Sure enough, he had made a bull's-eye, and a ma.s.s of feathers floated off downstream, followed by the mortal remains of the deceased. And now the trout were jumping at these stray feathers, and returning to the siege, we each caught a good one at the lower end of the pool.

We had now about as many fish as we cared to carry to camp, and started back up river. On our way we met Lieutenant Thompson, of the Third Infantry--also a member of our party--who had left camp about the same time we did, and we stopped and watched him fish awhile. The lieutenant is a veteran fly-fisherman, and it is a pleasure to see him wield his graceful little split bamboo rod, and handle the large vigorous trout found in this stream. I had my camera with me and exposed a plate on him in the act of playing a two-pounder while holding a string of six others in his left hand, and though I did not give it quite enough time, it turned out fairly well. He had also filled his creel, and on our return to camp we hung our total catch, with several others that General Marcy had taken, on a pair of elk horns and got a good negative of the whole outfit.

Trout grow to prodigious sizes in the Bitter Root, as well as in several other streams in Montana, Wyoming, Idaho, and Washington Territory. The Indians frequently spear them through the ice, or take them in nets, some of these weighing ten to twelve pounds each. But these large ones rarely rise to the fly. However, Colonel Gibson, of the U. S. A., commanding at Fort Missoula, took one on a fly that weighed nine pounds and two ounces, and other instances have been recorded in which they have been taken by this method nearly as large. They have frequently been taken on live bait, and have been known to attack a small trout that had been hooked on a fly, before he could be landed.

While I was hunting in the Bitter Root Mountains in the fall of '83, a carpenter, who was building a bridge across the Bitter Root, near Corvallis, conceived the idea of fishing for trout with a set hook. He rigged a heavy hook and line, baiting with a live minnow, tied it to a willow that overhung one of the deep pools, and left it over night. By this means he secured three of these monster trout in a week, that weighed from nine to eleven and a half pounds each.

The supply of trout in the Bitter Root seems to be almost unlimited, for it has been fished extensively for ten years past, and yet a man may catch twenty-five to fifty pounds a day any time during the season, and is almost sure to do so if he is at all skillful or "lucky." I know a native Bitter Rooter who, during the summer and fall of '84, fished for the market, and averaged thirty pounds a day all through the season, which he sold in Missoula at twenty-five cents a pound. Of course, the majority of the ranchmen along the stream do little or no fishing, but the officers and men at Fort Missoula do an immense amount of it, as do the residents of the town of Missoula; and visiting sportsmen from the East take out hundreds of pounds every season. But the stream is so large and long, and its net-work of tributaries so vast, and furnish such fine sp.a.w.ning and breeding grounds, that it is safe to say there will be trout here a century hence. The heathen Chinee has never been permitted to ply his infamous dynamite cartridge here, or in any of the streams of this vicinity, as he has long been doing in Colorado, Nevada, and elsewhere, and this fact alone would account for the unimpaired supply in these streams.

The reproductive power of the mountain trout is equal to all the tax likely to be levied against it here by legitimate sportsmen, and if dynamiting and netting are prohibited hereafter as heretofore, no fear need be felt as to the future supply.

The market fisherman of whom I spoke was a faithful devotee to the fly, and never would use any other lure. A white or gray hackle was his favorite. He used a stiff, heavy pole, however, about ten feet long, cut from the jungles that grow on the river bottom, and a heavy line, a foot shorter, with double gut for attaching the fly. He fished from the sh.o.r.e or waded, as was necessary to reach the best water. He cast with both hands, and the instant the fly touched the water he would raise the tip so that the line would just clear, and then trail or skitter the fly gently, but rapidly, toward him. Thus, the line being taut, when the fish arose to the fly he would simply hook himself. Then he was ignominiously "yanked," and either landed high and dry on mother earth or in the ranchman's gunny-sack.

Although devoid of sport and requiring little skill, it was the most effective method of filling a "bag" that I have ever seen practiced. I have seen him take ten to twenty-five trout in an hour's fishing and not miss a single rise. I had this man with me on a hunting trip, and whenever we came within two miles of a trout stream our table was sure to be supplied with an abundance of fish.

I visited Fort Maginnis in September, 1883, and during my stay, Capt. F.

H. Hathaway kindly invited me to spend a day trouting with him on Big Spring creek, a beautiful stream that flows out of the Snowy Mountains about twenty-five miles from the post. We left the captain's quarters at noon, comfortably seated on his buckboard, while Sam, Fishel, and d.i.c.k Thomas rode their horses and drove a pack-mule, which carried a part of our provisions, the remainder being carried on the buckboard.

We covered the twenty-five miles by six o'clock, camping at the base of the Snowies, within two miles of the source of the creek, which source is a cl.u.s.ter of large cold springs. We pitched our tent on the bank of the creek, where it murmured sweet music in its course over the rugged bottom and lulled us into quiet and refreshing sleep with its rhythmical sounds. When we awoke the next morning the foot-hills all about us glistened with frost, and the high peaks, three or four miles away, were draped in a mantle of spotless white, which the storm-king had spread upon them a few days ago.

Notwithstanding the lateness of the season, a few musquitoes began to sing about our ears as soon as the sun came up. Fishel, who was full of droll good nature, observed them.

"Well, look here," he said, as he broke the ice in the water pail and dipped out a basinful to wash in, "I'll be doggoned if here aint a lot of these measley musquitoes buzzing around here with buffalo overcoats on."

The keen mountain air at this low temperature, and the grand scenery with which we were surrounded, combined to sharpen our appet.i.tes, and our breakfast beside a rousing camp-fire was enjoyed as only a meal can be enjoyed amid such surroundings. As soon as the sun had risen high enough to banish the frost and warm the air slightly, the gra.s.s all about us was set in motion by thousands of gra.s.shoppers who gamboled playfully, in order, apparently, to warm up their benumbed limbs and get an appet.i.te for breakfast. All hands then turned out and harvested a goodly supply of them, for we had been advised that the trout in that stream would not take a fly so late in the season.

Then we proceeded to business; the captain and d.i.c.k fishing up the stream and I down, while Sam took his rifle and went across the hills in search of game. The stream, where we started in, was not more than three to four feet wide and two feet deep in the deepest holes, yet at the first cast I hooked a trout that after a few vigorous plunges took the barb off my hook and departed. I put on a new one and had better luck next time, for in another hole a few rods farther down I took one that weighed a pound and a half.

In the meantime the captain shouted to me, and looking up the stream I saw him displaying one of about the same size. We each followed our courses, and did not meet again for some hours, when the captain came down to see how I was getting on. He had eight and I had six, the average weight of which was over a pound each. He relieved me of my load and returned to camp, and from that time on did but little fishing himself, preferring, in the fullness of his generous nature, to devote the most of his time to accompanying me, showing me the most favorable points, exulting in my success, and in every way possible promoting my comfort. Whenever he left me for a short time he would send one of his men to take my fish to camp, dress them, and do anything and everything else possible for me.

I fished down the creek nearly two miles during the day, going over parts of the stream two or three times, not ceasing from the fascinating sport long enough to even eat a lunch that I carried in my pocket. Nor did I turn my steps toward camp until it became so dark that the fish would no longer rise. Then, when I started campward, I met d.i.c.k coming with an extra saddle horse which the captain had kindly sent for me to ride.

After supper came the always charming social intercourse around the camp-fire, the exchange of personal notes of the day's sport--the experience meeting, so to speak. No one had misgivings to record so far as the fishing was concerned. Each had enjoyed his full measure of the grand sport, as was evidenced by the display of the several strings of salmon-colored beauties which hung around the camp-fire. There was not a fingerling in the entire catch. No one had caught a trout during the day of less than four ounces in weight, and very few of that size had been taken. The majority of them ranged between half a pound and two pounds, and the numbers were only limited by the amount of work each had done.

My friends, being residents and accustomed to this kind of sport whenever they choose to enjoy it, had not cared to fish all day, and consequently had not taken so many as I, but had taken all they wanted.

The only man in the party who had anything to regret in the day's experience was Sam. He had started a large bull elk early in the morning and had followed him several miles, but had not been able to get a favorable shot, though he had twice caught sight of him. We all sympathized deeply with him in his misfortune, for Sam is an expert shot with the rifle, and if he had ever drawn a bead on the game we should have had elk steak on our table at the next meal, sure.

We broke camp early the next morning and prepared to start for home, but decided to fish down the creek till near noon before leaving it. We drove down about a mile, when I alighted and started in, the others distributing themselves at other points along the stream. The trout rose as rapidly and gamily as on the previous day, and I soon had a load in my creel that pulled down uncomfortably. Among them was one old nine-spot which turned the scales at two and a quarter pounds after having been out of the water over two hours. He measured seventeen and a half inches in length.

The captain told me of a certain deep hole where he said an old pioneer made his headquarters, who had taken off two hooks and leaders for him on two different days during the summer. When I reached the hole I recognized it in a moment by the captain's description. It was in a short bend or angle of the creek. On the opposite side from where I stood, and on the lower angle of the square, the channel had cut a deep hole under an overhanging bank, which was covered with willows. These drooped over the water and shaded it nicely. There was a slight eddy there and the surface of the water was flecked with bits of white foam which came from the rapids just above. What a paradise for a wary old trout!

I stopped about forty feet above the hole and put on one of the largest hoppers in my box; then I reeled out ten or fifteen feet of line and cast into the foot of the rapid. As the current straightened out my line I reeled off more of it and still more until it floated gently and gracefully down into the dark eddy, and when within two feet of the edge of the bank there was a whirl, a surge, a break in the water, as if a full-grown beaver had been suddenly frightened from his sun bath on the surface and had started for the bottom. I saw a long, broad gleam of silvery white, my line cut through the water, and the old-timer started for his bed under the bank.

I struck at the proper instant, and, bending my little split bamboo almost double, brought him up with a short turn. He darted up the stream a few feet, and again turning square about started for his den. I snubbed him again. This time he shot down the creek, and, turning, made another dive for his hiding place. Again I gave him the b.u.t.t, but this time he was determined to free himself, and with a frantic plunge he tore the hook from his mouth and disappeared in his dark retreat.

My heart sank within me, when I realized that he was gone. He was truly a monster, fully two feet long, and I think would have weighed four pounds or over. I reeled up and made two or three more casts in the same hole. His mate, a comely-looking fellow, but not nearly so large, came out once and smelt of the bait but declined to take it. He had evidently seen enough to convince him that it was not the kind of a dinner he was looking for. I fished down the creek for an hour and then returned and tried the old fellow again, but he had not yet forgotten his recent set-to with me, and refused to come out. I presume he is still there, and will probably reign for some years to come, the terror of tackle owners, unless someone gets a hook firmly fastened in his jaw, and has tackle sufficiently derrick-like to land him; and whoever that lucky individual may be, I congratulate him in advance. My tackle would have held him if I had been fortunate enough to get the proper _cinch_ on him, and the only thing I have to regret in thinking of the trip, is that I was not so fortunate.

We had enough, however, without him. We took home forty-eight trout that weighed, when dressed, sixty pounds, and of all the many days I have spent fishing in the many years long gone, I never enjoyed any more intensely, never had grander sport than in these two days on Big Spring creek.

It has been stated that the mountain trout lacks the game qualities of our Eastern brook trout. I have not found it so. They are quite as gamy, as vicious in their fighting, and as destructive to fine tackle as the brook trout, the only perceptible difference being that they do not fight so long. They yield, however, only after a stubborn resistance, sufficiently prolonged to challenge the admiration of any angler. I have caught a number of two and three pounders that required very careful and patient handling for twenty to thirty minutes before they could be brought to the landing net.

There are various other streams along the line of the Northern Pacific Railroad which afford almost equally as fine sport as the Bitter Root, and some of them that are even more picturesque and beautiful. In fact, nearly every stream reached by the road, between Billings and Puget Sound, teems with these graceful beauties. By leaving the road at almost any point on the Rocky Mountain or Pend d'Orielle Divisions and pushing back into the mountains twenty to one hundred miles, the enterprising angler may find streams whose banks have seldom been profaned by the foot of a white man; where an artificial fly has seldom or never fallen upon the sparkling blue waters, and yet where millions of these beautiful creatures swarm, ready to rush upon anything that reaches the surface of their element bearing the least resemblance to their natural food, with all the fearless enthusiasm of untainted and unrestrained nature. In these wilder regions the tourist will also find frequent use for his rifle, for elk, bear, deer, mountain sheep, and other large game may yet be found in reasonable quant.i.ties in all such undisturbed fastnesses.

CHAPTER XXVII.

DEER HUNTING IN WISCONSIN.

Northern Wisconsin is one vast and almost unbroken deer range. It is penetrated by several railroads, along the immediate lines of which are a few small farms and some fair-sized towns and villages; but on going a few miles back from these roads, in almost any direction, one pa.s.ses the confines of civilization and enters a wilderness that is broken only by the numerous logging camps, and these as a rule are occupied only in winter. Thousands of acres of these pine lands have been chopped over, and the old slashings, having grown up to brush, brambles, and briars of various kinds, furnish excellent cover and feeding grounds for _Cervus Virginia.n.u.s_.

True, it is difficult to see the game at any great distance in these thickets, unless the hunter take his stand on a high stump or log and wait until the deer come in sight. This is a favorite and very successful method of hunting with many who know how to choose location and time of day. But adjacent to these slashings are usually large tracts of open woods, frequently hardwood ridges, through which the game pa.s.ses at intervals while moving from one feeding ground to another. In such localities a deer may be seen at a considerable distance, and shots are often taken at 150 to 200 yards.

I remember one of my first trips to these hunting grounds, many years ago, before I knew how to sneak on the game, and before I had gained sufficient control of my nerves to be able to stop a deer while vaulting over a fallen tree trunk, turning suddenly from left to right and _vice versa_, as a wary old buck will frequently do when fleeing from a hunter. I stopped at a hotel in Merrill, on the Wisconsin Valley Division of the Chicago, Milwaukee & St. Paul Railway, and, having learned something of the nature of the surrounding country by a hasty tramp in the afternoon, I got up the next morning and started at four o'clock to what seemed to be a favorable piece of ground. By daylight I was on the margin of a large slash that, since being chopped off, had burned over and then grown up to brush and weeds. There were many blackened trunks of trees lying everywhere, and some still standing that had been scorched and roasted in the great conflagration that had swept over the country, but had not been entirely consumed. These latter, stripped of bark and limbs, looked like gloomy monuments placed there to mark the resting places of their hapless fellows, and the whole aspect of the landscape in the gray of dawn was weird and chilly in the extreme. There was scarcely a breath of air stirring, and by listening intently I could hear the rustling of dry leaves and the occasional snapping of twigs in various directions, that indicated the near presence of the game and set my blood tingling and my nerves twitching.

So soon as there was sufficient light to show the front sight of my rifle against a gray stump fifty yards away, I started to move, as cautiously as I knew how, toward a clump of wild-cherry bushes that I had seen moving and from which came slight but suspicious sounds. When within thirty yards of it I stepped on a stick that snapped, and simultaneously with the sound a monster buck leaped high in the air, and landing twenty feet away, uttered a shrill whistle and stopped, with his head thrown up, to try and locate the danger. I brought my rifle to my shoulder with a convulsive jerk, pointed it at him and fired without thinking of the sights, and of course scored an ignominious miss.

Well, I wish every friend I have on earth could have been there at that moment. That whole tract of country, as far as I could see, seemed alive with deer. Thrash! Crash! b.u.mpety-b.u.mp! Phew! Phew!

There was jumping, thrashing through the brush, whistling, flipping and flapping of white flags, and the air seemed full of glistening gray coats. The buck I had shot at sailed away, and was soon followed in his flight by a doe and two fawns. A doe and fawn went in another direction, three fawns in another, two does and a buck in another, and so on _ad infinitum_.

I stood there; like a mile-post by the roadside, until they had all vanished, forgetting that I had other cartridges in my belt. Finally I recovered consciousness and began to wonder where some of those deer would stop. If I could only get another chance such as I had on that buck, wouldn't I down him in fine style? I would plant a bullet in the center of his shoulder next time sure. No dime-novel scout was ever more unerring in his aim than I would be if I could only get another aim. I started on toward the top of a ridge, over which one of the large bucks had disappeared, and on reaching it I saw him, or some other one, just behind an oak grub on the opposite side-hill. I raised my rifle and took careful aim this time, but was so nervous that I could not hold the bead on him, and when I pulled he made another series of those daring leaps that soon carried him out of sight. I fired a second shot at him as he went, but with no better result than the first.

I now crossed over to the farther edge of the slash, and, seeing no more game, started through a body of large pines to an old burn that I had been told lay a mile to the east. I was walking hurriedly through this green timber, not expecting to see game, and stepped upon a large log, when a doe and two fawns, that had been lying down in the top of a fallen tree, jumped and ran across in front of me, offering an excellent opportunity for a good shot to have killed all three of them. I slung lead after them at a lively rate, firing five or six shots before they got out of sight, but did no further harm than to accidentally clip an ear off one of the fawns close down to its head.

After they were gone I went and picked up this trophy and stopped to meditate on my ill-luck, or want of skill. I then remembered that though I had striven to hold the front sight on one or the other of the deer at each shot after the first, I had entirely forgotten to look through the notch in the rear sight. Chagrined and mortified beyond all power to describe, I trudged along and finally reached the burn I was in search of. The sun was now high in the heavens and shining brightly, so that the game was no longer on foot, but had sought the seclusion of various bits of dense cover and lain down. My only chance for a shot was, therefore, in walking them up, which I proceeded to do. The brush was dense all over this burn, so that I could rarely see twenty yards in any direction, yet I hoped against hope for another chance. I was desperate over the disgraceful failures I had made, and yet I knew I could shoot.

I had killed quant.i.ties of small game with the same rifle I was then using and had killed one deer years ago with an old muzzle loader. I could always depend upon making a good fair score at the target at 200 yards, or even longer ranges, and yet I had shot away a dozen cartridges this morning at deer, some of which were standing within a few yards of me, and had not stopped one of them. I was furious, and determined that the next shot should tell.

I walked down an old logging-road several hundred yards, hoping that some belated traveler might be found crossing or walking in it, but, failing in this, I turned out and walked along the crest of a ridge, looking down both sides of it. Struggling through briers and brush, making a good deal of noise, unavoidably, I still failed to jump a deer until I left the ridge and started toward a "draw" in which was a small meadow or slough. When half way down the hill I came to a large stump, about four feet high, from which a tree had been cut when the snow was deep. I climbed upon this to take a look at the surrounding country. As I did so, a large buck that had been been lying just below it, sprang from his bed and bounded away through the brush, showing here and there a flash of his white flag and a gleam of his majestic antlers, but not enough of his body to shoot at. I was perfectly cool now. My nervousness had all disappeared. In short, I was mad. I stood watching his course and awaiting developments with all the confidence and coolness of a veteran, instead of the novice I really was. He ran down the long hill, across the swale, and up the hill on the opposite side, and, on reaching the top of it and coming out upon open ground, turned broadside and stopped to look at me, doubtless deeming himself perfectly safe at that great distance. Standing erect on that high stump I was clear above the surrounding underbrush and had a fine view of the magnificent quarry. His head was thrown high up and well back; his ears erect, nostrils distended, and even at that distance I imagined I could see the defiant gleam of his jet black eye. His glossy coat glistened in the brilliant autumn sunlight, and his spreading antlers and powerful muscular development characterized him as a giant among his kind. As I raised my rifle slowly to my shoulder, I felt that at last I had perfect control of my nerves and that I was in some measure to redeem myself from the ignominy of past failures. I had elevated my rear sight for 250 yards, and as I looked through the delicate notch in it and saw the little golden front bead glimmer on the buck's shoulder, the muzzle of the rifle was as steady and immovable as if screwed in a vice. There was no tremor, no vibration now; and holding well up to the spine and showing the full size of the bead, to allow for the distance, I pressed the trigger.

At the report the deer bounded into the air as if a dynamite cartridge had exploded under him, and, lowering his head to a line with his body, started to run. There was none of those lofty, airy leaps now, no defiant waving to and fro of the white flag. That emblem was closely furled. His pride was broken and his sole object in life seemed to be to get out of the country as soon as possible. The course he had taken lay along the top of the ridge and I had a fine view of the run from start to finish. He at once began to waver in his course, turning slightly from left to right and from right to left. He stumbled and staggered like a blind horse. He ran crashing and smashing into the dead top of a fallen tree, breaking the dry limbs, some of them three or four inches in diameter, as if they had been rye straws. When he had gone as far into this labyrinth of branches as he could get, he sank to the ground as if exhausted, but suddenly rose again, extricated himself by a few desperate struggles to the right, and sped on. He ran squarely against a good-sized sapling with such force as to throw him prostrate upon his side. Still, his great vitality was not spent, and, struggling to his feet, he dashed on again. Next he ran against a log that lay up from the ground some three feet and was set back upon his haunches. He quickly recovered, took it in good shape, and now dashed into a clump of oak grubs that still held their dry leaves. Tearing and forcing his way through these, he forged ahead with all his remaining strength and plunged headlong into another fallen tree-top. In this he struggled, trying to force his way out until he sank upon the ground from sheer loss of blood and expired. From where he stood when I shot, to where he finally fell was about 300 yards.

I stepped the distance from where I stood to where the deer was when I fired and found it to be 267 yards. Taking up his trail, I found the ground copiously sprinkled with blood where he came down at the end of his first jump, and the leaves and brush were crimsoned with it from there to where he gave up the struggle. On coming up to him I found that my bullet had drifted slightly to the left, owing to the force of a strong wind which was blowing at the time, and cut his throat almost as neatly as I could have done it with my hunting-knife. The oesophagus was entirely severed and the thorax nearly so. His body was sadly bruised and lacerated by the terrible ordeal through which he had pa.s.sed, and I concluded that he must have gone stone blind when the bullet struck him.

In no other way can I account for his strange conduct. I saved his head and had it mounted as a memento of one of the most remarkable scratch shots I ever made.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

THREE OF A KIND.

Early autumn's frosts had tinged the foliage of the birch, maple, oak, and elm trees, that intermingle in the great pine forests, with a thousand rich colors and shades of gold, brown, olive, pink, and crimson, while the pines, the hemlocks, the firs, and the cedars still wore their dark mantels of perennial green, and all Nature was clad in her sweetest smiles. A solitary woodp.e.c.k.e.r, perched on the topmost branch of a dead giant of the forest, reaching out far above the surrounding network of leafy branches, from which he might survey the surrounding country, sounded his morning reveille and awaited the coming of his mate. The dry leaves with which mother earth was carpeted, rustled now and again to the bound of the saucy red squirrel, the darting hither and thither of the shy wood-mouse, or the tread of the stupid, half-witted porcupine. The chill October wind soughed through the swaying tree-tops, laden with the rich ozone that gives life, health, and happiness to all animate beings that are permitted to inhale it.

On such a morning, and amid such a scene of natural loveliness, I left the train at Junction City, on the Wisconsin Central Railway, started on a three-mile jaunt to a logging camp, for a day or two on a deer roundup. I reached my destination at nine o'clock. The men had long since gone to their work, but the "boss" had returned to camp to attend to some business in hand, and, welcoming me with the generous hospitality that is always shown by these st.u.r.dy sons of the forest to strangers, bade me make myself at home as long as I cared to stay. To my inquiry as to the presence of game in the vicinity, he said there was plenty of it, and that the men saw one or more deer nearly every day while going to or returning from their work, which was only a mile away.