Читать книгу Boys of the Old Sea Bed: Tales of Nature and Adventure - Charles Allen McConnell - Страница 8

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The question of food supply is always an important one where there is a family of growing children, but especially is it so in a wilderness of forest, far from stores and the supplies of towns and cities. The question is not so much one of variety as of quantity, as the vigorous out-of-door life of the pioneer gives an appetite which dainties prepared by a famous chef would not tempt from the generous dish of “pork and beans,” or roast beef and potatoes.

This question became a pressing one to our settlers in the “old lake bottom,” by the Necedah river. The severe summer drouth had cut short the yield of their potato crop upon which high hopes had rested at the spring planting, and a great horde of migrating squirrels had harvested their little field of corn before it had ripened.

Ruffled grouse, or “prairie-chickens,” as they were called, were abundant up to the time of the big fires in August. Indeed, from the first of July the young birds had furnished a supply of meat for the table more delicious than the boys of the family had ever known.

The old sow, which they had succeeded in bringing through the winter, had been turned out into the hardwood timber along the river to care for herself, and Uncle Sam Thompson reported having seen her on Big Bend with a fine litter of pigs, which would thrive upon the “mast,” the nuts of oak and hickory, and furnish good “hams” and “sides” by Christmas.

The fire which had come down out of the big woods during the summer, burning over the low prairies and shallow marches had been followed by a week of heavy rains, and what had been a wide stretch of blackened waste was soon transformed by the springing grass into an emerald garden. While light frosts occasionally nipped the top, through September, the grass grew rapidly and luxuriantly, and Mr. Allen’s few cows and yoke of young oxen were rolling with fat by October.

Families and herds of deer might be seen any day a mile west from the Allen home, though they appeared to be more difficult of approach as the cold season came on. As many as twenty in one herd were counted by the boys at one time. While they had become expert with their guns in securing small game, neither Rob nor Ed had as yet tried their marksmanship upon the larger animals.

There was, at that time, no “closed” season for its protection, but the settlers, as a rule, never killed game wantonly, nor for “sport.” No deer were shot in the summer, especially while the young needed the care of its mother. But when the sharp, frosty nights of October came, the hunter’s appetite was allowed to match the woods-wisdom and cunning of the “antlered lords of the forest.”

The moonlight nights of October is the mating season, and then the hunters know that the deer keep to regular paths or “runs” through the forest. Rough platforms of boughs were built upon the low branches of some tree at the crossing or intersection of two runs, and upon this the hunter will take his seat and watch, while a comrade starts off, and making a wide detour, starts a “drive” in the direction of the ambush. The watcher in the tree must be alert, quick of sight, and sure of aim, for the buck will come bounding toward him with prodigious leaps and be gone again in a flash.

Uncle Sam had promised his nephew Dauphin and the Allen boys a deer hunt on the night of the full moon in October, but Rob Allen was impatient. “You needn’t be in such a hurry,” said Dauphin. “You couldn’t hit a deer the first time, anyway. One always has ‘buck-fever’ the first time.”

“You’ll see,” boasted Rob; “I’ll show you that the laugh will not be on me.”

If Rob had been wise, he would have awaited the time set, and acted under the direction of the experienced hunter, but the taunt of Dauphin spurred him on to prove his prowess. So the next afternoon he slipped off with his gun in the direction of Round Slough. Approaching the water from the west he came to a swale where some long-past tornado from the southwest had laid the aspen trees in great windrows. The breeze from the east brought to Rob the quacking of ducks over in the slough, and as he slowly and as quietly as possible, clambered over the fallen tree trunks, he thought, “Well, I can change the buckshot in my gun to a cartridge of 4’s, and take home a mess of mallards anyway.”

Then, from the further side of the very windrow of tree trunks upon which he was clambering, there sprang high into the air, and in a mighty bound clearing the last barrier of trees, a splendid, eight-pronged buck. For a second Rob stood in open-mouthed wonder, then seizing his gun in one hand he started on a run after the deer, yelling at the top of his voice. There was a flash of the great antlers above the underbrush of the slough, and the deer was gone.

“Well,” said Rob, coming to himself, “I had it, didn’t I! So that is ‘buck fever.’ Why I never once thought of my gun. The boys will have their laugh now.”

Coming out into the open forest, the lad struck into a deer “run” and started for home. He had not gone far when he caught the sound of animals running, coming toward him. Quickly he dodged behind a big pine. In a moment two deer burst into sight, the second one carrying a pair of branching antlers. Rob could feel his heart beating like a trip-hammer, but he drew a bead upon the antlers, and, just as they passed, fired. The buck dropped, rolled over and over, then lay still.

“Hurrah!” shouted Rob. “I have you now;” and, dropping his gun, he ran quickly, drawing his hunting knife. The deer was a four-year-old, and would probably weigh a hundred and fifty pounds. The boy put one foot upon the neck of the fallen animal, when a startling thing occurred. As though the solid earth had risen beneath his feet, Rob felt himself lifted and flung over upon his back on the pine needles as if he had been the merest trifle, and in great leaps and bounds he saw his deer disappearing in the distance.

“Of all things,” gasped the lad, “this beats me. If I caught the ‘buck fever’ the first time, I must now have reached the delirious stage. Who ever heard of a dead deer acting in that way!”

It was now growing dark, and impossible to follow the trail of the deer even had it been seriously wounded, so the lad struck out for home. He had gone perhaps half a mile, and was approaching the open prairie not far from his home, when, in a small swale, to the left of the trail, he heard a snort, then a quick, impatient pawing of a hoof like a challenge. Dropping to his knees he waited, and in a moment discovered the gleam of two eyes shining through the darkness. Carefully raising his gun, he fired. Springing straight up into the air, the animal came down with a thud. This time Rob did not throw down his gun, but made ready with the second barrel in case of need, as he cautiously went up to where his quarry lay. But the charge had gone true, and a fine, fat yearling, a “spike” buck—his first deer—was a prize to the young hunter.

The boy’s heart beat proudly as he shouldered his game and bore it home.

With well assumed modesty Rob accepted the praises of Dauphin and Ed, but being an honest lad he finally confessed to his attack of “buck fever,” and then related the astonishing action of the second deer.

But Uncle Sam explained it. “You ‘creased’ him,” said he. “Your aim was too high, but one of the buckshot grazed the top of his head and stunned him for the time. Probably he was not at all seriously hurt. I saw that trick played many a time when we were crossing the plains to California in an early day. When we were on the llanos of northern and western Texas bands of wild horses would occasionally circle about our wagon train. None of the saddle horses were anything like a match for the wild fellows in speed, but the plainsmen had a way of occasionally capturing one of the band. Where the lay of the ground would permit, a picked man would be detailed to creep toward the herd until within shooting distance. Selecting the horse that pleased his fancy, he would shoot, not to kill or wound the animal, but to just graze the skin along the top of its head. The trick required the highest skill in marksmanship, but many horses were secured in that way, as the force of the bullet would stun the animal for a time and it could be secured with ropes, and finally be broken to service.”