FROM THE GAME FIELDS. 



BIG GAME IN COLORADO. 

 REV. S. N. M'ADOO. 



The heart of the woods, the sinuous bank 

 of a stream, the margin of a lake in the for- 

 est, signs of wild game, a chorus of wolves' 

 voices — these things have always had a 

 greater fascination for me than the thor- 

 oughfares of great cities. When, therefore, 

 the mountains of Colorado were decided 

 upon as the scene of my vacation last year, 

 the idea was much to my taste. 



A Winchester rifle, 45-90, a field-glass 

 and a camera were carried. If, with such 

 an outfit, a man can not have a good time 

 in the mountains, it is not the fault of the 

 mountains. There must be something 

 wrong with the man. 



In Denver I learned that Steamboat 

 Springs, in Routt county, was a good place 

 for big game. So I took the train to Wol- 

 cott, and thence the stage to Steamboat, 

 82 miles North, where we arrived the sec- 

 ond evening. 



The next morning I got a saddle-horse 

 and started for the mountains. Whether it 

 was the roughness of the broncho, or the 

 altitude, or both together, was not clear, 

 but I had not gone far till I began to lose 

 all interest in life. There I was in the 

 heart of the game country, with the moun- 

 tains about me, lifting their purple heads 

 to Heaven — enough to put a man into rapt- 

 ures; but my miserable stomach began to 

 " buck,'" so I beat a retreat, ingloriously, 

 to the hotel. 



That afternoon as I was sitting in the 

 office talking to a hunter, who had, in his 

 time, killed 16 bear, a good-hearted fellow 

 thrust his head into the room and said: 

 " A few of us are going out a mile or so; 

 don't you want to go along? " 



An invitation I was glad to accept. I 

 asked the bear slayer if he thought I might 

 see a deer. "Well, hardly so near town; 

 but then you might," was the reply. 



I took my rifle and joined the party. 

 The others were after fish and birds. I 

 separated from them and, with much toil 

 and perspiration, climbed to the top of a 

 hill. So far nothing had been seen but 

 here and there a few tracks, or the place 

 where a deer had lain down. 



When descending through a quaking asp 

 thicket, I looked over the edge of a ridge, 

 down into a valley. To my surprise and 

 gratification there was a young buck. I 

 watched him as he indolently brushed a fly 

 from his flank. He was too far, but was 

 coming nearer. I waited, but fear not with 

 the calmness that befits a crisis. I soon 

 lifted my head above the ridge again. This 

 time he looked me full in the face, perhaps 



150 yards away. " Now's your time! " 

 thought I. The next instant the stillness 

 was broken by the voice of the rifle. 



Just here it would be very gratifying to 

 tell the readers of Recreation the "deer 

 dropped instantly, never knowing what hit 

 him; but I can not do it. That young 

 buck went off in the very best of health, 

 if activity is an evidence. 



Well, when a man has done a piece of 

 work like that, after going a thousand 

 miles, too, he begins to think the fools are 

 not all dead yet. If there had been some 

 difficult situation, or ill condition of things 

 to blame for the failure, it would not have 

 been so bad; but to have a thing come and 

 look you straight in the face, and say as 

 plainly as words could speak it: " Will 

 you be so kind as to shoot me?" Then, 

 too, when you have done your best, to have 

 your game turn tail in apparent disgust, 

 shake the dust from its feet, and cut your 

 acquaintance — that is humiliating. I have 

 heard hunters tell of the fine shots they 

 have made, but I suspect the animals have 

 a good time when they get together and 

 talk over the fine shots we have missed. 



Fortune was generous toward me that 

 afternoon. A little farther down the moun- 

 tain, as I stepped past a clump of bushes, 



1 looked off to my left, and saw, some 75 

 yards away, a bull elk. His side was 

 toward me and his head was thrust into a 

 bunch of willows. He was either feeding 

 or rubbing his horns. I made a few quick 

 strides forward, stopped, aimed quickly and 

 fired. Silence followed. I could neither 

 see nor hear anything of him. Had he, too, 

 forsaken me? I hastened to the spot. No, 

 there he lay, having fallen at once. 



He was a magnificent animal, as smooth 

 and round as a peeled saw-iog. When the 

 news spread in the hotel that a tenderfoot 

 from Minnesota had killed an elk, within 



2 miles of town, all were surprised, for elk 

 were supposed to be off in the mountain 

 tops. Some offered congratulations, but 

 others were incredulous, and strongly 

 hinted that it must be a big buck. All 

 doubts were dispelled the next day, how- 

 ever, when we brought the head into town 

 — that antler-crowned head that now, from 

 the wall of my study, looks down upon me, 

 though with much milder expression than 

 when it roamed the mountains. 



While out after snipe last season, I shot 

 one, as he rose. It was about 2 feet above 

 the grass when I fired. When I picked it 

 up, there was another dead about a rod 

 farther on, still warm, with his bill down 

 in the mud, full length. 



J. A. P., South Bend, Ind. 



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