AT CLOSE QUARTERS WITH AN ALLIGATOR. 



FRANK A. HACKLEMAN. 



The winter of '92 found me with several 

 companions in Florida. The lake region in 

 which we were hunting furnished at that 

 time game in abundance. Quails, snipe, 

 ducks, and squirrels were to be had in great 

 numbers. The market hunters were fast ex- 

 terminating the deer, which had been 

 numerous. Outside of this game, 2 of us 

 were ambitious to kill an alligator at night 

 by jacklight. Several of these festive gen- 

 try had M — and I killed in the daytime, but 

 this only served to further inspire us; so 

 plans were laid for a night hunt. 



Less than a mile back of our cabin flowed 

 the Withlacoochee river, its black, sluggish 

 current running through miles of grove land 

 and then almost losing itself in the deep 

 jungles of hummock. At such places the 

 banks were lined with great live oaks, from 

 whose branches hung gray Spanish moss in 

 irregular festoons, giving the black water 

 beneath a look of intense loneliness. Many 

 nights had we lain awake in our cabin and 

 listened to a sound as of deep, vibrating 

 thunder, which proceeded from the direc- 

 tion of the river and which once heard could 

 never be forgotten. This sound we well 

 knew to be the bellow of an alligator nosing 

 about the river in search of plunder, and 

 from the deep, resonant tone we knew him 

 to be a big fellow. There was our chance, 

 so against the advice of the natives, M — 

 and I made up our minds to have him. 



Having a large shark hook which I had 

 brought with me from the North Tfastened 

 this firmly to the end of a 16 foot pole. 

 Armed with this weapon, a 10 gauge shot 

 gun and a sharp ax, we one night set out for 

 the river. There we drew cuts as to who 

 was to do the shooting and the chance fell 

 to me. Lighting the lamp which was fast- 

 ened to my hat, we stepped in the boat 

 and pushed off. 



The scene revealed by the bright light of 

 the lamp was one of silent grandeur and im- 

 pressiveness. All about us the yellow 

 cupped water lilies covered the water over 

 which we silently glided, while in the rays of 

 light the moss covered branches which were 

 stretched almost across the river, reminded 

 me of the hairy arms of some huge creature 

 reaching forth in search of prey. The un- 

 canny cry of an owl was wafted to our ears 

 by the wind which played softly among the 

 pines growing on the higher ground some 

 distance back from the river, and at intervals 

 could be heard the baying of a pack of 

 hounds. 



We had gone some distance when a sound 

 for which we had long been listening caused 



our hearts to almost stop beating, so intense 

 was the excitement occasioned by it. It was 

 the bellow of a " 'gator." This silurian 

 music is a cross between the angry mutter- 

 ings of a lion and the deep bellow of a bull. 

 Much more pleasant music may be heard, 

 especially if one is in a light clinker built 

 boat, with 30 feet of water beneath him, and 

 the chance of having a big alligator floun- 

 dering about on board within the next 

 few minutes. Proceeding cautiously in the 

 direction whence the sound came, a sharp 

 bend in the river was rounded, and there, 

 dancing on the surface of the water, were 2 

 scintillating, phosphorescent lights which 

 just at that time appeared to us to be the 

 size of 2 full moons. With noiseless strokes 

 M — pushed the boat along but not until we 

 were within 2 yards of the shining eyes did 

 the roar of the 10 gauge awaken the echoes. 

 A tremendous splash was the result, and the 

 boat was backed just in time to escape total 

 annihilation from the blows of an immense 

 black tail which beat the water with the 

 rapidity of a trip hammer. Jumping to my 

 feet I grabbed the hooked pole and with 

 some trouble succeeded in hooking the game 

 just back of the fore leg, while M — stood 

 ready, ax in hand, to sever the vertebrae and 

 thus put an end to further resistance. Just 

 as he made the attempt to do so, his foot 

 slipped on the wet bottom of the boat, and to 

 save himself from falling overboard he 

 dropped the ax. It struck the alligator on 

 the head and rebounded into the water. 

 This seemed to once more infuriate the an- 

 imal. With a lunge that almost tore the pole 

 from my hands he began to struggle for the 

 supremacy, beating the water with his tail, 

 and it was all we could do to keep the boat 

 from being smashed into kindling wood. 

 Several times he made frantic efforts to seize 

 the gunwale in his jaws, but by careful man- 

 ipulation we kept out of reach. It didn't 

 take much of this work to almost wear me 

 out and I was about to give up, when M — , 

 grabbing the gun, put the muzzle close to 

 the animal's, head and pulled the trigger. 

 The 'gator gave one spasmodic struggle and 

 was our meat. 



A rope was quickly attached to his head 

 and we sat down to rest. 



"Don't they fight?'; puffed M— as he 

 mopped the perspiration from his face. 

 "What do you think of that for sport?" 



I said nothing, as I had been at the short 

 end of the game. My hands were blistered 

 and full of splinters, and it was a week 

 before I recovered from a pair of badly 

 sprained arms. Our prize was 12 feet long. 



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