HUNTING THE BLUE GROUSE WITH REVOLVER. 



L. C. BURNETT, JR. 



Have you ever hunted the blue grouse? 

 If not, you have missed the best part of 

 life, and have yet to bag the noblest bird 

 of the mountains. Imagine yourself under 

 the pines, on some glorious September 

 morn, when the air is laden with resinous 

 fragrance. Down, down, 3,000 feet below, 

 between great, gray canyon walls, you see 

 the river churned and dashed into spray. 

 Up, up, still higher, where earth and 

 heaven seem to meet, are snow capped 

 pea'ks glistening in the sunshine. But, hark! 

 what is that? "Ku-boom! ku-boom!" 

 How the blood goes bounding through the 

 veins as the revolver is unconsciously 

 gripped. A few steps forward, and there 

 is a blue grouse in all his glory, walking 

 bpldly on an old log, head low and tail 

 spread out in grand array. What a pic- 

 ture he makes; it seems a pity to murder 

 him, but the revolver has already settled 

 to its proper place, a sharp report, and 

 you .stand above the woodland king. 



I will never forget one trip 1 took in 

 company with a friend. It was in the early 

 fall of '96 that we left Laramie, Wyo.. with 

 a light outfit, for Centennial valley, lying 

 50 miles Southwest, near the Colorado 

 line. All day we rode over a rolling coun- 

 try, through prairie-dog towns, over al- 

 kali; now and then jumping some lazy 

 jack from under the sage brush. Evening 

 overtook us in the foothills and we camped 

 for the night. 



Sunrise next morning found us on the 

 go. By noon we reached the Buckeye and 

 followed it up to Grand canyon, where we 

 made our permanent camp. An ideal spot 

 it was; wood in abundance 10 feet from 

 the tent, water fresh from the mountain 

 side, and excellent grazing for the horses. 

 While I was getting supper, H. took his 

 rod and went down the stream, returning 

 in a few minutes with a mess of trout. 



That evening H. told me one of his 

 former experiences. A few years previous 

 he was with a round-up gang in Montana. 

 In the party was a young fellow by the 

 name of Bader, fresh from Ohio. He was 

 not particularly timid, but had an awful 

 dread of coyotes. Their wail was misery 

 to his soul. One night, after trying several 

 hours to sleep, he at last dozed off. All 

 of a sudden the most unearthly yelps came 

 from the direction of the mess wagon, 

 sounding as though pandemonium had 

 been turned loose. With a whoop Bader 

 jumped from under the tarpaulin and emp- 

 tied his 6-shooter in the direction of the 

 frightful noise. Next morning they found 

 2 holes in the frying pan, while the coffee 

 boiler was a complete wreck. 



Morning dawned clear and crisp, just the 

 day for a trip into the pines. H. took his 

 camera and started up the canyon, while I 

 bent my steps toward a heavily timbered 

 ridge where I felt certain of finding my fa- 

 vorite game. A long, hard climb, then 

 pushing through some small firs, I stood 

 in the forest primeval. In a few minutes 

 '* Ku-boom, ku-boom" sounded close at 

 hand. I looked around, but could not lo- 

 cate the bird until another note came from 

 an old dead pine to my right. There he 

 was, monopolizing the greater part of a 

 limb, walking and strutting back and 

 forth, every few moments stopping to eye 

 me inquiringly. On one of those occa- 

 sions I could not resist the temptation of 

 taking a shot. Down he came with a thud. 



AMATEUR PHOTO BY L. C. BURNETT JP. 



GOLDEN EAGLES. 



and my first grouse of the season was 

 bagged. Under a large spruce I saw a 

 hen feeding. On my approach she took 

 to the lower limbs, offering a capital 

 chance, and I dropped her with a shot 

 through the neck. Depending on one 

 small bullet from a revolver gives one far 

 greater satisfaction than using a rifle or 

 that terrible weapon of extermination — a 

 shot gun. 



Following on around the ridge, I came 

 to a great rock jutting from the mountain 

 side, and climbed to the top in order to 

 obtain a better view of the canyon. On 

 looking down I saw at least 20 birds feed- 

 ing under some small firs, not 100 yards 

 below. Hurrying around, I reached the 

 place, but there was not a bird in sight. 

 I searched everywhere, and was on the 

 point of leaving when noticing a peculiar 

 looking bunch in a tree to the left I walked 

 closer and could see the outlines of a 

 bird. A hasty shot, a clean miss, and away 



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