Book: Hunting with the Bow and Arrow

S >> Saxton Pope >> Hunting with the Bow and Arrow




The dogs, heartened by our presence, with instant accord charged after
the lion. When they came to the precipitous drop in the bed of the
stream, they whined a second, ran back and forth, then mounted the
lateral wall, circled sidewise and, by a detour, gained the ground
below. We ran and looked over. The drop was at least thirty feet. The
cat had taken it without hesitation, but we were absolutely stalled.
Even if we had cared to take the risk of the descent, we saw so many
similar drops beyond that the situation was hopeless. The dogs having
lost their voices, we were at a great disadvantage. So we returned to
the tree to rest and meditate.

There we saw the evidence of the long vigil of the night. All about its
base were little nests, where the tired dogs had bedded down and kept
their weary watch. Their incessant barking had served to keep the
cougar treed, but it cost them a temporary loss of voice. Poor devils,
they had our admiration and sympathy.

At noon, hearing nothing from the hounds, we decided to return to camp.
If coming down was hard, going up was herculean. We crawled on hands
and knees, dragged ourselves by projecting roots, panted, rested, and
worked again. After a three-hours' struggle we came out upon a rough
ledge of granite, a mile below the spot at which we aimed, but near
enough to the top to permit us, after a little more brush fighting, to
gain our camp and lie down, too fatigued to eat.

For another day we remained at this place, hoping that the dogs would
return, but in vain. At last we decided to pack up and go around a
ten-mile detour and work up the outlet of the canyon. We left a mess of
food in several piles for the dogs should they return, and knew they
could follow our horses' tracks if they came to camp.

But our detour was futile. We lost all signs of our pack and returned
to our headquarters to await results.

It was on this homeward journey that we saw the lion of Pico Blanco,
and had to let him slip.

Ten days later, two weak, emaciated hounds came into camp, an old
veteran and a young dog that trailed after him as if tied with a rope.
He had followed him to save his life, and for days after he could not
be separated without whining with fear.

We fed them carefully and nursed them back to health. But these were
all of the five to appear. Old Belle, the greatest fighter of them all,
was gone. She must have met her death at the claws of the cougar, for
nothing else could keep her. This ended that particular lion hunt.

In our travels over California in search for cougars, we have picked up
more tales than trails of the big cats.

Just before one of my visits to Gorda, on the Monterey Coast, a panther
visited the Mansfield ranch in broad daylight. Jasper being up on the
mountainside after deer, his wife, left at home with the two little
children, noticed a very large lion out in the pasture back of the
house. It wandered among the cattle in a most unconcerned manner and
did not even cause a stir. While it did not approach any of the cows
very closely, they seemed to be not in the least alarmed. For half an
hour or more it stayed in the neighborhood of the house, where Mrs.
Mansfield locked herself in and waited for her husband's return. It was
not until evening, and too late to track the beast, that Jasper came
home. So no capture was made.

Some time before this, one of the hired hands on the ranch was going to
his cabin in the dusk; and swinging his hand idly to catch the tops of
tall grass by the side of the path, he suddenly touched something warm
and soft. Instantly he grasped a handful of the substance. At the same
moment some sort of an animal bounded off in the dark. Holding fast to
the material in his hand, he ran back to the farmhouse and found his
fist full of lion hair. To say that he was startled, puts it very
mildly. Apparently one of these beasts had been crouched on a log by
the side of his path, waiting for something to turn up. The hired man
took a lantern home with him after that.

At another ranch on the Big Sur River, one of the little boys called to
his mother that there was a funny sort of a "big dog" out in the
pasture. His mother paid no attention to it, but a diminutive pet black
and tan started an assault on the animal in question. The lion and the
dog disappeared in the brush. Presently the canine barking ceased and
the small boy wondered what had become of his valiant companion. In a
few minutes he heard a plaintive whine up in a near-by tree, and
running to its base he found that the panther had seized his pet by the
nape of the neck and climbed a tall fir with him. The boy ran for his
father, working in the fields, who, bringing his rifle, dispatched the
panther. As it fell from the tree, the little dog clung to the upper
limbs, and stayed at the top. Nothing they could do would coax him
down. The fir was one difficult to climb, so to save time the man took
an ax and felled the tree, which, falling gently against another,
precipitated the canine hero to the ground without harm. Later I had
the pleasure of shaking his paw and congratulating him on his bravery.

After many futile attempts, at last our opportunity to get a _Felis
Concolor_ arrived. We received word from a certain ranger station in
Tuolumne County that a mountain lion was killing sheep and deer in the
immediate vicinity, and having the promise of a well trained pack,
Arthur Young and I gathered our archery tackle and started from San
Francisco at night in an automobile. We traveled until the small hours
of the morning, then lay down on the side of the road to take a short
sleep; and rising at the first gray of dawn, sped on our way.

We reached the Sierras by sun-up and began to climb. At noon we met our
guide above Italian Bar, and prepared for an evening hunt. This,
however, was as unsatisfactory as evening hunts usually are.

A morning expedition the next day only brought out the fact that our
lion had left the country. News of his activities twelve miles further
up the mountains having been obtained, we gathered our bows, arrows,
and dogs and departed for this region. Here we found a bloody record of
his work. More than two hundred goats had been killed by the big cat in
the past year. In fact, the rancher thought that several panthers were
at work. Goats were taken from beneath the shepherd's nose, and as he
turned in one direction, another goat would be killed behind him. It
seemed impossible to apprehend the villain; their dogs were useless.

Equipped for rough camping, we soon planned our morning excursion and
bedded down for rest.

At 3 o'clock we waked, ate a meager breakfast, and hit the trail up the
mountain. We knew the general range of our cougar. It is necessary in
all his tracking to get in the field while the dew is on the ground and
before the sun dissipates it, also before the goats obliterate the
tracks.

Arrived at the crest of the ridge, we struck a well-defined goat trail,
and soon the fresh tracks of a lion were discovered. Our dogs took up
the scent at once and we began to travel at a rapid pace.

Here again, one must have a good pair of legs. If automobiles,
elevators, and general laziness have not ruined your powers of
locomotion, you may follow the dogs; otherwise, you had best stay at
home.

At first we walk, then we trot, and when with a leap the hounds start
in full cry, we race. Regardless of five thousand feet of altitude,
regardless of brush, rocks, and dizzy cliffs, we follow at a breakneck
pace. I don't know where our breath comes from in these trials. We just
have to run; in fact, we have planned to run on our hands when our legs
play out. With pounding hearts we surge ahead. "Keep the dogs within
hearing!" "It can't last long!" But this time we come to a sudden halt
on a rocky slide. We've lost the scent. The dogs circle and backtrack
and work with feverish haste. The sun has risen, and up the mountain
side comes a band of goats led by a single shepherd dog--no man in
sight. We shout to the dog to steer his rabble away, but on they come,
and obliterate our trail with a thousand hoofprints and a cloud of
dust.

The sun then comes out, and our day is done. No felis this time.

So we scout the country for information to be used later, and return to
camp to drown our sorrow in food.

This was my first knowledge that a dog could be placed in charge of a
flock of sheep or goats. It seems that these little sheep dogs, not
even collies, but some shaggy little plebeians, are given full charge
of the band. They lead them out to pasture, guard them, and keep them
together during the day and bring them home at night. They will, when
properly instructed, take a band of goats out for a week on a long
route, and bring them all safely home again. At least, they used to do
this until the lion appeared on the scene.

That evening we asked the rancher to lock his goats in the corral till
noon.

Next morning we rose again in time to see the morning star glitter with
undimmed glory. Up the trail we mounted, the dogs eager for the chase.
An old owl in a hollow tree asked us again and again who we were; all
else was silent in the woods.

Saving our strength, we arrived quietly on the upper ridges and waited
for the dawn. Way down below us in the canyon we could smell the faint
incense of our camp-fire. The morning breeze was just beginning to
breathe in the trees. The birds awoke with little whispered
confidences, small twitterings and chirps. A faint lavender tint melted
the stars in the eastern sky. Shadows crept beneath the trees, and we
knew it was time to start.

Just as the light defined the margins of the trail, we picked up in the
grayness the track of a lion. Strange to say, the dogs had not smelled
it, but when we pointed to the footprint in the dust, which was
apparently none too fresh, they took up the work of tracking. It is
astonishing to see how a dog can tell which way a track leads. If in
doubt, he runs quickly back and forth on the scent, and thus gauges the
way the animal has progressed. A mediocre dog cannot do this, but we
had dogs with college educations.

Traveling carefully and at a moderate pace, we came to an open knoll in
the forest. Here in the ferns our pack circled about us as if the cat
had been doing a circus stunt, and they seemed confused. Later on we
found that our feline friend had been experimenting with a porcupine
and learned another lesson in natural history.

Suddenly the leader sniffed at a fallen tree where, doubtless, the cat
had perched, then with a ringing bay, the hound clamped his tail close
to his rump and left in a streak of yellow light. The rest of the pack
leaped into full cry.

We were off on a hot track. Oh, for the wings of a bird! Trained as
Young and I were to desperate running, this game taxed us to the
utmost. First we climbed the knoll, deep in ferns and mountain misery,
then we dashed over the crest, tore through manzanita brush, thickets
of young cedar and buckthorn, over ledges of lava rock, down deep
declivities, among giant oaks, cedars, and pines. As we ran we grasped
our ready strung bows in one hand and the flapping quivers in the
other.

You would not think that at this time we could take note of the
fragrant shrubs and pine needles beneath our feet, but I smelled them
as we passed in flight, and they revived me to renewed energy. On we
rushed, only to lose the sound of the dogs. Then we listened and caught
it down the hill below us. Again we hurdled barriers of brush, took
long sliding leaps down the treacherous shale and ran breathless to the
shade of a great oak.

There above our heads was the lion. Oh, the beauty of that beast!

Heaving and giddy with exertion, we saw a wonderful sight, a great
tawny, buff-colored body crouched on a limb, grace and power in every
outline. A huge, soft cylindrical tail swung slowly back and forth.

Luminous eyes gazed at us in utmost calm, a cold calculating calm. He
watched and waited our next move, waited with his great muscles tense
for action.

We retreated, not only to get out of his reach, but to gain a better
shooting position. As we did this, he gave a lithe leap to a higher
limb and shielded himself as best he could behind the boughs of the
tree.

From our position, his chest and throat were visible through a
triangular space in the branches, not more than a foot across. We must
shoot through this. His attitude was so huddled that his head hung over
his shoulder.

Young and I caught our breath, drew our arrows from their quivers,
nocked them, and set ourselves in the archer's "stable stand." We drew
together and, at a mutual thought, shot together. Because of our
unsteady condition the arrows flew a trifle wild. Mine buried itself in
the lion's shoulder. Young's hit him in the nose.

He reared and struck at this latter shaft, then, not dislodging it,
began swaying back and forth while with both front paws he fought the
arrow.

While he thrashed about thus in the tree top, we nocked two more arrows
and shot. We both missed the brute. Young's flew off into the next
state, and if you ever go up into Tuolumne County, you will find mine
buried deep in the heart of an oak.

Just as we nocked a third arrow, he freed himself from the offending
shaft in his muzzle, raised his fore-paws upon a limb and prepared to
leap. In that movement he bared the white hair of his throat and chest,
and like a flash, two keen arrows were driven through his heart area.


[Illustration: ARTHUR YOUNG AND HIS COUGAR]


[Illustration: OUR FIRST MOUNTAIN LION]


[Illustration: WE PACK THE PANTHER TO CAMP]

As they struck and disappeared from sight, he leaped. Like a flying
squirrel, he soared over our heads. Full seventy-five feet he cleared
in one mighty outward, downward bound. I saw his body glint across the
rising sun, swoop in a wonderful curve and land in a sheltering bush.

The dogs threw themselves upon him. There was a medley of sounds, a
fierce, but brief fight, and all was over. We grabbed him by the tail
and dragged him forth--dead. The ringleader of our pack, trembling with
excitement, effort, and fighting frenzy, drove all the other dogs away
and took possession of the body. No one but a man, his master, might
touch it.

Our lion was a young male, six feet eight inches from tip to tip, and
weighing a little over one hundred and twenty pounds. Later, as we
skinned him, we found his paws full of porcupine quills, speaking
loudly of his recent experience. The stomach was empty; the chest was
full of blood from our arrows.

He was as easy to kill as a deer. We packed him back to camp and added
his photograph to our rogues' gallery.

There was no further goat killing on that Sierra ranch.

This was our first lion, and for me so far, my only one. Arthur Young,
however, has been fortunate enough to land two cougars by himself on
another hunting trip.

Captain C. H. Styles, a recent addition to the ranks of field archers,
while on an expedition to cut yew staves in Humboldt County,
California, started a mountain lion, ran him to bay with hounds, and
killed him with one arrow in the chest. We shall undoubtedly hear more
of the captain later on.

But so long as we can draw a bowstring and our legs hold out, and there
is an intelligent dog to be had, it will not be the last lion on our
list. Wherever there are deer, there will be found panthers, and it is
our business to help reduce their number in the game fields to maintain
the balance of power.




XIV


GRIZZLY BEAR


The very idea of shooting grizzly bears with the bow and arrow strikes
most people as so absurd that they laugh at the mention of it. The
mental picture of the puny little archery implements of their childhood
opposed to that of the largest and most fearsome beast of the Western
world, produces merriment and incredulity.

Because it seemed so impossible, I presume, this added to our desire to
accomplish it.

Ever since we began hunting with the bow, we had talked of shooting
grizzlies. We thought of an Alaskan trip as a remotely attainable
adventure, and planned murderous arrows of various ingenious spring
devices to increase their cutting qualities. We estimated the power of
formidable bows necessary to pierce the hides of these monsters. In
fact, it was the acme of our hunting desires.

We read the biography of John Capen Adams and his adventures with the
California grizzlies, and Roosevelt's admirable descriptions of these
animals. They filled out our dreams with detail. And after killing
black bears we needed only the opportunity to make our wish become an
exploit.

The opportunity to do this arrived unexpectedly, as many opportunities
seem to, when the want and the preparedness coincide.

The California Academy of Sciences has in its museum in Golden Gate
Park, San Francisco, a collection of very fine animal habitat groups,
among which are deer, antelope, mountain sheep, cougars, and brown
bear. While an elk group was being installed, it happened that the
taxidermist, Mr. Paul Fair, said to me that the next and final setting
would be one of grizzly bears. In surprise, I asked him if it were not
a fact that the California grizzly was extinct. He said this was true,
but the silver-tip bear of Wyoming was a grizzly and its range extended
westward to the Sierra Nevada Mountains; so it could properly be
classified as a Pacific Coast variety. He cited Professor Merriam's
monograph on the classification of grizzlies to prove his statements.
He also informed me that permit might be obtained from Washington to
secure these specimens in Yellowstone National Park.

Immediately I perceived an opportunity and interviewed Dr. Barton
Everman, curator of the museum, concerning the feasibility of offering
our services in taking these bears at no expense to the academy.
Incidentally, we proposed to shoot them with the bow and arrow, and
thereby answer a moot question in anthropology. The proposition
appealed to him, and he wrote to Washington for a permit to secure
specimens in this National Park, stating that the bow and arrow would
be used. I insisted upon this latter stipulation, so that there should
be no misunderstanding if, in the future, any objection was raised to
this method of hunting.

In a very short time permit was given to the academy, and we started
our preparations for the expedition. This was late in the fall of 1919,
and bear were at their best in the spring, just after hibernation; so
we had ample time.

It was planned that Mr. Compton, Mr. Young, and I should be the
hunters, and such other assistance would be obtained as seemed
necessary. We began reviewing our experience and formulating the
principles of the campaign.

Our weapons we now considered adequate in the light of our contact with
black bears. We had found that our bows were as strong as we could
handle, and ample to drive a good arrow through a horse, a fact which
we had demonstrated upon the carcasses of recently dead animals.

But we decided to add to the length of our arrowheads, and use tempered
instead of soft steel as heretofore. We took particular pains to have
them perfect in every detail.

Then we undertook the study of the anatomy of bears and the location
and size of their vital organs. In the work of William Wright on the
grizzly, we found valuable data concerning the habits and nature of
these animals.

In spite of the reputation of this bear for ferocity and tenacity of
life, we felt that, after all, he was only made of flesh and blood, and
our arrows were capable of solving the problem.

We also began preparing ourselves for the contest. Although habitually
in good physical condition, we undertook special training for the big
event. By running, the use of dumbbells and other gymnastic practices,
we strengthened our muscles and increased our endurance. Our field
shooting was also directed toward rapid delivery and the quick judgment
of distances on level, uphill, and falling ground. In fact, we planned
to leave no factor for success untried.

My brother, G. D. Pope, of Detroit, being a hunter of big game with the
gun, was invited to join the party, and his advice was asked concerning
a reliable guide. He gladly consented to come with us and share the
expenses. At the same time he suggested Ned Frost, of Cody, Wyoming, as
the most experienced hunter of grizzly bears in America.

About this time one of my professional friends visited the Smithsonian
Institute at Washington, where he met a member of the staff, who
inquired if he knew Doctor Pope, of San Francisco, a man that was
contemplating shooting grizzlies with the bow and arrow. The doctor
replied that he did, whereat the sage laughed and said that the feat
was impossible, most dangerous and foolhardy; it could not be done. We
fully appreciated the danger involved--therein lay some of the zest.
But we also knew that even should we succeed in killing them in
Yellowstone Park, the glory would be sullied by the popular belief that
all park bears are hotel pets, live upon garbage, and that it was a
cruel shame to torment them with arrows.

So in my early correspondence with Frost, I assured him that we did not
want to shoot any tame bears and that we would not consider the trip at
all if this were necessary. He assured us that this was not necessary,
and reminded us that Yellowstone Park was fifty miles wide by sixty
miles long, and that some of the highest portions of the Rocky
Mountains lay in it. The animals in this preserve, he said, were far
from tame and the bears were divided into two distinct groups, one
mostly composed of black and brown with a few inferior specimens of
grizzlies that frequent the dumps back of the camps and hotels, and
another group of bears that never came near civilization, but lived
entirely up in the rugged mountains and were as dangerous and wary as
those in Alaska or any other wild country. These bear wander outside
the park and furnish hunting material throughout the neighboring State.
He promised to put us in communication with grizzlies that were as
unspoiled and unafraid as those first seen by Lewis and Clarke in their
early explorations.

After explaining the purposes of our trip and the use of the bow, Ned
Frost agreed that it was a real sporting proposition and took up the
plan with enthusiasm. I sent him a sample arrow we used in hunting, and
his letter in reply I take the liberty of printing. It is typical of
the frontier spirit and comes, not only from the foremost grizzly
hunter of all times, but discloses the man's bigness of heart:

"My dear Doctor:

"Your letter of the 18th was received a day or so ago, and last
night I received 'Good Medicine' [a hunting arrow] on the evening
train, and I feel better away down deep about this hunt after a
good examination of this little Grizzly Tickler than I have at any
time before. I have, by mistake, let it simmer out in a quiet way
that I was going to see what a grizzly would really do if he had a
few sticks stuck in his innerds, and my friends have been giving
the Mrs. and me a regular line of farewell parties. Really, I think
it has been a splendid paying thing to do; pork chops are high, you
know, and I really feel I am off to the good about nine dollars and
six bits worth of bacon and flour right now on this deal. Maybe
I'll be in debt to you before green-grass if I don't look out.

"Well, anyway, here is hoping we will all live through it and have
a dandy time. Don't worry about coming to blows with the bear; I
have noticed from long experience that it is not the times that you
think a bear is going to give you trouble that it happens, but
always when least expected. I have trailed wounded grizzlies time
and time again, and was more or less worried all the while, but
never had one turn on me yet. Then, too, I have had about three
experiences with them that made my hair stand straight up, and when
it finally settled, it had more FROST in it than ever before; and
let me add right here, that one of the worst places I ever got into
was when I had sixteen of the best bear dogs that were ever gotten
together I believe, after an old she-grizzly, and I was like you,
thought they would hold the bear's attention. BUT, don't let any
notion like this get you into trouble. Now, I am not running down
dogs as a means of getting bear; I love them and would now have a
good pack if it was possible to run them in the game fields of this
State, but you don't want to think that they can handle a grizzly
like they do a black bear. In fact, I would place no value on them
whatsoever as a safeguard in case a grizzly got on the pack, and I
am speaking from experience, mind you. No, a good little shepherd
would do more than a dozen regular bear dogs, but there is only
about one little shepherd like I speak of in a lifetime.

"If you can use the bow from horseback, here is a safe proposition,
and I believe a practical one, too. But I don't feel that there is
really so much danger in the game after all, as it is only once in
a great while that any bear will go up against the human animal,
and then is most likely to be when you are not expecting it at all.
Don't worry about it. What I am thinking about most is to get the
opportunity to get the first arrow into some good big worthy old
boy that will be a credit to the expedition.

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