HOW I LOST MY HAND. 



33 



clubs do all they can to preserve and pro- 

 tect them during the non-shooting or close 

 season; but, unfortunately, that season 

 generally begins too late and ends too ear- 

 ly to adequately protect them, and they are 

 killed off far too lavishly. As I have said 

 the shooting season opens early, while the 

 weather is warm, and on Sundays especially 

 the birds killed are allowed to spoil. Thus 

 the rather questionable satisfaction of hav- 

 ing a good day's sport is frequently the 

 only apology for ruthless slaughter of use- 

 ful and beautiful creatures. 



It is surprising to see the tenacity with 

 which some species will hold their own, un- 

 der constant persecution. Two most dis- 

 similar species, the golden eagle and the 



white pelican, now and then appear in some 

 numbers, and being large and conspicuous 

 birds, very few escape the gunners. In the 

 fall of '96 these birds occurred in some 

 numbers around Denver. I saw 8 pelicans 

 brought into Denver in one day. These 

 were shot on or near a small pond a few 

 miles from the city. In the West, these 

 muddy ponds are always called lakes, and 

 generally are kept supplied with fish, by 

 artificial means. I saw 6 golden eagles be- 

 ing peddled around the city by 2 cow- 

 boys, and eventually the birds were sold 

 for 50 cents each. They were so common 

 that the taxidermists did not care to have 

 them at any price, especially as they were 

 in immature plumage. 



HOW I LOST MY HAND. 



J. B. JENNETT (OLD SILVER TIP). 



Pard and I were out on a bear hunt. 

 One night Pard made a loaf of sour dough 

 bread. I saw the loaf when I came in the 

 tent, and said, "What is that?" He in- 

 formed me, with the ease and grace of man- 

 ner of a chef, that it was a loaf of well made 

 sour-dough bread. I looked at it again, 

 then went to the wood-pile and got the 

 largest log I could tote. It was about 10 

 feet long and a foot thick. When I brought 

 it to the tent Pard's curiosity got the best 



of him. " What in are you going to 



do with that log? " I replied, " I am go- 

 ing to rig a derrick, to get that loaf to the 

 mess-box." Then I dropped the log, and 

 made for any place; I didn't care where, 

 so long as I got there. 



After this trouble had blown over, we 

 went to bed and lay listening to the rip- 

 pling of the brook, or the occasional hoot- 

 ing of an owl. 



Everything has an end, and so had the 

 night. I took my single-shot Winchester, 

 and started after bear. I soon found a 

 trail, and followed it quite a distance. It 

 grew so fresh that I expected to see the 

 bear at any moment, and — there he was — 

 breaking open a rotten tree-trunk to get 

 worms or ants. A better shot no man 

 could wish for. How is it that a man can 

 usually tell the issue of a shot, as he presses 

 the trigger? I knew that all was not just 

 right, as I fired. I saw the bear tumble, and 

 then get up, with the wrong end toward me. 

 How red his mouth looked, and fire almost 



flew from his eyes. I tried to withdraw 

 the shell from my gun, but it stuck fast. 

 There I was, with a useless gun, and a 

 furious bear not 50 yards away, and mak- 

 ing that distance rapidly less. I knew he 

 was hard hit, but would he drop before he 

 got to me? I tried to run, but my legs 

 failed me; I was spellbound. 



I worked at the rifle until it was a won- 

 der that the finger-lever was not wrenched 

 off. Nearer and nearer he came, and 

 through the red foam on his lips, I could 

 see the great white teeth. How long be- 

 fore they would be crunching my flesh? I 

 could see the blood spurting from a wound 

 in his shoulder. His green eyes were 

 aflame with rage, hate and thirst for re- 

 venge. Now he was but a few feet away. 

 I could feel his hot breath as it came pant- 

 ingly from his distended jaws. I struck 

 wildly at him with the rifle, and it was 

 swept from my grasp, as smoke is swept 

 by the wind. One spring, and his paws 

 were on my breast. Down I went, and the 

 great brute sank his teeth in my shoulder. 

 Frantic with pain, and almost blinded by 

 the blood that flowed over my face, I 

 struck fiercely at his head with my free 

 hand. The bear loosed his grip on my 

 shoulder, and seized my hand between his 

 teeth. I could hear the bones of my hand 

 and arm splinter like match-wood. Then — 

 then I heard Pard say, 



" Will nothing do you but knocking me 

 out of bed? " and I awoke, 



