Volume IX. 



RECREATION. 



SEPTEMBER, 1898. 

 G. 0. SHIELDS (C0QU1NA), Editor and Manager. 



Number 3. 



A WILDCAT HUNT IN THE FOOT HILLS. 



DR. A. J. WOODCOCK. 



" Doctor! Doctor! In the bunk- 

 house there! Hello!" So rang the 

 clarion tones of the old mountain 

 man, honest John Luman, on a cer- 

 tain frosty morning in early spring, 

 not long ago. 



It was in the upper part of the beau- 

 tiful Paint Rock valley, one of the 

 Eastern vales of the Big Horn basin, 

 and from the porch of the ranch-house 

 the old hunter was making his roar. 

 His voice was yet echoing among the 

 cliffs when I answered him right 

 sharply with, ' Well, what do you 

 want? " 



" Tell Rannells to saddle our horses. 

 I have business to do in Hyattville 

 to-day, and if you will ride with me 

 I will introduce you to some of my 

 old friends." 



" All right, old man, that suits me. 

 Anything is better than lying around 

 the bunk-house all day," I replied. 



On our way to the stables we met 

 Luman, who said, " Doc, let Billy sad- 

 dle the horses. You come with me 

 down to the creek bottom and we will 

 see if anything passed last night." 

 Crossing the turbulent stream, by 

 jumping from one ice-sheeted rock to 

 another, we entered the dense thickets 

 beyond. 



Here, in wild confusion on the 

 rough, narrow, bowlder floor of the 

 creek bottom, was cotton-wood, box- 

 wood, willow and birch, rose and a 

 score of other bushes, dead weed 

 stalks and shrubs. 



Midway of the copse we found a 



fresh track. ' Wildcat," the old man 

 said. " One of the biggest tracks I 

 ever saw. He passed here about 

 daylight this morning. We will 

 straighten this trail." In and out 

 through a wilderness of brush, drift- 

 wood and snow we followed the trail 

 which repeatedly crossed and re- 

 crossed the creek. A few moments 

 sufficed to determine that the cat had 

 kept on down the stream. We then 

 cut back across an alfalfa field to the 

 bunk-house where the saddle horses 

 awaited our coming. 



Here the old bear hunter (Luman 

 has killed 80 bears in his time) 

 straightened up and shot a keen 

 glance over the foothills and lower 

 spurs of the mountains which hid the 

 higher peaks of the mighty Big Horns 

 to the Eastward. 



There he stood, upward of 6 feet 

 in stature, rugged as a mountain pine, 

 and with bared head and chest well 

 thrown out he drank in the bracing 

 mountain air. 'What a morning!" 

 said he. ' What a glorious hunting 

 morning! There is just enough fresh 

 snow on the ground to make the scent 

 lie well. Rannells, put away those 

 horses. Doc, get the camera and a 

 light rifle, and we will take that wild- 

 cat's picture." While the old man 

 went to the kennel I ran into the bunk- 

 house, jerked a light rifle from its 

 scabbard, slung the camera over my 

 shoulder, and emerged just in time to 

 cut the fresh trail of Luman and the 

 hounds. 



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