It is not safe from him even in the top of a tree, provided the entrance to it is large enough to admit his body; and when it is not, he often contrives to make it so by means of his sharp claws. He has but little fear of the stings of the angry bees. His shaggy coat and thick hide afford him ample protection against such puny weapons. It is supposed that he spends a good deal of his time ranging the forest in search of "bee trees."

Of course he is a tree-climber—climbs by the "hug," not by means of his claws, as do animals of the cat kind; and in getting to the ground again descends the trunk, stern-foremost, as a hod-carrier would come down a ladder. In this he again differs from the felidae.

The range of the black bear is extensive—in fact it may be said to be colimital with the forest, both in North and South America—though in the latter division of the continent, another species of large black bear exists, the Ursus ornatas. In the northern continent the American bear is found in all the wooded parts from the Atlantic to the Pacific, but not in the open and prairie districts. There the grizzly holds dominion, though both of them range together in the wooded valleys of the Rocky Mountains. The grizzly, on the other hand, is only met with west of the Mississippi, and affects the dry desert countries of the uninhabited West. The brown bear, supposed to be identical with the Ursus arctus of North Europe, is only met with in the wild and treeless track known as "Barren grounds," which stretch across nearly the whole northern part of the continent from the last timber to the shores of the Arctic Sea, and in this region the black bear is not found. The zone of the polar bear joins with that of the brown, and the range of the former extends perhaps to the pole itself.

At the time of the colonisation of America, the area of the present United States was the favourite home of the black bear. It was a country entirely covered with thick forests, and of course a suitable habitat for him. Even to this day a considerable number of bears is to be found within the limits of the settlements. Scarcely a State in which some wild woodlands or mountain fastnesses do not afford shelter to a number of bears, and to kill one of them is a grand object of the hunter's ambition. Along the whole range of the Alleghanies black bears are yet found, and it will be long ere they are finally extirpated from such haunts. In the Western States they are still more common, where they inhabit the gloomy forests along the rivers, and creek bottoms, protected alike by the thick undergrowth and the swampy nature of the soil.

Their den is usually in a hollow tree—sometimes a prostrate log if the latter be large enough, and in such a position as is not likely to be observed by the passing hunter. A cave in the rocks is also their favourite lair, when the geological structure of the country offers them so secure a retreat. They are safer thus; for when a bear-tree or log has been discovered by either hunter or farmer the bear has not much chance of escape. The squirrel is safe enough, as his capture will not repay the trouble of felling the tree; but such noble game as a bear will repay whole hours of hard work with the axe.

The black bear lies torpid during several months of the winter. The time of his hibernation depends upon the latitude of the place and the coldness of the climate. As you approach the south this period becomes shorter and shorter, until in the tropical forests, where frost is unknown, the black bear ranges throughout the year.

The mode of hunting the black bear does not differ from that practised with the fox or wild cat. He is usually chased by dogs, and forced into his cave or a tree. If the former, he is shot down, or the tree, if hollow, is felled. Sometimes smoking brings him out. If he escapes to a cave, smoking is also tried; but if that will not succeed in dislodging him, he must be left alone, as no dogs will venture to attack him there.

The hunter often tracks and kills him in the woods with a bullet from his rifle. He will not turn upon man unless when wounded or brought to bay. Then his assault is to be dreaded. Should he grasp the hunter between his great forearms, the latter will stand a fair chance of being hugged to death. He does not attempt to use his teeth like the grizzly bear, but relies upon the muscular power of his arms. The nose appears to be his tenderest part, and his antagonist, if an old bear-hunter, and sufficiently cool, will use every effort to strike him there. A blow upon the snout has often caused the black bear to let go his hold, and retreat terrified!

The log trap is sometimes tried with success. This is constructed in such a way that the removal of the bait operates upon a trigger, and a large heavy log comes down on the animal removing it—either crushing it to death or holding it fast by pressure. A limb is sometimes only caught; but this proves sufficient.

The same kind of trap is used throughout the northern regions of America by the fur trappers—particularly the sable hunters and trappers of the white weasel (Mustela erminea). Of course that for the bear is constructed of the heaviest logs, and is of large dimensions.

Redwood related an adventure that had befallen him while trapping the black bear at an earlier period of his life. It had nearly cost him his life too, and a slight halt in his gait could still be observed, resulting from that very adventure.

We all collected around the blazing logs to listen to the trapper's story.



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

THE TRAPPER TRAPPED.

"Well, then," began Redwood, "the thing I'm agoin' to tell you about, happened to me when I war a younker, long afore I ever thought I was a coming out hyar upon the parairas. I wan't quite growed at the time, though I was a good chunk for my age.

"It war up thar among the mountains in East Tennessee, whar this child war raised, upon the head waters of the Tennessee River.

"I war fond o' huntin' from the time that I war knee high to a duck, an' I can jest remember killin' a black bar afore I war twelve yeer old. As I growed up, the bar had become scacer in them parts, and it wan't every day you could scare up such a varmint, but now and then one ud turn up.

"Well, one day as I war poking about the crik bottom (for the shanty whar my ole mother lived war not on the Tennessee, but on a crik that runs into it), I diskivered bar sign. There war tracks o' the bar's paws in this mud, an' I follered them along the water edge for nearly a mile—then the trail turned into about as thickety a bottom as I ever seed anywhar. It would a baffled a cat to crawl through it.

"After the trail went out from the crik and towards the edge o' this thicket, I lost all hopes of follerin' it further, as the ground was hard, and covered with donicks, and I couldn't make the tracks out no how. I had my idea that the bar had tuk the thicket, so I went round the edge of it to see if I could find whar he had entered.

"For a long time I couldn't see a spot whar any critter as big as a bar could a-got in without makin' some sort o' a hole, and then I begun to think the bar had gone some other way, either across the crik or further down it.

"I war agoin' to turn back to the water, when I spied a big log lyin' half out o' the thicket, with one eend buried in the bushes. I noticed that the top of this log had a dirty look, as if some animal had tramped about on it; an' on goin' up and squintin' at it a little closter, I seed that that guess war the right one.

"I clomb the log, for it war a regular rouster, bigger than that 'n we had so much useless trouble with, and then I scrammelled along the top o' it in the direction of the brush. Thar I seed the very hole whar the bar had got into the thicket, and thar war a regular beaten-path runnin' through the brake as far as I could see.

"I jumped off o' the log, and squeezed myself through the bramble. It war a trail easy enough to find, but mighty hard to foller, I can tell ye. Thar war thistles, and cussed stingin' nettles, and briars as thick as my wrist, with claws upon them as sharp as fish-hooks. I pushed on, howsomever, feelin' quite sartin that sich a well-used track must lead to the bar's den, an' I war safe enough to find it. In coorse I reckoned that the critter had his nest in some holler tree, and I could go home for my axe, and come back the next morning—if smoking failed to git him out.

"Well, I poked on through the thicket a good three hundred yards, sometimes crouching, and sometimes creeping on my hands and knees. I war badly scratched, I tell you, and now and then I jest thought to myself, what would be the consyquince if the bar should meet me in that narrow passage. We'd a had a tough tussel, I reckon—but I met no bar.

"At last the brash grew thinner, and jest as I was in hopes I might stumble on the bar tree, what shed I see afore me but the face o' a rocky bluff, that riz a consid'able height over the crik bottom. I begun to fear that the varmint had a cave, and so, cuss him! he had—a great black gulley in the rocks was right close by, and thar was his den, and no mistake. I could easily tell it by the way the clay and stones had been pattered over by his paws.

"Of coorse, my tracking for that day war over, and I stood by the mouth of the cave not knowin' what to do. I didn't feel inclined to go in.

"After a while I bethought me that the bar mout come out, an' I laid myself squat down among the bushes facing the cave. I had my gun ready to give him a mouthful of lead, as soon as he should show his snout outside o' the hole.

"'Twar no go. I guess he had heard me when I first come up, and know'd I war thar. I laid still until 'twar so dark I thought I would never find my way back agin to the crik; but, after a good deal of scramblin' and creepin' I got out at last, and took my way home.

"It warn't likely I war agoin' to give that bar up. I war bound to fetch him out o' his boots if it cost me a week's hunting. So I returned the next morning to the place, and lay all day in front o' the cave. No bar appeared, an' I went back home a cussin'.

"Next day I come again, but this time I didn't intend to stay. I had fetched my axe with me wi' the intention of riggin' up a log trap near the mouth o' the cave. I had also fetched a jug o' molasses and some yeers o' green corn to bait the trap, for I know'd the bar war fond o' both.

"Well, I got upon the spot, an' makin' as leetle rumpus as possible, I went to work to build my trap. I found some logs on the ground jest the scantlin, and in less than an hour I hed the thing rigged an' the trigger set. 'Twan't no small lift to get up the big log, but I managed it wi' a lever I had made, though it took every pound o' strength in my body. If it come down on the bar I knew it would hold him.

"Well, I had all ready except layin' the bait; so I crawled in, and was fixin' the green yeers and the 'lasses, when, jest at that moment, what shed I hear behind me but the 'sniff' o' the bar!

"I turned suddently to see. I had jest got my eye on the critter standin' right in the mouth o' his cave, when I feeled myself struck upon the buttocks, and flattened down to the airth like a pancake!

"At the first stroke I thought somebody had hit me a heavy blow from behind, and I wish it had been that. It war wusser than that. It war the log had hit me, and war now lying with all its weight right acrosst my two leg's. In my hurry to git round I had sprung the trigger, and down comed the infernal log on my hams.

"At fust I wan't scared, but I war badly hurt. I thought it would be all right as soon as I had crawled out, and I made an attempt to do so. It was then that I become scared in airnest; for I found that I couldn't crawl out. My legs were held in such a way that I couldn't move them, and the more I pulled the more I hurt them. They were in pain already with the heavy weight pressin' upon them, and I couldn't bear to move them. No more could I turn myself. I war flat on my face, and couldn't slew myself round any way, so as to get my hands at the log. I war fairly catched in my own trap!

"It war jest about then I began to feel scared. Thar wan't no settlement in the hul crik bottom but my mother's old shanty, an' that were two miles higher up. It war as unlikely a thing as could happen that anybody would be passing that way. And unless some one did I saw no chance of gettin' clar o' the scrape I war in. I could do nothin' for myself.

"I hollered as loud as I could, and that frightened the bar into his cave again. I hollered for an hour, but I could hear no reply, and then I war still a bit, and then I hollered again, an' kept this up pretty much for the hul o' that blessed day.

"Thar wan't any answer but the echo o' my own shoutin', and the whoopin' of the owls that flew about over my head, and appeared as if they war mockin' me.

"I had no behopes of any relief comin' from home. My ole mother had nobody but myself, and she wan't like to miss me, as I'd often stayed out a huntin' for three or four days at a time. The only chance I had, and I knew it too, war that some neighbour might be strayin' down the crik, and you may guess what sort o' chance that war, when I tell you thar wan't a neighbour livin' within less than five mile o' us. If no one come by I knew I must lay there till I died o' hunger and rotted, or the bar ate me up.

"Well, night come, and night went. 'Twar about the longest night this child remembers. I lay all through it, a sufferin' the pain, and listening to the screechin' owls. I could a screeched as loud as any of them if that would a done any good. I heerd now and then the snuffin' o' the bar, and I could see thar war two o' them. I could see thar big black bodies movin' about like shadows, and they appeared to be gettin' less afeerd o' me, as they come close at times, and risin' up on their hind-quarters stood in front o' me like a couple o' black devils.

"I begun to get afeerd they would attack me, and so I guess they would a-done, had not a circumstance happened that put them out o' the notion.

"It war jest grey day, when one o' them come so clost that I expected to be attacked by him. Now as luck would have it, my rifle happened to be lyin' on the ground within reach. I grabbed it without saying a word, and slewin' up one shoulder as high as I could, I was able to sight the bar jest behind the fore leg. The brute wan't four feet from the muzzle, and slap into him went wad and all, and down he tumbled like a felled ox. I seed he war as dead as a buck.

"Well, badly as I war fixed, I contrived to get loaded again, for I knowed that bars will fight for each other to the death; and I thought the other might attack me. It wan't to be seen at the time, but shortly after it come upon the ground from the direction of the crik.

"I watched it closely as it shambled up, having my rifle ready all the while. When it first set eyes on its dead comrade it gave a loud snort, and stopped. It appeared to be considerably surprised. It only halted a short spell, and then, with a loud roar, it run up to the carcass, and sniffed at it.

"I hain't the least o' a doubt that in two seconds more it would a-jumped me, but I war too quick for it, and sent a bullet right plum into one of its eyes, that come out again near the back o' its neck. That did the business, and I had the satisfaction to see it cowollop over nearly on top o' the other 'n.

"Well, I had killed the bars, but what o' that. That wouldn't get me from under the log; and what wi' the pain I was sufferin', and the poor prospect o' bein' relieved, I thought I mout as well have let them eat me.

"But a man don't die so long as he can help it, I b'lieve, and I detarmined to live it out while I could. At times I had hopes and shouted, and then I lost hope and lay still again.

"I grew as hungry as a famished wolf. The bars were lying right before me, but jest beyond reach, as if to tantylise me. I could have ate a collop raw if I could a-got hold of it, but how to reach it war the difeeculty.

"Needcesity they say is the mother o' invention; and I set myself to invent a bit. Thar war a piece o' rope I had brought along to help me wi' the trap, and that I got my claws on.

"I made a noose on one eend o' it, and after about a score o' trials I at last flung the noose over the head o' one o' the bars, and drew it tight. I then sot to work to pull the bar nearer. If that bar's neck wan't well stretched I don't know what you'd call stretchin', for I tugged at it about an hour afore I could get it within reach. I did get it at last, and then with my knife I cut out the bar's tongue, and ate it raw.

"I had satisfied one appetite, but another as bad, if not wusser, troubled me. That war thirst—my throat war as dry as a corn cob, and whar was the water to come from. It grew so bad at last that I thought I would die of it. I drawed the bar nearer me, and cut his juglar to see if thar war any relief from that quarter. Thar wan't. The blood war froze up thick as liver. Not a drop would run.

"I lay coolin' my tongue on the blade o' my knife an' chawin' a bullet, that I had taken from my pouch. I managed to put in the hul of the next day this away, now and then shoutin' as hard as I could. Towards the evenin' I grew hungry again, and ate a cut out o' the cheek o' the bar; but I thought I would a-choked for want o' water.

"I put in the night the best way I could. I had the owls again for company, and some varmint came up and smelt at the bars; but was frightened at my voice, and run away again. I suppose it war a fox or wolf, or some such thing, and but for me would a-made a meal off o' the bar's carcass.

"I won't trouble you with my reflexshuns all that night; but I can assure ye they war anything but pleasant. I thought of my ole mother, who had nobody but me, and that helped to keep up my spirits. I detarmined to cut away at the bar, and hold out as long as possible.

"As soon as day broke I set up my shoutin' again, restin' every fifeteen minutes or so, and then takin' afresh start. About an hour after sun-up, jest as I had finished a long spell o' screechin', I thought I heerd a voice. I listened a bit with my heart thumpin' against my ribs. Thar war no sound; I yelled louder than ever, and then listened. Thar war a voice.

"'Damn ye! what are ye hollowin' about?' cried the voice.

"I again shouted 'Holloa!'

"'Who the hell's thar?' inquired the voice.

"'Casey!' I called back, recognising the voice as that of a neighbour who lives up the crik; 'for God's sake this way.'

"'I'm a-comin',' he replied; ''Taint so easy to get through hyar—that you, Redwood? What the hell's the matter? Damn this brush!'

"I heard my neighbour breakin' his way through the thicket, and strange I tell ye all, but true it is, I couldn't believe I war goin' to get clar even then until I seed Casey standin' in front o' me.

"Well, of coorse, I was now set free again, but couldn't put a foot to the ground. Casey carried me home to the shanty, whar I lay for well nigh six weeks, afore I could go about, and damn the thing! I han't got over it yet."

So ended Redwood's story.



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

THE AMERICAN DEER.

During our next day's journey we fell in with and killed a couple of deer—a young buck and doe. They were the first of these animals we had yet seen, and that was considered strange, as we had passed through a deer country. They were of the species common to all parts of the United States' territory—the "red" or "fallow" deer (Cervus Virginianus). It may be here remarked that the common deer of the United States, sometimes called "red deer," is the fallow deer of English parks, that the "elk" of America is the red deer of Europe, and the "elk" of Europe is the "moose" of America. Many mistakes are made in relation to this family of animals on account of these misapplied names.

In North America there are six well-defined species of deer—the moose (Cervus alces); the elk (Cervus Canadensis); the caribou (tarandus); the black-tail or "mule" deer (macrotis); the long-tail (leucurus); and the Virginian, or fallow deer (Virginianus). The deer of Louisiana (Cervus nemoralis) is supposed by some to be a different species from any of the above; so also is the "mazama" of Mexico (Cervus Mexicanus). It is more probable that these two kinds are only varieties of the Genus Virginianus—the difference in colour, and other respects, resulting from a difference in food, climate, and such like causes.

It is probable, too, that a small species of deer exists in the Russian possessions west of the Rocky Mountains, quite distinct from any of the six mentioned above; but so little is yet known of the natural history of these wild territories, that this can only be taken as conjecture. It may be remarked, also that of the caribou (Cervus tarandus) there are two marked varieties, that may almost be regarded in the light of species. One, the larger, is known as the "woodland caribou," because it inhabits the more southern and wooded districts of the Hudson's Bay territory; the other, the "barren ground caribou," is the "reindeer" of the Arctic voyagers.

Of the six well-ascertained species, the last-mentioned (Cervus Virginianus) has the largest geographical range, and is the most generally known. Indeed, when the word "deer" is mentioned, it only is meant. It is the deer of the United States.

The "black-tails" and "long-tails" are two species that may be called new. Though long known to trappers and hunters, they have been but lately described by the scientific naturalist. Their habitat is the "far west" in California, Oregon, the high prairies, and the valleys of the Rocky Mountains. Up to a late period naturalists have had but little to do with these countries. For this reason their fauna has so long remained comparatively unknown.

The geographical disposition of the other four species is curious. Each occupies a latitudinal zone. That of the caribou, or rein deer, extends farthest north. It is not found within the limits of the United States.

The zone of the moose overlaps that of the caribou, but, on the other side, goes farther south, as this species is met with along the extreme northern parts of the United States.

The elk is next in order. His range "dovetails" into that of the moose, but the elk roves still farther into the temperate regions, being met with almost as far south as Texas.

The fourth, the common deer, embraces in his range the temperate and torrid zones of both North and South America, while he is not found in higher latitudes than the southern frontier of Canada.

The common deer, therefore, inhabits a greater area than any of his congeners, and is altogether the best-known animal of his kind. Most persons know him by sight. He is the smallest of the American species, being generally about five feet in length by three in height, and a little more than 100 pounds in weight. He is exceedingly well formed and graceful; his horns are not so large as those of the stag, but, like his, they are annually caducous, falling off in the winter and returning in the spring. They are rounded below, but in the upper part slightly flattened or palmated. The antlers do not rise upward, but protrude forward over the brow in a threatening manner. There is no regular rule, however, for their shape and "set," and their number also varies in different individuals. The horns are also present only in the male or buck; the doe is without them. They rise from a rough bony protuberance on the forehead, called the "burr." In the first year they grow in the shape of two short straight spikes; hence the name "spike-bucks" given to the animals of that age. In the second season a small antler appears on each horn, and the number increases until the fourth year, when they obtain a full head-dress of "branching honours." The antlers, or, as they are sometimes called, "points," often increase in number with the age of the animal, until as many as fifteen make their appearance. This, however, is rare. Indeed, the food of the animal has much to do with the growth of his horns. In an ill-fed specimen they do not grow to such size, nor branch so luxuriantly as in a well-fed fat buck.

We have said that the horns fall annually. This takes place in winter— in December and January. They are rarely found, however, as they are soon eaten up by the small-gnawing animals.

The new horns begin to grow as soon as the old ones have dropped off. During the spring and summer they are covered with a soft velvety membrane, and they are then described as being "in the velvet." The blood circulates freely through this membrane, and it is highly sensitive, so that a blow upon the horns at this season produces great pain. By the time the "rutting" season commences (in October), the velvet has peeled off, and the horns are then in order for battle—and they need be, for the battles of the bucks during this period are terrible indeed.—Frequently their horns get "locked" in such conflicts, and, being unable to separate them, the combatants remain in this situation until both perish by hunger, or fall a prey to their natural enemy—the wolf. Many pairs of horns have been found in the forest thus locked together, and there is not a museum in America without this singular souvenir of mutual destruction!

The hair of the American deer is thickly set and smooth on the surface. In winter it grows longer and is of a greyish hue; the deer is then, according to hunter phraseology, "in the grey." In the summer a new coat is obtained, which is reddish, or calf-coloured. The deer is then "in the red." Towards the end of August, or in autumn, the whole coat has a blue tinge. This is called "in the blue." At all times the animal is of a whitish appearance on the throat and belly and insides of the legs. The skin is toughest when "in the red," thickest "in the blue," and thinnest "in the grey." In the blue it makes the best buckskin, and is, therefore, most valuable when obtained in autumn.

The fawns of this species are beautiful little creatures; they are fawn-coloured, and showered all over with white spots which disappear towards the end of their first summer, when they gradually get into the winter grey.

The American deer is a valuable animal. Much of the buckskin of commerce is the product of its hides, and the horns are put to many uses. Its flesh, besides supplying the tables of the wealthy, has been for centuries almost the whole sustenance of whole nations of Indians. Its skins have furnished them with tents, beds, and clothing; its intestines with bowstrings, ball "raquets," and snow-shoes; and in the chase of this creature they have found almost their sole occupation as well as amusement.

With so many enemies, it is a matter of wonder that this species has not long been extirpated; not only has man been its constant and persevering destroyer, but it has a host of enemies besides, in the cougar, the lynxes, the wolverine, and the wolves.

The last are its worst foes. Hunters state that for one deer killed by themselves, five fall a prey to the wolves. These attack the young and feeble, and soon run them down. The old deer can escape from a wolf by superior speed; but in remote districts, where the wolves are numerous, they unite in packs of eight or ten, and follow the deer as hounds do, and even with a somewhat similar howling. They run by the nose, and unless the deer can reach water, and thus escape them, they will tire it down in the end.

Frequently the deer, when thus followed in winter, makes for the ice, upon which he is soon overtaken by his hungry pursuers.

Notwithstanding all this, the American deer is still common in most of the States, and in some of them even plentiful. Where the wolves have been thinned off by "bounty" laws, and the deer protected during the breeding season by legislative enactments, as is the case in New York, their number is said to be on the increase. The markets of all the great cities in America are supplied with venison almost as cheap as beef, which shows that the deer are yet far from being scarce.

The habits of this creature are well-known. It is gregarious in its natural habitat. The herd is usually led by an old buck, who watches over the safety of the others while feeding. When an enemy approaches, this sentinel and leader strikes the ground sharply with his hoofs, snorts loudly, and emits a shrill whistle; all the while fronting the danger with his horns set forward in a threatening manner. So long as he does not attempt to run, the others continue to browse with confidence; but the moment their leader starts to fly, all the rest follow, each trying to be foremost.

They are timid upon ordinary occasions, but the bucks in the rutting season are bold, and when wounded and brought "to bay," are not to be approached with impunity. They can inflict terrible blows, both with their hoofs and antlers; and hunters who have come too near them on such occasions have with difficulty escaped being gored to death.

They are foes to the snake tribe, and kill the most venomous serpents without being bitten. The rattle-snake hides from their attack. Their mode of destroying these creatures is similar to that employed by the peccary (dicotyles): that is, by pouncing down upon them with the four hoofs held close together, and thus crushing them to death. The hostility of the peccary to snakes is easily understood, as no sooner has it killed one than it makes a meal of it. With the deer, of course, such is not the case, as they are not carnivorous. Its enmity to the reptile race can be explained only by supposing that it possesses a knowledge of their dangerous qualities, and thinks they should therefore be got rid of.

The food of the American deer consists of twigs, leaves of trees, and grass. They are fonder of the tree-shoots than the grass; but their favourite morsels are the buds and flowers of nymphae, especially those of the common pond-lily. To get these, they wade into the lakes and rivers like the moose, and, like them, are good swimmers.

They love the shady forest better than the open ground, and they haunt the neighbourhood of streams. These afford them protection, as well as a means of quenching thirst. When pursued, their first thought is to make for water, in order to elude the pursuer, which they often succeed in doing, throwing both dogs and wolves off the scent. In summer, they seek the water to cool themselves, and get free from flies and mosquitoes, that pester them sadly.

They are fond of salt, and repair in great numbers to the salines, or salt springs, that abound in all parts of America. At these they lick up quantities of earth along with the salt efflorescence, until vast hollows are formed in the earth, termed, from this circumstance, salt "licks." The consequence of this "dirt-eating" is, that the excrement of the animal comes forth in hard pellets; and by seeing this, the hunters can always tell when they are in the neighbourhood of a "lick."

The does produce in spring—in May or June, according to the latitude. They bring forth one, two, and very rarely three fawns at a birth. Their attachment to their young is proverbial. The mothers treat them with the greatest tenderness, and hide them while they go to feed. The bleating of the fawn at once recalls the mother to its side. The hunter often imitates this with success, using either his own voice, or a "call," made out of a cane-joint. An anecdote, told by Parry, illustrates this maternal fondness:—"The mother, finding her young one could not swim as fast as herself, was observed to stop repeatedly, so as to allow, the fawn to come up with her; and, having landed first, stood watching it with trembling anxiety as the boat chased it to the shore. She was repeatedly fired at, but remained immovable, until her offspring landed in safety, when they both cantered out of sight." The deer to which Parry refers is the small "caribou;" but a similar affection exists between the mother and fawns of the common deer.

The American deer is hunted for its flesh, its hide, and "the sport." There are many modes of hunting it. The simplest and most common is that which is termed "still" hunting. In this, the hunter is armed with his rifle or deer-gun—a heavy fowling-piece—and steals forward upon the deer, as he would upon any other game. "Cover" is not so necessary as silence in such a hunt. This deer, like some antelopes, is of a "curious" disposition, and will sometimes allow the hunter to approach in full view without attempting to run off. But the slightest noise, such as the rustling of dry leaves, or the snapping of a stick, will alarm him. His sense of hearing is extremely acute. His nose, too, is a keen one, and he often scents the hunter, and makes off long before the latter has got within sight or range. It is necessary in "still" hunting to leave the dog at home; unless, indeed, he be an animal trained to the purpose.

Another species of hunting is "trailing" the deer in snow. This is done either with dogs or without them. The snow must be frozen over, so as to cut the feet of the deer, which puts them in such a state of fear and pain, that the hunter can easily get within shot. I have assisted in killing twenty in a single morning in this way; and that, too, in a district where deer were not accounted plentiful.

The "drive" is the most exciting mode of hunting deer; and the one practised by those who hunt for "the sport." This is done with hounds, and the horsemen who follow them also carry guns. In fact, there is hardly a species of hunting in America in which fire-arms are not used.

Several individuals are required to make up a "deer drive." They are generally men who know the "lay" of the country, with all its ravines and passes. One or two only accompany the hounds as "drivers," while the rest get between the place where the dogs are beating the cover and some river towards which it is "calculated" the startled game will run. They deploy themselves into a long line, which sometimes extends for miles through the forest. Each, as he arrives at his station, or "stand," as it is called, dismounts, ties his horse in a thicket, and takes his stand, "covering" himself behind a log or tree. The stands are selected with reference to the configuration of the ground, or by paths which the deer are accustomed to take; and as soon as all have so arranged themselves, the dogs at a distant point are set loose, and the "drive" begins.

The "stand men" remain quiet, with their guns in readiness. The barking of the dogs, afar off through the woods, usually admonishes them when a deer has been "put up;" and they watch with eager expectation, each one hoping that the game may come his way.

Hours are sometimes passed without the hunter either seeing or hearing a living thing but himself and his horse; and many a day he returns home from such a "chase" without having had the slightest glimpse of either buck, doe, or fawn.

This is discouraging; but at other times he is rewarded for his patient watching. A buck comes bounding forward, the hounds after him in full cry. At intervals he stops, and throws himself back on his haunches like a halted hare. His eyes are protruded, and watching backward. His beautiful neck is swollen with fear and rage, and his branching antlers tower high in the air. Again he springs forward, and approaches the silent hunter, who, with a beating heart, holds his piece in the attitude of "ready." He makes another of his pauses. The gun is levelled, the trigger pulled; the bullet speeds forth, and strikes into his broad chest, causing him to leap upward in the spasmodic effort of death.

The excitement of a scene like this rewards the hunter for his long and lonely vigil.

"Torch-hunting," or "fire-hunting," as it is sometimes termed, is another method of capturing the fallow deer. It is done by carrying a torch in a very dark night through woods where deer are known to frequent. The torch is made of pine-knots, well dried. They are not tied in bunches, as represented by some writers, but carried in a vessel of hard metal. A frying-pan with a long handle, as already stated, is best for the purpose.

The "knots" are kindled within the pan, and, if good ones, yield a blaze that will light the woods for a hundred yards around. The deer seeing this strange object, and impelled by curiosity, approaches within range; and the "glance" of his eyes, like two burning coals, betrays him to the hunter, who with his deadly rifle "sights" between the shining orbs and fire.

While we were on the subject of torch-hunting the doctor took up the cue, and gave us an account of a torch-hunt he had made in Tennessee.

"I will tell you of a 'torch-hunt,'" said he, "of which pars magna fui, and which ended with a 'catastrophe.' It took place in Tennessee, where I was for a while sojourning. I am not much of a hunter, as you all know; but happening to reside in a 'settlement,' where there were some celebrated hunters, and in the neighbourhood of which was an abundance of game, I was getting very fond of it. I had heard, among other things, of this 'torch-hunting,'—in fact, had read many interesting descriptions of it, but I had never witnessed the sport myself; and was therefore eager, above all things, to join in a torch-hunt.

"The opportunity at length offered. A party was made up to go hunting, of which I was one.

"There were six of us in all; but it was arranged that we should separate into three pairs, each taking its own torch and a separate course through the woods. In each pair one was to carry the light, while the other managed the 'shooting iron.' We were all to meet at an appointed rendezvous when the hunt was over.

"These preliminaries being arranged, and the torches made ready, we separated. My partner and I soon plunged into the deep forest.

"The night was dark as pitch—dark nights are the best—and when we entered the woods we had to grope our way. Of course, we had not yet set fire to our torch, as we had not reached the place frequented by the deer.