Of all the large game on the American continent, the elk (_Cervus canadensis_) is the n.o.blest, the grandest, the stateliest. I would detract nothing from the n.o.ble game qualities of the moose, caribou, deer, or mountain sheep. Each has its peculiar points of excellence which endear it to the heart of the sportsman, but the elk possesses more than any of the others. In size he towers far above all, except the moose. In sagacity, caution, cunning, and wariness he is the peer, if not the superior, of them all. He is always on the alert, his keen scent, his piercing eye, his acute sense of hearing, combining to render him a vigilant sentinel of his own safety.

His great size and powerful muscular construction give him almost unbounded endurance. When alarmed or pursued he will travel for twenty or thirty hours, at a rapid swinging trot, without stopping for food or rest. He is a proud, fearless ranger, and even when simply migrating from one range of mountains to another, will travel from seventy-five to a hundred miles without lying down. He is a marvelous mountaineer, and, considering his immense size and weight, often ascends to heights that seem incredible. He may often be found away up to timber line, and will traverse narrow pa.s.ses and defiles, climbing over walls of rock and through fissures where it would seem impossible for so large an animal, with such ma.s.sive antlers as he carries, to go. He chooses his route, however, with rare good judgment, and all mountaineers know that an elk trail is the best that can possibly be selected over any given section of mountainous country. His faculty of traversing dense jungles and windfalls is equally astonishing. If given his own time, he will move quietly and easily through the worst of these, leaping over logs higher than his back as gracefully and almost as lightly as the deer; yet let a herd of elk be alarmed and start on a run through one of these labyrinthine ma.s.ses, and they will make a noise like a regiment of cavalry on a precipitous charge.

I have stood on the margin of a quaking-asp thicket and heard a large band of elk coming toward me that had been "jumped" and fired upon by my friend at the other side, and the frightful noise of their horns pounding the trees, their hoofs striking each other and the numerous rocks, the crashing of dead branches, with the snorting of the affrighted beasts, might well have struck terror to the heart of anyone unused to such sights and sounds, and have caused him to seek safety in flight. But by standing my ground I was enabled to get in a couple of shots at short range, and to bring down two of the finest animals in the herd.

The whistle of the elk is a sound which many have tried to describe, yet I doubt if anyone who may have read all the descriptions of it ever written would recognize it on a first hearing. It is a most strange, weird, peculiar sound, baffling all efforts of the most skillful word-painter. It is only uttered by the male, and there is the same variety in the sound made by different stags as in different human voices. Usually the cry begins and ends with a sort of grunt, somewhat like the bellow of a domestic cow cut short, but the interlude is a long-drawn, melodious, flutelike sound that rises and falls with a rhythmical cadence, floating on the still evening air, by which it is often wafted with singular distinctness to great distances. By other individuals, or even by the same individual at various times, either the first or last of these abrupt sounds is omitted, and only the other, in connection with the long-drawn, silver-toned strain, is given.

The stag utters this call only in the love-making season, and for the purpose of ascertaining the whereabouts of his dusky mate, who responds by a short and utterly unmusical sound, similar to that with which the male begins or ends his call.

Once, when exploring in Idaho, I had an interesting and exciting experience with a band of elk. I had camped for the night on a high divide, between two branches of the Clearwater river. The weather had been intensely dry and hot for several days, and the tall rye gra.s.s that grew in the old burn where I had pitched my camp was dry as powder.

There was a gentle breeze from the south. Fearing that a spark might be carried into the gra.s.s, I extinguished my camp-fire as soon as I had cooked and eaten my supper. As darkness drew on, I went out to picket my horses and noticed that they were acting strangely. They were looking down the mountain side with ears pointed forward, sniffing the air and moving about uneasily.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE _WAPITI_, OR AMERICAN ELK.]

I gave their picket ropes a turn around convenient jack pines, and then slipping cautiously back to the tent, got my rifle and returned. I could see nothing strange and sat down beside a log to await developments. In a few minutes I heard a dead limb break. Then there was a rustling in a bunch of tall, dry gra.s.s; more snapping of twigs and shaking of bushes.

I ascertained that there were several large animals moving toward me and feared it might be a family of bears. I feared it, I say, because it was now so dark that I could not see to shoot at any distance, and knew that if bears came near the horses the latter would break their ropes and stampede. I thought of shouting and trying to frighten them off, but decided to await developments. Presently I heard a snapping of hoofs and a succession of dull, heavy, thumping noises, accompanied by reports of breaking brush, which I knew at once were made by a band of elk jumping over a high log.

The game was now not more than fifty yards away and in open ground, yet I could not see even a movement, for I was looking down toward a dark canon, many hundreds of feet deep. Slowly the great beasts worked toward me. They were coming down wind and I felt sure could not scent me, but they could evidently see my horses, outlined against the sky, and had doubtless heard them snorting and moving about.

The ponies grew more anxious but less frightened than at first, and seemed now desirous of making the acquaintance of their wild visitors.

Slowly the elk moved forward until within thirty or forty feet of me, when I could begin to discern by the starlight their dark, s.h.a.ggy forms.

Then they stopped. I could hear them sniffing the air and could see them moving cautiously from place to place, apparently suspicious of danger.

But they were coming down wind, could get no indication of my presence, and were anxious to interview the horses.

They moved slowly forward, and when they stopped this time, two old bulls and one cow, who were in the front rank, so to speak, stood within ten feet of me. Their great horns towered up like the branches of dead trees, and I could hear them breathe.

Again they circled from side to side and I thought surely they would get far enough to one quarter or the other to wind me, but they did not.

Several other cows and two timid little calves crowded to the front to look at their hornless cousins who now stood close behind me, and even in the starlight, I could have shot any one of them between the eyes.

My saddle cayuse uttered a low gentle whinny, whereat the whole band wheeled and dashed away; but after making a few leaps their momentary scare seemed to subside, and they stopped, looked, snorted a few times and then began to edge up again--this time even more shyly than before.

It was intensely interesting to study the caution and circ.u.mspection with which these creatures planned and carried out their investigation all the way through.

The only mistake they made, and one at which I was surprised, considering their usual cunning and sagacity, was that some of them at least did not circle the horses and get to the leeward. But they were in such a wild country, so far back in the remote fastnesses of the Rockies, that they had probably never encountered hunters or horses before and had not acquired all the cunning of their more hunted and haunted brothers. After their temporary scare they returned, step by step, to their investigation, and the largest bull in the bunch approached the very log behind which I sat. He was just in the act of stepping over it when he caught a whiff of my breath and, with a terrific snort, vaulted backward and sidewise certainly thirty feet. At the same instant I rose up and shouted, and the whole band went tearing down the mountain side making a racket like that of an avalanche.

As before stated, I could have had my choice out of the herd, but my only pack-horse was loaded so that I could have carried but a small piece of meat, and was unwilling to waste so grand a creature for the little I could save from him.

The antlers of the bull elk grow to a great size. He sheds them in February of each year. The new horn begins to grow in April. During the summer it is soft and pulpy and is covered with a fine velvety growth of hair; it matures and hardens in August; early in September he rubs this velvet off and is then ready to try conclusions with any rival that comes in his way. The rutting season over, he has no further use for his antlers until the next autumn, and they drop off. Thus the process is repeated, year after year, as regularly as the leaves grow and fall from the trees. But it seems a strange provision of nature that should load an animal with sixty to seventy-five pounds of horns, for half the year, when weapons of one-quarter the size and weight would be equally effective if all were armed alike.

I have in my collection the head of a bull elk, killed in the Shoshone Mountains, in Northern Wyoming, the antlers of which measure as follows:

Length of main beam, 4 feet 8 inches; length of brow tine, 1 foot 6-1/2 inches; length of bes tine, 1 foot 8-1/2 inches; length of royal tine, 1 foot 7 inches; length of surroyal, 1 foot 8-1/2 inches: circ.u.mference around burr, 1 foot 3-1/4 inches; circ.u.mference around beam above burr, 12 inches; circ.u.mference of brow tine at base, 7-1/2 inches; spread of main beams at tips, 4 feet 9 inches. They are one of the largest and finest pairs of antlers of which I have any knowledge. The animal when killed would have weighed nearly a thousand pounds.

The elk is strictly gregarious, and in winter time, especially, the animals gather into large bands, and a few years ago herds of from five hundred to a thousand were not uncommon. Now, however, their numbers have been so far reduced by the ravages of "skin hunters" and others that one will rarely find more than twenty-five or thirty in a band.

In the fall of 1879, a party of three men were sight-seeing and hunting in the Yellowstone National Park, and having prolonged their stay until late in October, were overtaken by a terrible snowstorm, which completely blockaded and obliterated all the trails, and filled the gulches, canons, and coulees to such a depth that their horses could not travel over them at all. They had lain in camp three days waiting for the storm to abate; but as it continued to grow in severity, and as the snow became deeper and deeper, their situation grew daily and hourly more alarming. Their stock of provisions was low, they had no shelter sufficient to withstand the rigors of a winter at that high alt.i.tude, and it was fast becoming a question whether they should ever be able to escape beyond the snow-clad peaks and snow-filled canons with which they were hemmed in. Their only hope of escape was by abandoning their horses, and constructing snow-shoes which might keep them above the snow; but in this case they could not carry bedding and food enough to last them throughout the several days that the journey would occupy to the nearest ranch, and the chances of killing game _en route_ after the severe weather had set in were extremely precarious. They had already set about making snow-shoes from the skin of an elk which they had saved. One pair had been completed, and the storm having abated, one of the party set out to look over the surrounding country for the most feasible route by which to get out, and also to try if possible to find game of some kind. He had gone about a mile toward the northeast when he came upon the fresh trail of a large band of elk that were moving toward the east. He followed, and in a short time came up with them. They were traveling in single file, led by a powerful old bull, who wallowed through snow in which only his head and neck were visible, with all the patience and perseverance of a faithful old ox. The others followed him--the stronger ones in front and the weaker ones bringing up the rear. There were thirty-seven in the band, and by the time they had all walked in the same line they left it an open, well-beaten trail. The hunter approached within a few yards of them. They were greatly alarmed when they saw him, and made a few bounds in various directions; but seeing their struggles were in vain, they meekly submitted to what seemed their impending fate, and fell back in rear of their file-leader.

This would have been the golden opportunity of a skin hunter, who could and would have shot them all down in their tracks from a single stand.

But such was not the mission of our friend. He saw in this n.o.ble, struggling band a means of deliverance from what had threatened to be a wintry grave for him and his companions. He did not fire a shot, and did not in any way create unnecessary alarm amongst the elk, but hurried back to camp and reported to his friends what he had seen.

In a moment the camp was a scene of activity and excitement. Tent, bedding, provisions, everything that was absolutely necessary to their journey, were hurriedly packed upon their pack animals; saddles were placed, rifles were slung to the saddles, and leaving all surplus baggage, such as trophies of their hunt, mineral specimens and curios of various kinds, for future comers, they started for the elk trail. They had a slow, tedious, and laborious task, breaking a way through the deep snow to reach it, but by walking and leading their saddle animals ahead, the pack animals were able to follow slowly. Finally they reached the trail of the elk herd, and following this, after nine days of tedious and painful traveling, the party arrived at a ranch on the Stinking Water river, which was kept by a "squaw man" and his wife, where they were enabled to lodge and recruit themselves and their stock, and whence they finally reached their homes in safety. The band of elk pa.s.sed on down the river, and our tourists never saw them again; but they have doubtless long ere this all fallen a prey to the ruthless war that is constantly being waged against them by hunters white and red.

It is sad to think that such a n.o.ble creature as the American elk is doomed to early and absolute extinction, but such is nevertheless the fact. Year by year his mountain habitat is being surrounded and encroached upon by the advancing line of settlements, as the fisherman encircles the struggling ma.s.s of fishes in the clear pond with his long and closely-meshed net. The lines are drawn closer and closer each year.

These lines are the ranches of cattle and sheep raisers, the cabins and towns of miners, the stations and residences of employes of the railroads. All these places are made the shelters and temporary abiding places of Eastern and foreign sportsmen who go out to the mountains to hunt. Worse than this, they are made the permanent abiding places, and const.i.tute the active and convenient markets of the nefarious and unconscionable skin hunter and meat hunter. Here he can find a ready market for the meats and skins he brings in, and an opportunity to spend the proceeds of such outrageous traffic in ranch whisky and revelry. The ranchmen themselves hunt and lay in their stock of meat for the year when the game comes down into the valleys. The Indians, when they have eaten up their Government rations, lie in wait for the elk in the same manner. So that when the first great snows of the autumn or winter fall in the high ranges, when the elk band together and seek refuge in the valleys, as did the herd that our fortunate tourists followed out, they find a mixed and hungry horde waiting for them at the mouth of every canon. Before they have reached the valley where the snow-fall is light enough to allow them to live through the winter their skins are drying in the neighboring "shacks."

[Ill.u.s.tration: WORK OF THE EXTERMINATORS.]

This unequal, one-sided warfare, this ruthless slaughter of inoffensive creatures, can not last always. Indeed, it can last but little longer.

In ranges where only a few years ago herds of four or five hundred elk could be found, the hunter of to-day considers himself in rare luck when he finds a band of ten or twelve, and even small bands of any number are so rare that a good hunter may often hunt a week in the best elk country to be found anywhere without getting a single shot. All the Territories have good, wholesome game-laws which forbid the killing of game animals except during two or three months in the fall; but these laws are not enforced. They are a dead letter on the statute-books, and the illegal and illegitimate slaughter goes on unchecked.

CHAPTER XXIII.

ANTELOPE HUNTING IN MONTANA.

Of all the numerous species of large game to be found in the far West, there is none whose pursuit furnishes grander sport to the expert rifleman than the antelope (_Antilocapra americana_). His habitat being the high, open plains, he may be hunted on horseback, and with a much greater degree of comfort than may the deer, elk, bear, and other species which inhabit the wooded or mountainous districts. His keen eyesight, his fine sense of smell, his intense fear of his natural enemy, man, however, render him the most difficult of all game animals to approach, and he must indeed be a skillful hunter who can get within easy rifle range of the antelope, unless he happens to have the circ.u.mstances of wind and lie of ground peculiarly in his favor. When the game is first sighted, even though it be one, two, or three miles away, you must either dismount and picket your horse, or find cover in some coulee or draw, where you can ride entirely out of sight of the quarry. But even under such favorable circ.u.mstances it is not well to attempt to ride very near them. Their sense of hearing is also very acute, and should your horse's hoof or shoe strike a loose rock, or should he snort or neigh, the game is likely to catch the sound while you are yet entirely out of sight and faraway, and when you finally creep cautiously to the top of the ridge from which you expect a favorable shot, you may find the game placidly looking for you from the top of another ridge a mile or two farther away.

But we will hope that you are to have better luck than this. To start with, we will presume that you are an expert rifleman; that you are in the habit of making good scores at the b.u.t.ts; that at 800, 900, and 1,000 yards you frequently score 200 to 210 out of a possible 225 points. We will also suppose that you are a hunter of some experience; that you have at least killed a good many deer in the States, but that this is your first trip to the plains. You have learned to estimate distances, however, even in this rare atmosphere, and possess good judgment as to windage. You have brought your Creedmoor rifle along, divested, of course, of its Venier sight, wind-guage, and spirit-level, and in their places you have fitted a Beach combination front sight and Lyman rear sight. Besides these you have the ordinary open step sight attached to the barrel just in front of the action. This is not the best arm for antelope hunting; a Winchester express with the same sights would be much better; but this will answer very well.

We camped last night on the bank of a clear, rapid stream that gurgles down from the mountain, and this morning are up long before daylight; have eaten our breakfasts, saddled our horses, and just as the gray of dawn begins to show over the low, flat prairie to the east of us, we mount, and are ready for the start. The wind is from the northeast. That suits us very well, for in that direction, about a mile away, there are some low foot-hills that skirt the valley in which we are camped. In or just beyond these we are very likely to find antelope, and they will probably be coming toward the creek this morning for water.

We put spurs to our horses and gallop away. A brisk and exhilarating ride of ten minutes brings us to the foot-hills, and then we rein up and ride slowly and cautiously to near the top of the first one. Here we dismount, and, picketing our ponies, we crawl slowly and carefully to the apex. By this time it is almost fully daylight. We remove our hats, and peer cautiously through the short, scattering gra.s.s on the brow of the hill.

Do you see anything?

No; nothing but prairie and gra.s.s.

No? Hold! What are those small, gray objects away off yonder to the left? I think I saw one of them move. And now, as the light grows stronger, I can see white patches on them. Yes, they are antelope. They are busily feeding, and we may raise our heads slightly and get a more favorable view. One, two, three--there are five of them--two bucks, a doe, and two kids. And you will observe that they are nearly in the centre of a broad stretch of table-land.

"But," you say, "may we not wait here a little while until they come nearer to us?"

Hardly. You see they are intent on getting their breakfast. There is a heavy frost on the gra.s.s, which moistens it sufficiently for present purposes, and it may be an hour or more before they will start for water. It won't pay us to wait so long, for we shall most likely find others within that time that we can get within range of without waiting for them. So you may as well try them from here.

Now your experience at the b.u.t.ts may serve you a good turn. After taking a careful look over the ground, you estimate the distance at 850 yards, and setting up your Beach front and Lyman rear sights, you make the necessary elevation. There is a brisk wind blowing from the right, and you think it necessary to hold off about three feet. We are now both lying p.r.o.ne upon the ground. You face the game, and support your rifle at your shoulder by resting your elbows on the ground. The sun is now shining brightly, and you take careful aim at that old buck that stands out there at the left. At the report of your rifle a cloud of dust rises from a point about a hundred yards this side of him, and a little to the left, showing that you have underestimated both the distance and the force of the wind--things that even an old hunter is liable to do occasionally.

We both lie close, and the animals have not yet seen us. They make a few jumps, and stop all in a bunch. The cross-wind and long distance prevent them from knowing to a certainty where the report comes from, and they don't like to run just yet, lest they may run toward the danger instead of away from it. You make another half-point of elevation, hold a little farther away to the right, and try them again. This time the dirt rises about twenty feet beyond them, and they jump in every direction. That was certainly a close call, and the bullet evidently whistled uncomfortably close to several of them. They are now thoroughly frightened. You insert another cartridge, hurriedly draw a bead on the largest buck again, and fire. You break dirt just beyond him, and we can't tell for the life of us how or on which side of him your bullet pa.s.sed. It is astonishing how much vacant s.p.a.ce there is round an antelope, anyway. This time they go, sure. They have located the puff of smoke, and are gone with the speed of the wind away to the west. But don't be discouraged, my friend. You did some clever shooting, some _very_ clever shooting, and a little practice of that kind will enable you to score before night.

We go back to our horses, mount, and gallop away again across the table-land. A ride of another mile brings us to the northern margin of this plateau, and to a more broken country. Here we dismount and picket our horses again. We ascend a high b.u.t.te, and from the top of it we can see three more antelope about a mile to the north of us; but this time they are in a hilly, broken country, and the wind is coming directly from them to us. We shall be able to get a shot at them at short range.

So we cautiously back down out of sight, and then begins the tedious process of stalking them. We walk briskly along around the foot of a hill for a quarter of a mile, to where it makes a turn that would carry us too far out of our course. We must cross this hill, and after looking carefully at the shape and location of it, we at last find a low point in it where by lying flat down we can crawl over it without revealing ourselves to the game. It is a most tedious and painful piece of work, for the ground is almost covered with cactus and sharp flinty rocks, and our hands and knees are terribly lacerated. But every rose has its thorn, and nearly every kind of sport has something unpleasant connected with it occasionally; and our reward, if we get it, will be worth the pain it costs us. With such reflections and comments, and with frequent longing looks at the game, we kill time till at last the critical part of our work is done, and we can arise and descend in a comfortable but cautious walk into another draw.

[Ill.u.s.tration: A PORTRAIT.]

This we follow for about two hundred yards, until we think we are as near our quarry as we can get. We turn to the right, cautiously ascend the hill, remove our hats, and peer over, and there, sure enough, are our antelope quietly grazing, utterly oblivious to the danger that threatens them. They have not seen, heard, or scented us, so we have ample time to plan an attack. You take the standing shot at the buck, and together we will try and take care of the two does afterward. At this short distance you don't care for the peep and globe sights, and wisely decide to use the plain open ones. This time you simply kneel, and then edge up until you can get a good clear aim over the apex of the ridge in this position. The buck stands broadside to you, and at the crack of your rifle springs into the air, and falls all in a heap, pierced through the heart.