THE OREGON SPORTSMAN 209 
BULLDOGGING A MULE DEER IN THE 
STEENS MOUNTAINS 
By Deputy Warpen F. W. Trisxka. 
On October 13, 1912, Joe and I decided to go to the Steens Moun- 
tains to hunt the “big ones.” We loaded our bedding and grub for 
ten days into a hack, hitched up the two broncho mules, “Jack” and 
“Dixie,” and struck out for the Alvord ranch, some one hundred and 
fifty miles southeast of Burns. 
Arriving at the ranch, we pitched camp, and inquired the where- 
abouts of the big bucks from the farm hands, who said they were 
several thousand feet higher up. Early the next morning we started 
to climb the east slope of the mountains. At a height of about 9000 
feet I ran across a deer trail, which to all appearances was about 
two hours old. Making sure there was a big buck in the band, I took 
the trail, and soon saw where the buck was chasing another deer from 
the herd, following the new trail up the hill. After a short distance 
I discovered I was not the only one on the trail, for the tracks of two 
coyotes showed fresh in the snow. While tracking with my head down 
I rounded a sharp corner and met face to face with the object of my 
chase. 
The deer was off at a bound, and the same instant came the report 
of the 30 U. S. G., the bullet wounding him in the small of the back. 
Meantime, looking across the canyon, I saw four other bucks which 
had been scared up by the report. Thinking my deer safe to handle, 
and not wishing to scare the other bucks with another shot, I decided 
to try to cut his throat. I drew my huntnig knife, sneaked up behind 
him, grabbed a horn, and the fight was on. 
The deer outweighed me by a hundred pounds and had far more 
strength in his neck than I had in my arms. Striking with feet and 
horns, he was almost too much for me, but I managed to hang on. 
Down, down through shale and snow we tumbled and rolled, sometimes 
the buck underneath, but more often myself. After struggling about 
two hours, I finally succeeded in throwing my leg over his horns, 
twisting his head, and making a successful pass at his throat: Pulling 
off my torn shirt, I covered his head to keep away the varmints. 
: Weary, breathless, exhausted, with my clothes in tatters after 
the prolonged fight, I crawled up the hill to where my rifle lay, about 
a half mile distant from the battleground, and from there made my 
way back to camp, some five miles distant. Too tired to undress, I 
crawled into bed with my shoes only half unlaced. Here I stayed and 
rested two days. 
On the third day Joe and I decided to try broncho “Jack” under 
saddle, at sight of which you could hear him snort for a mile. Find- 
ing it impossible to rid himself of the saddle, he was a good mule 
until we reached the deer, which he refused to approach nearer than 
two hundred yards. Whip nor coaxing did any good, and at this safe 
distance he remained as though rooted to the ground. When “Jack” 
was blindfolded, hobbled and securely tied to a tree, we thought it 
safe to snake the deer down to him. Even with the mule tied, it was a 
long, hard job to get that deer firmly strapped to the saddle. At last, 
however, we succeeded and then tossed up to see who would have the 
task of leading “Jack” to camp. 
Joe was the unlucky man. Bracing his feet, shutting his eyes, and 
preparing for the worst, he seized the halter rope firmly in both 
