A DEER HUNT IN MEXICO. 



J. K. EICHHORN. 



I have been an ardent hunter from boy- 

 hood. I was born and raised in Germany, 

 where a possible inherent destructiveness 

 of the young huntsman meets its first check 

 by the law, if from ethical reasons he feels 

 not constrained to keep from brutalizing 

 himself. The game laws are enforced and 

 executed, as all German laws are, with 

 promptness and precision. I am thoroughly 

 in accord with the spirit of Recreation, 

 of which I have been a reader for years. 



In the main range of the Sierra Madre 

 mountains, in Mexico, deer and turkeys are 

 abundant. The deer there are all white- 

 tails, Cariacus virginianus, though only 

 a little farther to the North and still in 

 this State, as in Sonora and Coahuila, the 

 blacktail or mule deer, Cariacus macrotis, 

 "veiiados burros/' as the natives call them, 

 may frequently be found. 



The wild turkey in these latitudes 

 grows, I am told, to a size unusually large. 

 My friend, Boon Barker, a hunter who 

 has his superior nowhere, and not many 

 equals, and who never deviates from the 

 truth in a hunting story — yes, quite right, 

 Mr. Shields ; a remarkable fellow — has 

 stated to me that a year or 2 ago he saw a 

 gobbler, dressed, shipped through here by 

 express and marked 18 kilos (about 39^2 

 pounds) as his weight. On a hunting 

 trip which I took with Boon Barker 2 years 

 ago I shot the first and only turkey I have 

 ever bagged, and he weighed not less than 

 35 pounds, dressed. His home and harem 

 lay in the beautiful Sierra Banderas, i 1 /^ 

 days' horseback ride West of Guatimape, a 

 station about 3 hours' ride by rail from 

 Durango. If this statement of weight be 

 throwing a bone of contention among my 

 brother Nimrods, all I would say to them 

 is, "Come down here and do likewise !" 



Occasionally bears, black, cinnamon and 

 silvertip, are encountered. On the above 

 mentioned hunt, lasting 32 days, Barker 

 shot a 3 year old cinnamon she bear, fur in 

 fair condition, in the Sierra Candela, a 2 

 days' horseback ride Northeast from San- 

 tiago Papasquiaro. He saw 8 bears during 

 that trip, including a black bear with 4 

 cubs. After the elusive turkey, bear cer- 

 tainly is the shyest game on foot. 



August 20, 1902, I laid low with the first 

 shot ever fired from the new barrel on my 

 45-90 single shot Winchester a fine 3 year 

 old buck, and by way of initiating the ex- 

 cellent Marble hunting knife you gave me, 

 plunged it into his sticking place. I have 

 dubbed the 45-90 single a gentleman's rifle 

 par excellence, because it does not even 

 suggest wholesale slaughter of game, which 



your rapid fire, smokeless, high power mag- 

 azine guns certainly do ; and this 45-90 

 serves well all legitimate, pleasurable pur- 

 poses of hunting. I had followed this deer, 

 in territory about 6 miles from here, 2 

 consecutive days over an area of probably 

 3 square miles, which he inhabited as the 

 only one of his tribe, and had seen him 5 

 times before he gave me a shot. The sixth 

 time he stood less than 100 yards away, 

 looking at me from behind a huge Span- 

 ish dagger plant, his fine head, only, ex- 

 posed, with horns in the velvet. I thought I 

 was close enough to detect fright, but above 

 all, utter amazement in his large, express- 

 ive eyes, over this sixth reappearance of 

 that 2 legged creature, his arch enemy, 

 whom he had probably concluded an ap- 

 parition. 



I sank down on my right knee, aimed 

 where I thought his throat or his brisket 

 must be, and let fly. I had a hollow point 

 cartridge in the chamber, the efficiency of 

 which I wished to try on game. At the 

 roar of my rifle, the buck wheeled like a 

 flash and disappeared with a few bounds, 

 flag down and head stretched in line with 

 his body, over a slight rise of the ground. 

 That flag staying down and a certain heavi- 

 ness in his locomotion assured me that my 

 aim had been true. I went over the rise, 

 and 40 steps from where he stood when I 

 fired lay my noble quarry, in such a pose as 

 famous sculptors might have gloated over. 

 His handsome head faced his last tracks, 

 and he rested, slightly inclined, gracefully 

 against the sturdy trunk of the plant, as if 

 in sleep. I confess I have never shot one 

 of these beautiful creatures without, when 

 'twas done, feeling remorse ; yet I have 

 earned all the deer I have ever killed if 

 hard, persistent tramping and other exer- 

 tions count for aught. 



A big pool of blood had scarcely dis- 

 colored the dark, rusty red sand under the 

 buck's black, delicate nostrils. The bullet 

 hole was about 3 inches back of the right 

 shoulder and ranging almost straight to 

 the opposite side. ' The ball had pierced the 

 upper part of the heart and a lobe of the 

 lungs, making its exit apparently in 2 

 parts ; as 2 holes, % of an inch apart and 

 each of the size of that made by the enter- 

 ing bullet, indicated. The skin, when taken 

 off, proved much bloodshot, from back of 

 the ears to within 10 inches of the root of 

 the tail. There was also an undiscolored 

 stripe, 6 inches wide, from the brisket back 

 to the end. The knife brought not over 

 an ounce or 2 of blood. 



Yes, my shot was a chance one. 



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