JISTHUNTIN 
 
 OZARK mPLEY 
 
Book 
 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSm 
 
Marsh Friends 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 TALES OF THE FOREST, FIELD 
 AND STREAM 
 
 By 
 
 OZARK RIPLEY 
 
 I ! 
 
 With an Introduction by 
 DIXIE CARROLL v 
 
 CINCINNATI 
 
 STEWART KIDD COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS 
 
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 ^w 
 
 '1 4- I 
 
 ' o.^'- 
 
 Copyright, 1921 
 STEWART KIDD COMPANY 
 
 All Rights Reserved 
 Copyright in England 
 
 JUL 11^21 
 
 q:C1.A614953^- 
 
DEDICATION 
 
 The big outdoors, in all its ramifications, is an inexo- 
 rable taskmaker. Those who are willing to put up 
 with its rigors soon learn its hidden treats and intrinsic 
 beauties. To no others does it reveal itself as it is — 
 alluring, a magician perpetually enthralling its favored 
 audience with mysteries that it explains only to those 
 who stand the test. 
 
 To the outdoors must be accorded the quickest means 
 of learning a companion as he is; not as he wishes you 
 to know him, but the actual man. The tests of the trail, 
 the long canoe routes, the sedge and ragweed fields, and 
 mist-laden streams disclose everything. There is nothing 
 in the make-up of man that can be concealed in the wild 
 places, above all friends and friendships. In such locali- 
 ties alone do we discover whether they are worth while 
 or the kind that must endure. 
 
 The sifting process of Dame Nature ultimately decides 
 for us, whether we wish or no, those whose sterling worth 
 and varied experiences entitle them to the name of sports- 
 men. So while thinking over the days spent in undomes- 
 ticated places, there stands one who has passed all the 
 tests of friendship as an angler, hunter, and trail mate, 
 I dedicated this work to Dixie Carroll. 
 
 Ozark Ripley. 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 I HAD everything doped up for a regular high- 
 class introduction for "Jist Huntin'," but the notes 
 have flown, disappeared into the yawning mouth of 
 my filing cabinet, probably lost forever. Although 
 this cabinet is a thoroughly modern afi^air, it seems 
 to take fiendish delight in helping me to keep my old- 
 time record of "a place for everything and nothing 
 in its place." How notes filed under the letter "A" 
 can turn up later under "Q," or not at all, is a mys- 
 tery too deep for me to solve. 
 
 Ozark Ripley is a man's man, a regular he-man 
 who loves the out-o'-doors, the far reaches of the 
 outlands, the quiet places of the hinterlands. He 
 is one of the best pals I have ever had the pleasure 
 of knowing, and when a fellow can say that of another 
 lad, there is little more to say. 
 
 Ozark loves dogs, he knows more about hunting 
 dogs and their training than any other man I know, 
 and every dog I have ever known loved Ozark. 
 A man who loves dogs and is loved by dogs always 
 rings true. He is a friend always, one that you can 
 count on to the last shot. 
 
 From twenty years living continuously in the 
 
 5 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 wilds of the outlands, Ozark has had experiences 
 with rod and gun that fall to the lot of few men, 
 and these years have been spent in study of nature 
 and her children. Few men know the real out-o'-doors 
 like Ozark — not the out-o'-doors of the featherbed 
 resorts, but the good old mother earth out-o'-doors 
 with a frying pan, a pack o' flour, a piece of bacon, and 
 a blanket. The out-o'-doors of the rushing, tumbling 
 stream, the wind-kissed lake waters, the woodland 
 trail and portage, the sweet flower-scented swamp- 
 lands, God's greatest gifts to us his earth children. 
 Ozark, if you send the call, whether it comes from 
 the swamp-lands of the South, the granite tipped 
 mountains of the Rockies, the cold far reaches of the 
 northlands, the wooded hill country of the land 
 you love, the Ozarks, I'll pack the duffle and come 
 a-running to spend a day, a week or months with 
 you beside the old camp-fire, the trails and "sich," 
 living over the days a-gone and the new ones ahead, 
 for the joys o' trailing with you are what makes life 
 worth living in these days of the canyon-walled cities 
 
 builded by man. 
 
 Dixie Carroll. 
 
FOREWORD 
 
 That irresistible urge, reminiscence, influenced 
 the writing of this collection of outdoor tales. They 
 are the experiences of a sportsman, naturalist and 
 wanderer, who spent a quarter of a century in the 
 big outdoors. The impulse to jot them down took 
 hold, but he refrained until the habit of visualizing 
 days in the forests, fields and on the streams could 
 be denied no longer. 
 
 The simple, objective path was followed as a help 
 to beginners. Close adherence to topography and 
 the habits of wild life was pursued consistently to 
 remind old timers of similar days and that their 
 assistance is needed to help perpetuate the present 
 supply of undomesticated creatures. 
 
 Ozark Ripley. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I In the Days of My Youth - _ - _ 1 1 
 
 II Setter Against Pointer ----- i8 
 
 III A Day with the Longbills - - - - 26 
 
 IV In the Chicken Country - - - 34 
 V Hunting Squirrels with Mizzoura - - 44 
 
 VI My Ducking Pond in the Hills - - ^^ 
 
 VII After Canadian Honkers ----- 61 
 
 VIII In the Lair of the Small-Mouths - - 70 
 
 IX "Jist Tossums" ------- 78 
 
 X With White River Elk - - - - 84 
 
 XI My Pet, the Woodcock ----- 92 
 
 XII No Feud --------- 97 
 
 XIII Southern Bear Hunting - - - - - 112 
 
 XIV The Giant Gobbler of Gun Bluff - 120 
 XV Hunting Ducks on a Swift Waterway - 128 
 
 XVI Hunting Whitetails with Josh - - 135 
 
 XVII The Hillbilly's Guest ------ 143 
 
 XVIII The White Wolf ------- 161 
 
 XIX Vacant Collars -------- 168 
 
 XX Raoul and My New Brunswick Moose 174 
 
 XXI Strongfang of the Swamps - - - - 182 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 I 
 
 In the Days of My Youth 
 
 The age of fourteen is regarded by most parents 
 as an early start for a boy in the shooting game. 
 But Father insisted a boy was never too young to 
 handle a gun, if he hunted alone. Such a thing as 
 an accident he never considered probable; boys 
 only got into mischief when with others. On account 
 of his pet notions I had been given a gun, and with 
 it the services of Father's old pointer, Duke. 
 
 For some reason Father preferred to shoot over 
 younger dogs. And, as my mind hurtles back to the 
 days of my youth, I distinctly recall that with them 
 the old liver and white colored dog was a creature 
 without an imperfection. As our quail season 
 opened early in November, Duke always followed me 
 to school. Because I carried my gun with me it was 
 an additional incentive for the old campaigner. 
 During the day his behavior was excellent, except 
 after dinner, when every once in a while he snored 
 loudly from his position back of teacher's desk. Then, 
 too, he evoked much merriment from the pupils 
 as he twitched grotesquely and uttered queer sounds, 
 no doubt dreaming of some of his erstwhile amazing 
 feats in the quail fields. A mere touch with the 
 teacher's rule brought him back to a state of quies- 
 
 II 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 cent slumber. But teacher's touch was gentle, as 
 he had great admiration for Duke. 
 
 On the way home Duke and I hunted the fields. 
 In this manner I kept the family larder well supplied 
 with birds. 
 
 "Jack, why don't you ever take old Duke along?" 
 said my mother as she directed loving glances at 
 father. "You always take those two young pointers 
 along. It seems as though you were neglecting the 
 dear old fellow. It is not fair to the old dog!" 
 
 "Oh — Duke — is good enough," father replied, 
 smiling half-apologetically while the big dog's brown 
 eyes rested on him, "but the old fellow is incor- 
 rigible — breaks shot so badly that he would just 
 ruin the young dogs." 
 
 Had Father struck me a blow with his fist it 
 could not have shocked me more than this announce- 
 ment. Ever since a child I had loved dogs. Always 
 I had wanted to own one. When Duke was assigned 
 to me by Father, I was in a state of rapture, only 
 equaled by the occasion when Father presented me 
 with my first gun. 
 
 That Duke had a fault I could not believe. To 
 me he was the supreme being among dogs. I loved 
 him, as only a healthy outdoor boy can love his 
 field companion. It seemed as though some dread- 
 ful accusation had been lodged against my favorite. 
 So surprised was I at my father's words that I stood 
 motionless on the front porch, holding the strain- 
 ing lead of the old pointer, literally burning from the 
 insult, speechless to the point that I never so much 
 
 12 
 
IN THE DAYS OF MY YOUTH 
 
 as bade him good by when he proceeded to the 
 hunting grounds. 
 
 "Breaking shot — what is that?" I repeatedly 
 asked myself while enroute to school with Duke. 
 I examined the big fellow all over, expecting every 
 moment to discover some blemish that had escaped 
 me. I saw none. His gait was snappy, the car- 
 riage upstanding as ever. "What in the world did 
 father mean by breaking shot.'' Was'nt I positive 
 that Duke was the best dog in the world?" 
 
 "What is the matter, Bob?" questioned teacher 
 at the noon hour. He had beheld me continually 
 eying Duke and unusually silent. 
 
 "Oh — nothing." I almost whimpered. "I guess 
 nothing." 
 
 "Now, Bob, out with it!" Mr. Hudson knew 
 boys. "Don't treat your old shooting friend that 
 way. Come on, now. Something the matter with 
 Duke, eh?" 
 
 "Not exactly," grudgingly I admitted. Then, 
 suddenly gaining courage, I asked: "Mr. Hudson, 
 you have hunted a great deal with Father; what is 
 breaking shot?" 
 
 "Breaking shot!" He laughed aloud. "Why such 
 a question? Has your father been talking to you 
 about it?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Well, if that is all that worries you, that old dog 
 of yours used to be an expert at it and has never 
 been cured. But, if you really don't know it is when 
 a dog breaks in on birds to retrieve the instant the 
 
 13 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 birds flush and the gun is fired. Old Duke was al- 
 ways incurable after once the habit got hold of him. 
 Otherwise your father would not have given him 
 solely for your shooting." 
 
 Without comment I received the old master's 
 statement. But, as I sat in school the remainder of 
 the afternoon, I felt sure I could cure my dog of the 
 habit. I had been so long accustomed to regard 
 him as the greatest of dogs, this one fault in my eyes 
 assumed mammoth proportions and I determined 
 to exert everything within my power to correct it. 
 
 It was on a Friday when the one frailty of my be- 
 loved Duke became known to me. As Saturday 
 was my holiday it would prove an excellent time to 
 start my efforts at correction toward my pet. I 
 pored over the books my father had on dogs, for 
 they were many, and memorized everything about 
 training, mostly the use of the choke collar with a 
 long lead, far more rapidly than I ever had my lessons. 
 
 Saturday was one of those cold, gray, cloudy days, 
 presaging snow at any moment. To me, however, 
 it was an ideal time for working with my pupil. 
 Equipped with a long lead, in addition to my gun 
 and a choke collar, Duke and I sought the quail 
 grounds. He was as frisky as a two-year-old, cover- 
 ing the big fields in the fast swinging gait which had 
 so endeared him to me. 
 
 Presently Duke drew up into a staunch point. 
 Statuesque-like he stood; head high, against wind, 
 nostrils aquiver, recording perfect recognition of 
 body scent. 
 
 14 
 
IN THE DAYS OF MY YOUTH 
 
 While the dog remained fast in this position, I 
 snapped the lead to the choke collar which I had 
 placed around his neck when we left home. I stepped 
 back, taking firm hold of the lead just as Father's 
 book directed. I shouted. The birds flushed. 
 
 To keep with the instructions of the book, I be- 
 stowed my attention only on the dog's training, and 
 fired my gun in the air, giving a jerk on the lead. 
 The book assured that this would throw the dog back 
 on his haunches the moment he broke prematurely 
 for the birds. The writer of that book certainly 
 never had had experience with a dog of Duke's 
 strength. The instant the big fellow heard the gun 
 he bolted. The lead was abruptly torn from my 
 hands and Duke raced out madly for the flying 
 birds. 
 
 Several times I tried to hold him. At first I suf- 
 fered only disappointment, but at last having no 
 success, I yielded to a sudden seizure of anger. Then 
 I cried, shouted, and cried again, calling the old 
 rascal every reviling name within my youthful 
 vocabulary. 
 
 But Duke was obdurate as ever. 
 
 All at once a sinister inspiration assailed me. I 
 would fix that old dog! He had gotten the best of 
 Father, but I would show him! I knew a sure way 
 of making him see his fault and correct it, too, for 
 good! 
 
 While I was still in the throes of anger, Duke 
 came to point on top of a small ridge which sloped 
 on the other side into a heavy growth of briars and 
 
 15 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 saplings. I backed off about fifty or sixty yards from 
 the dog and fired my right barrel. Surely the devil 
 had possession of me. For, when the old dog broke, 
 I fired the left barrel directly at him. Just one yelp 
 of pain I heard as the number 8 pellets rattled against 
 the saplings. Only then I realized my folly. 
 
 I ran to the top of the ridge. I could neither hear 
 nor see Duke. Here and there on the frost-stricken 
 vegetation were small spots of blood. In trepidation 
 I whistled and called, but Duke did not respond. 
 
 What a fool I had been! My dearest companion 
 I had wounded fatally. No doubt he had crawled 
 off somewhere in his misery to die. If a murderer 
 has a conscience his suffering must be intense, grant- 
 ing that he only experiences half the anguish I did 
 that day. 
 
 "You are not fit to own a dog!" I scourged my- 
 self as the wind beat against my back. "You are 
 not fit to own a dog — nor a gun either!" And right 
 then I vowed never again would I trust myself with 
 a gun or even seek the possession of another dog. 
 
 My gloomy visage on arrival home excited no 
 comment. The sleet had changed to snow. My 
 silence and lack of game were attributed to the 
 weather. But my heart was jumping every moment, 
 for I anticipated the question, where was Duke? 
 
 Always the big pointer slept in a large box on the 
 porch near my bedroom window, in which I had 
 made a generous bed of rye straw. Duke was not 
 there, nor was he to be found about any place. Be- 
 cause the matter of feeding the dogs was entrusted 
 
 i6 
 
IN THE DAYS OF MY YOUTH 
 
 to me, his absence was not noticed, but my un- 
 usually silent deportment was. 
 
 Mother sent me to bed with a kiss, though I had 
 heard her afterwards remark to father: "I fear Bob 
 took cold out in the storm, he is so quiet tonight." 
 
 "Oh, I guess not," Father said in reply. "He's 
 got the dumps because the weather stopped his 
 shooting." 
 
 The number of times that night I raised the win- 
 dow and peeped into Duke's empty box I still can 
 recall. The window was on a level with the porch. 
 But, finally wearying from the vigil, my sobs ceased 
 and I went to sleep. 
 
 Some time during the night a tapping sound on 
 the window awoke me. Only a few days ago I 
 reflected the Hawkins home had been visited by 
 some one and many valuable things had been stolen. 
 The sound ceased. But I could sleep no more, 
 notwithstanding that I kept my head well covered. 
 
 After a while the noise was repeated. Then I 
 gained courage and looked toward the window. The 
 snow without was as bright as a silver blanket. 
 Trembling, I got out of bed and lit the lamp. All 
 at once a dark form appeared against the panes. 
 Boy as I was I could stand the strain no longer. 
 With a loud cry I ran to the window and opened it. 
 
 My cry awoke the entire household. Hasten- 
 ing with alarm. Mother and Father arrived at my 
 room. But they soon realized that there was no 
 cause for worry, as their only boy was down on his 
 knees hugging and kissing his first dog. 
 
 17 
 
II 
 
 Setter Against Pointer 
 
 If ever Mac admitted that his setter, Jocko, had 
 an equal, I am sure it was never done in my presence. 
 There was nothing of beauty about his big setter, 
 but he adored him from his black nose to his long 
 bushy tail. Jocko weighed close to seventy-five 
 pounds, a remarkable weight for the setter breed. 
 But Mac never classed this as either a handicap or 
 defect, and once lost his best farmer friend because 
 he became indignant when that unfortunate indi- 
 vidual, attracted by the immense size of the dog, 
 asked if he rode him out shooting. 
 
 On other subjects Mac could stand humorous 
 reference, but when they took in Jocko, never. 
 
 "Got a young dog you'd like to have learn some- 
 thing about quails?" queried Mac, regarding Jocko 
 with supreme contentment. "If you have, let's 
 hunt the hill lands tomorrow — he'll sure get ex- 
 perience." 
 
 This was Mac's annual way of broaching the sub- 
 ject of the opening of the quail season; and, know- 
 ing that I had sent off for a young dog, he thought 
 it would be a good opportunity for Jocko to show 
 him off. Before answering I stood still and surveyed 
 Jocko with amusement. 
 
 "Alright, Mac," I agreed. "I got a youngster 
 
 i8 
 
SETTER AGAINST POINTER 
 
 coming in tonight. Perhaps he will make that old, 
 shaky setter of yours hustle some — never saw him — 
 though." 
 
 Mac interrupted further speech by laughing at 
 my allusion to Jocko. In other eyes than his, the 
 big fellow was no beauty. His coat was a dirty 
 tri-color blend of black, white and tan. And, as 
 a few years back he had suffered from an incurable 
 attack of chorea, he still shook constantly, very 
 much resembling the combined ills of a chill and an 
 acute seizure of delirium tremens, working in per- 
 fect harmony. 
 
 "That's quite a good looking dog for a pointer, 
 said Mac next morning while bestowing a conde- 
 scending look on a handsome, racy-built black and 
 white pointer as we walked toward the shooting 
 grounds. "And if there was ever such a thing as a 
 pointer having a chance with a setter, which is 
 impossible, that would be about the proper speci- 
 men." 
 
 This was another persistent fancy on the part of 
 my shooting chum; no pointer could ever hope to 
 perform as well as a setter. With him it was 
 an impossibility. His favoritism toward the long- 
 haired breed was so strongly prejudiced as his ob- 
 stinate predilection for his incorrigible Jocko. 
 
 "Let's work out the Johnson field," I suggested, 
 the moment both dogs were free from their leads. 
 Then I interjected, "it will test out the two dogs." 
 
 "Yes, and right here is where that pointer of yours 
 is going to be run off his legs, and before a half hour 
 
 19 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 elapses, too," prophesied Mac. "Why, he won't 
 find one tenth the birds Jocko does!" 
 
 As usual Jocko cast wide. While the big setter 
 trembled, like well-functioned castanets, he had fair 
 speed, good range, but at no time in his shooting 
 career had he shown to be under control of his stocky, 
 little, red-faced master. But the pointer also swung 
 out wide, high-headed, beating for the wind, show- 
 ing the mastery of the high class bird dog's art, for 
 he handled every wind shift and set a pace hope- 
 lessly beyond the powers of the old setter. 
 
 The pointer, seemingly increasing speed as he 
 came to a draw, flashed into a perfect upstanding 
 point. 
 
 "He's got 'em!" I announced. 
 
 "False point," sneered Mac. "If birds were there 
 Jocko would have had them long ago. Anyway, we 
 will walk up and see." 
 
 When almost within shooting distance of the dog's 
 point Jocko appeared, saw Rip, the pointer, and 
 without exhibiting the slighest inclination to back 
 the proper respect for another dog's point — galloped 
 to his side, drew up for a second, then jumped into 
 the quails, Mac all the while shouting at the top 
 of his voice, "Steady, Jocko! Steady, Jocko!" 
 
 But the old setter did the damage, though one 
 bird flew by Mac, which he stopped neatly. 
 
 "Did you see where the flock went. Jack?" Mac 
 called out. "Where did Jocko go. ^ I'll just have to 
 have him find this dead bird!" 
 
 "Jocko," I laughed aloud, "last I saw of him he 
 
 20 
 
SETTER AGAINST POINTER 
 
 was in those tall rag weeds, in a dead run to beat 
 those quails to the timber." 
 
 "That's just what a fellow gets for working Jocko 
 with a green dog!" exclaimed Mac in a serious tone. 
 "If it had not been for that fool young pointer flush- 
 ing those birds, the old fellow never would have be- 
 come excited." 
 
 "Fool young pointer!" I remarked to myself, 
 for Mac's face had a purple tint. "By the way, Mac, 
 that fool young pointer's still on point." 
 
 With affected unbelief that there could still be a 
 bird remaining, Mac followed me to the dog's heel. 
 A single quail burst in flight. Mac killed it, the bird 
 dropping within a few feet of the first. 
 
 Rip retrieved both. Mac accepted them in rather 
 an ungracious manner, though when Mac was shoot- 
 ing in good form usually he was kindly disposed 
 toward man and beast. But the shaft of Jocko's 
 shortcomings had sunk deeply; and the shortcomings 
 were difficult to overlook notwithstanding Mac's 
 pretense that they were nonexistent. 
 
 Apparently for a while Jocko had erased himself 
 from the landscape. To this I called the quail 
 hunter's attention. 
 
 "We'll find the old reliable somewhere on point," 
 he predicted. "Never in his life has he been gone 
 this long except when struck on birds." 
 
 W^e searched all over the farm, but no Jocko re- 
 sulted. The pointer simply ate up distance and 
 unerringly worked to the timber, where instantly he 
 froze on one of the scattered birds. This was my 
 
 21 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 chance for a shot. Much to Mac's delight I missed 
 with both barrels, and he performed the friendly 
 office of wiping my eye by killing the birds. One 
 after the other the young pointer snapped birds up 
 in point, with all the precision of an experienced 
 field dog above ordinary ability. 
 
 After the shooting Jocko hove in sight, im- 
 mediately pointed a single and remained steady on it. 
 
 "How's that for an intense point, Jack?" Mac 
 said, as his big setter stood jerking as though every 
 part of his anatomy was about to fly away. 
 
 Almost at the same moment Rip drew up to back 
 but, feeling the wind, worked right on ahead. 
 
 Mac's wrath descended on the pointer: "That 
 pointer's got no more nose than a land turtle!" 
 
 I could not wait to hear more, for one of those 
 tiny field sparrows, locally called stink birds, flew 
 out of the grass. It was too difficult an efi^ort to 
 restrain my desire to laugh. So, without looking at 
 Mac, I strode in another direction, where the black 
 and white had made a cast. 
 
 From that time Jocko appeared under control. 
 Some little scene must have been enacted between 
 him and my bosom shooting companion. Mac had 
 not followed me. From a distance came profane 
 sounds and an occasional yelp of a dog as though in 
 pain. 
 
 The setter fancier was soon with me, however, and 
 we proceeded over a rise where the pointer stood 
 marble-like on birds. Evidently Mac's attention to 
 Jocko was resultful. The old dog backed nicely 
 
 22 
 
SETTER AGAINST POINTER 
 
 and was steady to shot as we executed kills; Mac's 
 being an extremely tantalizing double, and because 
 I complimented him over the feat, the incident of 
 the setter's omissions passed out of mind. 
 
 Though up until noon Jocko worked up to his 
 toppiest form, the class of the pointer unmistakably 
 showed superiority. In speed, range, staunchness 
 and bottom — for there was no let-up in his going — 
 he was indellibly stamped a classy bird dog. With 
 another dog perhaps Jocko might have shone, but 
 in contrast with the pointer his work was unmis- 
 takably ordinary. 
 
 As Mac's shooting had been good, when we sat 
 down by a spring for lunch he committed himself 
 so far as to pet the black and white's head with 
 some display of admiration, until at last my inabil- 
 ity to keep back a secret forced me to say for com- 
 fort, if nothing else: 
 
 "Mac, I am seriously considering buying a pointer. 
 This fellow appeals to me. In fact, I believe pointers 
 are better than setters." 
 
 "Why, the idea!" my stocky shooting chum ex- 
 claimed, flushing scarlet. "Of course there are a 
 few pointers, but altogether they can never compare 
 with setters. Everything is positively in favor of 
 the setter!" 
 
 It was certainly amusing to hear that quail hunt- 
 er's discourse on his long-haired friends, as he cited 
 Jocko for example. So bound up in the old dog had 
 he been for the last seven years, there was not the 
 slightest possibility of bringing forth anything in 
 
 23 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 favor of pointers, no matter how I strove to effect 
 it. He went so far after I spoke of buying a pointer 
 that his attitude of friendliness toward Rip changed 
 to one of offense. He could not see a thing good in 
 him. His loyalty to the old dog and the breed he 
 represented were unswerving. 
 
 But the afternoon with its abundance of birds only 
 exhibited more the marvelous ability of the pointer. 
 Once in a while Jocko found a covey, not through 
 inability, but the surpassing class of the youngster 
 left no other opportunities. Seemingly there was 
 no let up to his speed. High-headed, frictionless 
 in action, his pace accelerated as the day wore on. 
 Never in all our hunts did we kill so many birds, 
 nor in that time had we seen such a remarkable per- 
 former. 
 
 Jocko did his best at least. Age and disease had 
 sapped some of his vitality, but at his best he never 
 approached the class displayed by the young dog. 
 And still that pointer continued at the same clip — 
 perhaps even faster — for the rest of the day. Try 
 as he would. Jocko could do no more than lag at a 
 distance. The big fellow was succumbing to the 
 hot pace set on both coveys and singles. But the 
 pointer persisted, always flashing into spectacular 
 points when the fields promised most to be barren 
 of birds. 
 
 When the sun left a red glow over the western 
 hardwoods we turned our faces toward home. Mac 
 was silent. Jocko, sore-footed, dragged behind his 
 master. 
 
 24 
 
SETTER AGAINST POINTER 
 
 For a while I waited for Mac to say something, 
 and at last he did, as he regarded my many glances 
 of admiration at the still hustling pointer. 
 
 "Pretty good young dog, Jack," Mac commented, 
 not daring to look Jocko in the eye. He spoke as 
 though with difficulty. "Even if he is not a setter, 
 I'll admit that. Of course I don't want you to 
 follow my advice, but, were I you and didn't mind 
 it being a pointer so much, I'd buy that dog if I 
 could get him cheap enough." 
 
 "Cheap enough, Mac!" I laughed uproariously, 
 twining my arms around him to keep him from 
 doing me damage in case of a sudden access of 
 anger. "Why, Mac, I haven't enough money to 
 buy the tip of his tail! I borrowed that dog to give 
 that shaky setter of yours a good trimming. That's 
 Captain Harrison's sensational field trial winner, 
 Jingo Rip!" 
 
 2S 
 
Ill 
 
 A Day with the Longbills 
 
 Mac's message coming twenty miles over the 
 rural phone, announcing that the snipe were in, 
 proved as always the influence the call of the wild 
 had on me. Though I treated all of his announce- 
 ments of the presence of game with verbal doubts, 
 invariably I responded. I could never take Mac 
 seriously, like he did himself. No one ever takes a 
 fat man seriously, least of all when he is his closest 
 friend and constant shooting companion. 
 
 The spring rains had come. Even in the hills 
 where I resided I was aware that the jacksnipe were 
 enroute north. Only a moment before Mac's call 
 while standing on the front porch I felt sure I heard 
 a bleating "Scaip!" from a distance in the meadow. 
 Some fatigued long-billed gentleman had dropped 
 in for a few hours rest. This had always been re- 
 garded by me as advance notice of their arrival in 
 tremendous numbers over in the Black River swamps, 
 where my serious little fat friend resided and guided 
 the destinies of a large hardwood mill and its two 
 thousand black employees. 
 
 "Don't look like much of a day for snipe!" pessi- 
 mistically I remarked to Mac as early in the morning 
 we walked to the snipe grounds. During the night 
 the weather had turned cold, freezing the top soil 
 
 26 
 
A DAY WITH THE LONGBILLS 
 
 slightly. Occasionally thin ice was visible where there 
 was water. "Too cold; any jacks that came in 
 lately must have hit the trail back for the South." 
 
 "Don't fret," Mac grumbled between chattering 
 teeth, while trying to conceal his annoyance at the 
 change in the weather conditions. "They are here 
 somewhere, and soon our sixteens will be getting 
 hot from overwork!" 
 
 "If they do, I'll be the most surprised man in the 
 world!" I retorted, for I knew to differ with Mac was 
 just what he most liked. 
 
 Mac's nature was one that never cared for a friend 
 that agreed with him. I had learned this long ago. 
 "Well, I'll show you; before we get to those woods 
 east of us we will kick up a dozen or more," Mac 
 vouchsafed rather earnestly. 
 
 We took the first wet meadow, pursuing a course 
 due east. The underfooting was exceedingly miry, 
 as during the incessant rains cattle had pastured 
 there. They left deep, small holes wherever their 
 hoofs had rested. On occasions they would be 
 frozen sufficiently to bear our weight, then the next 
 step our boots sank past ankle-deep in the mud. 
 Mac separated from me, as was our customary 
 manner of hunting jacks, forty yards to my 
 right. 
 
 Though we hunted carefully over eighty acres of 
 meadow, we were unable to flush a single bird. We 
 entered another enclosure. Near a cattle feeding 
 trough where the ground was soft Mac put up a 
 jack at about thirty-five yards distance. This bird 
 
 27 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 was in full racing trim, for he was off at a tremendous 
 clip, zigzagging in flight so deceptively that Mac 
 wasted two shells. 
 
 "No use snipe getting up near you," I flouted Mac 
 with his miss, then softened the remark. "I guess 
 those eyes of yours are going badly back on you. 
 That snipe was seventy-five yards off when you shot 
 at it. What's the matter with your eyes, anyway?" 
 
 "For several days my eyes have been troubling 
 me," he exclaimed. "I am sure I will soon have to 
 wear glasses." 
 
 By attributing any of Mac's shooting shortcom- 
 ings to his eyes, I could always get on the best side 
 of him. His most conspicuous hunting frailty was 
 that every miss he blamed on his innocent eyes. 
 Such a thing as imperfect alignment happening on 
 his part he never considered possible. Naturally 
 when he had an attack of gooseggs, he did not blame 
 himself, always those eyes. But none had ever 
 heard Mac utter the slightest complaint when he 
 was shooting in form. 
 
 Before our arrival at the woods east of us Mac 
 missed another of those long-billed birds for which 
 he had a consuming passion. It was an easy straight- 
 away, and I was again on the point of referring to his 
 failing sight when a negro's voice called from the 
 road. 
 
 "Mistah Mac, am you atter dem snipes?" a small, 
 aged black inquired politely, dofiing his tattered 
 felt hat. 
 
 "Do you knov/ where they are, Ike?" Mac que- 
 
 28 
 
A DAY WITH THE LONGBILLS 
 
 ried in reply. "All that were here yesterday seem 
 to have left." 
 
 "Haint none of 'em left," declared Ike. "Reckon 
 you all don't know whar they iz. Las' night when 
 the stohm cum from de nawth I heered them a 
 drappin' into the elbow bresh 'cross the railroad 
 tracks. They sho' is a-gwine to stay in dar 'till the 
 sun wahms up sum!" 
 
 "Bully for you, Ike!" I exclaimed. "Let's strike 
 for over there, Mac." 
 
 Where the old negro directed us for miles a wet 
 slash divided the flat through the fields of corn, 
 cotton and grass. There was always water there; 
 and in parts for at least a half mile it was well grown 
 up with a riot of elbow brush. Frequently we had 
 seen snipe pitch in it, but on account of the number 
 of open fields we seldom followed. 
 
 By the time we came to the elbow brush thicket 
 the sun had gained eminence, and already the 
 frozen fields had thawed under its ardent rays. The 
 very first step in the brush showed that all the snipe 
 in the neighborhood had congregated there during 
 the night for the shelter of the tall swamp grasses. 
 This was the first time in my life I had ever seen 
 such an assembly of gallignago delicata. Their 
 numbers were unbelievable. Our first advance 
 flushed birds far out of range and, as is the case on 
 rare occasions of this kind, a single bird's note 
 flushed thousands and thousands, and notwithstand- 
 ing the greatness of their numbers not one was within 
 shooting range. 
 
 29 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 Scaip! Scaip! Scaip! we heard in every direction 
 until the birds became mere pin specks against the 
 sky. 
 
 But this promised later shooting, for the birds 
 did not return to the elbow brush but scattered 
 throughout the vast meadows and low-lying fields 
 in singles and pairs. And so long as we looked, we 
 could see them pitching into the fields until we lost 
 estimate of the number of birds or their location. 
 
 For a time I heard nothing more of Mac's eyes. 
 He shot splendidly. Almost every twenty feet we 
 put up some of the artful dodgers, but I was not 
 quite in such shooting form as my companion. I 
 began by missing a few, then more as Mac bestowed 
 advice on me which did not improve my skill. 
 
 Some old timers encourage novices with instruc- 
 tions on snipe shooting, which includes the advice 
 to hunt against wind as then the birds invariably 
 afford an easy crossing shot. The birds I shot at 
 had never been educated along these lines. They 
 would not perform according to putative rules es- 
 tablished by experts. They got up any way they 
 felt; against wind, down wind, to the sides, depict- 
 ing gyrating dives, spiral flights, impossible angles, 
 and the utmost speed. When I made three straight, 
 which was seldom, Mac only sneered and continued 
 making good runs. 
 
 Soon, however, I improved my shooting as I took 
 to snap shooting, but Mac's steady pace was almost 
 too much to overcome. I reflected, if I could do 
 something to get on his nerves, perhaps there would 
 
 30 
 
A DAY WITH THE LONGBILLS 
 
 be a chance to equal him. A sudden inspiration 
 took hold of me. I would try it, though it threat- 
 ened to disrupt our friendship for some time to come. 
 
 "By the way, Mac," I remarked, "your eyes 
 never do hurt you when you are killing a bird every 
 shot!" 
 
 "Why, of course not!" he said, turning a flushed 
 face my way. "Why?" 
 
 "There never was nor will be anything the matter 
 with your eyes," I commented as he finished a run 
 of ten straight, regardless of his reception of my 
 statement. "That's only an excuse when you miss!" 
 
 "Why — what — do — you — " Mac started to re- 
 tort hotly. "You don't think for a moment I would 
 offer an excuse when I know — " 
 
 But Mac never finished. A single fat jack flushed 
 at his feet from a small bunch of sedge grass. It 
 was the biggest yet the most sluggish snipe I ever 
 saw. 
 
 "Kill that cripple, Mac!" I exclaimed. 
 
 Mac fired at it twice, missing with both shots. 
 He never looked at me, but I could descry the purple- 
 red coming in his face. The snipe dropped back in 
 the marsh about sixty yards ahead. 
 
 "Come, watch me, Mac!" I cried, determined to 
 kill that jack. Like he performed for Mac, he rose 
 in flight lazily, but sure as I was, I missed him with 
 both barrels. 
 
 As if eluding both of our guns was not sufiicient 
 that jack suddenly turned, beat back toward Mac 
 and dropped in a wet swale a few yards away from 
 
 31 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 him. Mac was positive the snipe's last flight was to 
 begin. He walked up to the bird with an air of dis- 
 dain for any opinion I held on the subject of his 
 shooting. But that tantalizing longbill permitted 
 his approach to fifteen yards, then flew, affording 
 an easy side shot. Again, much to my amusement 
 Mac missed twice. 
 
 "Your eyes hurting you?" I yelled gleefully as 
 the jack scaiped near me, an easy overhead shot 
 wliich I missed cleanly. 
 
 "No!" shouted Mac at me, "but yours are!" 
 
 What could we do but both laugh and forget the 
 subject of his eyes. Afterward we agreed that jack 
 bore a charmed life. We repeated our missing 
 several times. After each flight the bird circled but 
 dropped back in the same field. A spirit of compe- 
 tition to get that jack ensued. First I missed, then 
 Mac performed in like manner. At last we drew a 
 small fluttering feather, otherwise the bird appeared 
 unharmed for he flew a little further than formerly 
 before alighting. 
 
 "Come, Mac, forget what I said. Let's get to- 
 gether and kill that defiant rascal," I said. 
 
 "Alright," the fat hunter agreed, smiling. "Let's 
 walk up to him and shoot together the instant he 
 gets up." 
 
 When within twenty yards of the longbill, the 
 bird shot up from the grass. We emptied the con- 
 tents of both of our gun barrels. Not a feather 
 dropped as reward. Toward the north the bird flew 
 swiftly, towering and towering until, like some of 
 
 32 
 
A DAY WITH THE LONGBILLS 
 
 his startled mates, he was only a pin speck. But 
 he continued circling until almost overhead, then he 
 dropped like a plummet into a meadow not many 
 yards away. 
 
 "We will get him this time!" vehemently I pre- 
 dicted. 
 
 "Sure we will," Mac echoed, "for we will both 
 hold carefully this time. No more fooling." 
 
 Cautiously we stepped over the low fence into the 
 adjoining field. The bird did not flush. We walked 
 around and around, but that queer bird refused 
 to fly. 
 
 Presently something attracted my eyes, , some- 
 thing white contrasting strangely with the young 
 green herbage. I grasped Mac's hand and shook it 
 heartily, as I viewed the tricky jack lying dead on 
 its back, its white breast turned to the sky. 
 
 33 
 
IV 
 
 In the Chicken Country 
 
 Nothing less than the promises of the tall Kansan 
 could have induced me to take the trip to the Ne- 
 braska prairies. His entertaining ways, actual 
 knowledge of game, and many little kindnesses which 
 he constantly showered my way when in the moun- 
 tain country proved the irresistible factors luring 
 me. Then there was the contagiousness of his 
 presence; he was one of those blonde-headed, amiable 
 outdoor chaps, with gray eyes and a love tor every- 
 thing associated with wild life, whom I wanted to 
 shoot with again, even if it had to be far away in the 
 country about which he talked so often. 
 
 "Well," he greeted me, smiling. And the warmth 
 of his handshake impressed me more than words. 
 "Took a lot of coaxing to get you away from that 
 hill country. Thought you would come chicken 
 shooting. Right now my old dog's sick. Reckon 
 those two liver and white pointers you brought will 
 be any good on chicken?" 
 
 "Just wait and see," I boasted a bit on account 
 of my abiding faith in old Duke. I don't know about 
 the youngster handling them, but the old fellow will 
 do it, as though born to the game." 
 
 "Bet you he won't!" he retorted, exhibiting his 
 old frailty, betting. Bob would bet on anything. 
 
 34 
 
IN THE CHICKEN COUNTRY 
 
 It was his single mania. Truly he refrained from 
 risking money or even about making such a propo- 
 sition, but he bet all hours of the day against any- 
 thing that did not concur with his fancy, the stakes 
 ranging from chewing gum to elaborate dinners, in 
 proportion to his interest in the subject at issue. 
 
 "Bet you Duke flushes the first five flocks of 
 chickens," he resumed. "Cigars?" 
 
 "Cigars go," I replied. "Why, this country is 
 made to order for him, though it is in the miserable 
 North!" 
 
 My slighting allusion to the North only evoked a 
 tolerant smile. Bob knew my fondness for the South, 
 so when occasion arose he was equally adept in 
 retort at my beloved Dixieland. But for once I was 
 surprised that he made no adverse reference. Then 
 I understood; I was the guest, and he regarded any 
 comment on the land of my nativity would revive 
 an unpleasant banter of words about localities which 
 we had threshed out pretty thoroughly together 
 during our summer fishing trip. 
 
 That the first day of September could be so cold 
 never entered my mind. But early in the morning 
 after my arrival, while daylight only showed a mite 
 of gray and crimson streamers in the east, I shivered 
 on the rear seat of the spring wagon and vowed it 
 would be my last trip North. Even the two dogs 
 coiled up in their ample bed of straw at our feet 
 found the change from midsummer temperature to 
 that bordering frost very uncomfortable. Bob 
 gazed down on me and laughed, but generously 
 
 35 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 contrived to give me the most of the old buffalo robe. 
 The driver directed his team due north, pulled a 
 blanket over his legs and dozed intermittently. At 
 every lapse into wakefulness he plied the whip, and 
 the two dun-colored ponies sped more briskly on 
 their way. 
 
 "Bet you you freeze to death before we ever get 
 to the shooting grounds," Bob prophesied in a 
 humorous tone, which could give no offense. 
 
 "Chewing gum.^" I asked. 
 
 "Just one package," Bob replied. 
 
 Then suddenly the sun shot over the east sand 
 ridges and bestowed a well appreciated warmth. 
 There was not the frost I felt sure of, and soon I 
 felt my blood tingling. Bob observed me with 
 pleasure and nodded as though to say: "You win." 
 
 After a long drive we arrived at a country of 
 rolling prairie. The grass reminded me of my South- 
 ern sedge, though shorter and tinged with a red 
 color which the sun seemed to accentuate. There 
 was a certain sameness to all that Platte River 
 country which contrasted much with the lay of my 
 homeland. 
 
 Once more the driver awoke. I do not recall that 
 I ever heard him speak. We got out the wagon and 
 without command those two pointers jumped to 
 the ground, shook themselves and, scanning the 
 country with an appraising eye, raced out for the 
 first swale, which was a half mile distant, before we had 
 taken our guns from the cases and assembled them. 
 
 With all the speed at the young dog's command, 
 
 36 
 
IN THE CHICKEN COUNTRY 
 
 old Duke was yet his master. I am sure the old 
 rellow at last had found ideal conditions for his 
 ability. Every censure I had made of his wide casts 
 in the South in cane, cotton and corn, I forgot as 
 simply with admiration I devoured his exhibition 
 of speed, range and up-headed casts. 
 
 "Well, that old fool, Duke, certainly can get over 
 ground — and the youngster, too!" Bob grudgingly 
 admitted in an exclamatory manner, "They are just 
 like real chicken dogs. My, look at him swing for 
 that swale of grass — by Jove, he's pointing!" 
 
 The young dog was only a short way behind and, 
 recognizing his elder companion's point, backed 
 perfectly. 
 
 "False point!" declared Bob. "Bet you cigars 
 it is. No green dog could handle chickens that 
 easily." 
 
 "Cigars?" I asked. 
 
 "Yep!" 
 
 "Taken." 
 
 Then we both walked fast to the pointing dogs. 
 The Kansan's eagerness to get to them did not show 
 doubt in Duke's correctness. But Duke had lived 
 in the South, and Bob had to have his fling. 
 
 Duke handled his first chickens with the skill of 
 an old prairie campaigner. He was fastened to a 
 big flock. When we came within twenty yards of 
 the dog they flushed with a roar. Bob making a nice 
 double, while I missed a left swinging bird. 
 
 "You can't hit chickens and never will," Bob com- 
 mented encouragingly. "I'll bet you " 
 
 . 37 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 "Drop the bets for a while," I protested and let's 
 get after the balance of the flock!" 
 
 The long-legged one agreed. The young dog re- 
 trieved both the birds. Duke bolted for a rise over 
 which the chickens had just topped, stood still a 
 moment, waiting until we showed a disposition to 
 follow. Then he was again off with the youngster 
 at his heels. 
 
 "He's sure like an old chicken dog," Bob remarked. 
 "See him mark 'em?" 
 
 "Oh, he learned that on quails in the South!" 
 
 "Quails, nothing! Say, if he hasn't nailed them 
 again down in those sunflowers!" 
 
 At quite a distance from where the first point had 
 been made we discovered the two dogs on birds. 
 For a long ways the country was level, and far off 
 suddenly I perceived it stop against a line of cotton- 
 woods and heavier cover, that my shooting mate 
 advised me was a line of demarkation between the 
 prairie and the North Platte River. 
 
 Duke was too wide and speedy to give my young 
 dog any opportunity to perform except in the 
 secondary role of backing and retrieving. Midway 
 between the cottonwoods the old dog had slipped 
 into point on another flock. The youngster re- 
 spected it well, and four birds were credited to our 
 score. The balance of the flock made for the cotton- 
 woods. Duke started again but crimped up within 
 two hundred yards of us. The young dog had cast 
 independently far to our right. Presently he saw 
 his sire pointing and galloped in haste toward him 
 
 38 
 
IN THE CHICKEN COUNTRY 
 
 to share in the iind. But as he came within fifty 
 yards of Duke, he ran right into the birds. They 
 flushed before we were within shooting distance and, 
 like the other flock, beat straight for the cotton- 
 woods where they scattered in the cover. 
 
 "That's my kind of game," I ejaculated. "Snap 
 shooting is where I shine." 
 
 Strangely Bob made no proposal to bet; he was 
 too busy observing Duke and his erratic son work- 
 ing toward the river. As the old dog drew near, 
 we could see that where the birds dropped was cut 
 off by a slough. Duke stepped mincingly into the 
 water until he sank to his neck, then deliberately 
 swam across. Prior to this always he had balked at 
 water. The young dog refused to follow, running 
 up and down the bank, giving occasional vent to 
 his displeasure at the obstacle in a low, dismal whine. 
 
 "There's a big cottonwood up to the left we can 
 cross on," Bob announced with glee. "Then the 
 kid will be able to cross, too. Just like a Southern 
 dog, anyway, to hate water!" 
 
 Hardly had he announced his opinion on dogs 
 from Dixie when the youngster, overcoming his fear, 
 plunged into the water and swam to where Duke 
 had vanished in the cover. 
 
 Just as the Kansan had predicted we found the 
 log. He was the first to reach it. It was still damp 
 from its sodden environments. Bob always was 
 a hasty individual. He started to run across with 
 all the supreme confidence of a tight wire artist. 
 When in the middle all at once both his feet disen- 
 
 39 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 gaged themselves from the log and six feet-two of 
 Kansas manhood dropped with a huge splash in 
 the slough. 
 
 When Bob climbed up on the bank, he resembled 
 a huge wet greyhound. His vocabulary was pro- 
 fusely profane. There was not a spot dry about 
 him. I agreed to furnish him with shells until his 
 were dry. He took all from his pocket and stacked 
 them up to get the benefit of the sun's rays. We 
 could pick them up on our return. Fortunately he 
 had thought of his gun the first thing during his 
 aerial flight and, holding it above his head, it re- 
 mained his sole possession untouched by the cold 
 water. For once Bob agreed with me and without 
 betting. As there was no change of clothes available, 
 the best thing for him to do was to keep in motion 
 until the warmth of his body dried them out. He 
 had no others in the wagon, which now was coming 
 toward us and would await our return. 
 
 Soon I realized we were on an island, containing 
 every imaginable tantalizing growth. It was a case 
 of fighting our way every step through young cot- 
 tonwoods, willows, tangled sharp-pointed vines and 
 weeds that were amazingly high. But the exercise 
 did much toward warming the elongated Kansan, 
 as well as reviving his spirits, for the cold plunge 
 had momentarily made his teeth chatter and his 
 speech incoherent. 
 
 We had progressed for some distance through the 
 barriers when again I heard from him, his old tend- 
 ency having the upper hand. 
 
 40 
 
IN THE CHICKEN COUNTRY 
 
 "Where are those pointers?" he speculated, unable 
 to see twenty feet either through or above the under- 
 growth. 
 
 "Don't know," was my response. "On point some- 
 where, I guess." 
 
 "Point, nothing," contradicted the tall one. 
 
 "Can't be anywhere else," I suggested. 
 
 "Can't, eh.?" Bob said gruffly. "When I took my 
 morning bath we were so long getting started again 
 they just went back to the wagon." 
 
 "Duke go back to the wagon — not on your life!" 
 My reply was prompt and tingling with sarcasm. 
 
 "Well he has," insisted Bob. "The young one, 
 too. Bet you a box of shells they've bolted." 
 
 "Done!" I championed the old dog. "The young- 
 ster might, but Duke — never! Let's look around 
 this island before you become discouraged." 
 
 For twenty minutes we hunted faithfully without 
 finding the dogs. It was like hunting the proverbial 
 needle in a hay stack. I was at the point of advis- 
 ing the Kansan to return to the wagon when he 
 stepped up on a huge Cottonwood log and scanned 
 the island with considerable interest. 
 
 "You win," suddenly Bob announced with a 
 gleam of pleasure on his countenance. "They are 
 both stuck on birds — about twenty yards apart and 
 about a hundred yards to our left. Come here — see 
 them in those tall weeds?" 
 
 After a minute's scrutiny I was able to descry the 
 two dogs. Except from an elevation I would never 
 have been able to locate them. In all my days at 
 
 41 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 chicken hunting I was not treated to a more pleasing 
 spectacle, nor did I ever see birds lie better. Ap- 
 parently it was an area of refuge for every harrassed 
 bird around there. Those birds remained still to 
 the dogs' point, just like quails in timber, and bird 
 after bird we killed when we had solved the diffi- 
 culties of cover shooting. The number became 
 such that we had to return to the wagon with our 
 load. In that density of riotous growths it would 
 have been hard to conceive how we would have 
 found all our dead chickens, had it not been for the 
 youngster's efficiency in retrieving. In this respect 
 he surpassed his capable bird-finding sire. 
 
 Bob's shells were dry when we left the island and 
 returned to the wagon. He suffered no more in- 
 convenience from wet clothes as the rough grueling 
 in the cover had done its part. 
 
 My memory is still fresh on the incidents of the 
 day; the great work of the old dog whose powers 
 of endurance were seemingly limitless. It was all 
 a surpassing treat to me. The abundance of birds 
 was far beyond my expectations, and the vastness 
 of the open country strangely caused me to wonder 
 if it ever had an ending. The youngster performed 
 well, too, but his work lacked consistency and the 
 spectacular attainment of the old-timer. 
 
 The light of day gradually began to fade as we 
 trudged wearily toward the wagon. The sun had 
 dropped behind the distant elevations. The prairie 
 grass had lost its frost-red coloration as approaching 
 dusk overtook us. In a low swale I saw the old dog 
 
 42 
 
IN THE CHICKEN COUNTRY 
 
 wheel into point, advance, then stop again. I called 
 Bob's attention to it. 
 
 "It's sure a false point this time!" he explained. 
 "See him nm — point — run — run and point. Sure 
 it's a false point!" 
 
 "False point, nothing!" with asperity I contra- 
 dicted. "The old dog never false points!" 
 
 "Of course it is," the tall one insisted. "I'll bet 
 you—" 
 
 "The best dinner in North Platte," I interposed, 
 "that he's sure got a prairie chicken, if it is a cripple!" 
 
 "Agreed!" declared the Kansan. 
 
 In the darkness we both advanced to the dogs, 
 whose antics continued discouragingly inexplicable. 
 He continued to move up — stop — move up and stop. 
 But we walked rapidly to him. 
 
 Then I heard a whirr of wings as a bird rose and 
 silhouetted to my left, hurtling for the distant river. 
 
 "We both lose!" Bob shouted, as my little Ithaca 
 knocked the bird down on the prairie. He beat the 
 young dog to the bird and retrieved it. "We both 
 lose," I heard him repeat as in the dim light he held 
 the bird aloft. "We both bet on it being a chicken, 
 didn't we.?" 
 
 "Sure," I replied, puzzled at his question. 
 
 As the Kansan came closer I heard him say again: 
 "We both lose." 
 
 "What — isn't it a chicken?" I asked expectantly. 
 
 "Chicken nothing — it's a darn old Chink!" he 
 shouted gleefully as he waved before my eyes a 
 large ring neck hen pheasant. 
 
 43 
 
V 
 Hunting Squirrels with Mizzoura 
 
 The further I proceeded into the hills the more ap- 
 peal they had. It was the one place near civilization 
 that had yet suffered none from modernity. Here 
 and there I passed farms still in the throes of snaky 
 rail fences, with the houses resting for sole support 
 against giant rock chimneys that suggested comforts 
 of big open fireplaces, where fathers and mothers 
 gathered with their offspring and related tales so 
 dear to childish ears. 
 
 On I proceeded. The country assumed a rougher 
 aspect. Hills succeeded hills, all apparently linked 
 together in one chain of purple green hogbacks of 
 transcending beauty. The way was up a hill, almost 
 immediately down another, for I knew not the gaps 
 nor the many passageways familiar to the natives. 
 
 "Better stay awhile, stranger!" a voice hailed 
 me from a small dwelling close to the road. Dark- 
 ness was approaching fast. All the familiar 
 drawl and nasal tone unmistakably stamped the 
 owner of the voice as a native of the Ozarks. "Cum 
 in 'nd make yourself at home," he invited, his voice 
 ringing a welcome. "I reckon you'ns haint 'quainted 
 'roun here, for hit's nigh three miles to the next 
 house." 
 
 "Well, if you will feed me and let me stay all night, 
 
 44 
 
HUNTING SQUIRRELS WITH MIZZOURA 
 
 I will feel grateful," I replied, as I found the Ozarker 
 at the gate and walked with him to the little two- 
 room cabin, on the porch of which the owner re- 
 lieved me of my packsack and rifle. 
 
 "Step right in the house, stranger," he said. 
 "Lizie, light the lamp, got a pill peddler agoin' to 
 stay tonight!" 
 
 Soon I was on a familiar footing with the entire 
 Jabez Breathwaite family. There was quite a 
 round of laughter occasioned when they learned 
 my packsack did not contain anything in the phar- 
 maceutical line. There was a boy about fifteen, 
 rather a sleepy chap, they called him Lige. The 
 wife, being kept in the background most of the time, 
 I only knew her as angular, slim, swarthy and, like 
 the boy, rather reticent in speech. Mizzoura, how- 
 ever, with her father made up in talkativeness, for 
 she was of free manner, possessed of great beauty, 
 despite her coat of tan and her ten years. The other 
 respected members of the family were two dogs, 
 that stayed under the table and scratched indus- 
 triously throughout the evening meal. 
 
 Almost as soon as supper was over the children 
 were sent to bed. The dogs remained in their same 
 repose, and the wife, as before, made herself con- 
 spicuous by her absence. 
 
 "See that leetle yaller and black spotted dog? 
 Wal, if yu'ns wants to hunt squirrels tomorrow, take 
 him. They hain't nuther squirrel dog like him. 
 I'll sell half a share in him and keep him here all the 
 time for two dollars." This was Jabe's response to a 
 
 45 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 question T had asked about squirrel hunting, and 
 the likelihood of buying or borrowing a dog for the 
 purpose. 
 
 "Your proposition looks good to me and T will 
 right now become semi-proprietor," I said, hand- 
 ing over the required sum of money and prof- 
 fering an additional amount as payment for my 
 stay. 
 
 At the latter Jabe flushed red and refused to 
 accept anything but the money for the dog, despite 
 my pleadings to the contrary. But in the end he 
 maneuvered to show another route by which I 
 could pay my keep without violating native tradi- 
 tions of hospitality. He brought forth a mail order 
 catalog. As the wife immediately appeared, I de- 
 ducted that it was her favorite literature. She must 
 have continually feasted her eyes, as well as rested 
 her finger on a certain page. It was dirtier than 
 others and showed the ravages of much handling. 
 But still the bonnet which was pointed out to me 
 as the desirable one, remained a goodly illustration 
 of how much in the way of feathers, strange crea- 
 tures, fruits, flowers and ribbons could be deposited 
 on a limited circumference and sold, express paid, 
 for I2.89. 
 
 "Hit's purty high in price, hain't hit.?" Mrs. 
 Breathwaite felt me out expectantly. "But hit's 
 shore a Pruasian style!" 
 
 I did not know whether she referred to the famous 
 French city or a part of Germany. But the instant 
 I declared the bonnet a thing of beauty, to which 
 
 46 
 
HUNTING SQUIRRELS WITH MIZZOURA 
 
 I added a solemn assurance that it would soon 
 adorn her head, her brown visage softened and radi- 
 ated ineffable contentment. Then, as further token 
 of appreciation and at the solicitation of her mate, 
 she sang until bedtime in an inimitable nasal of 
 the exploits of her hero outlaw, Jesse James. 
 
 Next morning it was with surprise that I received 
 the news that Mizzoura would act as my guide. 
 This was in response to my declaration that I was 
 unfamiliar with the hills. 
 
 The pink tint of the morning heightened the 
 beauty of the little girl. Her hair hung down her 
 back without reflecting other attention than straight 
 combing. Her dress was of clean, dark calico. 
 Though there had been frost, she wore neither shoes 
 nor hat, and I marveled at her ability to ignore 
 the inflictions of the sharp, small flint rocks. Her 
 charm was in her natural conformity to environ- 
 ment, her perfect confidence in herself and satis- 
 faction with her conditions. 
 
 "Why do we'uns call him Barlow?" she answered 
 my question about the dog in the softest voice, 
 " 'cause he's jist like a Barlow knife; sharp's can be. 
 Hi on, Barlow, find sumthin'!" 
 
 What Barlow did not know about fox squirrels 
 was not worth knowing. He ranged out fast, like 
 a wide-going bird dog, and soon disappeared on a 
 ridge of postoaks and hickory. Presently I heard 
 his chatter — then three, sharp staccato barks. 
 
 "Treed !" shouted Mizzoura. "Whoopee ! Woopee ! 
 Whoopee! Barlow, whoopee!" 
 
 47 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 Then dashing in the direction of the dog, Miz- 
 zoura signaled me to follow at the same pace. 
 
 "Are you sure the dog's treed?" I cried in hopes 
 the hill girl would modify her pace. 
 
 "Barlow never lies — he simply can't lie!" she 
 flung back to me for an answer. 
 
 We discovered the spotted dog vociferously pray- 
 ing to some canine deity from the base of a large 
 postoak. Frost had not yet stripped it of leaves. 
 Nothing could we see. Barlow continued, however, 
 in the same tonal striving. 
 
 With the scrutiny of an expert, the girl cast her 
 black eyes amidst the saffron leaves, searchingly. 
 She drew back a distance, took a turn or two around 
 the tree, then, shading her eyes from the glaring 
 sun, she announced and beckoned to me: 
 
 "There he is, a-layin on the first highest limb to 
 the south." And, to aid, she pointed a well-formed, 
 brown finger in that direction. 
 
 At last I saw the little tree rat, and at the same 
 time elevated myself in the guide's esteem by killing 
 it at the first shot. 
 
 "That's shore a hittin' leettle rifle, hain't hit," 
 she remarked as she picked up the fallen game. 
 "Killed it deader'n nit!" After which statement 
 she resurrected a knife from her pocket, and pro- 
 ceeding to disenbowel the animal, she presented the 
 entrails to the dog. "That's for you, Barlow," she 
 said. Then she cut a short, hickory limb, sharpened 
 both ends and inserted it in an incision made near 
 the hindlegs of the squirrel, a method much vogued 
 
 48 
 
The Lure of the Outdoors 
 
HUNTING SQUIRRELS WITH MIZZOURA 
 
 in the hills for carrying them. As a final act she 
 wiped the knife on some sedge grass. 
 
 I had many shots. The little tree varmints were 
 exceedingly plentiful. Mizzoura, however, proved 
 more of an attraction for me than either the capable 
 Barlow or the hunting. Her queer sayings were 
 amusing, and she showed something that I had 
 found lacking in all humans I had met heretofore. 
 She was perfectly contented, and showed a charming 
 independence and ability to care for herself. As an 
 expert at turning squirrels for a gunner I never saw 
 her equal. Though several times I tried to bring 
 forth a longing for the outside world, I failed. She 
 listened, showing interest in my tales, but never 
 so much as uttered a comment. 
 
 The performance of Barlow was beyond all my 
 expectations. His knowledge of squirrels was simply 
 marvelous. When in thickets the wily game leaped 
 from tree to tree they were never able to throw him 
 off. With almost uncanny precision he located them, 
 never announcing until positive. 
 
 In a very tall hickory that despite my expert's 
 attempts to show me the game, I could see nothing. 
 At last I said as she pointed aloft: 
 
 "Mizzoura, I wish you could shoot." 
 
 "Shoot, Mister, jist give me the chance!" Miz- 
 zoura danced with joy as I entrusted my rifle to 
 her outstretched hands. "Yu'ns git 'roun' on to 
 her side. If the squirrel don't turn my way, take 
 
 a stick 'nd scrape the tree with hit. Now do as I 
 
 >> 
 say. 
 
 49 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 "Hurry 'roun', City Feller!" cried Mizzoura, 
 backing off from the tree. "He's on your side, turn 
 him!" 
 
 The whine of a small load of nitro powder smote 
 the clear mountain air. A squirrel thudded dead on 
 the rocky soil. 
 
 "Stay where yu'ns air!" commanded the child 
 of the hills. "They's one — two more." 
 
 Again twice the nitro whined — reports so close to- 
 gether they were hardly distinguishable, but as proof 
 two squirrels fell to the ground. 
 
 "You are certainly a great little shot," I compli- 
 mented. "You can beat me to pieces." 
 
 "Oh, ennybody could shoot with this rifle!" 
 Mizzoura declared. Then she disemboweled the 
 squirrels and announced we had sufficient for the 
 day. Again she took the rifle in her hands. "Why, 
 if I had one like this, I'd — ruther have hit than 
 Maw's bonnet, ennyday. Some day Pappay will 
 get me one, if he sells that forty on Breshy crick." 
 
 "You are not going to have to wait that long, 
 Mizzoura," I replied, a surge of sudden affection 
 for the hill girl taking hold of me. "It is yours right 
 now and t want you to keep it." 
 
 "Mine?" she exclaimed, unbelieving. "Oh, City 
 Feller, Mister — Oh a trillion million thanks!" 
 
 On the road home, while appraising our big kill 
 of squirrels, I said: 
 
 "Barlow's certainly a great little dog. I was lucky, 
 indeed, in being able to buy half interest in him. 
 
 "Did Pappy sell yu'ns half interest?" 
 
 50 
 
HUNTING SQUIRRELS WITH MIZZOURA 
 
 "Yes. Why?" 
 
 "Yu'ns the tenth man," she said, her face scarlet 
 with unapproval, "that bought a half intrust in 
 Barlow from Pappy!" 
 
 From then until our return home the hill girl was 
 silent. The red in her face remained, and though her 
 admiration for her rifle was undiminished — for she 
 could never take her eyes from it — speech seemed 
 to have deserted her. 
 
 Several more hunts had we together. All of them 
 I enjoyed much. Then at last came the time for 
 my departure. I bade all good-bye except Mizzoura. 
 Neither she nor Barlow were about. The silence of 
 Jabe on the subject was inexplicable, so I shouldered 
 my packsack and proceeded on my way. 
 
 Down the road a mile from the house Mizzoura 
 met me, suddenly appearing out of a thicket. She 
 had a number of squirrels for me. She led Barlow 
 unwillingly by a chain. Traces of recent tears were 
 on her cheeks. 
 
 "Mizzoura!" I exclaimed. "Why — Barlow on a 
 chain — what's the matter.?" 
 
 "Barlow's yourn, take him," she sobbed. "I made 
 Pappy give him up to yu'ns. He won't never more 
 have none of his intrust sold. Good-bye — old 
 Barlow— Oh, Barlow!" 
 
 Kneeling down I unsnapped the chain from Bar- 
 low's little soft neck and deposited it in her hands. 
 Barlow scampered off" into the woods. I took Miz- 
 zoura in my arms for a moment and held her closely. 
 
 I continued on my way. Mizzoura waved her 
 
 51 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 last good-bye from an eminence of flint rock. The 
 pines and oaks whispered softly in the evening 
 breeze. The pink tint of departing day seemed to 
 enhance the beauty of the purple hogbacks. I 
 was happy. I could still feel the moist impress 
 of the little hill girl's kiss on my cheeks. 
 
 52 
 
VI 
 My Ducking Pond in the Hills 
 
 Perhaps it is mere association that binds me so 
 closely to the pond in the hills. Yet somehow the 
 more I wander from it the greater its influence is 
 felt. Then, too, I think I am confronted with the 
 more pertinent realization that it is because it is 
 mine to do with as I fancy. Though it scarcely 
 covers an acreage over an acre, what a pond for ducks 
 it is! They never come there in quantities; they are 
 there only unexpectedly. But when they do arrive 
 the shooting is of a character that tries out my 
 ability to the utmost. 
 
 As I reflect on this, I am sure it is one reason why 
 I favor it above every ducking ground I have seen. 
 My pond, however, is but a calm pool for livestock 
 on top of a chain of hills. Hardly a frequenting 
 place for wildfowl, I know you will exclaim with 
 reason. But I am loyal to the little pond and can 
 see no other in the same enticing light. 
 
 Many times I have tried to put aside its influence 
 and memories by visiting famous ducking grounds. 
 When the shooting was over invariably my mind 
 raced back to the little pond on top of the hill. 
 
 As the pond became almost an obsession I thought 
 the best curative was to visit other scenes, but the 
 first thing on my return I had to see my little pond. 
 
 S3 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 Except as something sacred I never speak or 
 contemplate my little pond. I dare not do other- 
 wise. I am too cowardly and know that my con- 
 science would reproach me. Sportsmen are so criti- 
 cal that I am sure they would discover faults in my 
 little friend. As for myself being able to discover 
 any, never! 
 
 Often tales of other fields have lured me to them 
 and I visited solely for the great shooting. In this 
 respect I was not disappointed. The ducks were 
 there in unbelievable numbers and the vastness of 
 the feeding grounds was beyond compare. Yet when 
 the shooting was at its best that vagrant mind of 
 mine wandered to the hills and visualized a small 
 boy, creeping on hands and knees toward the little 
 pond for a shot at his first duck. 
 
 A friend insisted that among all my former shoot- 
 ing I had tasted nothing of the real; shooting from 
 a motor boat on the Mississippi was the sport un- 
 approachable. I listened, longed, consented, I 
 went. But after two hours murdering mallards and 
 bluebills through this reprehensible method my 
 little pond in the hills loomed in higher esteem, 
 far above anything the day had shown, for it was 
 there a small boy stopped his first green-headed 
 drake. 
 
 Came a friend who told me of the treats of roost 
 shooting in the Black River swamps. The distance 
 was not great from home, and his descriptive powers 
 were so wonderful that before I realized the act I was 
 enroute to the shooting grounds. 
 
 54 
 
MY DUCKING POND IN THE HILLS 
 
 We rode out to his favorite roost as the sun fell 
 behind the water oaks and cypress. There was still 
 an impress of pink on the bank surroundings. The 
 moon promised to give us more light. That I had 
 ever fancied any similar scene I could not recall. 
 We waded out almost to our waist in the water, into 
 the middle of the only open spot in the timbered 
 area. If I had conjectured before about roost shoot- 
 ing, it had all been wrong. I knew nothing about it, 
 of the opportunities for slaughter, or the certainty 
 of violating every ethic of sportsmanship. 
 
 Just as the last touch of pink merged with the 
 blackness of the big woods, the ducks began to come 
 in. My instructions were to shoot before they 
 dropped below the big cypress trees, otherwise they 
 would prove invisible. At first in pairs they arrived 
 and, after a few preliminary efforts at circling, they 
 pitched for the water. The only trial of marksman- 
 ship required was to hold on the ducks before they 
 dropped below the tree tops. In a little while it 
 appeared as though every duck in creation had se- 
 lected that round opening in the swamps for its 
 roost. From pairs to thousands they piled in, de- 
 termined to reach the roost irrespective of numbers 
 or the presence of hunters. 
 
 Until our guns were hot we shot. The noise of 
 rustling pinions and calling wildfowl was beyond 
 anything in the way of din that I had ever heard, 
 and fools that we were, we bombarded them con- 
 tinually. Ducks fell until we no longer thought of 
 appraising the number. Others swam around us 
 
 55 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 totally oblivious of our presence or the roar of our 
 guns. It was their chosen roost, and they were 
 following an irrevocable rule of their tribe to remain 
 where former days had proved it sacred! 
 
 Soon our big supply of ammunition was exhausted 
 and with the aid of flashlights we gathered our dead. 
 Expecting quite a few, 1 was entirely unprepared 
 for such a spectacle as our gRiesome butchery pre- 
 sented. We had to leave ducks galore because we 
 were unable to carry half of them away. My com- 
 panion smiled contentment. In the glare of the 
 electric light he looked at me, and seemingly con- 
 strued my visage as radiating supreme pleasure. 
 He was wrong! It was only my little pond once 
 more invading my thoughts, for at that instant I 
 was only making another scene live, for I was sure 
 I experienced a far greater thrill when I stopped my 
 first incomer, a canvasback, late one evening at my 
 little pond in the hills. 
 
 Later on I visited Big Lake and the adjacent 
 great acreage of Little River's overflow in the Sunken 
 Lands. There was an irresistible lure about it, 
 gained from sportsmen's tales. Some previous con- 
 ception I had of its potentials as a ducking ground. 
 It could be nothing else; the immense inundation 
 grown with yoncapin, saw grass, flag and smart- 
 weed could serve no better purpose. Just glimpse 
 at the forest of pinoaks skirting the shallows, could 
 other estimate be gained.^ 
 
 The native guide I picked up at Hornersville told 
 me he was a hill man by birth and former residence. 
 
 56 
 
MY DUCKING POND IN THE HILLS 
 
 Then I did not believe it. He answered all my 
 questions with a resentful look and a sidelong glance 
 at the town loafers, which obviously signified "City 
 Dude!'' Our shallow-draft duck boat, filled with 
 noisy live decoys, signified his desire for me to get 
 in, pushing out into the overflow with a languid, 
 noncommittal effort. It was with him a daily oc- 
 cupation, and my inquiries, through stress of en- 
 thusiasm at the surroundings, brought forth but 
 two monosyllabic answers, "yes" and "no." 
 
 Long before I got well into the ducking grounds 
 I heard the staccato of the market hunters' guns. 
 A battle with muskets at a distance might aptly 
 convey the impression the constant shooting had on 
 me, for nothing else could produce the same effect. 
 Occasionally from somewhere out of the wild en- 
 vironments a duck boat came into view, loaded to the 
 gunwales with dead wildfowl ready for market. 
 Frequently the live decoys rode on top the grue- 
 some load, quacking vociferously as though taking 
 great pride in their part of the achievement. So 
 frequently I beheld this that soon it lacked the 
 interest of surprise and only evoked my silent dis- 
 approval. These, however, were perhaps only 
 market hunters! Soon I would meet sportsmen and 
 I was sure to leave with better ideals established in 
 my mind. 
 
 But in the great overflow caused by over a hundred 
 years of inundation no one followed any other 
 doctrine than kill, kill, kill all you can! The very 
 sight of the interminable slaughter all around sick- 
 
 57 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 ened. There was a sameness about it that never 
 relieved the monotony. Ever were the hunters in 
 blinds, ever were heaps of Hve decoys close by, ever 
 was the native's calling perfect. Flock after flock 
 of ducks literally spewed out of the big areas of 
 flanking timber and foolishly set sail for the living 
 deceits, only to be received by death belching from 
 every blind in a business-like manner, which formerly 
 I had never regarded as possible. 
 
 A few natives with laden duck boats laughed at 
 the insignificant dozen on the floor of mine. I ex- 
 pected more of sportsmen, but their guff^aws were 
 louder and always tinged with the bite of ridicule. 
 If I could have conceived some feasible course to 
 turn the wildfowl from those death-dealing blinds 
 I would have done so. 
 
 I thought of the hills and my little pond. It had 
 never experienced anything like this, and with the 
 help of the deity it never would! 
 
 My feelings must have become imparted in some 
 manner to my guide. For the first time his expres- 
 sion of indifference and sullenness relaxed into one 
 bordering on amity when I told him I had enough 
 ducks and I would derive more pleasure in going 
 over the watery country than participating in the 
 demise of more wildfowl. 
 
 Something of the lure of the swamps seized me. 
 I began to experience real enjoyment as we paddled 
 through the narrow lanes of saw grass that always 
 threatened to end, only to open into new water 
 routes under the perfect manipulation of my guide's 
 
 58 
 
MY DUCKING POND IN THE HILLS 
 
 long paddle. The staccato of the gunners persisted, 
 but seemed now not so fraught with slaughter as 
 our distance from them increased. The stark, dank 
 water-killed tupelo and cypress black from exposure, 
 slime and moss-covered from time, stood out in 
 strange contrast with the immense beds of tawny, 
 frost-stricken vegetation. 
 
 A promise or something worth seeing showed 
 itself on the guide's grim visage as we worked through 
 a forest of pinoaks only a foot deep with water, and 
 finally emerged into an open area fringed with fat, 
 red-seeded smart-weed. The sight was a surprise 
 beyond expectation. It was impossible to see the 
 water for the ducks in this one refuge considered 
 sacred by the market hunters. Species mingled with 
 species, and pintails, bluewings and other ducks that 
 naturalists never associated together and were 
 further on their year's Southern pilgrimage, swam, 
 dived, tipped and uttered discordant sounds in close 
 contiguity with mallards, redheads, scaups, wid- 
 geons, broadbills and canvasbacks. 
 
 The scene was far too much for my ability to 
 describe. The shimmering of all colors in strange 
 kaleidoscopic arrangement through their move- 
 ments defied reproduction by pen or brush. We 
 watched the crowded hole with enthusiastic en- 
 joyment. Little did the ducks care for our presence, 
 until the guide changed the spectacle into a storm 
 of thundering, brilliant pinions when purposely he 
 touched a lordly drake with his paddle. That 
 started to empty the hole. But the ducks, soon 
 
 59 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 realizing there was nothing to fear from the visitors, 
 returned. 
 
 Dusk began to take hold of the swamps. The 
 staccato of the pump guns increased as the glow of 
 evening fell upon the placid inundation. We 
 pushed on to the dock. Already a number of sports- 
 men had arrived. Ten duck boats were being un- 
 loaded of their weight of dead wildfowl. The hunters 
 regarded me with amusement as they viewed my 
 small kill. 
 
 But my guide shot back a glance of resentment 
 at them while he tied my ducks together with a 
 leather wood thong for easy carriage. Then he 
 turned his attentions to me, staring as though 
 puzzled considerably. A light of understanding 
 showed on his tanned countenance. He extended his 
 hand and I felt it close on mine in a warm clasp as 
 though under the influence of a sudden access of 
 afl^ection. 
 
 For some time he retained my hand in his, his 
 eyes turned in the direction of the western hill coun- 
 try. At that instant I knew that he, too, was think- 
 ing of some little pond in the hills! 
 
 60 
 
VII 
 After Canadian Honkers 
 
 Long before I should have discontinued the jour- 
 ney to the goose country had it not been for the 
 urgings of Bob. The swamper swore by all the most 
 formidable oaths of his kind that our trip quickly 
 would terminate in a wheat-growing section where 
 geese were in numbers beyond anything ever I had 
 fancied. But in the flooded woodlands of big oaks, 
 tall solemn-looking cypress and strange truncated 
 bodies of tupelo gum, it seemed only a dank, somber, 
 perpetual stretch of timbered swamp that forced 
 me to the conclusion that either Bob had lost his 
 way or his goose country was as remote as the other 
 end of the rainbow. 
 
 Still we pushed on, until I began to marvel at the 
 staunchness and versatility of our Kennebec canoe. 
 In a manner it switched my mind from constantly 
 doubting Bob's promised land, and helped some to 
 relieve the monotony of the long swamp trip. That 
 it performed miracles would be only hinting mildly 
 at its innumerable achievements in the Little River 
 Overflow. Loaded down with eight hundred pounds 
 of outfit, it did everything expected and many un- 
 expected things under the ministrations of our 
 paddles, except to sufl"er a puncture from contact 
 
 6i 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 with the ever-menacing cypress knees, that were 
 scarcely discernible in the dirty water. 
 
 After a time, from the manner in which the little 
 craft passed over the obstacles, I began to believe 
 it sensed them in advance. For from them I had 
 real cause for anxiety; were our craft once wounded 
 in that immense inundation of the scatters of 
 Little River, it portended the loss of our outfit at 
 the least. We could never have carried it to land, 
 as at times we were miles away from terra firma. 
 
 "She actually jumps logs and cypress knees!" 
 explained Bob optimistically. "If she did'nt, we 
 never would have cum through the last cypress 
 brake." 
 
 "That's about the right explanation. Bob," I con- 
 curred, "otherwise we would have been drowned 
 in these unending swamps." 
 
 "Hain't no end — ain't they .^" Bob retorted warmly. 
 "Before sundown we'll be right in the goose country." 
 
 "That's to be seen," I murmured, without con- 
 fidence in the swamper's declaration. 
 
 "Nevertheless hit's shore true!" the big, sandy- 
 haired man insisted. "Looks long to you, because 
 the swamps are flooded and you cain't tell where 
 the river is. But I know we ain't far off. We're 
 just getting into Nigger Wool Swamps and before 
 night we'll be settled in camp on high ground, where 
 we can crack down on some of them honkers." 
 
 "Nigger Wool Swamps?" 
 
 "Yep. Look ahead. See all them vines twined 
 around everything?" 
 
 62 
 
AFTER CANADIAN HONKERS 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "That's why hit's called Nigger Wool," Bob ex- 
 plained, while he cast an affectionate look on the 
 perspective. "Them vines is around everything. 
 Looks to you like we'd never get through. But she'll 
 make it, alright. I'm glad now the swamps are 
 
 "Why.?" promptly I asked. 
 
 "Well, right now Castor and Little Rivers meet 
 in one whoppin' big flood. By keeping up through 
 Nigger Wool in the woods we miss all the current 
 and that dam near the big saw mill. This little 
 log jumper that we are in so far has done so well 
 she sure is going to end our paddling soon." 
 
 "If we were only duck shooting!" I exclaimed at 
 the sight of the thousands of mallards spewing out 
 of the beds of smart-weed and yoncapin. 
 
 "But, as we hain't, just keep a paddling," the 
 sandy-haired one remarked, his big blue eyes actu- 
 ally laughing at my anxiety," 'till we gets this brush, 
 log and cypress knee wrecker out of these swamps." 
 
 How that swamper could tell directions it is be- 
 yond my ability to explain so much as the deport- 
 ment of that sturdy canoe. But he always knew his 
 route. In the tangle of Nigger Wool it was im- 
 possible to see twenty feet ahead. I believed with 
 every stroke of my paddle amidst tall rushes and 
 russet-colored meadows of frost-killed saw grass 
 that the route would terminate suddenly. Bob sat 
 back in the canoe, laconically commenting on the 
 surroundings, still paddling swiftly and invari- 
 
 63 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 ably guiding the craft into some concealed egress, 
 a water route that none but a born swamper knew 
 existed. 
 
 Three hours more of the same kind of paddling, 
 then I saw light appear through the big overcup 
 oaks in the east which promised our early advent into 
 open country. We put more effort to our work, and 
 all at once Bob gave forth a gleeful exclamation as 
 he gazed in the same direction. Presently he pointed 
 to a bank-full drainage ditch which emptied into 
 the swamps, and directed our craft there. We fol- 
 lowed in its course until two hours before sunset. 
 
 We camped on the high bank of the ditch between 
 two wheat fields. Through a belt of intervening 
 timber there was presented an unobstructed view 
 of the Mississippi for some distance. The vast ex- 
 panse of water was at flood stage. 
 
 "Lord, man, look at them!" cried Bob, his eyes 
 scanning skyward to the north as the well-known 
 sounds of geese in flight carried to our ears. "Three 
 whopping big flocks, one after the other!" 
 
 Three big flocks of geese were passing low, flying 
 slowly. Then we observed them wheel, chattering 
 quaintly as they finally dropped into the young 
 wheat about a half mile to the north. And flock 
 after flock followed these, all coming from the direc- 
 tion of the Mississippi. These dropped into the 
 wheat without any perfunctory circling. 
 
 "They seem to know their feeding ground, Bob, 
 don't they?" I declared. "I think I'll drop over 
 and get a few before supper." 
 
 64 
 
AFTER CANADIAN HONKERS 
 
 Bob slapped both knees in a recumbent position 
 and laughed heartily. 
 
 "Yu'd never get one in all this world," he said. 
 "Get up on this ditch bank. See that patch of 
 moving gray over yonder. There's no less than a 
 thousand geese, and yet you couldn't get within 
 shooting range of them to save your life." 
 
 "Couldn't L? Why.?" 
 
 " 'Cause they's too wise. No geese tonight unless 
 you picks one accidently coming too close to camp. 
 But tomorrow — !" 
 
 "Yes — go on, Bob — tomorrow,?" 
 
 "Why, we'll pit. And right now I'm going to 
 paddle up this ditch to the Barry farm and borrow 
 them tame honkers of his'n, if for once only you'll 
 do the cooking of supper." 
 
 At no time during the night was I able to sleep 
 long. Out in the wheat fields the geese chattered 
 incessantly, and the answering of the talkative ten 
 that Bob borrowed and coralled in a willow-stalked 
 circle was none the less noisy. 
 
 Before sunrise when Bob awoke a strong wind 
 blew from the north. He loaded the decoys in the 
 canoe and paddled up the ditch while it was still 
 very dark. Only then he informed me that we were 
 enroute for a bar in the Mississippi, from which we 
 would shoot geese as they returned from the wheat 
 fields in the morning. But he had reckoned without 
 a prior knowledge of the big river's condition. Dark 
 as it was, we realized by the force of the current its 
 high stage the moment the bow of the canoe hit it. 
 
 65 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 Waves pounded at the staunch little craft, but we 
 kept on the route Bob directed without capsizing; 
 for the swamper's eyes seemed able to penetrate 
 the darkness without trouble. But our steady, 
 grueling work proved futile. The river was higher 
 than Bob had considered possible, and the bars he 
 had reckoned on were under water. 
 
 "But there's the wheat yet. Hillbilly!" Bob ex- 
 claimed, still enthused at the prospects for the sport. 
 "When the sun passes through that tall brake in the 
 cypress, we'll have shooting right near camp." 
 
 "I am not a bit doubtful about having any shoot- 
 ing," I answered cheerily. "With all the geese making 
 in and out of those wheat fields, we can't help getting 
 some with those decoys. Then there's that little 
 hen there that simply can't quit talking." 
 
 Of all the talkative creatures on earth this hen 
 was the greatest. I learned to appreciate her that 
 day from the pit we selected in the middle of a big 
 wheat field. But after a second glance she did not 
 appear quite so diminutive. Only in height she 
 differed from her associates. Both of her legs had 
 been broken, which subsequently effected the short- 
 ening of the members. 
 
 Bob pointed toward the East and commanded 
 silence. I saw a big flock coming from the Mis- 
 sissippi. At the same time the hen began to talk 
 inviting goose language rapidly. She simply 
 
 screamed to her wild kind, in her earnestness to 
 attract their attention, and the balance of the decoys 
 finally joined in the clamor. 
 
 66 
 
AFTER CANADIAN HONKERS 
 
 Straight for our pit came the geese. I had not 
 asked advice of Bob. The big birds swung a little 
 to our left out of range, then wheeled like well- 
 drilled soldiers and came past the blind. What 
 sluggish flyers and how close! Then I fired my right 
 barrel at the leader and the left at one close to it. 
 
 "Well, of all the durned fools!" Bob cried, red- 
 faced, as he witnessed my clean double miss. "Why 
 don't you wait until they get in range.'' Them birds 
 were ninety yards away." 
 
 "Why, Bob, those birds were so close and flying 
 so slow — " 
 
 "That will do from you," he rebuked rather with 
 kindness than in tone of severity. "Next time you 
 shoot wait until you can see the white patch on 
 their throats; and no matter how slow them big fellows 
 seems to fly, you hold just ahead of them as you 
 would on mallards. Look!" 
 
 Another flock shot in from over the timber line. 
 Then the hen and her companions did their part 
 efi^ectively. With patience gained from observing 
 the swamper, I waited. The flock wheeled, then 
 swung, like the first. The flapping of pinions was 
 almost deafening. Presently came into visibility 
 the white patch on their throats. I led them as Bob 
 had directed. 
 
 Simultaneously four geese changed ends and fell 
 crashing on the young, green wheat. Gleefully I 
 started out of the pit to retrieve them. 
 
 "Stick in the pit!" Bob commanded. "Here comes 
 another bunch!" 
 
 67 
 
JlSr HUNTIN' 
 
 Instantly I dropped back to my former prone 
 position. This time we brought three big birds to 
 the ground. 
 
 About every fifteen minutes a flock came to us, 
 some yielding to the lure of the decoys and others 
 passed by without response, though that little hen 
 tried mightily for all. A lone snow goose raced down 
 from the north. Seeing our decoys, it started at 
 once to lower in flight. But, suddenly becoming 
 suspicious as it arrived above our pit, hurriedly it 
 started to climb that invisible ladder, a feat in which 
 all wild fowl are so well accomplished. 
 
 "Try for that white rascal — both of us!" 
 
 As quickly as Bob uttered the words I pulled both 
 triggers of my gun. The firing of our two guns 
 seemed so close that it apparently merged into one 
 report. The big white goose stopped its flight in 
 midair and fell dead not fifteen feet away from the 
 blind. 
 
 "We sure crimped him!" was Bob's well-pleased 
 cry. "We worked the double slam proper on him!" 
 
 "Double slam don't go this time," I said with a 
 smile, as I opened my gun to reload for the next 
 goose and saw no empty shells. "You did all the 
 slamming. Old Timer; for once I got excited and 
 failed to load my gun." 
 
 We encountered the usual lull in goose shooting, 
 but in my mind our kill so far fully recompensed us 
 for our long trip. Then occurred a happening which 
 terminated our sport. Bob espied two incomers, 
 bent straight for our pit, and flying very low. 
 
 68 
 
AFTER CANADIAN HONKERS 
 
 "Let's crumple up them incomers," Bob sug- 
 gested. 
 
 Naturally at once we were on the alert. The two 
 geese maintained their course. A hundred yards. 
 Then fifty. We both fired. 
 
 The momentum of Bob's goose carried it past 
 our place of concealment, where it collapsed like an 
 expanded projectile from a big cannon, right on the 
 back of the talkative hen. It knocked her flat on 
 the ground. My first thought was that she was only 
 stunned. But, as she remained motionless. Bob 
 jumped out of the pit and started to her. 
 
 "There's another bunch coming — get back. Bob!" 
 I cried. 
 
 But the swamper only hurried on until he came to 
 the hen. He took her up in his arms. 
 
 "Come back to the pit!" vehemently I repeated. 
 
 Bob made no answer. 
 
 I turned my eyes from him and watched the geese 
 fly to the west, where banding- the horizon as the 
 sun dipped behind the silhouetted cypress and gums, 
 was a long smear of vermilion. Quickly I turned 
 pleadingly to Bob. I called twice. Then I knew the 
 sport had ended for the day, though he made no 
 reply. I saw a tear drop from his big honest eyes on 
 the back of his little favorite goose. 
 
 69 
 
VIII 
 In the Lair of the Small- Mouths 
 
 "That old timer seemed to know his subject," 
 for the fifteenth time I remarked to myself. Then 
 I counted on my fingers: "One, rattlesnakes; two, 
 copperheads; three, cotton-mouths — our true moc- 
 casins. Those are the only poisonous snakes we 
 have in the Ozark Mountains. For heaven's sake, 
 why do I continue to dwell so long on that snake- 
 hunter's lecture?" 
 
 The evening before my visit to the stream, while 
 waiting for the delayed logging train in a small 
 village, I stumbled into the town hall in an effort to 
 discover a hotel and listened for two hours to an 
 itinerant, tall, slender, bewhiskered old man 
 in his strong Ozark intoning tell all he seemed to 
 know about the poisonous reptiles in the hill coun- 
 try. But why should it all persist in my thoughts, 
 I could not explain. But it did, as all the way to 
 the stream on this glorious morning my mind 
 centered on the old man and his discourse. 
 
 Gai.ning the foot of the last hill I had to achieve, 
 the chant of the dashing river carried luring music 
 to my ears, and a moment later the incense of a 
 spring-nurtured swift waterway so intoxicated this 
 earnest disciple of the divine Sir Izaak that the old 
 man and his snakes were obliterated in my antici- 
 
 70 
 
IN THE LAIR OF THE SMALL-MOUTHS 
 
 pations of the day's sport with those famous Ozark 
 red-eyes. 
 
 Every year since I had first held a fly rod in my 
 hand I had obeyed the call of the stream. It would 
 have been sacrilegious on my part to have done other- 
 wise, so accustomed had I become to my annual 
 pilgrimage after small-mouth bass. And in my mind 
 this river held charms above others within my knowl- 
 edge, for not only the fishing was beyond criticism 
 but at each of its innumerable bends it unfolded 
 scene treats altogether unlike any of the many pre- 
 ceding ones. Cramped between pine-topped, rock- 
 ribbed, massive altitudes the stream apparently 
 fretted continuously over its imprisonment. And 
 it was a river of speed, everywhere in a hurry, and 
 every mile or so it fruitlessly attempted to rip a 
 course through the solid flint rock bluffs. 
 
 Quickly assembling my five-ounce split bamboo 
 fly rod the instant I arrived at the water's edge, I 
 considered a moment my selection of feathered de- 
 ceits. Why should I even hesitate? Each year the 
 first day of June I have invariably dressed the leader 
 with two Babcock flies. And reminiscent thought 
 proved the acceptable urge again. They had acted as 
 killers before, tied on No. 4 hooks. And yet some 
 laughed at my adherence to small hooks, but there 
 is something of the ethical due to the brilliant war- 
 riors of the swift waterways and I pursued my old 
 manner of obeying its dictates. 
 
 "Ugh!" I shuddered, as stepping toward the water 
 while in the act of stripping a small part of the 
 
 71 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 line, a lazy frog-fat, rusty-black cotton-mouth 
 slipped off leisurely from a rotten birch log and 
 disappeared in the clear water. 
 
 This was not an unusual spectacle. For every 
 spring snakes were plentiful. 
 
 Always from where I stood I began working down- 
 stream. If that racing chute had ever failed to 
 produce fish — and whopping ones, too — I could not 
 recall the time. But, like all good things, it had its 
 exactions. Here the river suddenly narrowed be- 
 tween steep red gravel banks that topped the herb- 
 age of the forest. The depth of the water was great 
 — no less in any place than twenty feet for the entire 
 length, which was no less than a half mile. I had, 
 however, discovered that it was feasible to fish it. 
 After careful observation I had found that there was 
 a foot-wide ledge of rock covered by a foot or two 
 of water, that projected along the east bank. By 
 careful attention to how I placed my feet I had been 
 able to fish it during normal stages. Once the ven- 
 ture was made there was no turning back, for an 
 angler had to continue downstream until the ter- 
 mination of the chute. 
 
 For the very reason of its dangers the greater 
 were the charms for the angler. And on this day 
 its promises in the way of bass immediately began 
 to be fulfilled. I landed four scrappy bronze backs 
 before I had proceeded a hundred yards. 
 
 Then that snake subject came up again. Con- 
 ditions were no different than other years. Every 
 fifty yards or so a sunning cotton-mouth plunged 
 
 72 
 
The Lair of the Small Mouths 
 
IN THE LAIR OF THE SMALL-MOUTHS 
 
 from the bank into the water the instant the crea- 
 ture was apprised of my nearness. 
 
 "One, two," I counted aloud. "Were there not 
 more snakes than usual this year?" And talking at 
 the top of my voice was an old habit I had acquired 
 in the wilderness country. 
 
 And just at that instant the old hillbilly professor 
 and his lecture came to mind. I tried to cast the 
 subject from me, but I could not. 
 
 Having progressed about three hundred yards 
 with splendid success, the growing weight of the 
 creel began to press. The space of the underfooting 
 diminished appreciably. Every ten feet I reached 
 up with my left hand, while retaining the rod in my 
 right, I grasped a projecting limb or clump of grass to 
 steady my legs. 
 
 Presently the ledge narrowed to no more than six 
 inches of slime-slippery rock. I grabbed without 
 looking for support. All at once as I touched a clump 
 of grass I felt as though two red-hot needles had 
 been suddenly thrust into the back of my hand and 
 as quickly withdrawn. Then to my horror right 
 from the grass and twining vines a monster moccasin 
 flung himself from the bank, just brushing my 
 back with the repulsive body before he gained the 
 stream. 
 
 "My God!" I gasped, trembling with appre- 
 hension. 
 
 In a moment I gained firmer footing. During 
 that brief time a thousand thoughts came to mind. 
 I had become a coward. I did not dare to examine 
 
 73 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 my hand, for I knew it only had a tale of death to 
 tell. My eyes welled with tears. Then at last I 
 drew my hand from the bank and cast a furtive 
 glance at the offending member. Two small blood- 
 spurting pricks about an inch apart on the back of 
 my hand confirmed a happening which I tried not 
 to believe. The aim of the devilish moccasin had 
 been only too accurate. 
 
 For a brief spell I paused, my entire being atremble 
 with icy fear as the smarting* pain announced my 
 terrible predicament. The first question that came 
 was. How long would I live? 
 
 And then the old hillbilly's words interposed: 
 "After the bite of a cotton-mouth a man can live 
 over two hours without medical attention!" 
 
 "Two hours!" I exclaimed, again regarding the 
 unmistakable imprint of the snake. "Two hours 
 without medical attention, and it is ten miles over 
 the roughest hills to the nearest farm I What chance 
 was there for me?" 
 
 "None!" I admitted. 
 
 Trembling from the unusual seizure of fear, I 
 determined at all hazards to keep on downstream 
 until I had passed the confines of the chute, then 
 hasten across the pine hills in the vain hope of find- 
 ing some native's cabin. 
 
 But, at the realization of my predicament, sud- 
 denly anger had the upperhand. One plan I would 
 follow to the last — I would cheat death somehow, 
 I sneered: 
 
 "What an ideal place for the death of an angler! 
 
 74 
 
IN THE LAIR OF THE SMALL-MOUTHS 
 
 A long sleep — forever in the bosom of the wilder- 
 
 >> 
 ness. 
 
 Presently my anger subsided under the influence 
 of saner contemplation. My case was hopeless. 
 I could feel the gasp of death almost on me. If I 
 could only achieve the passage of the chute. Hope 
 — perhaps? At least I could do no more than try. 
 But in my terror my legs almost lost their strength. 
 Several times I thought I would surely fall into the 
 mad stream as my numbing hand seemed to have no 
 more power to steady my meager progress. Death 
 trailed every inch of my advance, I imagined. I 
 stared at the river, speculating. By the snake or 
 the river — which? 
 
 The river tempted. 
 
 With despair uppermost I released my hold and 
 started to raise both hands aloft for the fatal plunge. 
 All at once my eyes nearly bursted from their sock- 
 ets. A sudden tug on my rod hand came near pre- 
 cipitating me prematurely in the stream. I looked 
 across the chute. A bolt of shimmering, polished 
 bronze flashed for a part of a second over the water, 
 and I beheld a monster small-mouth bass bore for 
 the depths of the river with my fly in its mouth. 
 
 Once more the lust of the angler prevailed. My 
 last fish, I reflected. I would give him battle. One 
 false step in the maneuvering signified death by 
 water. What a fitting scene for a master artist! 
 The setting of pines in mist-purple hills. A 
 raging stream of silver spray. The subject — the man 
 or the fish? 
 
 75 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 I strove to check that fighting monster fish with 
 all the skill at my command, but I failed to turn 
 him. Beads of warm perspiration replaced the cold 
 moistness of fear. Such a bass! Only once in an 
 angler's lifetime does as great an opportunity pre- 
 sent itself. 
 
 Cautiously giving line and recovering it at rare 
 intervals, I gradually worked downstream, all the 
 while the big fellow performing spiral subaqueous 
 plunges and spectacular aerial flights with unbe- 
 lievable rapidity. I fought, taking neither account 
 of time nor distance — only the dangerous under- 
 footing — until I sensed gravel under my feet. I had 
 passed unscathed through the perilous chute and 
 now was at the head of a raging shoal with all the 
 needed fighting room. 
 
 Up and down the shoal I engaged the militant 
 red-eye, until my waning strength urged me to give 
 up the battle. But all at once I experienced an 
 appreciable gain in line. I reeled it in rapidly. 
 
 After a time the big fellow's circles narrowed much; 
 the leaps were shorter and less frequent. But still 
 we fought on, until gaining a placid pool of back- 
 water, exhausted, I coaxed into my landing net 
 the largest small-mouth bass I had ever beheld. 
 
 Again fear prevailed just as prematurely I started 
 to gloat over my conquest. Now my reproachful 
 eyes sought my hand. I stared hard, stared again 
 where the water had washed the wound, and brought 
 it so close as powers of vision would permit. Not 
 the slightest swelling had ensued. Strange! Scruti- 
 
 76 
 
IN THE LAIR OF THE SMALL-MOUTHS 
 
 nizing closely the two minute punctures, I leaped 
 in the fullness of my joy and gave forth whoop after 
 whoop that carried far into the wilderness country. 
 Then I stood, laughed, and with my knife brought 
 forth two tiny spines of green briar. 
 
 Turning to the fish which I had left gasping on 
 the gravel bar, for I could never hope to place such 
 a monster in my creel, I appreciated fully his mas- 
 sive proportions. Again my vision shifted to my 
 hand, then to the conquered warrior. Stopping I 
 took hold of my prize and held him aloft in silent 
 wonderment of his size and beauty. He still kicked 
 bravely. Immediately I strode to the stream and 
 placed him tenderly in the water. 
 
 At first the big fish swam slowly and akwardly 
 until he reached midstream. There he gained speed 
 and suddenly disappeared in the deep water. 
 
 77 
 
IX 
 
 "Jist 'Possums" 
 
 "Hi, Jack!" The call arose from the valley and 
 then repeated more shrilly, "Hi, J-a-c-k!" 
 
 "That's John Wilson," declared Jay, standing on 
 the porch, "he's calling his famous 'possum dog. 
 Let's go 'possum hunting tonight. Doc? John 
 promised to take us." 
 
 "Oh, I'm t-o-o tired," yawned Doc, who liked 
 eating and sleeping after quail hunting more than 
 anything else. 
 
 "Oh, come on. Doc; I'm going to call John. To- 
 morrow is our last day here," said the wiry little 
 Jay, "and before my return East I am bound to 
 have a 'possum hunt." 
 
 At last Doc agreed, and I did likewise. And a 
 moment later John Wilson appeared, accompanied 
 by his son Willie and a diminutive black dog bearing 
 the name of Jack. Wilson was not the best type of 
 hill manhood. He was rather a modified type in- 
 stead, of olive complexion, quite slim, and his hair 
 was the color and texture of an Indian's. His in- 
 evitable companion, his son Willie, had eyes of such 
 faded blue that it took a third conjecture to confirm 
 their color. He was about twelve years old, with 
 hair like yellow rope. Like his father, he placed no 
 great importance on dress. All his clothes seemed 
 
 78 
 
"JIST 'POSSUMS" 
 
 eternally on the point of disclosing the garb in which 
 he entered this world. 
 
 "Poppy," exclaimed Willie, that night looking 
 with contempt on my old reliable black hound, 
 Buster, "thar's gwine to be fun tonight; Jack'll 
 run that ole black hound to death 'nd won't let him 
 find nary a 'possum!" 
 
 "Now y'air a-talkin, Willie," giggled the admiring 
 parent. "Hadn't we'uns better git started now?" 
 
 The supremacy of Jack over any dog in existence 
 long ago had been established in the minds of the 
 two native hunters. To us they spoke little, but 
 prattled continually to themselves, the sole subject 
 being the remarkable Jack. 
 
 We crossed a field, then came into a lengthy 
 thicket of second growths. Already Buster was 
 scouting for game. Jack kept industriously at heel 
 until we reached the thicket and, at the sight of the 
 largest tree, without further ado he bayed with all 
 his might. 
 
 " 'Possum!" cried John. 
 
 " 'Possum," repeated Willie. "Jack's shore got 
 one! 
 
 With our flashlights we shone the tree all over, 
 but were unable to get sight of any eyes. Buster 
 arrived, heard the little dog, smelt the tree know- 
 ingly, then trotted off. Jack persisted. John re- 
 flected a sickly attempt at a smile. Willie blamed 
 Buster. 
 
 Finally Jack seemed to tire of the tree, left it 
 without instructions from his masters and imme- 
 
 79 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 diately bestowed his attentions similarly on an- 
 other. 
 
 "Nuther 'possum!" cried John excitedly. 
 
 "Nuther 'possum!" echoed Willie. "Jack's shore 
 got one!" 
 
 Though the famous little Jack treed five times in 
 succession, like his first, no 'possum could we find, 
 notwithstanding that our searchlight played dili- 
 gently every limb. 
 
 On leaving the fifth tree at a distance we heard 
 Buster bay dolefully three times. Doc, Jay and I 
 agreed simultaneously that Buster had something. 
 John and Willie obdurately denied the possibility 
 of the big fellow finding anything, but they guided 
 us to the tree. Buster bayed at intervals. We 
 discovered him beneath a small elm. The moment 
 the light was shone upward it revealed two small 
 balls of fire. Jack chattered in all the dog language 
 at his command. 
 
 " 'Possum!" John cried once more. 
 
 "Jack's shore treed a 'possum this time!" added 
 Willie. "If we'uns hadn't taken Jack along that 
 ole black houn' never wud found nothin'." 
 
 The older native climbed the tree, soon returning 
 to terra firma holding a small marsupial by the tail. 
 There was the joy of accomplishment in his eyes, 
 as well as those of Willie. To show his sportsman- 
 ship he decided to free the 'possum for another race 
 with the dog or dogs. He placed it on the ground. 
 
 That animal had great objections to any sort of 
 race, though Willie's renowned black kept at a safe 
 
 80 
 
"JIST 'POSSUMS" 
 
 distance. Though the father prodded the 'possum 
 with a stick, he could induce it to no other effort 
 than to remain coiled as though dead. Finally, 
 agreeing that the 'possum had no desire to compete 
 with the dogs, John deposited it in a coarse sack and 
 the dogs went in search of more game. 
 
 Obviously little Jack had obsessions which 
 tempted him into prevarications. He barked at 
 every tree, showing as much evidence of faith in 
 his findings as on his first announcement. Not once 
 did his notes prove truthful. Buster found five, 
 none of which would race after capture, despite John 
 Wilson's liberal applications of a switch on their 
 shoulders. Both he and Willie, however, credited 
 Jack with all the game and seldom acknowledged 
 Buster's presence. 
 
 "S-o-m-e s-p-o-r-t," Doc sleepily confessed. 
 
 "You are right. Doc," at last agreed Jay. "Let's 
 turn in." This was the first time I had ever noted 
 the little Easterner having enough of any sport in 
 so short a time. 
 
 It was at the moment when the unreliable Jack had 
 lied at the fiftieth tree— or perhaps it was the sixtieth 
 — that Buster sounded the loud notes of a strike 
 dog registering a find. Almost at the same instant 
 hot scent was recorded, and old Buster's clarion 
 notes rang clearly across the hills. 
 
 This awakened Doc. 
 
 "My!" he cried, "old Buster's sure got a voice. 
 Darned if it isn't a sight race now, and whatever 
 he is after, he's going some. Red fox!" 
 
 8i 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 "Can't be, Doc," I gave my opinion, "they are 
 going straight for the bottoms, and they have never 
 taken a hill in the circles. It's a coon; that's what 
 it is. It's a coon!" 
 
 "Coon!" echoed John Wilson. 
 
 "Coon!" chorused Willie, as he noticed Jack's 
 chatter a mile in the rear. "Jack's a-givin' him hell, 
 Pappy! He's shore rimnin' Buster to death!" 
 
 If Jack was running the big hound to death, the 
 trail must have led backward, for he never was within 
 hearing distance of the hound. It had, however, 
 developed into a sight race; quick, gasping, half- 
 complete notes came from the ever-driving dog. 
 Nothing could stay on the ground at such speed 
 much longer. This proved to be true, for suddenly 
 Buster's quick tonguing desisted, then three clear, 
 sonorous notes sounded back in our direction. 
 
 "Treed, down in the Lowry bottoms!" exclaimed 
 John. 
 
 "Treed!" Willie joined in, "Jack's made him take 
 one of the big hollow sycamores." 
 
 Willie was correct. The coon was up a sycamore. 
 At once the light proved this, as well as that it was 
 a monster coon. As firearms had been forbidden 
 we had only one thing to do, cut down the tree. It 
 was too large to climb. John and I took turns with 
 the axe. Buster continued to express vocally his 
 interest in the tree, while Jack raced around, bark- 
 ing like mad from Willie's incessant encouragement, 
 "kill him. Jack. Tear him to pieces. Jack!" 
 
 When that tree hit the ground, Jack yelped with 
 
 82 
 
"JIST 'POSSUMS" 
 
 fright and knocked Willie to the ground in his 
 desperate attempt to get away, finally disappearing 
 for the time being in the brush. That tree held 
 terrors for the little dog which even his admirers 
 would not notice. 
 
 A desperate battle ensued between Buster and 
 the big coon. For a while in the darkness it was 
 hard to tell which stood the best chance of emerging 
 victor. But the old timer had had many years ex- 
 perience in coon fighting and finally killed the game 
 animal, not before it had put up a terrific battle 
 and left its marks on the hound. Its coat was of 
 such splendid texture that we presented it to Jay, 
 and several silver coins to the owners of Jack. 
 
 It was past midnight when we returned home. 
 We found Jack reposing comfortably on the porch. 
 Doc was too sleepy for utterance. Jay's time was 
 taken in admiration of the kill, but its actual size 
 was only realized as I opened the kitchen door and 
 turned up the light. John and his son started for 
 the valley. I went to the porch to listen to some 
 note from Buster who had not returned. 
 
 "Come out here. Jay, and listen," I called. 
 
 "That's shore a lot of money, Willie," I heard 
 John say as he doubtless examined his stock of 
 money. 
 
 "That's right. Pappy," replied a voice which I 
 recognized as Willie's, "but we'uns never would 
 a-had hit if Jack hadn't whipped h — 11 outen that 
 coon for Buster!" 
 
 83 
 
X 
 
 With White River Elk 
 
 The only thing of a humorous nature that hap- 
 pened in the White River country came in the way 
 of a misadventure to our host, the peppery Major. 
 In his well meaning efforts to provide the Governor's 
 party with some of the beverage that made Mil- 
 waukee famous he had it brought over the mountains 
 on pack horses. Furthermore, realizing that thirsty 
 throats led to temptation, he hid it outdoors away 
 from the guides and wranglers in a discarded bath 
 tub filled with water. During the night the weather 
 suddenly turned cold. The temperature fell to 
 within a few degrees of zero. 
 
 On the following days the little Major was posi- 
 tively speechless with rage. By building a fire un- 
 derneath the tub he tried to thaw out its contents. 
 Others have tried the same process unsuccessfully 
 in thawing out beer bottles. But the Major could 
 see neither the humorous side nor reap comfort from 
 scientific explanation. He blamed it all on the 
 presence of the guides and wranglers, and seemingly 
 derived some satisfaction from discharging the entire 
 outfit. 
 
 This only left the Major and I for guides and 
 general factotums in the vast hill country. Then, 
 too, there were the guests to appease, no little matter, 
 
 84 
 
WITH WHITE RIVER ELK 
 
 I reflected, for I was well aware of the Major's 
 shortcomings in hunting. His knowledge of the 
 environing mountains was only limited and his in- 
 clinations never prompted him farther than a short 
 walk from his ranch. No one knew why he had 
 isolated himself there, why he had such a tremendous 
 collection of guns, or why always he carried one. 
 No resident had ever seen him shoot or in possession 
 of game that he had killed, but his stock of hunting 
 tales concerning his own accomplishments surpassed 
 anything of a modern baron of the type made famous 
 by Cervantes. 
 
 The Governor's recital of the first day with the 
 Major showed keen disappointment. He doubted 
 the Major's ability as a hunter — at least his modes 
 did not comply with his own as he said the little 
 man paid not the slightest attention to wind, cover, 
 nor the habits of game. Though disgust showed 
 uppermost in the Governor's speech, finally he com- 
 plimented the Major on one gift. No matter where 
 he went, when the occasion for a drink was in 
 evidence immediately he could find a cache of 
 whiskey bottles. And the Governor persisted in 
 saying that was the best exhibition he gave of his 
 hunting proclivities. 
 
 But the Governor concluded his narrative with 
 an explanation due the Major. The latter had 
 stated that the cause of the numerous caches had 
 been entirely due to his inability to conceal any- 
 thing from pilfering employees. 
 
 It was easy to see that the innumerable caches 
 
 85 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 held no lure for the Governor. How he shifted his 
 host's attention to his secretary and drew me next 
 day for the assignment I never knew, but I felt well 
 honored. The chief executive of my State was a 
 sportsman and I was anxious as he that he should 
 not leave the White River country without an elk. 
 
 Snow fell during the night. But the following 
 day was warm and soon under the touch of the sun 
 the snow passed away, leaving the soil, where not 
 too rocky, in a soft condition. We rode into a flat- 
 rock country toward the northwest. At a tiny seep 
 spring we found plenty elk tracks and in one clump 
 of brush they had done considerable milling while 
 browsing. For a time it was easy to follow them, 
 for they bunched together well, rather a convincing 
 proof that no old bulls were there, were not the 
 small tracks sufficient. 
 
 On arriving at a broken rock country, which was 
 more of a series of undulating small hills than 
 typical of the balance of the environments, signs 
 were fresh, as well as numerous. 
 
 Climbing a small hill, I faced a west wind as I 
 peered down in a valley. I saw a fairly large band 
 of elk. Without giving closer scrutiny I returned 
 to the horses and apprised my companion of my 
 discovery. On pointing out the elk to him I noticed 
 there were no old bulls, mostly cows that seemed 
 very adept at circling three young bulls. Even at a 
 distance I could distinguish them from the cows. 
 
 Studying the situation we agreed to circle the 
 small hill tops, doing our utmost to beat wind. At 
 
 86 
 
WITH WHITE RIVER ELK 
 
 the same time both hazarded an opinion that per- 
 haps a little way back in the timber there might be 
 a bull of consequence, that was less willing to ex- 
 pose himself to the full view of onlookers. 
 
 Down on hands and knees we moved slowly. All 
 at once something on the opposite hill seemed to 
 disturb the elk. The band became restless, seemingly 
 at first prompted only with one leading thought, 
 to keep the young bulls encircled by the females. 
 But at last all together they broke into a slow trot, 
 which immediately increased in speed as the roar 
 of an exploded black powder cartridge nearby came 
 to our ears. We saw the clouds of smoke in the 
 timber opposite. The band broke into a disorderly 
 flight toward us. 
 
 We permitted them to pass. Only two young 
 bulls came real close. Their heads were far below 
 the Governor's standard. Again we heard a roar 
 of black powder from the same place, immediately 
 followed by three more shots from the same rifle. 
 Then I beheld a young bull lagging behind the 
 balance but headed for our direction. 
 
 On closer examination we observed simultan- 
 eously that the animal was badly crippled in the 
 left foreleg and could just move. Unlike a white- 
 tailed deer it showed none of the fervid determina- 
 tion to pile on speed until death siezed it. Rather 
 it exhibited a dearth of fear of the presence of man 
 as though it only sought a convenient place to lay 
 down. 
 
 But we never saw the hunter. We watched for 
 
 87 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 his appearance without result. Probably he was 
 some one without a hunting license and, having 
 caught sight of us, judged us to be officers and made 
 his getaway. 
 
 Closer the crippled bull came to us. At once we 
 observed that the front leg was broken. He was 
 walking on three legs, the fourth dangling pitifully 
 at his side. I looked for advice to the Governor. 
 He put his hand before his eyes. The sight was too 
 much for him. The animal was suffering intensely. 
 I have never picked on unsophisticated young bulls, 
 but mine was an act of mercy when I terminated 
 his misery with a .303. 
 
 On examining the young bull we found the leg 
 had been broken in two places about six inches 
 apart. In the shoulder was lodged a large caliber 
 bullet, such as some of the old model black powder 
 rifles functioned. 
 
 The Major and the secretary were jubilant at 
 what they were pleased to term our success. It was 
 meat at least, and both showed that they had faith- 
 fully hunted the Major's caches and obviously had 
 found them. As for ourselves we were not a bit 
 proud of our achievement. I do not think either 
 one of us — though the Major strove his utmost to 
 entertain — could efface the persisting picture of the 
 crippled young bull. 
 
 Faithfully I promised the Governor a big bull 
 worthy of his prowess, with antlers that would 
 prove acceptable. For five days I failed, and late 
 the evening of the sixth we trailed a big track from 
 
The End of the Quest 
 
WITH WHITE RIVER ELK 
 
 a seep spring up into a very broken rock country, 
 when darkness overtook us. 
 
 "We will find him early tomorrow morning layin' 
 on one of those side hills!" I prophesied. 
 
 The Governor made no response. But the twinkle 
 in his eye showed he was extremely optimistic and 
 had so much faith as I in our chances for success the 
 following day. 
 
 Long before day we were enroute to the place 
 where we gave up the trail the night previous. 
 Tying our horses to two sturdy saplings, we pro- 
 ceeded up a valley, then rested on a hillslope which 
 was a splendid shelter from the north wind. 
 
 Day had scarcely topped the eastern peaks when we 
 discovered the bull had passed the night before over 
 the hill on which we were resting. Once in a while 
 the impress was visible when the rocks were less 
 frequent and the tawny sedge grass yielded to the 
 weight of the monster. Finally as the sun began to 
 show in full splender we lost the trail in the middle 
 of a small valley, flanked on both sides with sloping 
 flat-rock hills, yellow and dark tan here and there 
 with the ubiquitous sedge grass. We did our best 
 to pick up the trail, but failed. 
 
 By mere accident I happened to search the east 
 slope of the large hill to our left. Perhaps it was 
 only intuition that urged me to look more carefully. 
 Suddenly I stood still and stared, unbelieving. In 
 a patch of sedge and stunted oaks, seemingly blended 
 well with the surroundings, yet there was something 
 there that caused me to drop to the ground and give 
 
 89 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 my eyes further exercise. The Governor did like- 
 wise. He could see nothing unusual. 
 
 At first I doubted my eyes, but more careful at- 
 tention proved their truthfulness. 
 
 "Keep down!" I whispered in excitement. 
 
 "See anything?" murmured the chief executive 
 of one of the largest States in the Union. 
 
 "Don't you?" 
 
 "Not— a— thing!" 
 
 "Try again," I assured him in the lowest tones 
 at my command. 
 
 "Not a d — m thing can I see!" irreverently con- 
 fessed my companion. 
 
 "God — Look! Right between those twisted trees. 
 Don't move! 
 
 "Not — a — thing — can — I — see," the Governor 
 slowly admitted. 
 
 "Why, Governor! The biggest elk I ever saw is 
 lying in that patch of sedge grass between them. 
 See his head move a little?" 
 
 "No. Where?" 
 
 "My God, man, haven't you any eyes? He's a 
 monster! He's winding us now!" 
 
 But, though I strove to point out the big elk, the 
 Governor was unable to locate him. Strange, too, 
 for usually he had a mighty fine pair of woods' 
 eyes. And, even when that massive creature arose 
 and stood in all his glorious majesty facing the east- 
 ern sun, the Governor could not see him, so well had 
 blending coloration deceived him. 
 
 For an instant the monster bull gazed hard toward 
 
 90 
 
WITH WHITE RIVER ELK 
 
 the east, a veritable picture of the monarch of the 
 wilds. Then, still glancing in the same direction, 
 cautiously he proceeded up the slope, all the while 
 his massive head feeling the east for danger. 
 
 "There! There! See him? Now!" I cried, "get 
 him before he steps into the cover!" 
 
 "Where? — " Then all at once the Governor dis- 
 covered the bull. But the animal had observed our 
 movements and broke for the cover in his rear. 
 
 Three times the Governor's old lever action spite- 
 fully whined its familiar note. Three times I thought 
 he missed; and also was on the point of losing my 
 sense of propriety by upbraiding him, when his fourth 
 shot rang out through the hills. 
 
 I thought I could almost hear the impact of the 
 bullet on the elk's side at the instant when he seemed 
 to merge with the dark background. But he stopped 
 all at once, throwing his head forward as though 
 to dash toward us. But he suddenly dropped like 
 a falling tree in a big patch of sedge. 
 
 Out of breath from scaling the height at unac- 
 customed speed, we found the big bull dead. When 
 able to talk coherently, I congratulated the Governor, 
 for all four bullets had lodged not eight inches apart, 
 making four gory holes around the region of the 
 big creature's heart. 
 
 91 
 
XI 
 
 My Pet, the Woodcock 
 
 Since a boy these little brown birds have held 
 my interest. I can recall my first kill and my hunt- 
 ing grounds. Though entirely separated now from 
 the old scenes, they live as if I saw them only yester- 
 day. In late years my love for the sagacious looking 
 fellows made me desist from shooting so much as 
 in former years, but where I know them best their 
 numbers seem never to diminish. 
 
 Many friends I have had among woodcock. I 
 can scarcely recall a year in which I have not made 
 myself familiar with a few and felt strong regrets 
 when the call of the warm South lured them away 
 from my frequenting grounds. The covers seem 
 desolate and without charm when they are away, 
 despite the fact that they form hiding places for 
 other wild creatures during the absence of the wood- 
 cocks. 
 
 My first pets came to me unheralded. What 
 became of the parents I never knew. I found them 
 close to my garden in some mayapple cover, where 
 they stood staring at me unsuspiciously. I waited 
 the longest time for the arrival of either mother or 
 father woodcock, but they never came. And, as 
 the youngsters showed no disinclination to permit 
 my approach, I picked them up and carried them 
 
 92 
 
MY PET, THE WOODCOCK 
 
 home with the greatest care. They were queer little 
 fellows — all bill and all appetite. If there is any- 
 animal in the world the weight of a young woodcock 
 that can eat one tenth as much, it has never been 
 within the scope of my investigations. 
 
 From the first hour I adopted these fellows they 
 acquired the eating habit. They could stow away 
 as many worms as I could dig, and then cast a wistful 
 look for more. Many times after I thought I had 
 surfeited them with their favorite food, I discovered 
 them in the garden storing away cutworms as 
 avidly as though they had not had a bite for days. 
 Notwithstanding that they were reared in the wild- 
 est environment, they exhibited no desire to leave, 
 even after they could fly well. The farthest they 
 ever went from our front yard was to a small pond 
 near by, which was well covered by tangles of briar 
 and buckbrush. They enjoyed themselves there 
 during the warm part of the day, and generally 
 indulged in a siesta for several hours under the 
 shadows of the bonnet leaves that grew close to 
 the water. 
 
 About four o'clock Tom and Jerry, as we called 
 the pair, turned up and proceeded on their inevitable 
 slow round through the garden after cutworms 
 among the pea vines. I could pick them up any- 
 where, and they liked very much to be petted. But 
 still I have a lingering belief that they appreciated 
 my attentions more when I had a big supply of 
 worms in my hands. 
 
 I became so devoted to my sagacious looking pair 
 
 93 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 that I watched over them with as much care as a 
 mother gives her youngest. If attendance on Tom 
 and Jerry took me away from other duties, always 
 I felt well repaid at night when they came to the 
 porch and sought my caresses before roosting in 
 their little enclosure. 
 
 Perhaps I will never look over a good woodcock 
 cover without thinking of Tom and Jerry, for their 
 departure was as unexpected as their arrival near 
 my home. A number of woodcocks dropped into 
 the thicket near my quarters late that fall. Tom 
 and Jerry, like domesticated woodcocks should, for 
 several days held themselves aloof from their wild 
 cousins. Just after the first heavy frost, I went in 
 search of the wild fellows. They were not there. 
 I had heard no gunners in the neighborhood, but 
 I am sure they enticed my little friends away, for 
 I never saw them again. 
 
 For a while the loss of Tom and Jerry was for- 
 gotten in another woodcock. One spring day I 
 found him under a mayapple plant close to a lazy 
 little creek that coursed through a meadow. From 
 the first day I classified him as a bachelor, and I 
 still adhere to the correctness of my classification. 
 From the first day in spring that I saw him never 
 was he seen with another of his kind. His deport- 
 ment in this respect remained the same until he 
 left for a trip South the following fall. 
 
 At first he was not easy to get acquainted with. 
 But I was persistent. I watched him day after day 
 in his sodden lair until he began to realize that al- 
 
 94 
 
MY PET, THE WOODCOCK 
 
 together I was rather a harmless creature. At first 
 he began to feed, but if I made the slightest move- 
 ment he retreated to his lair and waited at least 
 ten minutes, standing as still as a statue, until again 
 he dared venture forth. Later I began to place 
 worms close to where I had been. Then, soon he 
 began partaking of the delicacies, if I moved back a 
 little. It did not take long for him to associate my 
 presence with worms, and in a month's time I could 
 place my hand on him. Within two months he 
 permitted me to pick him up, but never until I had 
 shown evidence of a copious stock of earth worms 
 in my possession. The way to a man's affection is 
 through his stomach: the same with a woodcock. 
 
 But my bachelor was as fickle in his affections as 
 Tom and Jerry. He did not wait for company, but 
 the first frost in fall he was off, perhaps as ever 
 pursuing his life as a celibate. 
 
 My new woodcock grounds are anything but like 
 what the naturalist tells you is their favorite habitat. 
 It is up in a heavily timbered hill country, studded 
 with various hardwoods, and covers of sumac, hazel 
 and defying spinuous vines. The soil is moist — 
 what there is of it. But the woodcock must seek 
 arduously for his diet, for the ground is mostly cov- 
 ered with broken flint rock. My, the numbers that 
 are there are almost beyond belief! They are in 
 hundreds, and in a place where man is sure not to 
 molest them! They are friendly woodcock, too, 
 if one will only take the time and lives there long 
 enough to encou^^age confidence. 
 
 95 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 Last spring I went there, determined to adopt 
 another Tom and Jerry. After I became one of the 
 family I changed my mind. I could never hope to 
 procure enough worms for that band of brown fel- 
 lows. With me they were very much against famili- 
 arity for a long time. But I frequented their grounds 
 day after day and they soon regarded me as only a 
 harmless bird lover. But as much as they would 
 permit my approach alone, never would they stand 
 for the presence of a companion. I tried it several 
 times. Each time I was unsuccessful. While they 
 would not fly away, they would run wirh all their 
 might and secrete themselves until the other human 
 had departed. 
 
 Last fall I began to forget the effect that Tom and 
 Jerry had once upon me. I heard of woodcocks in 
 the neighborhood, and with gun and dog went in 
 search of them. In a small thicket of sumac the old 
 pointer froze stifly in recognition of game. Two 
 birds flushed. A good, easy chance for a double. I 
 lined the sight on one, then shifted it quickly to the 
 other. Then I fired the gun way over my bird, in 
 a sudden desire to miss, as suddenly I heard the 
 crisping whistle of the two birds simultaneously. 
 To this day I vow I heard the voices of Tom and 
 Jerry. 
 
 96 
 
XII 
 No Feud 
 
 How A Famous Foxhound Brought Peace and 
 
 Forgiveness to Murderous Hill 
 
 Men of the Ozarks 
 
 All morning, from his bed of saffron black-oak 
 leaves. Grip observed with contempt the home- 
 coming of Tom Breathwaite's pack of foxhounds. 
 Ever since sunrise they had arrived in pairs and 
 trios, sore-footed, hollow-stomached, red-eyed — ex- 
 hibiting the inevitable dejection of dogs for whom the 
 race had been too strenuous. From most of them 
 the early call of the Ozarker's horn had brought 
 no response. The killing race of the night previous 
 had robbed them of both strength and ambition. 
 
 Two hours before the finish of the race, nineteen 
 dogs out of the pack of twenty had dropped out. 
 Gritty to the limit they had hung on to the trail as 
 far as Nature permitted. But the swiftness of the 
 fox had been so accelerated by the great speed of the 
 lead dog, Grip, that long before day the tonal striv- 
 ings of the pack had dwindled to the vibrant, bell- 
 like notes of a single dog. 
 
 And yet Grip held on tenaciously to the trail. His 
 big feet heeded not the inflictions of the sharp flint 
 rocks; the muscles of flexible steel showed no fa- 
 
 97 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 tigue. The great heart of the big black and tan 
 Walker hound beat happily. 
 
 Even to Tom Breathwaite, mountaineer — tall, 
 pale-eyed, and as hardy to the exigencies of the sport 
 as the lead hound he owned — the race had been a 
 trying one. No red fox within his memory had ever 
 taken such long circles and unexpected diverging 
 cuts across the mountains, to the extent that for 
 some time he felt the race as impossible of termi- 
 nating in favor of the dogs. When at times it was 
 hottest and promised to end, that wily red changed 
 tactics and threw off all the pack except the big 
 hound, Grip. 
 
 Persevering, leech-like, determined — actually rev- 
 eling in the punishment of the cruel going — Grip 
 pursued across Bagamah Mountain, down into the 
 valley of Gooseneck, up among the pine-crested 
 craggy summit of Hargis, back over the same coun- 
 try, and then abruptly thru the broken-rock areas 
 of Bog Hollow. 
 
 Now the Red — tho a moment before he felt that 
 he could run the big dog off his feet, as he had the 
 other nineteen hounds — began to realize his danger. 
 Purposely he drew the big dog to Hargis Mountain, 
 sensing that the chaos of rock would effect his un- 
 doing. But the hound's voice showed he was getting 
 closer, and there was nothing in it of tremulousness 
 or of incoherency to indicate extra effort. Imme- 
 diately the red concluded he had hazarded too long 
 a circle. He was tiring rapidly. Could that big 
 hound hang on forever? At that instant it struck 
 
 98 
 
NO FEUD 
 
 him that the distance from the place he had selected 
 to hole was at least four miles. He flung his blood- 
 hot tawny muzzle to the east, scenting the cool 
 approach of morning. That was why he crossed a 
 big rough hill — ^jumping from boulder to boulder and 
 quickly shortening his half-achieved circle — on down 
 into Bog Hollow; as from there to Phillip's Blufi^ 
 was but a brief run, leaving him after that a straight 
 unobstacled run of a half mile. 
 
 Conqueror tho he was of nineteen fast foxhounds, 
 the red had underestimated the endurance and 
 swiftness of the last remaining dog of the pack. 
 Momentarily Grip's notes were somewhat muffled 
 by intervening altitudes. But as the red gained the 
 level top of Phillip's Bluff, Grip sounded menac- 
 ingly on his trail. Now the race was a sight race — 
 Grip coming fast at incredible speed and absolutely 
 determined to make the kill. That fox accomplished 
 prodigies in speed. The hound surpassed him. The 
 last dash of the fox for his objective availed 
 him nothing. Ten feet from the boulder which 
 hid his den above Current River, Grip caught 
 the game, foam-flecked little animal and killed it 
 ir^stantly. 
 
 Fifteen minutes later Tom Breathwaite rode on 
 the scene. His saddle-horse reeked with fetid 
 lather of profuse sweating. Its legs trembled. 
 Tough little mountain horse that it was, it was evi- 
 dent it could no longer bear the weight of its master. 
 The lanky Ozarker quickly dismounted, took off 
 bridle and saddle, and gave the horse its liberty. 
 
 99 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 Then, kneeling on the frost stricken ground, he drew 
 the hound's head close to his own and exclaimed: 
 "Gee, Grip! you sho' air sum dawg!" 
 
 ^ :^ ^ :i: ^ ^ ^ 
 
 Again, later in the day, Breathwaite made the 
 same exclamation. At his home he found Grip 
 curled up in a bed of leaves against the south side 
 of the smoke-house. At his presence the dog bounded 
 to his feet, then stretched from hind leg to fore leg, 
 and ejaculated a peculiar sound, which is con- 
 strued by dog lovers as an expression of pleasure. 
 Tho Breathwaite eyed the dog critically, there was 
 no evidence of strain or wear from the great race. 
 Picking up the feet one by one, they shrank none at 
 the pressing of the big brown forefinger. Then, when 
 the Ozarker dropped the examination, his pale eyes 
 glinted with boundless affection and self-satisfied 
 appraisal. 
 
 "Grip, old boy," he commented, "youse air sho' 
 a whoppin' houn'! Youse kin outrun ennything in 
 the hills. Wide-chested, high in front, low behind, 
 big-boned, t'aint nary a wonder youse kerries your 
 big weight as if youse never had enny!" 
 
 "Hey thar, Tom!" A voice unmistakably ad- 
 dicted to the Ozark nasal twang called from the road 
 in front of Breathwaite's cabin. 
 
 "Howdy, Jabe. Come and stay a while," drawled 
 Tom in answer, while speculating fast on what might 
 have brought Jabe Hancock from Bee Rock. Jabe 
 was an old friend of Tom's. 
 
 The visitor was a small, dark, little man, garbed 
 
 100 
 
NO FEUD 
 
 in well-worn clothes, which at an earlier period might 
 have been of any color but their present one. Strag- 
 gling, long, stiff, gray-black hair protruded thru a 
 slit or tear in his hat, as tho the aperture had been 
 purposely contrived for its accommodation. Jabe 
 rode a small flea-bitten gray mule thru the gap in 
 the yard fence, by which Tom's range animals came 
 up to the cabin for a taste of salt or an occasional 
 meager feed of corn. Dismounting, he took off bridle 
 and saddle, and gave no further attention to his 
 mount. 
 
 "Some dawg — hain't he?" Breathwaite began, as 
 he saw Jabe's eyes linger admiringly on Grip. Then 
 his eyes shifted to Jabe. "What the hell's the matter, 
 Jabe? Something a-doin' aroun' Bee Rock? Mc- 
 Intyres?" 
 
 "Yep," nodded the little hill man enigmatically. 
 
 "Well?" demanded Breathwaite. "Let's go in the 
 house." 
 
 Together they entered the two-room log cabin. 
 Two separate houses had once been built — single 
 room affairs — now unified into one structure thru 
 the medium of a roofed porch. The room which 
 Tom selected contained a generous fireplace, a single 
 bed and two rough hickory chairs — all achievements 
 of the owner's tools. The few adornments on the 
 wall were confined to a hunting horn, shotgun, a 
 riding bridle, and a well-cared-for modern rifle. 
 
 "Wall," Jabe narrated, after he had dexterously 
 expectorated on the tiny flames issuing from a 
 smouldering black oak log, and had accepted a chair 
 
 lOI 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 from Breathwaite. "Cash Mclntyre kilt your own 
 brother, Polk, up near Bee Rock, jist after they'd 
 fit a while over school meetin'. Cash started home 
 fust. Breshed Polk near Big Crick. Put a .303 clear 
 thru his chest!" 
 
 "And did — " Breathwaite started to ask without 
 emotion. 
 
 "Jist lissen a minute, man!" Jabe interposed, 
 and then narrated: "Kizzie, Polk's woman, heerd all 
 erbout hit righterway. She put four buckshot inter 
 Cash's forehaid! She went to his home. When Cash 
 heered her a-callin' he cum to the doah to see who 
 hit wuz." 
 
 At this juncture the Bee Rock courier paused to 
 ascertain the effect his news had on Breathwaite. 
 He could distinguish the face paling, despite its 
 coat of tan. The jaws thrust forward menacingly. 
 Then Sam arose from his chair, and stared for a 
 while at the fire. 
 
 "Go on, Jabe! I'm a-lis'nin'," Breathwaite said — 
 a new light showing in the former expressionless face. 
 
 "When the news got erbout in the hills Sam Mc- 
 lntyre lit out," Jabe continued. "Sam 'lowed he 
 wuz boun' for his cabin erbout Bagamah Mountain. 
 He had a rifle with him, and he sho' had a chanct to 
 git Keener Richmond, Kizzie's brother. Keener 
 didn't have a thing to shoot with — nary a thing but 
 his hands for to fight with. But Sam didn't do a 
 thing erbout hit, and, tho he struck up Keener, he 
 jist sed he wuz gwine to git outen the country, and 
 for Keener to hike home. My! think of Mclntyre 
 
 102 
 
NO FEUD 
 
 a-sayin' that! He actually said he wah'nt a-goin' to 
 stain his hands with no blood. He had nothin' agen 
 nobody. Ther'd bin too much blood spilt already. 
 I recken he don't ricollect he's a Mclntyre, if he is 
 the las' one a-livin'!" 
 
 "He won't be the last Mclntyre long!" exploded 
 the tall Ozarker. "I'm the last of the Breathwaites. 
 Polk had nary a kid. Jabe, take care of my shack 
 for a day or two. Feed Grip well — and the rest of 
 the dawgs. No use a-feedin' stock while there's 
 some range left. But be sho' and don't forget Grip. 
 Mind that, now!" 
 
 Without another word Breathwaite took his 
 Savage rifle from its repository of half-green un- 
 barked hickory pegs above the fireplace, worked 
 the well-oiled action with the lever back and forth, 
 and then filled the magazine with its quota of ugly 
 bottle-shaped, soft-nosed cartridges. 
 
 A moment later, from the roadway door, Jabe 
 
 beheld the Ozarker disappear into a clump of second 
 
 growth bull pines. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Perhaps it was the early urge of hunger or the 
 inevitable promptings of his strain that brought to 
 Grip a feeling of restlessness. In the faint moon- 
 light that was giving precedence to steel-gray bands 
 of luminance in the east, he perceived his associates 
 scattered around the yard. They slept well. The 
 effects of the memorable fox hunt still held them 
 motionless. Neither approaching day nor the har- 
 rowing ululations of a gray timber wolf, in a deaden- 
 
 103 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 ing on the slope of Kelley Bluff, could stir them to 
 activity. 
 
 Grip scented the frost-laden air, rolled over, 
 stretched, got to his feet, shook himself and stretched 
 again; then trotted, head high, out of the yard for 
 the woods. A day of inactivity had been too trying. 
 Today he would satiate his self-hunting instinct. 
 At first he cared little about what object he would 
 pursue. Anything that caused his limbs fast action 
 would do. He was not aware that it was a century 
 of careful breeding that was acting as compelling 
 force. He knew, however, that he must hunt or 
 undergo a restless day at the mountain home. As a 
 stimulant he started a swamp rabbit amidst elbow 
 brush in a soggy sink of the hills, permitted it to 
 race ahead for a while; then, presently realizing the 
 chase was beneath his dignity, killed it and devoured 
 a small part. His master never would have per- 
 mitted this. Grip knew Breathwaite regarded no 
 other chase than that of the fox as compatible with 
 one of his blood, barring now and then a too bold 
 timber wolf. But today was a day of his own de- 
 signing, and he decided to make the most of it. Also 
 he wished very much to appease an almost uncon- 
 trollable desire to chase deer. This, too, his master 
 had always ruled against, tho not thru any par- 
 ticular qualms of sportsmanship. Deer were numer- 
 ous, and, were dogs permitted to run them, the best 
 planned fox hunt would terminate in a deer race. 
 Grip had to conform to his master's will — despite 
 instinct crying madly and continuously for a run 
 
 104 
 
NO FEUD 
 
 after a swift, strong scented deer. Grip was positive 
 his master was away. So he made no effort to trail 
 him, as a village pot licker might have done. 
 
 For some time the big hound cold trailed a deer. 
 But this slow work did not appeal — it might neces- 
 sitate hours to start it from its bed. Several cold 
 trails he followed, relinquishing them in disgust. 
 As well as a drive dog, he was a peerless strike dog 
 ■ — a veritable scout. No more cold trailing for him. 
 Now he was going to range wide, and chance start- 
 ing a white-tail from its bed. Instinct, sharpened 
 by self-hunting and scouting for foxes, announced 
 the proper place. In November, just after the 
 travail of rutting, the old bucks liked to lay up in 
 the rough, inaccessible places during the day. 
 
 Trotting up the draw toward the south end of 
 Gunn Bluff, head and flag well up as customary, 
 just as he invaded the roughest brake of the country 
 the longed-for scent came strongly from the stunted 
 sumacs. Suddenly with increased vigor the west 
 wind forced instant recognition. At once Grip 
 bellowed forth to the wilds his insuperable joy. A 
 large buck broke into a series of spectacular bounds 
 from amidst the gray-lichened boulders, sumac, 
 hazel and tall plume-like yellow sedge grass. Tho 
 unable to see the quarry, the hound knew of its 
 presence. A few agile jumps brought him to the 
 buck's bed. Then the race was on! 
 
 At night Tom Breathwaite camped some distance 
 from his home. Here Current River pursued its 
 
 105 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 mad course. It is a river crystal clear, of contin- 
 uous fast water, quick, treacherous bends, innumer- 
 able long rapids, and swift chattering shoals. That 
 day the mountaineer had no expectation of finding 
 Sam Mclntyre. When he arose the next morning 
 he went to the woods, killed two gray squirrels, 
 cooked them over a driftwood fire, and after eating 
 pressed into service a gentle range horse to carry 
 him across a ford to the west side. Later he met a 
 native, who paddled him downstream a number of 
 miles. After deciding to pursue his course on foot, 
 he left the boat. This was done thru a desire for 
 self-preservation. In the undergrowth on either side 
 Mclntyre might be hiding. Notwithstanding his 
 enemy's treatment of Keener Richmond, and his 
 subsequent declaration to that individual, Sam was 
 his born feud enemy. He had no other belief than 
 a persisting one that Sam would try to kill him at 
 sight. Breathwaite had no desire, brave tho he was 
 to rashness, to furnish Sam the opportunity. So he 
 was endeavoring to execute plans he had formu- 
 lated for just the reverse. 
 
 As day wore on the Ozarker hugged the cover, 
 resting now and then as the mood seized him. Ac- 
 customed as he was to being alone, he had formed 
 the habit of talking to himself. Presently his 
 thoughts wandered from Mclntyre to Grip. The 
 environments were reminiscent of the great race of 
 two days ago after the red. 
 
 "Some dawg, Grip! I sho' say, he's sojne dawg!" 
 he remarked in a voice only audible to himself. 
 
 io6 
 
NO FEUD 
 
 Then his thoughts abruptly reverted to the old feud. 
 "I'll ketch Sam somewhere twixt Gooseneck and 
 Bagamah. If I do, all this hyar Mclntyre business 
 will end right there. I reckon hit'll be a good thing, 
 anyway. Breathwaites cain't live — no use a-talkin' 
 —while there's a polecat of a Mclntyre left!" 
 
 Far in the east from the direction of pine-backed 
 Gunn Bluff he recognized the half audible notes of 
 a running hound. The notes were fast — chattering 
 fast. 
 
 "Hit's a durn good thing I never let Grip run 
 deer," he commented. 'Tf-I had he wouldn't a been 
 worth a torn 'possum hide for fox huntin'!" 
 
 The hound's voice — even at that distance away 
 — was remarkably similar to Grip's. All the moun- 
 taineer's love for the dog instantly overwhelmed 
 other emotions. Never had he craved human com- 
 panionship. The opposite sex had never appealed 
 in the least. Women were all right for some— but 
 mostly got men in trouble. As for dogs; "They 
 sure air always friends," he would have said. His 
 needs were few; the small farm exacted little physi- 
 cal effort. Open range furnished most of the food 
 for his livestock. He had sought the retreat far 
 back in the hills solely to indulge in his love for the 
 chase. Dogs — Grip — had supplanted affection for 
 humans. His quest for Mclntyre was partly au- 
 tomatic, like his dog's self-hunting — blood respond- 
 ing to blood type in years of breeding. 
 
 And now Mclntyre was entirely forgotten. That 
 hound was not fox hunting, but pushing a deer at 
 
 107 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 a tremendous pace! "He's sho' a-makin' that deer 
 hotfoot some, I'm a-thinkin'!" the Ozarker declared 
 enthusiastically. Then the race almost immedi- 
 ately drew near the river. 
 
 "By Gawd, hit's Grip!" he shouted aloud. 
 "Whoopee, Whoopee, boy! Whoopee! Sure's enny- 
 thing. Grip's after that big eleven p'int buck, and 
 he's aheadin' for McGonigal's Failure!" 
 
 Even in his excitement his devotion to the ethics 
 of fox hunting did not desert him entirely. The 
 famous deer crossing at McGonigal's Failure was 
 well known to him. At the head of that treacher- 
 ous rapid hundreds of times slim-legged deer had 
 baffled hounds. Tho under no condition would he 
 kill the deer, he was determined to be a spectator. 
 Were he to kill the deer, not only would Grip's fu- 
 ture as a fox dog be in jeopardy, but he might pos- 
 sibly announce his presence to his enemy. Sam was 
 well acquainted with the bark of his Savage. 
 
 Down thru a small bottom came the deer — hotly, 
 sternly pursued by the big chanting hound. The 
 deer ran along the steep bank a few yards down- 
 stream; then, tossing its head back defiantly, it 
 gracefully leaped to the stream — taking the water a 
 short distance above the rapid. It angled consider- 
 ably upstream until it reached breast-deep water. 
 Then, a pace further, and only the sharp-pointed 
 muzzle and antlers were observable. 
 
 Only a rod or so behind. Grip burst into sight — 
 in happy, vibrant staccato drive song. The brush 
 
 io8 
 
NO FEUD 
 
 had partly concealed the movements of the deer. 
 Tho he had no fear of the current, the dog ran down- 
 stream to discover if the buck had resorted to any 
 deceits of its kind, such as simulating taking to 
 the water as if to cross, but returning to the same 
 bank. About twenty yards below the river is at 
 its greatest frenzy — the entire current beating 
 frantically and incessantly against the east bank. 
 For a fleeting second Grip surveyed the river — 
 instantly distinguished the swimming quarry — and 
 announced his enthusiasm. He jumped into the 
 water, but his chant changed to a howl of pain. In 
 a tiny pocket of backwater along the yellow gravel 
 bank his right forepaw touched the pan of a mink 
 trap, and it closed on it viciously. 
 
 In a single bound, urged by mingled anger and 
 pain, he exerted all the strength at his command. 
 The root to which the trap chain was fastened gave 
 way, but the trap held. Grip fell backward into 
 the rushing water. With one mighty sweep it sucked 
 him down. As he rose to the surface his figure 
 righted, but the unyielding water flung him like a 
 dry leaf midstream. 
 
 Tho hampered by the trap, Grip's attempt at 
 swimming was fairly successful. Continuing in the 
 course the current propelled him, he approached 
 midstream, close to one of those many semi-sub- 
 merged oak trees which are constant menaces to 
 swift waterways. By some inexplicable means the 
 trap chain became entangled in a projecting limb, 
 
 109 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 and interfered with Grip's progress. Here the water 
 ripped by at an amazing gait. The dog was a help- 
 less prisoner. Now the water flung him against the 
 tree, but as he attempted to climb the slippery trunk, 
 the restrictions of the chain prevented. The dog 
 whimpered some as the pain from the trap increased, 
 but the current mockingly tossed him back with 
 almost rhythmic precision. Again and again Grip 
 struggled against the cruel conditions, the water, 
 seemingly instilled by another mood, ducked his 
 head repeatedly until his cry became almost in- 
 audible. 
 
 "Grip's in a mink trap!" exclaimed the moun- 
 taineer, straining eye and ear for action and sound. 
 "Gawd help the man that sot hit, if I ever ketch 
 him!" 
 
 Tom Breathwaite was at least a fourth of a mile 
 from his pet — no boat within sight; no possibility 
 of succoring him. For half a mile a swift, unfordable 
 cut-off effectively barred him from the river. Any 
 effort in that direction would only delay. He ran 
 downstream thru the tangle of hazel and sawbriars, 
 sensing a cold wave of despair as he now and then 
 caught sight of the cruel water beating the life out 
 of his dog. He had given up hope — almost^ There 
 was no chance of his ever reaching Grip in time. 
 Grip. Grip! the only creature he had ever loved! 
 Even the feud lust died in him at the thought of the 
 animal's predicament. 
 
 To Breathwaite it appeared as tho Grip was being 
 
 I 10 
 
NO FEUD 
 
 pounded into the water for the last thne. He closed 
 his eyes to hide the spectacle. The dog's muffled 
 cries had ceased. Then suddenly — in amazement — 
 he saw a tall mountaineer step out into view from 
 the willows nearby — no doubt having been attracted 
 by the dog's struggle. The man, with one swift 
 glance over the scene, threw down his rifle on the 
 bar, and deliberately waded to Grip's assistance. 
 
 The mad current was in no humor to loose its 
 victim thru the interference of a mere man. For a 
 while it spun him around in a circle; then it carried 
 him below the tree like a feather in a gale — finally 
 flinging him impotent on the gravel bar. Again and 
 again the man strove pluckily to efi'ect the rescue 
 of Grip, but each time, as before, he was carried 
 beyond his goal, until seemingly he had no longer 
 the strength to persevere longer. 
 
 Presently — conscious that such efforts were un- 
 availing — with what little strength was left to him 
 he dragged his tired body to the bar, and tho too 
 weakened to stand, he crawled slowly on his hands 
 and knees far upstream above the dog. For only 
 a second or two he rested — all the while eyeing the 
 stream. Then he took the water. His generalship 
 was perfect. The race of water bore him directly 
 to the tree. Extending a bare, brown, wet hand — 
 steadying himself with a single hand — he reached 
 down and released the obstructed trap chain. 
 
 When Breathwaite finally arrived at the termi- 
 nation of the rapid he found Grip's recuer on the 
 
 III 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 bar, face downward, and in a half-unconscious state. 
 Heedless of the manacled foot Grip licked the cold 
 hands. 
 
 That night by a roaring fire — throwing sparks 
 aloft into the tops of the tallest bull pines and tre- 
 mendous luminance far down into the last reaches 
 of McGonigaFs — Grip stared at his master, whose 
 arm rested affectionately on his rescuer's shoulder. 
 For a while all was silent, except the petulant snap- 
 ping of the green pine fire. 
 
 "That sho' is some dawg," Breathwaite finally 
 said, in his soft drawl. 
 
 "He looks almost as tho he could talk," replied 
 his companion, in unaffected admiration of the big 
 hound. 
 
 "He's got the sense, Sam, even if he cain't talk," 
 declared Breathwaite, with no little vehemence. 
 "But, if he could right now he'd be a-saying I wuz 
 a durned old fool if 1 didn't go up to Bee Rock and 
 lick the fust man that said there wuz a feud twixt 
 me and Sam Mclntyre!" 
 
 I 12 
 
XIII 
 Southern Bear Hunting 
 
 Association is the cause of many things, and I 
 think that the reason I began to consider the South- 
 ern black bear as a sporting proposition was entirely 
 due from the daily conversation I heard on the sub- 
 ject, and the infrequent signs I met up with in the 
 swamps of Little and St. Francis Rivers. Perhaps 
 I would have gotten into the game earlier, had I 
 faith that one of my hounds had the ability pur- 
 ported to be the heritage of every long-eared dog in 
 the swamps. 
 
 Once in a while I felt tempted to bring down one 
 of my hillbilly foxhounds and try him out in a 
 hunt, but usually my spirits were dampened as I 
 broached the proposition to some lean native. They 
 never told me not to, but they had another way of 
 dissuading me. They forced me to listen to their 
 recitals of the deeds of their famous dogs, and when 
 they did my hill dogs suffered so much in compari- 
 son promptly I lost faith in them. 
 
 On two occasions without dogs I hunted alone. 
 I combed the canebrakes pretty well where I had 
 seen signs. But as far as results were concerned, 
 I brought back no bears. None of my ventures I 
 confided to the natives. I knew it would only pro- 
 duce ridicule; something to which at that time I 
 
 113 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 was very sensitive. My first trip ended without the 
 sight of game. My second I got sight of a big black 
 fellow slipping into a small patch of switch cane 
 before I could bring my rifle to my shoulder. I felt 
 sure of him, however. The patch was not fifty yards 
 long, and, except being flanked by a few cypress 
 logs, there was nothing to hide him. The growth 
 of cane was not over ten feet wide. If that bear 
 moved out of the cover I felt sure of a shot. I en- 
 tered the cane, and though I watched the outside I 
 never got another sight of him. Truly I secured not 
 the quarry I was after, but I gained a knowledge 
 that had heretofore been kept secret from me; 
 clumsy as is a Southern bear, he is adept at conceal- 
 ment and is a little wiser than most hunters of my 
 caliber. 
 
 Came the time when I consented to join a hunt. 
 They told me a few old-time bear hunters would 
 attend. The southern Missouri native may have a 
 tendency to exaggerate, but it was not in evidence 
 on the subject of numbers. Their meaning of "few" 
 proved to be some two hundred men on all sorts of 
 mounts, from mule to bony nag, with guns of every 
 vintage and an assortment of dogs which was beyond 
 the powers of the greatest sage in kenneldom to 
 classify. There was a single outstanding trait about 
 the owners, if not so conspicuous in the dogs' per- 
 formance, every owner chewed tobacco, every owner 
 vowed that his bear dog was the best that ever ran 
 in the Little River swamps. 
 
 Finally a leader was chosen, a man of rather di- 
 114 
 
SOUTHERN BEAR HUNTING 
 
 minutive stature, extremely slender, with thread- 
 bare clothing, a horn suspended from his shoulder 
 and bearing in his right hand the longest ten-gauge, 
 single-barrel shot gun mortal man had ever beheld. 
 If the shot gun drew my attention it did not half 
 interest me so much as his powerful voice. The 
 roar of a lion was an insignificant whisper in com- 
 parison. You could hear Billy White's voice above 
 that bedlam of dogs and boasting men. Hanging 
 down this worthy's back by a cord was a long cane 
 knife, which gave him the aspect of a rather bellig- 
 erent creature. Though most of the men had cane 
 knives, none of them altogether conveyed the same 
 impression in my mind as Billy. 
 
 Billy White merely raised his hand aloft and let 
 a roar, and then, as if by a single impulse, dogs and 
 men were on the way to the canebrakes. A mile 
 from the little saw-mill town at some distance a 
 bitch sounded strike and the notes carried as clear 
 as a bell through the swamps. At the same time 
 every dog opened up, as if they were all the original 
 discoverers of the trail, and each rider vowed no 
 other hound could produce the same sound but his 
 pet. 
 
 It was some relief that the chase was on. Sud- 
 denly I discovered I was not very comfortable on 
 the small, round-bellied nag assigned me. Nig's 
 punishing rough trot grew no better when con- 
 fronted by down timber and the numerous logs. I 
 never knew how long I would stay on that wide back, 
 for the saddle kept sliding, though numerous times 
 
 115 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 I did my best to get it cinched tightly. But the fat 
 fellow's shape seemed never to adjust itself to the 
 saddle, though I managed to keep in the wake of the 
 rough riders, who made more noise with their yelp- 
 ing than the dogs. 
 
 Suddenly the entire race v/as brought to an end 
 by the yelping of the dogs back in the cane. Some- 
 thing was certainly going on. Hounds bellowed with 
 pain, and some, apparently keeping at safe distance 
 from the bear, bellowed the treed note to the limit 
 of their powers. No doubt the bear was a scrapping 
 individual and whipped the dogs off. For soon the 
 race was on again, only to terminate once more in 
 a greater density of cane. 
 
 What the horses were up against in a bear race I 
 had no suspicion of before. The tall, close-growing 
 cane that looked impenetrable to man or beast they 
 forced against by the over-liberal application of long 
 cruel spurs. At times they would get into such a 
 position they could go no further. Then the riders 
 would dismount and cut an opening against which 
 the horses once more were forced. The punishment 
 drew blood from some of the mounts, and others 
 seemed ready to drop from exhaustion. But they 
 were game animals and did their part well. Ap- 
 parently the spirit of the hunt enthused them, so 
 their wounds were but mere incidents of the chase. 
 
 Once more from the sounds it was facile to note 
 that the bear had whipped off the dogs. The race 
 was on again. Presently it ended in deep, clamorous 
 bayings, and everv dog sounded treed. Their voices 
 
 ii6 
 
SOUTHERN BEAR HUNTING 
 
 carried clearer and all the hunters felt sure that the 
 bear had climbed for safety in a clearing or open 
 space. To get to the quarry they forced their mounts 
 on mercilessly, finally arriving at an opening in the 
 cane of several acres. 
 
 A sole dead sweet gum tree, bare of bark from top 
 to bottom, stood in center of an opening in the cane- 
 brake. It might have once been a clearing. Every 
 hound aimed its voice at something near the top; 
 every hunter sighted his eye in the same direction 
 and simultaneously let out a deafening whoop. 
 Near the top, close to a limb that extended north, 
 a black bear was affixed and peered down with two 
 wicked, beady eyes at the gathering. 
 
 No doubt every one desired the honor of shooting. 
 But the voice of Billy White interposed above the 
 bedlam. From his deportment I knew that the 
 honor rested with him, and nothing could take it 
 from him. He commanded the hunters to stand 
 back. Dropping on one knee, he took his long gun 
 carefully from his shoulder, caressed it lovingly, 
 then sighted it on the bear. Minutes seemed to 
 elapse before the fatal trigger was pulled, but it was 
 only a second or so. The roar of black powder re- 
 verberated through the swamps. Only for a moment 
 the bear looked down. He tried to climb still higher. 
 But all at once his great frame stiffened. He clawed 
 a few times to get a more secure hold, then suddenly 
 his paws let go and he pitched to the ground very 
 close to Nig. 
 
 That was the last for a time I saw of the bear or 
 
 117 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 the hunters. As though propelled by the force of a 
 mighty hurricane, my horse leaped through dogs and 
 men and carried me at a dizzy gait through the cane. 
 Holding my head close to his neck I did my best to 
 shield it from brush and cane. Pulling to the limit 
 of my strength on the reins I tried to stop Nig. It 
 was useless. He continued as though a thousand 
 bears were after him, heading straight with me 
 towards Little River. 
 
 There was no let-up to Nig's speed. On arriving 
 close to the river, as the cane was less dense, he in- 
 creased it. He had just started to leap a pile of 
 dead timber near the river when he stopped almost 
 in midair and came to earth with legs straightened 
 out. The saddle gave way. I was shot off that 
 horse as though propelled from a catapult, landing 
 closer to a live, undomesticated black bear than even 
 in my fondest dreams I had wished to be. 
 
 I sprawled on all fours on the sand. In my flight 
 my rifle had fallen from my hands and I saw it 
 about ten feet from me. The bear had been feeding 
 on refuse dogfish cast aside by some fisherman from 
 his hoop nets. I do not know which seemed most 
 surprised or frightened. But Nig did not wait to 
 see. He backed off and turning bolted for the dens- 
 est cane. 
 
 The bear eyed me suspiciously, glared at the fish, 
 then at me. I never moved from my position, though 
 I wanted my rifle very much. No doubt there was 
 something about me that did not appeal to Bruin; 
 perhaps it was my longing glance at my rifle. But 
 
 ii8 
 
SOUTHERN BEAR HUNTING 
 
 evidently he had a premonition that I was not al- 
 together a desirable acquaintance. Without the 
 slightest warning he emitted a loud woof and rushed 
 for a near-by brake of switch cane. 
 
 Then only I came to my senses. I jumped for 
 my rifle, lifted the safety and fired five times at the 
 vanishing bear. 
 
 The feel of the rifle revived my courage. I had 
 no idea that my bullet had touched him. I reloaded 
 it with its quota of .250 cartridges and started 
 slowly in the brake. I could see no blood, though 
 the tracks were plainly visible in the damp sand. 
 Without taking in consideration direction or where 
 the tracks would lead, I followed until I came to a 
 sink in the land. Close to a log I discovered a big 
 black object flattened out as though a big roller had 
 gone over it. Closer investigation showed it was my 
 bear. He was lying in a pool of blood. Three bullets 
 had mushroomed in the lungs. 
 
 At the same time I heard the bellow of native 
 hounds in chase. They had hit the trail. Fifteen 
 minutes later the entire bunch of hunters arrived 
 on the scene in time to see me fighting the dogs away 
 from my bear. But even the roar of Billy White 
 commanding silence and the clamor of the hunters 
 for their share could not rob me of my joy at the kill. 
 
 119 
 
XIV 
 The Giant Gobbler of Gunn Bluff 
 
 "Seen a red-bone bitch 'roun' here?" asked a tall, 
 attenuated individual astride a small red-colored 
 mule. 
 
 This surely must be Beanpole Williams, the 
 famous turkey hunter, I was seeking. So positive 
 was I of this from the description furnished me, I 
 answered: "Come to think of it, I have. He is right 
 now in my tent with his foot wrapped up — took him 
 out of a fox trap, and was caring for him until I 
 found an owner. Plucky dog, too. Say, are you 
 Beanpole Williams?" 
 
 "How'd yu'ns 'er guess hit?" he admitted in the 
 strangest nasal falsetto, while he disentangled his 
 long legs from the stirrups, placed his feet on the 
 ground, and permitted his mule to walk out from 
 under him. Beanpole was fully seven feet in height 
 and apparently no wider than a good-sized hoe 
 handle. 
 
 "Oh," I flattered, "I've been wanting to find the 
 best turkey hunter in the country to guide me and 
 I was referred to a handsome, sturdy individual by 
 the name of Beanpole Williams. Glad you came 
 along; come in my tent. You are Beanpole Williams, 
 aren't you?" 
 
 "H-U yes. Sonny!" he admitted. "Les' see Drive." 
 
 Then we entered my tent, where we found the 
 
 I20 
 
THE GIANT GOBBLER OF GUNN BLUFF 
 
 perfectly contented Drive coiled up on my pile of 
 blankets. Beanpole evidently strove to display his 
 gratitude at the recovery of his hound. But no 
 doubt he had expanded his vocabulary for the time 
 being, though he shook my hand, hugged Drive and 
 made me understand that he was willing to take me 
 turkey hunting if I agreed to his terms, which after 
 a long pause and much mental calculation he sub- 
 mitted. 
 
 "Recken forty cents a day 'nd grub wud be too 
 much?" he queried expectantly. 
 
 To this eagerly I submitted and accompanied 
 Beanpole to his home across the ridge, where Bean- 
 pole consulted a short, bulky damsel, with a face as 
 brown as the forest-stricken post oak leaves under 
 foot. She surely must have been pleased at his an- 
 nouncement of my agreeing to his stiff terms, for 
 the hard face melted into a smile before she went 
 into the cabin and brought Beanpole his long single- 
 barrel gun, kissed nine molasses-smeared children, 
 kicked as many yelping hounds into submission on 
 her reappearance, and directed her lord not to return 
 until he had made two dollars. 
 
 Because all varieties of acorns were plentiful, 
 Beanpole and I camped at Dark Bay. Though 
 signs were everywhere, for two days we saw no 
 turkeys. A logging crew stopped at our camp and 
 told us the biggest turkey that ever ranged the hills 
 was "a-hangin' up 'roun' Gunn Bluff." They had 
 seen him several times, but had been unable to get 
 so much as a single shot at him, so wary was he. 
 
 121 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 In our canoe we pushed up the river that evening 
 into the hollow below Gunn Bluff; Beanpole's in- 
 evitable mule had followed like a dog along the bank. 
 This famous turkey hunter proved to be an ex- 
 tremely taciturn individual and seldom spoke except 
 to let out his only expression, "H-11 yes, Sonny!" 
 and something had to happen out of the ordinary 
 before he uttered it. 
 
 Early the following morning we sought the summit 
 of the bluff and, as I faced east, watching the sun 
 peeping pink over the pine tops. Beanpole, who was 
 astride his mule, disengaged himself from the animal 
 by merely standing upright, so the animal could 
 walk out from under him, dropped to his knees and 
 examined the leaf-carpeted ground. He turned over 
 a number of leaves, and then suddenly startled me 
 with his unexpected thin voice. 
 
 "Wal, I de-clare!" he exclaimed, without turning 
 to me. "Look-a-yander!" 
 
 "Turkey tracks?" I asked. 
 
 "He-11, yes. Sonny!" he shouted, " 'nd the tracks 
 air the biggest I ever seed. Whoopee! Whoopee!" 
 
 Falling to my knees, I examined the ground over 
 which the upturned leaves had reposed. The im- 
 prints of a turkey's foot were plainly visible, but 
 such large ones that momentarily I could not be- 
 lieve that they had been accomplished by any mem- 
 ber of the turkey family. But every groove, ridge 
 and structure of the foot was reproduced so distinctly 
 I could doubt no longer. And then verification came 
 almost immediately at a spot where ashes re- 
 
 122 
 
THE GIANT GOBBLER OF GUNN BLUFF 
 
 mained from a former campfire. The giant gobbler 
 of Gunn Bluff had used it for a dusting place. 
 
 From that moment the giant gobbler became an 
 obsession with us. For fear of frightening him from 
 the vicinity we refrained from shooting other tur- 
 keys which we soon began to behold in abundance. 
 But we hunted that weary old gobbler for days and 
 days, with no other reward than an occasional bit of 
 evidence that he had been nearby. Came the time 
 when much against my will I decided to give up 
 this end of the rainbow hunt. I had lived turkey, 
 talked turkey over and over again with my sole com- 
 panion. Beanpole, and at last declared I would leave 
 the following day. 
 
 It was already late in the evening. Beanpole and 
 I were in a small hickory bottom about to embark 
 in my canoe. All at once I heard a flock of turkeys 
 fly to roost midway of Gunn Bluff. They came in 
 singles, pairs and trios. Just as I thought the last 
 had crossed the river in the vanishing light, I ob- 
 served an immense impalpable form sail across the 
 river, then the crash of weighty pinions striking 
 against the pines resounded far into the bottoms. 
 That put a quietus on all my intentions of 
 leaving. 
 
 We returned to camp. Beanpole was happy. He 
 showed it; once in a while he talked, whistled, and 
 just before my eyes closed in sleep I observed him 
 sitting by the fire, his singular expression concen- 
 trated on the pine light. 
 
 It did not seem as though I had slept ten minutes, 
 123 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 when I awoke and discovered the slim turkey hunter 
 unceremoniously prodding me in the ribs with his 
 large, heavy-shod foot. 
 
 "What's the matter — woods on fire?" I questioned, 
 rubbing my eyes. The fire had burned low. The 
 cold air of the bottom cut like a knife as I cast aside 
 my blanket. 
 
 "Be sunup purty soon," vouchsafed Beanpole in a 
 whisper. "Git reddy. Stow some of that thar 
 coffee I made in them vitals of yourn. Hit'U waken 
 yu'ns up, 'cause we'ns gotta git started quick." 
 
 In the dark I never believed that I would achieve 
 the ascent of those tremendous flint rocks. But 
 with the pulling and jerking of the long-limbed one 
 I did it. A hunter's miracle, perhaps; though I 
 could not accomplish it again were all giant gobblers 
 in the world the temptation. 
 
 As though by instinct Beanpole bore due east. 
 Other than by instinct no human being could have 
 progressed through those dark thickets of bull pines 
 and post oaks. My clothes became wet from copious 
 perspiration. All at once Beanpole stopped. Over- 
 head I could see stars, which cast down sufficient 
 light so that I was able to note we were in an area 
 which had once been a clearing. Also I realized we 
 had made a detour and were again close by the river, 
 as I could hear it chattering over the shoals like a 
 flock of noisy Canada geese. 
 
 "Squat down in this hyar buckbresh, 'nd don't 
 move nary a bit 'till sunup!" directed the sage of the 
 wilderness in a piping falsetto. 
 
 124 
 
THE GIANT GOBBLER OF GUNN BLUFF 
 
 Obeying the command, in a short while I began 
 to feel the cold. No longer could I do anything to 
 keep me warm. Many times from sheer suffering 
 and my cramped position I cursed myself for ever 
 being led into a hunt at such an ungodly hour. I 
 shook like a man in the throes of a malarial chill 
 and vowed I never would hunt again if it neces- 
 sitated undergoing such agony. But each time 
 I gazed at the silent, uncomplaining woodsman I 
 smothered my effort at utterance. 
 
 When nature seemed no longer able to endure the 
 grueling I listened and heard a band of timber 
 wolves terminating their nightly frolic in a series 
 of ear-splitting ululations. For a while the wilder- 
 ness again took on its garb of serenity. Then at 
 last a few small birds chirped and moved in the dry 
 leaves on the trees. The east grew gray. Objects 
 attained distinctiveness, and presently showed more 
 plainly under the pink impress of approaching day. 
 I beheld an old field in front of me. 
 
 Beanpole remained stationary as ever. But 
 presently I observed his mouth twitch in a homely 
 grimace. He cast a knowing look at me, and then 
 his piercing gray eyes turned expectantly for a sur- 
 vey of the field. 
 
 At first I was unable to observe anything unusual. 
 But scanning more closely I saw a flock of turkeys 
 run into a patch of buckbrush, scatter and feed. 
 
 The native guarded me closely with his eyes to 
 see if I would yield to temptation, for I glanced at 
 my .22 hi-power. But every desire to succumb 
 
 125 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 to temptation was squelched by his forbidding 
 look. 
 
 All at once I descried two young gobblers back 
 out of the brush and scurry across the field, as 
 though influenced by something not altogether to 
 their liking. The balance followed in their wake. 
 I gazed directly at the buckbrush and the sumac 
 adjoining. I saw nothing to remark. 
 
 Immediately, after a cautioning gesture, the slim 
 woodsman took a short pipe stem from his pocket 
 and placed it in his mouth. "Keouk, Keouk, Keouk, 
 Keouk, Keouk" sounded the cane over the frost- 
 topped hills. Beanpole waited fully five minutes 
 for a response, and when none came he repeated. 
 
 "Keouk, Keouk," Beanpole resumed the plaintive 
 sound. "Keouk, Keouk." 
 
 This time the unmistakable note of a gobbler 
 carried to our blind. 
 
 At that moment I stared hard at the sumacs to 
 my left, just as the sun cast its first warming glow 
 on the earth. The king of all gobblers stepped forth, 
 brilliant with scintillant copper sheen, as the full 
 luminance of the sun lighted his majestic figure. He 
 stood at his full height, craning for dangerous ob- 
 jects and sounds, his great breast reflecting tints I 
 never realized existed before. 
 
 For an instant, so startled was I at his size and 
 kingly posture, I was unable to appreciate that 
 right before me was the object of my long and ardu- 
 ous quest. 
 
 Only for a second the giant stood in the open. He 
 
 126 
 
THE GIANT GOBBLER OF GUNN BLUFF 
 
 made a move all at once for a patch of tall plume 
 grass on my right. 
 
 Beanpole sounded softly the siren note. The 
 gobbler gazed angrily around, his breast swelling 
 with the indignation of disappointment. Detect- 
 ing the false from the true he dashed for the screen- 
 ing plume. 
 
 Three times I discharged that hi-power .22, as 
 fast as mortal man could function it. A thundering 
 of flopping wings sounded across the field, and then 
 I espied the long-legged one, running with all his 
 might to the plume grass and disappear therein. 
 
 For a second or two I experienced grave mis- 
 givings, as I saw no more of Beanpole. But, still 
 anxious to know my luck, I called out at the top of 
 my voice: "Did I get him. Beanpole?" 
 
 Then the hills resounded my exultant cheer, as 
 Beanpole shrilled back in joy: 
 
 "Hell yes. Sonny!" 
 
 127 
 
XV 
 
 Hunting Ducks on a Swift Waterway 
 
 "Don't reckon I ever heard about them, much 
 less seen one," commented my guide as he studied 
 my question. "Canvasback ducks, canvasback 
 ducks — is that the right name?" 
 
 "Yes," I replied quickly, and repeated after him, 
 "canvasbacks." 
 
 "Nope, I never heard of them out this way," my 
 guide informed me, scratching his big gray head to 
 encourage reminiscence. "Nope, was raised on this 
 river, and ther hain't been no canvasback or canvas- 
 headed ducks ever come this way." 
 
 "Oh, well," I remarked optimistically, "we'll get 
 some ducks, anyhow, between here and our stop- 
 ping place. The river looks good to me the entire 
 route, even if it is a swift one." 
 
 "Yu'U get ducks, alright," returned my guide, 
 with cynical inflection to his last words, "if you kin 
 hit 'em. But as far as them tent — canvasback ducks: 
 I can't promise a one." 
 
 My selection of guide had fallen on an old water 
 rat, Tom Bigbee, who knew the river and its in- 
 numerable bends far better than the average city 
 dweller knows his streets. The wilderness appealed 
 to me, as well as the day's prospects, though it 
 
 128 
 
Tender and True 
 
HUNTING DUCKS ON SWIFT WATERWAY 
 
 promised nothing but jump and flight shooting, the 
 most entertaining sport that can be offered the 
 wildfowler. 
 
 It was not long after I embarked in the long duck 
 boat that I realized I was up against a difi^erent 
 proposition in shooting than I had so far tried. 
 
 "Thought you could hit 'em!" laughed Tom, with 
 a critical twinkle to his left optic, as I missed cleanly 
 a big flock of mallards that simply spewed out, one 
 by one, from a mossy pocket in the backwater at 
 the end of a rapid. "You never touched a feather. 
 If we're going to have duck for supper, you just 
 gotta do better'n that!" 
 
 The old riverman's remarks were received in good 
 spirit. My shortcomings were felt. I was up against 
 another form of jump shooting, which was totally 
 dissimilar to anything I could conjure from past 
 experience. But in every way it had attractions, 
 for shooting from a fast running boat was a novelty 
 and assured great sport. 
 
 At Tom's advice I reflected and studied condi- 
 tions. The sport had an irresistible appeal, if I 
 mastered it. Our approach on the ducks was swift 
 and sudden. Invariably they towered and bolted 
 upstream as soon as they flushed. 
 
 On reaching the subsidence of the next rapid my 
 score suff^ered another miss, but I elevated myself a 
 bit in Tom's esteem when I killed a lone mallard 
 that started to drop into a pocket on our right. He 
 fell stone dead, though the shot was a long one. 
 Then I witnessed a remarkable achievement on the 
 
 129 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 part of my guide; how to pick up a duck on a swift 
 waterway when a boat runs at full speed. 
 
 Tom advised me that at the termination of the 
 next rapid was a round pond on our right which 
 always contained ducks, if any were on the river. 
 He suggested my getting out the boat and walking 
 them up from the gravel bar. But mentally I had 
 carefully covered my shooting deficiencies. So I 
 refused, and told him that I would either solve the 
 river's shooting riddle from a boat or quit. 
 
 The guide edged the boat toward the gravel bar, 
 in this manner keeping our advance screened by the 
 interposing willows. As we reached the neighbor- 
 hood of the upper part of the pond, the suck of the 
 angry stream carried us out and raced with us to 
 the lower end. 
 
 The pond was full of mallards. As they turned 
 I stood up and faced upstream. With two barrels 
 I brought down a pair of lusty mallards. Then, 
 loading quickly, I knocked down a single hen wid- 
 geon that had bestowed her company on the mal- 
 lards. She spiraled a while in the air with out- 
 stretched wings, and, to our surprise, fell in the boat. 
 
 All at once the improvement in my shooting struck 
 Tom. 
 
 "You can hit 'em, if you just try!" he compli- 
 mented, " 'nd if you keep up that lick we'll soon have 
 a boat load." 
 
 And Tom was right, as he always was. At the 
 very next pocket I repeated my performance on a 
 flock of pintails, which were feeding close to a shoal 
 
 130 
 
HUNTING DUCKS ON SWIFT WATERWAY 
 
 and almost permitted us to run the boat in their 
 midst. 
 
 "Them's the kind!" Tom declared. "They're the 
 best eating ducks a-going, though it's pretty late for 
 them. Some fellers likes other kinds. But give me 
 a fat sprig, or pintail, as you calls them, and it can't 
 be beat, in my mind, when it comes to good eatings!" 
 
 Through years of duck shooting I have never had 
 occasion to dispute Tom's assertion. As a food 
 delicacy a real fat pintail can not be surpassed by 
 any other duck — not even the famed canvasbacks, 
 so exalted by a horde of epicures. 
 
 "Do you see ahead that big raft of blackjacks?" 
 Tom called my attention. "We'll be just in on them 
 before they ever gets real wise." 
 
 Tom paddled into the bank and in a few moments 
 constructed a blind of willows and sycamores in 
 front of the boat. 
 
 "Notice them blackjacks," said Tom, "they are 
 in a reach of still water. When we get within two 
 hundred yards of it the river runs at an awful clip. 
 Till we get to that fast water we'll drag along so 
 slow they'll think it's a-going to take us a heap of 
 time to get near them. As soon as we hits the fast 
 water, we'll go like Old Nick, and we'll be upon them 
 before they know it. All you do, is lay down out 
 of sight and keep still." 
 
 Presently I was treated to an exhibition of Tom 
 Bigbee's knowledge of the river and of ducks. He 
 made every effort to retard the progress of the boat, 
 dragging his long paddle and pushing the boat from 
 
 131 . 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 bank to bank to convey the impression it was a 
 mighty slow-going affair. All the while the scaups 
 observed us, many times with wings cupped almost 
 standing on the water, as though prepared to fly. 
 Doubtless the eelgrass and moss beds provided them 
 with food in abundance, and they were loath to 
 leave the spot; for they kept constantly milling 
 around, yet watching our craft. 
 
 For twenty minutes Tom kept the boat going back 
 and forth, but all the while imperceptibly approaching 
 the suck of the rapids. It seemed hours to me, and 
 I wondered if he would ever accelerate the pace. 
 The ducks began to lose their customary wariness, 
 evidently confident they could appraise our speed 
 and distance in time to take flight in safety. I was 
 just about to question the boatman's dilatory tac- 
 tics, as they had begun to prove very tantalizing, 
 when all at once I sensed the boat being drawn in 
 the rapids. Then it shot down the river like a 
 frightened deer. 
 
 "Get ready, now!" Tom whispered. 
 
 Before I had time to answer, we were among the 
 ducks. A black cloud of seething pinions lifted 
 from the river. Some of the ducks I could have 
 touched with the end of my gun, so bewildered they 
 were at our presence. In their confusion they re- 
 minded me of ducks attracted to a light at night 
 during a sleet storm. 
 
 Twice I fired into the biggest bunch that got 
 straightened upstream. Then I reloaded rapidlv 
 and had two more shots. 
 
 132 
 
HUNTING DUCKS ON SWIFT WATERWAY 
 
 "Seven!" cried the boatman, "and, if you'd had 
 a repeater, Lord knows how many more you'd 
 killed. They must have been at least four hundred 
 blackjacks in that bunch!" 
 
 To me there appeared to be thousands and, though 
 Tom praised my execution, the number of my kill 
 did not come up to my expectations. Those fright- 
 ened ducks were so packed together it did not seem 
 as if there were room for a single No. 6 shot to pass 
 between them. 
 
 For several hours we floated with varying success. 
 There was a fascination to the shooting which no 
 other duck hunt had presented. The stealthy ap- 
 proach of the craft down the crystal-clear water- 
 way under the guidance of a master paddler, to- 
 gether with the transcendent beauty of the sur- 
 rounding hills in their gorgeous fall dress, were 
 treats beyond appraisal. At all times the shooting 
 was different. Often, when I felt certain of killing, 
 I missed, and the reverse was as frequent. It never 
 was an easy task to align the gun properly on those 
 upstream-bent ducks, while the boat vibrated and 
 sped swiftly through the rapids. 
 
 Elsewhere than at the pockets the ducks were 
 seldom found, especially those adjoining the rapids. 
 The scaups and one flock of mallards were the only 
 ones flushed midstream. With all the difficulty I 
 encountered in getting on the birds, I made a good 
 killing and a varied one, at that. Each pocket held 
 a different kind, though mallards predominated. 
 
 At last we floated to a long reach of quiet water 
 
 133 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 as the sun left the western hills, shimmering with the 
 pink of parting day. Tom was calling attention to 
 the only hard paddling of the trip. He had to paddle 
 two miles steadily until our landing place, as there 
 was very little current. To make the labor lighter 
 he whistled, but suddenly silenced as his eyes rested 
 on the darkening Southern bluffs. 
 
 "Git down quick! Git down quick!" commanded 
 Tom. "See 'em?" 
 
 "No — where?" I asked, immediately obeying. 
 
 "They are swinging along the right bluff" — that's 
 why you can't see them. They are purty low, too." 
 
 Even at the distance of a mile away I saw them 
 break from the shadows of the bluff to the middle of 
 the river. Large specks now, as they were only half a 
 mile — then larger as they bore midstream, racing 
 low with tremendous speed. Incredibly swift, 
 whistling like boys, they were almost on us as they 
 swung to one side at the sight of the boat. Then 
 only I classified them and gave them a big lead. 
 
 Two drake canvasbacks sent up a spray of water. 
 
 "Canvasbacks at last, Tom!" I shouted. "Two 
 canvasbacks." 
 
 The rest of the flock disappeared in the vanishing 
 light faster than they had come. 
 
 Tom paddled over to the ducks, picked them up 
 and eyed them carefully. 
 
 "Are them canvasbacks?" he queried. 
 
 "That's what they are, Tom." 
 
 "Well, if they are canvasbacks," he replied, "they 
 are the first I ever saw on this or any other river." 
 
 134 
 
XVI 
 
 Hunting Whitetails With Josh 
 
 "Cum lissen' to that houn'/' cried Josh from the 
 top of Phillips' Bluff. "He's shore gotta voice like 
 a fifty-year-ole bull!" 
 
 "That dog has a loud enough voice, alright," I 
 grudgingly admitted as I reached Josh's side, "but 
 it is his speed that gets me. Why that pack behind 
 have all they can do to keep within hearing dis- 
 tance!" 
 
 "By shot!" Josh broke in as the tonal strivings 
 of the hound showed a different trend. "That thar 
 houn' aint a-runnin' no red fox — he's ater a deer. 
 Say, let's run down to Yaller Bank 'nd head 
 him." 
 
 "Not on your life. Old Timer!" I protested vehe- 
 mently. "There is to be no killing deer in front of 
 hounds when I am along. The law is against it, 
 and, as far as we are concerned, it is going to be 
 obeyed." 
 
 "Which?" the little old weather-beaten man asked, 
 chagrin showing in the many grooves of his counte- 
 nance. 
 
 "It is against the law to run deer with hounds, 
 and I am one who is going to see that the law is not 
 infracted." I tried to make this clear as possible, 
 
 135 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 and that I neither considered it sportsmanlike nor 
 good policy, considering that wardens were liable to 
 appear any moment. 
 
 "But he's shore to cross the river at Yaller Bank!" 
 Josh tried to tempt further, but, seeing I could not 
 be persuaded, he accompanied me to camp, con- 
 tinually referring to the bellowing hound's voice 
 and his positive knowledge of the gigantic propor- 
 tions of the deer. 
 
 Next day broke clear and cold, the first hour the 
 white frost making the big woods appear like a land 
 of many decorated Christmas trees. Josh and I 
 followed the windings of Bog Hollow on back into 
 the Irish Wilderness, working so skillfully as we 
 knew how every bit of the cover and the shifts of the 
 wind. But before noon we parted, Josh returning 
 to camp. 
 
 In the afternoon while crossing over a chain of 
 hills I discovered many signs of deer, but was unable 
 to get sight of any. One jumped in the hazels, then 
 bounded into the tall plumes and sedge; and just 
 for luck's sake I pumped my .303 in that direction. 
 No hit was registered, as I could plainly hear it jump- 
 ing until it passed over the summit of the hill. 
 
 After I found that I was on the south slope of 
 Gooseneck Bluff, rather fatigued I determined to 
 cross the altitude in order to shorten my journey 
 to camp. When nearly to the crest I heard a com- 
 motion in the mingling of flint rock, bullpines, sedge 
 and post oaks. Rather noisy for a deer, I thought, 
 considering the fact, too, that only a while before I 
 
 136 
 
HUNTING WHITETAILS WITH JOSH 
 
 had remarked the snap of a hi-power rifle toward 
 the north. 
 
 Stalking further, I noticed some disturbance in 
 a clump of post oaks. Instantly I was on the alert. 
 I perceived the form of a deer in the brush as though 
 it was standing on its hind legs and browsing on 
 some tidbit at quite a height. 
 
 There was only left to me now to distinguish the 
 sex. If it was a buck I stood a reasonably sure chance 
 of making a kill. 
 
 Taking advantage of each tree I drew closer. 
 Presently I noted an antler-crowned head reach up. 
 I raised my rifle. The sight had almost rested on 
 the buck's left shoulder, when a tan color, that did 
 not well conform with a deer, startled me. I nearly 
 dropped my rifle in my anxiety to get my finger 
 away from the trigger, to shift to safety. 
 
 "Say, you fool! What in the blazes do you mean!" 
 I called at the top of my voice. 
 
 "Why — I was trying to hang this deer," a man's 
 voice called back to me. 
 
 Brimming with anger, I ran to him and said: 
 "You are lucky; in a half a second longer I would 
 have killed you!" Finally, seeing anger was of no 
 service, I did my best to show that city hunter the 
 folly he had been guilty of; though for some time 
 he could not understand that it was mighty risky 
 business trying to hang a deer by the horns in cover 
 when there were hunters in the woods; it could only 
 result in drawing a hunter's fire, and a deer would 
 not bleed in that manner. 
 
 137 
 
/ JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 / His explanation in return was, that he wanted 
 to hang it out of reach of wolves until he could find 
 his guide to tote it back to camp. 
 / Too unnerved to enjoy the day further, I returned 
 to the companionship of Josh. Dancing gleefully, 
 \ he greeted me effusively. 
 /' "Say, seed a ghost?" he asked. 
 
 "Not exactly." Then I explained the incident. 
 
 "Yu'ns shore oughta teched him up a bit — shot 
 a toe offen him or sumthin' — brokj his hide jist for 
 being sich a durned fool," couns led Josh, as only 
 he could. "Say, but I seed the bi^rgest buck in the 
 hills, up on Trotter Bluff. Missed hmi three times — 
 he got in the bresh so quick." 
 
 This was good news and I acknowledged it ac- 
 cordingly. 
 
 "If we'uns only had that houn', we shore could 
 put him in the river erbout Hargis shoal!" the little 
 old man declared. 
 
 "Forget the hound. Josh. But, if you start that 
 buck for me tomorrow, you can call me Grandpa 
 three times in succession." 
 
 "Whew, three dollars! I'll shore do hit. For I'm 
 erbout sartin where the ole feller beds." With Josh, 
 "Mister Johnnie" signified a loan of two bits, "Uncle 
 Johnnie," fifty cents, and "Grandpa" never less than 
 a dollar. 
 
 Notwithstanding Josh's declaration the night be- 
 fore that he would be able to start the buck, he 
 failed miserably. All the beds he pointed to in the 
 ubiquitous sedge grass showed to the touch no 
 
 138 
 
HUNTING WHITETAILS WITH JOSH 
 
 warmth of a recent occupant. So again we decided 
 to separate, the old rascal promising to be in camp 
 long before sundown, as well, too, that if he heard 
 my rifle he would respond to the sound. 
 
 For the reason of having seen old tracks the day 
 before I determined to hunt over the same ground. 
 The wind was blowing from the west. I beat against 
 it up a short valley that abruptly terminated in a 
 chaos of big lichen-covered boulders, their immen- 
 sity somewhat concealed by small bull pines, plume 
 and scattered post oaks. If ever there was an ideal 
 place created for an old buck to bed, this was it. 
 
 Hardly had the thought gained conception when 
 I heard a big deer jump thirty yards in advance of 
 me. Twice I missed it, when I observed it climbing 
 a slope and was glad of my goose egg, as it turned 
 out to be a fine big doe. 
 
 Still I worked the cover, obdurate about climbing 
 the confronting altitude. Looking up to my left 
 in order to appraise the possibility of a facile ascent, 
 to my astonishment I beheld a tremendous buck 
 going up a draw two hundred yards away. At first 
 I was unable to see him well. He hugged the draw 
 closely, almost creeping like a rabbit in his effort at 
 concealment. My shots at the doe had started him. 
 
 Carefully waiting, though not elevating the sight, 
 as he came into better view near the summit I fired. 
 He stopped, looked around. Again I fired. He 
 bounded sideways with drooping flag, then stag- 
 gered. Once more I fired. He went to his knees, 
 arose almost as quickly and vanished before I could 
 
 139 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 place another shot. That I had scored two shots 
 I was positive. In what part of the body I had yet 
 no means of ascertaining. But I was sure he would 
 not carry far two soft-nosed .303 bullets. 
 
 At the top of my speed I ran for the summit. But 
 the difficulties of the rough ascent retarded me 
 much. At no time is broken flint rock the best 
 going — certainly not when on a slanting hillside 
 that has a perilous pitch. Finally out of breath I 
 reached the spot where I knew I had recorded a hit 
 — if not more than one. The blood had splattered 
 the hazels and bonnet leaves with tell-tale crimson 
 blotches. 
 
 For a while it was easy to trail the buck. But, 
 after following some distance a trail which led into 
 post oaks and sedge, the blood ceased flowing and 
 I lost the course completely. I circled many times 
 without success, though time and again I returned 
 to the starting point, followed and observed the 
 trail vanish once more. 
 
 Immediately I concluded to hunt near the river. 
 It was impossible to reconcile myself to the loss of 
 the fine specimen. No doubt he made for the river 
 and dropped near one of the favorite crossings in 
 the moss and cress-covered bays. I searched stren- 
 uously a number of well-known bays; but no sign 
 of the deer greeted my eyes. 
 
 When I was about to give up the quest as hope- 
 less, the west wind flung down a welcome sound 
 from Phillips' Bluff. It was that of a self-hunting 
 hound uncertain of trail, until all at once to my 
 
 140 
 
HUNTING WHITETAILS WITH JOSH 
 
 unspeakable joy a strike was registered and as 
 quickly followed the staccato of a sight race. 
 
 Seemingly the hills became alive with dogs, but 
 above all the bedlam I could distinguish that big 
 hound, so dear to Josh, leading easily. Shortly 
 the race terminated abruptly close to the river with 
 the baying of the dogs, which was constantly aug- 
 mented by the arrival of the slower-footed ones, 
 all determined to make the kill. 
 
 That bunch of potlickers had started my deer 
 and were sure to tear him to pieces. How I ascended 
 the bluff in the little time I did is beyond my powers 
 of explanation. Enraged at the pack, I was deter- 
 mined to prevent their pulling down the deer. 
 When I arrived at the scene I noted there was still 
 time to prevent the slaughter. The deer was yet 
 on his legs, very close to a ledge above the river. 
 
 The posture of that deer was one of majestic 
 militancy and supreme contempt. He stood at 
 bay not more that a few feet from the edge of the 
 cliff, defying the dogs as the restless river like a 
 long silver serpent coursed rapidly three hundred 
 feet below. Blood gushed from his nostrils. From 
 two holes on the left side it spouted out afresh. 
 Evidently those dogs had had earlier experience 
 with a wounded buck, for they kept well outside of 
 the range of the deer's hoofs and antlers. 
 
 While the dogs waited impatiently, the deer 
 stood like a veritable monarch of the pine woods, 
 fighting off each rush of the pack. Once the big 
 hound tried to close in. A thrust from the warrior's 
 
 141 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 head sent him to ground, howling dismally from 
 the long wound inflicted in his side. 
 
 Much as I had sought to kill, had there been 
 some way to save his life, I would have done so. 
 But I decided to end his misery at once. I drew a 
 bead for his heart. Then I saw the front legs 
 spread apart, shaking violently, and expected the 
 game creature to fall. 
 
 All at once with a sudden accession of strength 
 he stood up straight. Seemingly his bloodshot eyes 
 were balls of fire. For the first time he seemed to 
 be apprised of my presence. His nostrils still gush- 
 ing blood, he eyed me closely as though prepared to 
 charge. Again the limbs trembled. Momentarily he 
 flung a glance at the snarling pack, then righting 
 himself, he leaped off^ the bluff. 
 
 As Josh had heard the baying of the dogs he was 
 across the river digging into the little gravel bar 
 long before my arrival. He came at my call and 
 paddled me over in his johnboat. The deer was 
 buried to its shoulders in the small gravel. Both 
 legs were broken in many places. The skull was 
 crushed beyond saving, as well as the antlers. 
 
 "He's shore a cracker, ain't he. Mister Johnnie?" 
 Josh said, viewing the kill with pride. Then, suddenly 
 recalling his own affairs, he scraped his feet on the 
 gravel and declared: "If hit hadn't been for that 
 ere big houn' yu'ns never would got him — would you. 
 Grandpa?" 
 
 Laughing, I counted out three silver dollars and 
 presented them to Josh. 
 
 142 
 
XVII 
 
 The Hillbilly's Guest 
 
 "Whoa, Josh!" I yelled my mightiest at the little 
 Ozarker, as he tried to conceal himself in a grove of 
 post oaks by the roadside. "Come on over here!" 
 
 No response came to my call. 
 
 The mere fact that I had been obliged to pay a 
 small note for Josh, for some time had made him 
 invisible. Willingly I had endorsed it, and when he 
 failed to meet the obligation I paid it without 
 quibbling. It was not an unusual occurrence on my 
 part to act as security for small sums. Once in a 
 while he paid one. But now what annoyed me most 
 was Josh's aloofness, for I wanted him for a trip up 
 Current River. If by chance I saw him at a distance, 
 he feigned deafness, inability to see me, and always 
 acted as if he were in great haste. 
 
 "Come on out of there. Josh!" I called once more, 
 and wheeled my horse as though to ride at him. 
 "You got to go hunting with me or I'll ride — " 
 
 "Wal, I declare, if that haint you. Mister John- 
 nie!" At the imminent risk of my sorrel tramping 
 him. Josh stepped from the cover and lied amazingly 
 well. "At fust sight I didn't know yu'ns. I thought 
 hit was Bill Hancock, and I didn't want him to see 
 me, 'cause — 'cause- — " 
 
 "Forget Bill, and tell the truth," I advised the old 
 
 143 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 man. "I paid that note off, alright, and I have been 
 searching for you during the last two weeks, to go 
 up the river with me." 
 
 "Wal, of all the things in the world, I done forgot 
 that note 'till jist now!" Josh once more resorted to 
 exclamatory exaggeration, interspersed with prom- 
 ises of remunerating me at some near date. 
 
 When I told that little Ozarker not to worry about 
 the note and told him it was settled forever, quickly 
 he agreed to start with me the next day; and as 
 proof of his sincerity borrowed two dollars, though 
 he had vaguely hinted he was in possession of enough 
 money to pay the note. 
 
 On the day destined for our start I went to the 
 river and bailed out our long, spacious johnboat. 
 Then I went up in town in quest of my irresponsible 
 Ozarker, whom I had sent for supplies. As some imp 
 of mischief invariably hugged him closely, and be- 
 cause he had been gone so long, I felt positive it 
 was again on his trail. 
 
 Across from the post office I beheld Josh. At- 
 tached to his waist was a stout lead, and at its ter- 
 mination was the largest and most ill-favored black- 
 and-tan hound it had ever been my displeasure to gaze 
 at. In his right hand Josh balanced a long single- 
 barrel shotgun. The barrel was no less than forty- 
 five inches in length. Had I not known the strength 
 of the Ozarker I would never have credited him with 
 ability to handle it. Josh was in his usual dress of 
 dirty overalls, the color of which was impossible to 
 designate, and a faded blue shirt that, from constant 
 
 144 
 
¥-. ^^,ti:d.--,-^3aet'i 
 
THE HILLBILLY'S GUEST 
 
 wear and accumulations of grime and grease, ad- 
 mirably served the purpose of resisting weather and 
 being impervious to rain. In the coldest weather 
 he added no more garments. He vowed that he was 
 comfortable and was very sensitive to any sug- 
 gestion to the contrary. 
 
 "Where in the world did you get that hound?" 
 I asked Josh in surprise and anger. 
 
 "Recken yu'ns haint seen him before?" Josh 
 stammered and explained enigmatically. "I jist 
 borrowed him from a feller going to yon side of the 
 river. Let me make you 'quainted with Mister " 
 
 At this juncture to my amazement a stranger 
 stepped forth and offered his hand. He was tall, 
 very thin, big glasses covered his very pale eyes. His 
 garb was a bit startling, as it had been conceived by 
 some tailor in the East as an apology for his ignorance 
 of what constitutes a serviceable hunting garment. 
 
 "Your most interesting friend here," he said in 
 a thin voice, "has invited me to accompany you on 
 a hunting trip." 
 
 "You invited him, Josh?" I questioned the irre- 
 sponsible Ozarker, with some display of anger. 
 
 "Let me explain," interposed the newcomer, as I 
 
 observed his child-pink cheeks and white hands 
 
 which, like his clothes, had never been subjected to 
 
 exposure out of doors. "I heard Mr. Josh was a 
 
 capable guide, and asked him if I could share in the 
 
 party. I am an old, experienced hunter and, if I 
 
 am not un de trop, I should like very much to go with 
 
 >> 
 you. 
 
 145 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 "Trophy won't count," declared Josh and, as 
 though disclosing an important communication, he 
 continued: "he's my guest. I done invited him to go 
 'long at five dollars a day 'nd him to pay his part of 
 the grub!" 
 
 At this announcement I knew that the imp of 
 mischief that loved so well to inflict its presence on 
 Josh was in full working order, right in our midst, 
 too! And I believe that simultaneously the immense 
 hound sensed the same thing, for he wanted to 
 attack the misfit, had not our combined strength 
 prevented it. 
 
 In a little while I found time for speech and dis- 
 covered the newcomer bore the name of Percy 
 Rushton Rushton. I was an Ozarker by adoption 
 and had to abide by the rules of long residence. 
 There was only one thing to do: make the best of it; 
 so I politely invited Percy to make one of our party. 
 But I could easily fancy without mental exaggera- 
 tion a humorous, realistic, mental picture of what 
 would ultimately take place between that ill-matched 
 pair. 
 
 After commanding Josh to get together his guest's 
 belongings and to follow with him immediately, I 
 went to our boat landing. 
 
 I had all our light outfit packed when Josh, Percy 
 and the wagon hauling his property arrived. It 
 appeared to me that they had been a long time com- 
 ing. Josh was perched on top, proclaiming loudly 
 and shrilly in song his joy. The hound was striv- 
 ing his utmost to get at the guest, who rode gin- 
 
 146 
 
THE HILLBILLY'S GUEST 
 
 / 
 
 gerly on the seat and crouched close to the sleepy 
 driver. 
 
 "Whoopee! Whoopee!" Josh sounded the hill cry 
 joyously, while descending from the wagon after 
 first knocking the villainous hound into submission 
 with the butt of his gun. "Behave your fool self — 
 I'll shore bust yu'ns if yu' don't!" 
 
 Had Percy Rushton Rushton been bound for the 
 wilds of Africa he could not have been more generous 
 nor more inconsistent in his outfitting. He had 
 high-power rifles — enough cartridges to last a trip 
 around the world — dufile bags galore, whose contents 
 afterward proved sufficient to stock a village store. 
 It was evident that Percy was well pleased with 
 himself. 
 
 "This is a stunning shooting garment, isn't it?" 
 he asked, admiring his thin figure, though failing to 
 observe the incongruities of dress. He looked more 
 like an Alpine mountain climber than a hunter. 
 He solely lacked an alpenstock and a feather in his 
 dinky soft hat to complete the illusion. That pink, 
 childish face, with the mere smear of a strawish 
 yellow moustache, was too much for me to view with 
 anything but a ludicrous emotion. No wonder 
 Josh's hound developed a villainous antipathy toward 
 him! 
 
 "Would you believe it," he went on to explain, 
 with a giggle that emitted a strong odor of a bever- 
 age that Josh loved well, "this is my first trip in 
 your country? But I have roughed it in the wildest 
 places. I have killed big game until I became tired 
 
 147 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 of the sport, and since I have become acquainted with 
 that quaint, interesting Mister Josh, I know I am 
 going to love your country. I know you will like 
 me, for I am the real thing in wild life. Won't you 
 have a wee drappie?" 
 
 Paying no attention to the proffered silver flask, 
 I had to get away so laughter would not escape me, 
 I helped Josh pack the roomy boat. Then I just 
 reflected, if Josh's guest kept plying him with liquor 
 and followed him closely during his stay in the Irish 
 Wilderness where we were bound, of roughing he 
 would have a plenty! 
 
 Soon everything was ready for the long, strenu- 
 ous, grueling, upstream going on the swift river. 
 Josh was master of the long, iron-shod, push paddle. 
 He took the stern to guide the craft, while with a 
 long pole I worked from the bow end. Frail and 
 aged as the Ozarker looked in his tattered clothes, 
 long hair and untrimmed, rat-like whiskers, he was 
 as spry as a boy: his muscles of tempered spring 
 steel, and he pushed the boat up the rapids at a good 
 pace. 
 
 In the first rapid our initial misfortune occurred — 
 or to be exact Josh's and his guest's. On top of his 
 pile of obese duflie bags we had stationed Rushton, 
 both for his personal comfort and to balance the 
 boat. Without any preparatory announcement 
 that vile hound left his bed at the Ozarker's feet, 
 made a single leap at the Easterner and grabbed his 
 left leg in his huge jaws. At the time Rushton was 
 taking a bottle of whiskey from a case. In the melee 
 
 148 
 
THE HILLBILLY'S GUEST 
 
 the entire stock of his whiskey landed in the rapids 
 and sank immediately. 
 
 Before Josh made the slightest attempt to help, 
 he watched the fate of the whiskey. Old river man 
 that he was, he knew it was beyond recovery. The 
 Easterner squealed like a stuck pig. 
 
 "Hold 'er steady. Mister Johnnie!" Josh sang out, 
 "while I pries that houn' offen my guest." 
 
 I pushed my pole with all my weight into the 
 yielding gravel. The boat held. Josh went to the 
 rescue. He stared amusedly a while, then without 
 comment knocked the hound senseless with the 
 paddle. Whereupon he pulled it under the stern 
 seat and resumed poling as though only an ordinary 
 occurrence had marred our progress. 
 
 Fortunately the big hound had a better grasp on 
 Rushton's trousers than his anatomy. But Percy 
 was now pale and I was prone to reason that he 
 recovered his poise more from Josh's absolute in- 
 difference than from anything I could have said to 
 console him. 
 
 "Any danger of hydrophobia — blood poisoning?" 
 queried Percy. 
 
 "Not while your skin's full of red-eye," assured 
 Josh. 
 
 "I'm glad that whiskey is gone!" I declared vehe- 
 mently. "Perhaps Josh will keep his eye on the 
 crazy hound instead of that case." 
 
 "He wuz jist a playin'," Josh returned in apology. 
 "They hain't no hahm to him." 
 
 "Isn't Mister Josh the quaintest and most origi- 
 149 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 nal character in the world?" commented the unwise 
 easterner. "I just admire so much his natural, un- 
 sophisticated ways." '■ 
 
 Natural, unsophisticated ways! Josh! Too angry 
 for coherent utterance, I expended my choler on the 
 pole. 
 
 With a big, thick blanket covering him, Percy 
 coiled himself on top of the outfit, away from access 
 by the hound. There he slept the remainder of the 
 trip. Despite the alcoholic impost on Josh, he 
 worked steadily. The strength of the little old man 
 was marvelous; he was tireless — always poling 
 along splendidly; no matter what the impediment or 
 the vagaries of the stream, he kept on with auto- 
 matic precision. 
 
 Late in the day the johnboat glided into the bank 
 close to our camp site. A cold, drenching rain fell, 
 though it affected the Ozarker in no untoward man- 
 ner. He refused a coat while the Eastern big-game 
 hunter had recourse to a plenitude of waterproof 
 garments. I was tired from my shoulders down to 
 my feet. 
 
 But Josh worked fast and soon had everything 
 under the cover of a big rock shelf in the overhang- 
 ing bluff. It protected us well. The Ozarker laughed, 
 shouted and danced while gleefully he prepared 
 supper. His guest had been remarkably silent 
 since his adventure with the hound. But Josh began 
 to show him some attention and he became then 
 more like a human. 
 
 Supper over. Josh stepped from the shelter and 
 
 150 
 
THE HILLBILLY'S GUEST 
 
 remarked that the rain had ceased. Later I observed 
 him whisper to Percy, who had finished his attack 
 on his second duck, which I had shot enroute. 
 Something that crinkled and much resembled paper 
 money passed from his to the Ozarker's hand. 
 
 "I'm gwine up to Dave Gideon's," Josh reported, 
 with a side wink at his guest. "I wants to see him 
 erbout drivin' deer with them houn's of his." 
 
 As I made no objection, Josh disappeared in the 
 darkness, and by his whistling and singing I knew he 
 was pursuing a path along the bluff. Darkness had 
 no terrors for Josh — nor anything else! 
 
 The Easterner seeing that Josh's hound was se- 
 curely fastened under another shelter of rock, and 
 quite a distance from us, began to talk while he un- 
 packed his outfit. All the conversation so far in- 
 dulged in had been with the Ozarker. Evidently 
 he did not consider me much of a factor in the hunt, 
 though I had been the organizer. 
 
 Rushton had no less than five high-power rifles 
 of the most modern type. As he drew each from its 
 case he had a narrative associated with it, which he 
 had to tell. A hunter is sometimes sentimental, 
 often critical, always observant. In the latter class 
 I arrayed myself. 
 
 "This Mannlicher," said Percy, doing his best to 
 impress me, "is a wonder. When I was in, ah — 
 ah — Canada — yes, southern Canada, at fifteen hun- 
 dred yards I killed a caribou. It never moved a 
 step after I shot it!" 
 
 "Remarkable!" I exclaimed. But I did not add 
 
 151 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 that the rifle showed no usage, and the owner dis- 
 played obvious unfamiliarity with the handling of 
 the arm and the functioning of the bolt. Then, too, 
 his killing caribou in southern Canada — in June as 
 he afterwards stated — exhibited a knowledge of the 
 habits of game and laws for its protection on a par 
 with his acquaintance with the Mannlicher. 
 
 "I sure wish I had been with you," I said. Then 
 "for God's sake, man, keep the end of that Savage 
 away from my belly!" He was pointing directly at 
 me a Savage .250, which he had no more conception 
 about operating than Josh's big hound. 
 
 "Mind you," he continued, still unaware of any 
 faux pas and trying to impress me with his pale 
 eyes, "with this rifle I killed four deer in one shot. 
 They were all in a line when I fired!" 
 
 "The h-11 you did!" I was about to exclaim, 
 unable longer to stand the pressure of his mendacity. 
 But Josh's arrival with lanky Dave Gideon and his 
 noisy pack saved me from telling Percy my opinion 
 of his statements. 
 
 All at once bedlam broke loose. Josh's hound 
 slipped his collar and tore into Dave's pack. In 
 alarm Percy dropped his precious rifle and strove 
 to do the impossible by exerting his utmost efforts 
 to climb the perpendicular bluff". Had not Dave 
 and Josh seized the big hound there would have been 
 no hounds in condition for the morning's hunt. It 
 required both the natives' strength to secure the 
 dog and mine to prevent the Easterner from running 
 
 152 
 
THE HILLBILLY'S GUEST 
 
 right into the river, for in the darkness he was 
 headed that way when I caught him. 
 
 As usual, Josh cackled at the hounds' belligerency, 
 and then stormed at him for his attitude toward his 
 guest. Dave, taking a seat at the fire next to Percy, 
 was just recovering from his terror. 
 
 At which I was most vexed I did not know, and 
 alternately cursed the hound, Josh, and his guest 
 as my eyes rested on them. Finally, gaining nothing 
 by it, I, too, took a seat by the fire. 
 
 For an instant Josh sidled into the bushes and 
 returned bearing an immense demijohn. I was aware 
 of the contents and soon Percy was to learn. I had 
 passed the stage of interference. My mind was made 
 up; Josh could do as he pleased with his guest, but 
 on the morrow I would efface myself from their 
 company. 
 
 On seeing the demijohn, Percy's eyes shone 
 brightly. 
 
 Taking a tin cup from the outfit. Josh poured it 
 full of the straw-colored liquor which the demijohn 
 contained. The odor of semi-sour, fresh corn husks 
 prevailed. It was a favorite beverage of the Ozarker. 
 He proffered the cup to the Easterner. He accepted 
 it. 
 
 "My!" Percy smacked his lips joyously after 
 the first taste, then he drank the entire contents. 
 "This is very good. . . . very good. It is so 
 mild I don't think it would hurt anybody, would it 
 Mister Josh?" 
 
 153 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 "Wud'nt hurt a flea," assured the native. "Take 
 another, Mister Guest, oh — I means — Mister — oh, 
 have another." 
 
 "Rushton," Percy assisted, seeing Josh unable 
 to handle his proper designation. He drank another 
 cup and addressed me. "How in the world do they 
 make this delicious, mild beverage?" 
 
 "Tell him. Josh." I passed the answer to the 
 Ozarker. Josh grinned sheepishly, which I trans- 
 lated into: "Is it safe to tell him what it is?" 
 
 I nodded my head. 
 
 "Wal," Josh began, after drenching Dave and 
 himself with a cup. "They takes pure white cohn, 
 'nd they sets hit outen the moonlight near a cold 
 spring for three nights." The Ozarker paused, 
 looked at me, then observing I made no sign of inter- 
 ference, he rejoined: "That's all ther's to hit. What 
 yu'ns a drinking is the skimmings that fohms on the 
 stuff. The moon makes the skimmings from the 
 dew. That's why they calls hit moonshine, 'nd 
 mountain dew!" 
 
 To escape being a party to further deception, 
 I went under the big ledge of rock and spread out 
 my blankets, then lying down I covered my body 
 and for a long time watched the celebrants. 
 
 Soon Gideon succumbed to the potency of the 
 mountain dew. He moved a little way from the 
 fire and, coiling himself among his pack of dogs, he 
 fell asleep. 
 
 From my bedding I viewed Josh and his guest. 
 Between the two the cup traveled frequently. Josh 
 
 154 
 
THE HILLBILLY'S GUEST 
 
 danced, sang, told tales of the hills and vowed ever- 
 lasting devotion to his guest. In a thin voice Percy 
 made a feeble bluff at singing; then seeing that he 
 was not a success, he reverted to his old fondness 
 for relating tales about his wonderful hunts. The 
 last I remember was that I saw the two with their 
 arms around each other's necks and Percy was 
 slaughtering tigers in India. 
 
 Two hours before daybreak I awoke. The pine 
 logs were down to mere hissing embers. Neither 
 Percy not Josh were under the shelter. Very close 
 to the fire Josh lay flat on his back and Percy's 
 blonde head rested contentedly on his stomach. All 
 rain signs had passed. The moon shone clearly. 
 The air was piercing cold. Dragging the Easterner 
 off his friend, I flung him on his blankets. I let Josh 
 remain where he was, for weather conditions never 
 affected him. For a moment I gazed at the Easterner. 
 His pink, childish face evoked a sigh of pity. But 
 when I recalled his fabulous tales and realized his 
 ignorance of the ways of the woods, I determined 
 to let him suffer some of the hardships as a possible 
 curative against more of his characteristic recitals. 
 
 In another hour I aroused Josh. In an instant 
 he was up, the wiry, alert, sage, incomprehensible, 
 capable native of yore. At once he strode to the 
 side of his friend Dave and, kicking him in the 
 ribs, shouted: "Git up, Dave. Here I's been callin' 
 yu'ns for the last two hours!" 
 
 Then altogether Dave's hounds resented the 
 treatment of their master. In a body they started 
 
 155 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 to attack Josh. But, as ever, Josh was master of 
 the situation and began to launch forth two very 
 active and accurate feet in the ribs of the hounds 
 as fast as they came near. 
 
 Dave awoke and instantly stopped the battle. 
 
 In a twinkling these two masters of woodcraft 
 had the fire burning brightly, and in a little while 
 after a good piping-hot breakfast. 
 
 "Dave, do your ole fren' Josh a favor," Josh 
 said, while pouring the coffee. "Go over to my guest 
 and kick him in the ribs, so he can done set in on 
 breakfast." 
 
 Gideon hesitated. 
 
 Noticing his diffidence, in three jumps Josh was 
 at the Easterner's side and administered rapidly five 
 terrific kicks in the ribs. 
 
 "Git up," said Josh in his most affable manner. 
 "Breakfast's ready and we'uns wants to be on a 
 deer stand in annudder hour." 
 
 Poor Percy! Rubbing his aching ribs, the slayer 
 of countless deer, caribou, lions, tigers and what not 
 did not radiate resemblance to such a terror of the 
 wilds as he had depicted himself the night before. 
 His bloodshot eyes, quavering voice and trembling 
 hands did not emphasize him as a hunter. He looked 
 like some lost babe in the woods, more than any- 
 thing I could conjure. 
 
 But Josh was to his succor before I could interpose 
 any remarks. He had him in his arms and poured 
 down a tremendous drink of his favorite beverage 
 in his waiting maw. Such a quantity would revive 
 
 156 
 
THE HILLBILLY'S GUEST 
 
 a dead man — make a wren fight an eagle. Though it 
 had no fighting effect on Percy, silently he got up 
 and took his place at breakfast. Another dose of 
 the same medicine and he was chipper as ever. 
 
 "Josh," said Dave Gideon after breakfast, "I'll 
 staht way back right now for the breaks of Bahn, 
 and jist erbout sunrise I'll turn my dogs loose and 
 staht a deer. You takes the ole stands." 
 
 "Dave, jist erbout sun-up we'll be on our stands," 
 Josh shouted, as Dave's hounds were proclaiming 
 their delight at the anticipated chase. "Then as 
 soon as your dogs commences to sing a while, I'll 
 turn that houn' of mine loose. Then yu'll shore 
 hear sum race!" 
 
 Doubtless Dave agreed, for he walked away and 
 soon was out of sight in the somber woods. 
 
 A few more potations of mountain dew and again 
 Percy was himself. He donned another hunting 
 suit — an experienced big-game hunter could not 
 have been expected to wear the same clothes two 
 days in succession. 
 
 "Mister Josh," Percy asked, struggling before his 
 artillery which he had stacked against a log, "which 
 rifle would you use, if you were I?" 
 
 Now concerning the bolt type sporting rifle. 
 Josh knew as much about one as he did of the history 
 of ancient Greece, "Wal," conjectured the O'zarker, 
 indicating with a dirty finger the Mannlicher, "which 
 air this called?" 
 
 "A Mannlicher," Percy vouchsafed. 
 
 "The name licher sounds good," Josh said with 
 
 157 
 
JIST HUNTIN* 
 
 an air of finality. "Then las' night hit was the one 
 yu'ns did all them big killins with, so jist take'r 
 along. Now let's git a hustle on us, for the sun'U 
 soon be over Wolf Holler Bluff." 
 
 With the big hound in leash and carrying that 
 lengthy ten-bore single-barrel gun, Josh led the way. 
 The gun contained an antiquated brass shell loaded 
 with 4>2 drams of black powder and a plenitude of 
 buckshot. This was Josh's favorite load, and at 
 certain distances it was positively guaranteed to kill 
 any wild animal in the woods. Percy followed 
 gingerly over the brush and down timber as the guide 
 laid down instructions, one of which was that the 
 easterner was not to leave his stand on any account 
 until Josh called for him. 
 
 Though I had been totally ignored in the planning 
 of the day's hunt and the night before vowed nothing 
 could make me participate, to act as a spectator 
 I decided to follow unknown to the hunters. It 
 promised amusement. Then, too, I was a bit keen 
 to view Josh's new-found pet make his good per- 
 sonal record as a slayer of game. I concealed my- 
 self on the slope of a hill. From there I could view 
 the place where both Josh and Percy would take 
 their stands, as well as get the first sight of any deer 
 coming over the ridge. 
 
 At a point at the foot of a hill Josh stationed his 
 guest. The hill sloped to a valley, and in the valley 
 Josh assumed his stand in a thicket about two hun- 
 dred yards east of Percy. He tied the dog to a sap- 
 ling, then deliberately laid on the ground and slept. 
 
 158 
 
THE HILLBILLY'S GUEST 
 
 After a while at a distance in the west the hounds 
 opened up. From the start it was a sight race. 
 They pushed that deer through the hills straight 
 for Percy's stand. Josh woke up. The deer almost 
 ran over his guest before he saw it. 
 
 Simultaneously Josh released the big hound. 
 
 Then I beheld Percy, hatless, running after the 
 deer had passed him, and all the while crying his 
 loudest: "Look out, boys, he's coming! Look out, 
 boys, he's coming!" Then he fired his rifle in the op- 
 posite direction to the deer but directly toward Josh. 
 
 Immediately the big hound leaped in the air, and 
 as suddenly dropped with Percy's bullet mush- 
 roomed in his brain. 
 
 The Ozarker went wild with anger. Before I had 
 even a chance to interpose, he leveled that long shot- 
 gun at his guest and pulled the trigger. Only a 
 ballistic miracle saved Percy for further flight. A 
 cloud of dirt flung into his face. The sapling close 
 by shivered from the impact of buckshot. With a 
 look of fright as he saw the mad Ozarker, Percy 
 fled at full speed. Before Josh got that long gun in 
 action again he had passed over the big hill to the 
 north and was still crying: "Look out, boys, he's 
 a-coming!" 
 
 But I was on Josh before he could reload and 
 follow. I disarmed him. 
 
 "Now get to camp!" I commanded. "Don't you 
 move either until I get back." 
 
 Later I shipped Percy's outfit to him, though I 
 did not find him until the following afternoon. I 
 
 159 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 discovered him hiding in a clump of sedge grass 
 between two immense boulders. He was cold and 
 hungry, and implored me not to let Josh have him, 
 I said little, but, taking him to a logging camp, I 
 made arrangements for his conveyance to the nearest 
 railway station. The effect of Josh's shot had been 
 too much for his nerves, and I really feared that the 
 combination of fright and moonshine had momen- 
 tarily unbalanced him. But it was a vast relief to 
 get him off my hands. 
 
 "Josh," I said, for I was still mad at my guide on 
 arrival at camp, "that's a pretty mess you got this 
 deer hunt into, with that precious guest of yours." 
 
 The Ozarker registered dejection. Knowing him 
 well, I was positive the loss of the money he would 
 have received from his guest was the only thing 
 which could have brought about this state. 
 
 "Mister Rushton," I rejoined with an injured 
 expression, "gave me thirty dollars to pay you for 
 your trouble. But you don't get a cent of it!" 
 
 "Why?" Josh queried at once. 
 
 "That money," I explained, "is going to reimburse 
 the owner of that hound." 
 
 "Turn that there money over to me then," he 
 cried, "for there hain't no owner now but me." 
 
 "No owner — explain?" I said, dumbfounded. 
 
 "That ole fool houn'," Josh retorted, "was a-trailin' 
 behin' one of them movin' waggins. He looked so 
 hongry and poor, I jist totched my knife to the rope 
 'nd he followed me, so I recken now I'm the only 
 owner he's got. Hain't I right. Mister Johnnie?" 
 
 1 60 
 
XVIII 
 The White Wolf 
 
 The many tales related by timbermen and squat- 
 ters about the white wolf were sufficient to create 
 both doubt and interest. But I hunted the foothills 
 a long time before I got close to this wiry fellow. 
 At first I received the tales with unbelief, for 
 so many of them when run down proved only fabri- 
 cations of a fanciful mind. 
 
 Though I heard of white deer and had seen a few 
 specimens, as well as albino ducks and opossums, 
 it was hard to convince me that a white wolf ex- 
 isted. For some time I cast the subject aside and 
 perhaps would have thought no more of it, until a 
 dependable Canadian squatter, Louis Duprez, in- 
 formed me he had seen a white wolf a few nights 
 before. Immediately this revived my interest and 
 at once I was seized with a determination to secure 
 it as a prize. 
 
 Later I found others who had seen the white wolf, 
 invariably on a moonlight night in a stretch of the 
 swamps close to the foothills, which for some in- 
 explicable reason had bestowed on it the name 
 Arabia. It had no resemblance to that country, 
 though, as inappropriately an overflow nearby was 
 called the Red Sea, with no other historical backing 
 than the statement from the oldest settler that it 
 always had borne that appellation. 
 
 i6i 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 Both Arabia and the Red Sea were heavily tim- 
 bered swamps, flooded most of the year. With a 
 road wagon a trip could be made across it only 
 during September and October; these were the only 
 periods when the swamps were feasible for any 
 vehicle except the loggers' lizards. Cypress brakes, 
 heavy belts of tupelo and sweet gum, hickory, ash, 
 and giant water oak mingled together in stagnant 
 pools, that seemed interminably joined by narrow 
 sloughs. Even on foot the going was anything but 
 comfortable; for centuries of floods and storms had 
 piled down timber in heaps, that were made almost 
 impassable by the riotous undergrowth of twining 
 spiny vines. As the sun was unable to penetrate 
 the dense foliage altogether, the surroundings were 
 gloomy and forbidding. Here and there a knoll of 
 overly fertile land had tempted a few squatters, 
 as well as the egret roosts an occasional band of 
 plume hunters. Most of the swamp residents, how- 
 ever, were engaged in hewing the big hickory and 
 oak trees, and their homes were one-room, carelessly 
 erected shanties scattered about the inundation. 
 
 The early advent of spring grasses tempted the 
 cattle men, and as the range was free, they made the 
 most of it with their stock. For a long while I had 
 been cognizant of the big bands of timber wolves 
 that made their home in the swamps. Food in the 
 shape of swamp rabbits was plentiful, and when so 
 disposed the wolves never hesitated to kill a calf 
 or full-grown steer. 
 
 With some success I hunted wolves, but I found 
 162 
 
THE WHITE WOLF 
 
 no trace of the white one. At times I abandoned the 
 notion, but soon resumed my quest when another 
 story came to my ears about the white fellow. The 
 mystery attached to it doubtless caused me to con- 
 tinue my search. 
 
 "De beeg loup blanc she cum in yard las' night 
 *nd keel wan calf!" declared Mrs. Duprez, excitedly 
 waving her hands. "Such wan jolie calf. She was 
 a white wolf — le loup blanc. I seen heem in de 
 moonlight. She was as beeg as — as — Je dunno 
 what!" 
 
 This much I discovered from those who purported 
 to have seen the white wolf; he was very large and 
 had never been seen in day time. On the theory 
 that he would return to the Duprez shanty after 
 another calf, I laid out three nights. In all direc- 
 tions I heard wolves. A few came near the calf lot 
 and I could see them plainly in the moonlight. But 
 I was unable to perceive any bearing the slightest 
 resemblance to a white one. 
 
 Once more I was on the point of relegating the 
 white wolf to the realm of the fanciful. 
 
 "Comin' 'cross Open Pond las' night, j'ais — I seen 
 de beeg white wolf!" Pierre Ledoux volubly assured 
 me. "She cross sur une — wan cypress log at de upper 
 entrance." Pierre always had laughed at the white 
 wolf story. He was an old trapper — trapped during 
 winter and shot egrets in the adjoining heronrys 
 early in summer. 
 
 "Were any other wolves with him, Pierre?" I 
 asked, now more interested than ever. 
 
 163 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 "No. She be toutes seul — alone," he repHed and 
 went on; "I start crossln' at de west end of Open 
 Pond. Tought I go see Cy Hall, she seek. Quand — 
 when I look east as de moon she rize I see de white 
 loLip. She scent me, 'nd she run nord." 
 
 It was early in the fall when Pierre Ledoux told 
 me about the white wolf. I considered his recital 
 as irrefutable; as on account of hunting together for 
 a number of years I thought I knew him much more 
 intimately than even the Canadian timber hewers. 
 His most conspicuous trait was truthfulness and 
 an entire lack of inclination even to exaggerate. On 
 this account I felt positive that a white wolf existed, 
 and I determined to hunt the swamps until I found 
 him. So many had laughed at my former unsuccess- 
 ful attempts I said nothing further on the subject. 
 
 Early one evening I started through the swamps. 
 Against my wishes an old Irish setter bitch of mine, 
 Chlo, followed. If Chlo was afraid of anything 
 on earth she had never displayed it. What she 
 lacked in bird finding ability she made up in fight- 
 ing. Somehow she had slipped her fastening and 
 had picked up my trail. After second thought I was 
 glad she came. Company is always welcome in the 
 swamps, especially at night. 
 
 The swamps were drier than usual. I followed 
 a path to the Duprez home, just as night enveloped 
 the swamps in a fold of blackness. There I filled 
 my water jug. 
 
 "Dit lui' pour rester jusque la lune s'eleve!" I 
 heard the old lady call to her daughter. 
 
 164 
 
THE WHITE WOLF 
 
 "Thanks, but don't worry about me," I replied, 
 *M won't wait until the moon rises; I'll turn in at the 
 McCracken camp right away." 
 
 I continued on my way, however, Chlo ranging 
 out through the underbrush as though it were day. 
 On arriving at a small knoll in a sand ridge, very close 
 to a logging road, I camped. A little later supper 
 preparations were in order, my faithful red dog 
 awaiting patiently for the time I would give her a 
 share. 
 
 Presently I heard as though hounds were baying 
 in the big woods east. I thought a gun was fired 
 far away. The baying ceased. A little later wolves 
 sounded their nightly swamp rabbit chase. For a 
 while they circled at long range, but as night drew 
 on their circles narrowed and were closer to me. 
 Once in a while they desisted, but not very long at a 
 time, and soon they were running very near to my 
 camp site, as I could distinguish their movements 
 in the underbrush. 
 
 This was no cause for alarm on my part. Many 
 nights I had spent in the swamps and no wolves had 
 ever come close, though in big packs. I got ready my 
 .303, however, in case of emergency. Chlo did not 
 share my feeling of security. It was the first time 
 I ever saw her exhibit fear of man or beast. She 
 crouched close to me, shivering and occasionally 
 uttering a low, whining note. 
 
 Presently, I reflected, wolves killed dogs in the 
 swamps. No dog that self-hunted at night ever 
 returned. Would the presence of Chlo precipitate 
 
 165 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 an attack by this band? I asked myself this question 
 a number of times. 
 
 But the wolves continued running. I was about 
 to laugh at my apprehensions when the moon ap- 
 peared vaulting the cypress timber and giving the 
 white sand road through the swamp the glint of 
 polished silver. Some animal crept softly from the 
 underbrush, and for a second stood silently in the 
 middle of the road fifty yards from me. 
 
 I could hardly contain myself as it dropped to its 
 haunches and throwing back its head uttered three 
 ear-splitting, blood-curdling ululations. I thought 
 for an instant my eyes would burst from their 
 fastenings. In the strong moonlight I saw that it 
 was the white wolf. 
 
 Pulling myself together I aimed right at the big 
 creature's breast, and squeezed the trigger as it 
 lifted its head for another ululation. But the sound 
 never gained utterance. With the spiteful shriek 
 of nitro powder I saw the white wolf leap in the air, 
 snap twice at vacancy, then drop all in a heap on the 
 soft sand. For a time I waited for further move- 
 ment on the part of the wolf, but as there was none 
 I knew that it was dead. 
 
 Not a sound disturbed the serenity of the swamp. 
 I found the animal stretched out, its tongue hanging 
 out from its white-flecked muzzle and touching the 
 damp sand. I called to Chlo, but no persuasion on 
 my part could bring her near the kill. And even 
 during the first minute of my exultation I could not 
 restrain my inclination to laugh uproariously. 
 
 i66 
 
THE WHITE WOLF 
 
 Time showed that I had killed the white wolf of 
 the natives, for he was heard of no more, but this 
 one was not white. No doubt at some earlier period 
 it had been subjected to a severe attack of the old 
 enemy of canines, mange. From head to tail it 
 was destitute of hair, and as the moonbeams fell 
 upon its mottled pink and black smoothed skin at 
 certain angles of vision it shone white. 
 
 167 
 
XIX 
 
 Vacant Collars 
 
 For obvious reasons they were called the bibulous 
 pair. And a bibulous pair they were. Had it not 
 been so, this tale would never have seen paper. 
 For two years they annoyed me with their ponstant 
 importunities; always they were wanting to borrow 
 a dog. Very often I accommodated them; and some- 
 times the good wife loaned a youngster that had 
 been too frequently on terms of familiarity with her 
 poultry, in hope that the bibulous pair would lose it. 
 
 The bibulous pair were employed at one of the 
 big lumber mills and liked well the sport of quail 
 shooting. Never had they been known to own a 
 dog. A holiday seldom arrived without finding the 
 bibulous pair filled up with hill liquor and a sur- 
 passing desire to hunt. The first condition always 
 brought about the hunting instinct. Their liba- 
 tions invariably attained the humorous stage of 
 liquor's influence and they remained in gleeful en- 
 joyment until all effects had worn off. A sick day 
 followed for each, as well as many promises of 
 abstinence for the balance of their lives. But their 
 promises they kept only until the next payday. And 
 still they were liked, especially because they were 
 strikingly amusing, never boisterous and regarded 
 themselves very seriously. 
 
 "Say, can't you let us have a dog for tomorrow?" 
 i68 
 
VACANT COLLARS 
 
 pleaded Jim, the inevitable self-appointed spokes- 
 man of the pair, flinging my way a stifling vapor of 
 distilled corn. "You know we'll take care of it. 
 Won't we. Rube?" 
 
 Though standing up. Rube was just sufficiently 
 awake to acquiesce and allow a humorous leer to 
 escape toward me. 
 
 "I'll tell you, boys," I returned, not having a 
 youngster I cared to trust to their shooting, "up at 
 Dandin old man Hicks has two great pointers he'll 
 sell for twenty dollars. Why don't you drive up 
 there tomorrow and buy them? They are cheap at 
 the price; and then you will have dogs whether I 
 have one to spare or not. Don't you think that is a 
 good chance?" 
 
 "Sure!" assented Jim. "Rube, wake up. Shall 
 we get 'em?" 
 
 The worthy addressed lurched forward, caught 
 himself against the picket fence, smiled agreement, 
 then closed his lips tightly as though something of 
 vast importance might escape if he parted them. 
 This was as near as Rube ever spoke when brimming 
 with liquor. 
 
 "I'll tell you what," declared Jim, holding him- 
 self extremely erect, feeling no doubt that the 
 occasion warranted an attitude of extreme dignity. 
 "You len' us twenty dollars until next payday, two 
 dog chains, two collars. We'll borrow Mermot's 
 buggy and go get those dogs. Won't we. Rube?" 
 
 Rube repeated his speechless performance, which 
 Jim translated as an agreement to his plans. 
 
 169 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 Twenty-four hours after payday was too long an 
 elapse of time to expect either to be in possession of 
 twenty dollars. So they became obligated to me for 
 the money and in other ways. But I yielded, for 
 I realized it was an easy manner to get rid of their 
 begging dogs for a year or two. 
 
 I happened by chance to be at Dandin the next 
 day. As usual under the influence of their favorite 
 beverage I saw them drive in Mermot's buggy to 
 Hick's barn and quickly purchase the dogs. With 
 chains they afiixed them to the rear axle and drove 
 off slowly. The dogs tugged strenuously to escape. 
 But, realizing that the vehicle was something supe- 
 rior in the way of strength, finally they followed with 
 a faint display of tractableness. 
 
 At every store enroute home the bibulous pair 
 stopped, bought drinks for the crowd, and invited 
 them to gaze on the dogs for which they had paid 
 fifty dollars! In those days all the stores had Blind 
 Tigers in the back room. As soon as Jim commanded 
 the attention of the bystanders he bragged about 
 the dogs and the sum expended for their purchase. 
 At the third Blind Tiger they had paid two hundred 
 dollars for the dogs. Dog flesh was advancing 
 rapidly in price. 
 
 When the tenth Blind Tiger loomed into view 
 through the dark and hard slanting rain, the price 
 of dogs was still soaring. I was in front of the store 
 when the bibulous pair fell out of their vehicle and 
 entered. I followed them to the rear. Dogs had 
 attained the excessive — one thousand dollars. 
 
 170 
 
VACANT COLLARS 
 
 "Hello, everybody!" exclaimed Jim. "Do you 
 know we got some dogs — some dogs I say! Just 
 got two from Noo York — cost a thousand dollars 
 apiece. Didn't they, Rube?" 
 
 As customary Rube committed himself with an 
 expansive smile, propped himself against the wall 
 and fell into a dozing state. 
 
 "Come on, fellers," invited Rube's sociable friend. 
 "Have a drink on me." 
 
 The joint was crowded with loafers, and as usual, 
 very dry ones at that. All drank and all joined in 
 the invitation which Jim extended to see the dogs. 
 Rube awoke and followed them out in the darkness. 
 
 "Price Hawkins, leii' me your lantern, please," 
 requested Jim in his suavest manner. 
 
 The proprietor obligingly submitted to the de- 
 mand. 
 
 "If you want to see something real gran' — real 
 gran* — . I say, if you want to see something real 
 gran'," concluded Jim in mellowing tones. "Say, 
 you wanta see the dogs — we got. Nothing can touch 
 them — cost a thousand dollars apiece, didn't they? — " 
 
 Rube was not visible, so was not able to confirm 
 the statement of his boon companion. Such a 
 trivial matter, however, bothered Jim none, and he 
 continued to expatiate on the transcending qualities 
 of the dogs. 
 
 "Let's bring them in outen thuh rain, *nd we kin 
 all see 'em!" exclaimed a bright member of the loaf- 
 er's fraternity. 
 
 "That's what I said long ago, didn't I, Rube?" 
 171 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 retorted Jim, whose tongue was giving him trouble, 
 owing to his inability to handle it briskly. "Come 
 on — some dogs — cost thousan' dollars. Don't be- 
 lieve me ask — ." 
 
 There was no Rube to fall back on for reference. 
 Out of doors the rain pelted down mercilessly. The 
 light of the lantern revealed Rube stretched out full 
 length on the buggy seat, sleeping soundly and 
 ignorant of the downpour, 
 
 "Come on, boys, here they are!" guided Jim. 
 
 Eager to behold the fabulous-priced dogs the 
 patrons of the joint followed despite the soaking 
 rain. 
 
 "Say, where air the dogs?" asked an inquisitive- 
 minded hanger-on. 
 
 "The dogs — you durned fool — look under the rig! 
 Where did you expect to see them — ridin' a horse?" 
 Jim laughed in elation at his sally of wit. 
 
 Because the dogs could not be seen right off, it 
 was due no doubt to the excessive darkness. With 
 the rain and the black mist one could not see a foot 
 ahead without a light. 
 
 "Hold the lantern. Price, 'nd I'll show you. Come 
 on, Jake! Come on, Pete!" shouted Jim at the top 
 of his voice as he floundered around in the muddy 
 slush. 
 
 There was no response from the dogs, not even 
 the rattle of a chain. 
 
 "Say — hold the light — under the buggy," asked 
 Jim, his voice for some reason rather modulated and 
 expressing dubitancy. "Shucks — they've — " 
 
 172 
 
VACANT COLLARS 
 
 Jim was unable to continue his speech. With the 
 light in a position to view under the vehicle, all eyes 
 peered unrewarded for some time in the lighted area. 
 They beheld no dogs valued at a thousand dollars, 
 not even a small dog valued at fifty cents. The 
 chains were still there, as well as two collars very 
 muddy and worn from dragging on the ground for 
 a long time. 
 
 Jim gasped for utterance, then fell all in a heap in 
 my arms. But Rube slept on blissfully unconscious 
 of the vacant collars. 
 
 173 
 
XX 
 
 Raoul and My New Brunswick Moose 
 
 "Eh bien! Sum day I breeng you up on Tobique 
 — better still de Raucous," Raoul promised. 
 
 So it was the influence of Raoul that ultimately 
 brought me to the moose country. He was a small, 
 sturdy, red-cheeked chap, almost feminine of coun- 
 tenance, whose accent showed on occasions both 
 Canadian and Acadian ancestry. This latter trait 
 showed the more closer I saw him south or when he 
 spoke about the Bayou Teche. But, when he re- 
 ferred to moose, the French of the north dominated. 
 
 In the hill country of the middle-west, I first met 
 Raoul de Giberville. He was noted not so much for 
 his remarkable artistry at hewing big timber, as for 
 his ability to drink more whiskey than any man I 
 had ever seen. 
 
 "Moose — by gar — they be so beeg — 'nd deers — " 
 began Raoul, who had taken a strong liking for me 
 because I could speak French. 
 
 "But the expense — the cost of license," I inter- 
 posed, "is almost too much for a man of my means." 
 
 "Poof! Poof! Ces rien," Raoul explained. But 
 this was only an habitual exclamation of the little 
 Frenchman. He performed it by distending both 
 cheeks to the proportions of two inflated toy bal- 
 loons and suddenly exploding them as he extended 
 
 174 
 
MY NEW BRUNSWICK MOOSE 
 
 both hands, palms upward, in a gesture combining 
 the Gaelic shrug and persuasiveness of a second-hand 
 clothing-store salesman. At the same instant the 
 aroma of fifty distilleries permeated the surroundings. 
 
 "Perhaps I'll go some day," was my nearest ap- 
 proach to any definite agreement. 
 
 "Up on de Rancous we will go, maitenant," he 
 tried to persuade me. "No — not now. Eh bien, 
 sum time later." 
 
 That was the last time I saw Raoul in the hill 
 country, but his memory lingered, for the tales he 
 had told me of his beloved Rancous had proven 
 extremely alluring. Frequently I found myself 
 speculating on the promises of the moose country 
 and visualizing Raoul, as the little Frenchman's 
 incomparable ability for storing liquor had left a 
 trail of entertaining stories. 
 
 The next sight of Raoul I had was down in the 
 Sunken Lands, in the St. Francis swamp country. 
 Certainly it was the same Frenchman, a little stouter, 
 now with Acadian accent showing he had been in 
 Louisiana, with ruddy cheeks that were plumper 
 and that had attained a purplish hue. But it was to 
 my delight unmistakably the same Raoul, for the 
 odor of liquor clung to his person as tenaciously as 
 ever. 
 
 "Quel grande plaisir eet is to see you!" Raoul 
 greeted me with open arms, as he stood hewing axe 
 in hand, resting against a giant hickory he had just 
 felled. Several natives gazed with drollery in their 
 eyes at his effusive welcome. 
 
 175 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 "Well, Raoul," I responded, a little-shame-faced 
 at his embrace, yet well-pleased once more to be- 
 hold my favorite. "How did you ever drift here?" 
 
 "The beeg heeckory timber she give out in de 
 South; so much, so beeg she breeng me here. So 
 much money I make, I go home to Rancous next 
 fall. You cum wid me certainment this time — won't 
 you?" And then he went on to relate what he had 
 culled from letters received from a relative in New 
 Brunswick. 
 
 "Ah, the beeg moose — by gar! Rien ici like it, 
 Monsieur Laureal!" Raoul related. "Dis year see 
 hundreds — thousands! Vous cum wid me?" "But 
 it is such a long trip for me!" I retorted, feeling that 
 I was yielding to his mastery in recital on the subject 
 of big game. "Poof! Poof!" Raoul deluged me with 
 his ubiquitous perfume. "Seulment four jours — 
 four days only 'nd we will be there. Let us drink to 
 our meeting on the Rancous." 
 
 At last the little Frenchman gained my promise 
 to a visit up in the moose country during the com- 
 ing fall. From a pile of half-green brush he produced 
 a glass gallon jug of whiskey. It was almost one- 
 fourth filled. He passed it around. The natives 
 sipped, as well as I. When it came to Raoul's turn, 
 he eyed it with an expression of regret, though there 
 was fully a pint remaining. Raising the jug to his 
 lips, and tilting back his head, he drank all the straw- 
 colored liquor. 
 
 "Say, Ral," exclaimed one of the swampers in a 
 tone of envy, "how in the world do yu'ns do hit?" 
 
 176 
 
MY NEW BRUNSWICK MOOSE 
 
 "Poof! Poof! Ces rien dutout!" contemptuously 
 the little man replied. "An accomplishment it is. 
 Nobody knows how to do it, unless he cum from de 
 beeg moose country." 
 
 When I left the train at Indian town, Raoul was 
 the first to see me. His pleasure at the occasion was 
 much in evidence, also his famous odor. I thought 
 he had gained in weight. He wore the woodsman 
 garb of the North, and seemed perfectly enraptured 
 at my arrival. He had my luggage together at a 
 speed hardly believable, and I could perceive easily 
 that he had something of importance to say, for he 
 was doing his utmost to work me away from the 
 populace. 
 
 "Parle Francais toujours — you speak French all 
 de time," he advised, "dey tink you Can-a-dian. I 
 tell 'em you my cousin. No have to pay license pour 
 nonresident." 
 
 My silence Raoul conceived as acquiescence, 
 though he gave me no time for appropriate answer. 
 He rattled on volubly, expressing his inestimable 
 pleasure at my visit. 
 
 "Les grandes moose!" he continually exclaimed. 
 "There is wan, too, j'ais sauvais pour vous. The 
 spread something won-der-ful!" 
 
 Two days of pushing upstream through unknown 
 waterways we spent until we reached a country of 
 small lakes, hills of spruce and small marshes of 
 cedar. Then only we established a permanent camp. 
 Enroute once we ate lunch at a camp of Easterners 
 and they looked commiseratingly at my .^^ Rem- 
 
 177 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 ington automatic rifle, insisting that nothing but 
 the high-power, bolt-type sporting rifle would prove 
 efi^ective against moose. 
 
 I knew little about moose, but before I left the 
 party my head was a-whirl of confusion with giant 
 moose, trajectory, spread of antlers palmations, and 
 things I had little knowledge of whatever. But I 
 do recall that none of the party had killed a moose. 
 After we departed I remarked this to my companion, 
 and also of the likelihood of my failure. 
 
 "Poof! Poof! Ces Rien," he consoled, anointing 
 me with his inevitable perfume. "Beeg moose here, 
 beaucoup. You kill wan sure. Ze guides make fool 
 dem fellers. Make largent — money — that much 
 more the longer she keep dem out. Voyez! Man, 
 she kill moose first day— go home — guide get not 
 so much. Mebbe feefty dollar for showing moose. 
 Ten days, guide she get more pay — want moose more 
 badly, pay guide more. Voyez, mon ami!" 
 
 Close to some spruce back from a large mirror-like 
 lake we pitched our tent. The scenery was inde- 
 scribably charming. The wild setting seemed to 
 enthrall me as much as the prospects for the biggest 
 moose. 
 
 Day after day I saw many cows, and occasionally 
 a young bull, which I would have been prone to shoot 
 had it not been for the continual interpositions of 
 Raoul. 
 
 "Poof! Poof! Mon ami, ces tros petits, too leetle 
 • — plenty time — attendait unpeau. Then — ah — wan 
 beeg feller." 
 
 178 
 
MY NEW BRUNSWICK MOOSE 
 
 But days passed and I appeared no nearer the 
 object of my quest. I enjoyed, however, the strange- 
 ness of the country and the quaintness of Raoul. 
 All the atavism in my being was suddenly aroused 
 by the distance from civilization. I experienced a 
 longing to remain forever. The very serenity of the 
 environments held me spellbound, for undomesti- 
 cated places had always for me an unexplicable 
 lure. 
 
 On the ninth day Raoul came into camp and an- 
 nounced that the moose of moose had been in the 
 neighborhood. Once we followed a trail, but only 
 gave it up at dusk, though we had lost it many hours 
 before. Raoul was too much of a sportsman to use 
 a call. But he still remained optimistic. He had 
 "wan beeg moose" for me, and only patience would 
 bring me near it. 
 
 The eleventh day Raoul advised me that he was 
 obliged to go to a small settlement for supplies. Of 
 the kind he most desired, I had my opinion. The 
 last day, though his optimism was great as ever, 
 there was something lacking about him which at 
 first I could not classify. All at once it dawned upon 
 me that his inevitable odor of liquor was refresh- 
 ingly absent. This was the main reason why he was 
 bound for the settlement; further examination re- 
 vealed that we still had a fair stock of supplies, but 
 the stock of bottles containing his favorite beverage 
 had been entirely depleted. 
 
 With nothing else to do T decided to make a try 
 for moose alone. Hardly had I left camp, when 
 
 179 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 about an eighth mile up the lake on the right, I caught 
 a glimpse of a big bull moving into the timber. 
 Almost as fast as I beheld the creature I lost sight 
 of him. This, however, was encouraging, so I took 
 the same side of the lake. 
 
 Stepping back in the cover for the purpose of 
 circling, I heard the longing call of a cow. Then 
 sounded back from somewhere in the timber, 00 — 
 Wah, the answer of a big bull. Cautiously I pro- 
 gressed to get an unobstructed view of the lake and 
 found myself standing in a shallow pond closely 
 surrounded by cedars. The call of the cow was re- 
 peated faintly, and soon answered by the gutteral 
 oo-ruh of a bull ready for a scrap. 
 
 From the sound I judged the bull was not far 
 away. Listening again for sound 1 heard the move- 
 ments of some animal forcing its way through the 
 close-grown forest near me. Then all was silent. 
 Directing my eyes toward a growth of cedars, one 
 spot seemed blacker and well corresponded with 
 the surroundings. 
 
 Was it a surge of atavism that bade me to be on 
 the alert .^ This was the only explanation I could 
 offer then, for I stared hard, and a black apparition 
 seemed apparently thrust forth into sight. It was 
 motionless. A swart monster bull stood among the 
 cedars in front of me. The experience gained in 
 the South snap shooting quails in timber came to 
 my rescue. Almost automatically, yet quickly, I 
 covered the big bull's left shoulder and squeezed the 
 trigger of my Remington twice. 
 
 i8o 
 
MY NEW BRUNSWICK MOOSE 
 
 Instantly the huge animal swayed from side to 
 side. Then alm.ost with the same motion the front 
 legs spread apart, bent, and the whole body pitched 
 forward. The monarch of the New Brunswick 
 forest dropped dead in the shallow water. 
 
 No feeling of elation came over me as the water 
 splashed — rather a sensation of pity, when I viewed 
 the big frame of the creature growing stiff in the 
 last rigors of death. It had all been effected so 
 easily, so unsportsmanlike. Achieving the death 
 of the big creature with a modern high-power rifle 
 was simplicity itself. A sense of disappointment 
 overwhelmed me. Hundreds of times I had ex- 
 perienced greater thrills when stopping a hurtling, 
 incoming quail in the brush. 
 
 And then followed in the wake of my performance 
 a sense of regret, which neither the coming of Raoul 
 nor his effusive commendation of my luck has ever 
 been able to efface. It seemed a waste of nature's 
 bounteousness to destroy such an immense creature 
 without possibility of utilizing all for food purposes. 
 Then a longing to bring back the head to civilization 
 took hold of me. Apparently there was no chance 
 in my mind. This I imparted to Raoul. 
 
 "Poof! Poof! Ces rien when you know how," he 
 answered encouragingly as a whiff of his spirituous 
 breath scented his speech. Immediately he went to 
 work and in two hours we were enroute back to 
 civilization with the head of the big bull in the bow 
 of our canoe. 
 
 i«i 
 
XXI 
 
 Strongfang of the Swamps 
 
 A GRAY-FLECKED, ravcn muzzle gaped and ex- 
 posed two rows of sinister, trenchant, repelling white 
 fangs. A low cry was borne on the heavy atmos- 
 phere to the canebrakes and shadowy flats of pin 
 oak, only to die muffled in the cypress groves be- 
 yond. Again the cry found utterance, more vocif- 
 erous now, and conveyed the impressiveness of 
 sudden exultation. 
 
 By the children of the wild it was accepted as 
 the voice of a conqueror. And repeated as it was, 
 it encouraged no response. Strongfang fastened a 
 triumphant look at the stricken foe on the knoll of 
 hazels, then his eyes reverted to the meek, acquies- 
 cent mate. The conquest of the breeding season had 
 been achieved. 
 
 At strongfang's command the female followed, 
 with sloven, pacing stride at his flank. 
 
 No longer were there any challengers to bar his 
 way. The pair traversed the heavily timbered 
 swamp unmolested. As one after another of the 
 contenders had met with defeat, at present Strong- 
 fang was sensing all the elation of triumph. Not 
 another denizen of the swamp was there to fear. 
 And fear was not a part of Strongfang; for even the 
 heavy, sluggish black bear of the cane scatters ad- 
 
 182 
 
STRONGFANG OF THE SWAMPS 
 
 mitted him superior. And why not? Was he not too 
 elusive for his embrace? Could he not traverse 
 greater distances for his kills — tirelessly and without 
 risk? Had he not repeatedly proven that he was 
 fleeter than the planter's hounds? Woe to the coura- 
 geous dog that ventured near him! A swift back- 
 ward snap of those cruel jaws, and a hound invariably 
 fell back, mortally wounded. 
 
 Pondering from his eminence, until intoxicated 
 with pride over his recent achievements, Strongfang 
 elevated his head and howled many challenges and 
 maledictions at any possible aspirant to his honors. 
 The sound floated far out to the open ponds, among 
 waving beds of sawgrass, nodding flags, billowing 
 yoncopins and russeted swards of fall-stricken 
 smartweeds. No answer came to him. 
 
 Such was his expression of the maddening lust of 
 victory. And the accompanying mate, ever brush- 
 ing afi^ectionately at his flank, made it all the greater. 
 Now Strongfang gallantly strutted in the lead, but 
 always on the alert for the one enemy, which, from 
 his birth, he had avoided — Man. An instinctive rec- 
 ognition of his presence by scent had proven an un- 
 failing safeguard against him. The black wolf 
 boasted to himself of it. 
 
 Time and again he had arrived within close prox- 
 imity of man, but always unseen. This sense, of 
 which he had so vaingloriously prided himself, had 
 often stood him in good stead. And now, as he paced 
 carelessly over a carpet of sodden cane, that had 
 been brought to this state by the last overflow, he 
 
 1S3 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 gave an amorous bound toward his mate. His big 
 right paw crushed through the rotted underfooting. 
 He felt it touch something hard, and then a pair of 
 viceHke, unbreakable jaws fastened upon it. He 
 was a prisoner. 
 
 Momentarily the stoicism of his kind deserted 
 him. Suddenly his conceit inspired confidence; he 
 was positive that his great strength would effect his 
 release. He gave a vigorous leap, but the effort was 
 destitute of reward. The saw-garnitured jaws were 
 unyielding. 
 
 Observing his predicament, the female loped to 
 him; she sniffed of him, and while rubbing her sides 
 against him she licked him with her passion-heated 
 tongue. But as he struggled again and again, gain- 
 ing nothing by it, she promptly recognized his peril. 
 Slyly she sidled off from him, then emitting a tim- 
 orous whine of dismay, she dropped her long, bushy 
 tail and fled. 
 
 With head resting on his paw, he lay quiet all of the 
 remainder of the day. Once, as the crimson stream- 
 ers of passing day filtered through heavy cypress 
 tops, he strove to free himself. Tugging as strenu- 
 ously as he could, in long, extended strains, the jaws 
 remained fast as ever. Then once more he resorted 
 to a number of sudden agile bounds backward 
 and forward, but the results were as ineffective as 
 before. 
 
 When at last the gray of another day gave pre- 
 cedence to soft lights of red and gold, cheerlessly he 
 surveyed for the thousandth time his inflamed limb. 
 
 184 
 
> 
 
 c5 
 
STRONGFANG OF THE SWAMPS 
 
 Abruptly he cast his eyes to the sky and he knew 
 that day was fast approaching. Never would it do 
 for him to remain there! Some passing swamper 
 would surely discover him. Was man ever known 
 to spare the wild pilferer when found at his mercy? 
 At this instant his imprisoned paw, now swollen ab- 
 normally, directed his attention. The pain had 
 diminished and, instead, a deadly numbness perme- 
 ated the entire limb. 
 
 After Strongfang had been forced to concede his 
 impotence, an inspiration immediately assailed him. 
 There was only one way to escape Man — and, if he 
 failed to put in appearance, as merciless an enemy 
 awaited him, starvation — that was to sever the 
 limb. And he alone must act the surgeon! 
 
 Grimly he regarded the trap with agonized eyes; 
 and, acknowledging that parting with the paw was 
 less to be dreaded than the other two alternatives, 
 he lovingly licked the offending member and, con- 
 trary to the customs of his kind when in such peril, 
 commenced the gruesome operation. Never before, 
 even in his most desperate engagements, had Nature 
 so exhibited the cutting powers of his teeth. And 
 yet, as he endured his surgery, he felt some pride in 
 his instruments. 
 
 Just as the sun found the dwarf elbow brush with 
 splotches of yellow, the operation was consummated. 
 On three legs the huge black wolf dragged himself 
 into an almost impenetrable thicket of switch cane 
 and, sinking a gory stub in the damp sand, he re- 
 posed on his stomach in a state of exhaustion. To 
 
 185 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 a considerable degree the sand acted as a palliative, 
 and he remained there the balance of the day. 
 
 With the advent of late afternoon a new danger 
 was presented to Strongfang. While peering from 
 his bed he caught a glimpse of Pete La Forge, the 
 little, brown-faced, stoop-shouldered trapper, wend- 
 ing his way parallel with the wolf's place of conceal- 
 ment. As Pete was unarmed, there was no need of 
 Strongfang worrying himself further than watching 
 his movements. He had observed him many times 
 before, and between the throbs of suffering he specu- 
 lated on what the man was doing at this time of the 
 year in the woods without a gun. 
 
 Strongfang was not long to ascertain! 
 
 Though this was not the trapping season, Pete had 
 suspended on his back a few rusty traps, which 
 clanked stridently one against the other. Now 
 Strongfang knew why Pete was there; the flood siege 
 had departed from the lowland only a few weeks 
 ago and the trapper was gathering the traps which 
 the water had hidden. He would take them to his 
 shanty, clean them with an unctuous application of 
 his own devising, then store them for fall trapping 
 days. 
 
 Strongfang regarded Pete's appearance with con- 
 fused thoughts. 
 
 Presently, arriving at the place of the accident, 
 Pete stooped and, with his short-handled axe, knocked 
 loose the fastening of the trap. Just as he lifted it 
 he became aware of the wolf's paw, his little black 
 eyes shining with delight. He put the trap from 
 
 i86 
 
STRONGFANG OF THE SWAMPS 
 
 him and, using the axe handle for a lever, the helve 
 under a root, stood his entire weight on it. The 
 jaws spread apart. The paw fell out. He took it in 
 his hands gingerly and, extending it a short distance 
 from him, as though better to appraise it, he sud- 
 denly flung it away in disgust. 
 
 All this happened before Strongfang's eyes. 
 
 With the wild creatures wounds heal rapidly. 
 Pain ceases in a short while, but the memory is es- 
 pecially retentive of the cause of the affliction. 
 Though the mind of Strongfang was pregnant with 
 thoughts of revenge against his fickle mate, it gave 
 birth to another determination. Strongfang never 
 allowed to escape him the spectacle of Pete throwing 
 away the severed paw. And only after his wound 
 had healed was the presence of Strongfang noted 
 amidst his tribe. Meanwhile, despite his handicap, 
 he found ways of subsisting; swamp rabbits cavort- 
 ing nearby and overly playful squirrels afforded food. 
 On occasions, when these were denied him, he par- 
 took of decaying fish and turtles, which the fisher- 
 men had thrown out of their nets. 
 
 Far back in the great Saint Francis overflow his 
 return to his tribe was marked with none of the 
 conscious, swaggering mastery that characterized his 
 deportnient before the accident. He presented a 
 forlorn appearance. When hailed by his fickle mate 
 and her companion smiles of derision were hurled 
 at him. But they might have spared this much; 
 for now retaliation on her or her favorite was not 
 a part of his plans. Just then none realized his in- 
 
 187 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 firmity as fully as he. So he submitted to jeering 
 voices without the slightest savagery of teeth, and 
 finally made quarters on a small mound of rotted 
 flags, where he was left to his own resources. 
 
 From former leader he had fallen to a straggler, 
 scarcely tolerated; for the weakest and least valiant 
 of the band upon every occasion delighted to vent 
 their contempt on the one who had formerly domi- 
 neered over them. His bullying had been of only 
 too recent occurrence for them to forget it so soon. 
 But, now that his position was reversed, he sub- 
 mitted meekly to the whims of Fate, and only bared 
 his formidable fangs when the younger ones tor- 
 mented him beyond endurance. 
 
 And thus he existed, the urgings of hunger alone 
 goading him from his lethargy, and the dash and 
 animation which he showed before in the chase were 
 supplanted by slow cunning. His movements were 
 ungraceful. He crawled at times to save himself 
 from tiresome travel on three legs. As days passed 
 on he became less gregarious, his frame partook 
 of gauntness, and his formerly sleek black sides lost 
 their ravening luster. He was continually brooding 
 over something. Now his haunts were near the river, 
 and, moreover, they appeared to have been selected 
 near Pete La Forge's shanty. Was there some in- 
 ducement there? 
 
 Crafty as was Strongfang, Pete sensed that some- 
 thing was dogging his steps. 
 
 Though the swamper had never beheld Strong- 
 fang's incriminating prints, three immense wolf paws 
 
STRONGFANG OF THE SWAMPS 
 
 molded in the murky soil strengthened the im- 
 pression in his mind that a wolf was trailing him. In 
 that country it is not altogether inordinary; fre- 
 quently bands and singles follow at a distance, out 
 of mere curiosity. But such great tracks, in appear- 
 ing behind him, were enough to convince Pete that 
 there was more to them than the mere hallucinations 
 of a malaria-wrecked system. Pete often retraced 
 his steps to examine the ground, and as often as he 
 did the same prints were distinguishable. Pete was 
 positive that his mind was not olaying him a shabby 
 trick. 
 
 Summer disappeared and autumn hurried on in 
 its wake, bright and tingling with the first snap of 
 energizing frost. The duck shooting and trapping 
 seasons were on. If the wolf's tracks had any pres- 
 ent significance, they had already been erased from 
 Pete's mind, the demands of his vocation calling 
 forth all his time. Fall is the only time of the year 
 when the swamp resident works to any extent; and 
 then he is persistent about it. 
 
 Pete had been busily engaged during the duck 
 flight, and, now that it was terminating, he set out 
 a number of traps. 
 
 On this day a fierce icy drizzle drove in from the 
 Northwest. Strongfang hopped from his cover in 
 the scatters of the Saint Francis River to the very 
 edge of the backwater. Wading to a small flag-en- 
 circled knoll, he dropped down behind the screening 
 growths of interspersing sawgrass. The swamper was 
 
 189 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 abroad, not as customary at this period of the year 
 in his shallow-draft duck boat, but instead his legs 
 were encased in high wading boots. While the 
 wind was so vehement he had no desire to expose 
 himself on the river. There were traps, however, 
 near the skirting timber which he could visit. 
 
 Sloshing around in the water at the foot of a slight 
 circular elevation formed by the muskrats, Pete 
 lifted his last trap. It held a small mink. He 
 crouched to release it, as a furious gale of rain and 
 pelting snow momentarily blinded him. 
 
 As a man will, to ward the wind from his face, 
 the trapper threw his arm up in front of him and, 
 lowering his head, took a high step backward to 
 release his feet from the sucking mud. Something 
 caused Pete to lose his balance. In all probability 
 it was the rubbery stem of a submerged yoncopin. 
 Attempting to recover his balance, his brown claw- 
 like hands sought for support a clump of flags. 
 
 From out of the midst shot forth a black form. 
 Then it was catapulted on the trapper, bearing him 
 down. Long arrow teeth of unusual whiteness 
 snapped at his arms and wrested them from his face. 
 A large hairy paw, accompanied by a hard-stubbed 
 leg, pressed firmly against his chest. 
 
 Giving way before the onslaught, the trapper fell 
 on his back in the shallow water. So bewildering 
 had been the attack, that he let his axe fall and was 
 unable to recover it. By sheer strength he tried to 
 put his assailant aside. The futility of the act was 
 
 190 
 
STRONGFANG OF THE SWAMPS 
 
 apparent. As the beast waged his onslaught closer, 
 the hot, fetid breath sickened him. Blood gushed 
 from many wounds, crimsoning the clear water for 
 yards around. 
 
 Impotent as he was before the infuriated beast 
 that relentlessly continued its murderous attack, 
 Pete had sufficient consciousness to disengage his 
 lacerated, shielding hands and pilot one to his 
 pocket. It seemed ages to him. The earth appeared 
 to have reversed positions. The entire swamp 
 whirled and flashed baffling lights. 
 
 Again and again he shrieked for assistance, but 
 the blizzard mockingly flung back his cries. With 
 the last particle of strength at his command he 
 drew his precious claspknife. Mechanically pressing 
 the spring, the blade flew open. But, as he repeat- 
 edly attempted to elevate himself for a thrust, the 
 inexorable, blood-lusting jaws beat him back into 
 the water. 
 
 All at once a bright inspiration broke through his 
 dark cloud of despair; and yet, despite his nearness 
 to death, it charged him with hope. Pete's limbs 
 perceptibly relaxed, in indisputable second-by-sec- 
 ond rigors of death. 
 
 Feeling all this, for an instant Strongfang drew 
 back and proudly surveyed his work. Sinking to 
 his haunches and rearing his massive blood-soaked 
 head aloft, he ululated a joyful cry of victory. The 
 trapper's body rolled against him, the click of death 
 rattling in strange discord with the song of the storm. 
 
 191 
 
JIST HUNTIN' 
 
 Pete's arm plunged rapidly and with accuracy. 
 Its last earthly act drove the long blade in the black 
 wolf's side. 
 
 The wind whistled belligerently and fitfully, then 
 ceased. A ball of gleaming light pierced the clouds 
 and revealed Pete's head pillowed on Strongfang's 
 rigid body. He still retained hold of the knife buried 
 in the wolf's heart. 
 
 192 
 
L 1