HOW I KILLED MY BOAR. 



D. J. M GILLIVRAY. 



It was high noon of a Sunday in the 

 winter of '95 when our little hunting party 

 pulled up at Johnston's ranch on the Nueces 

 river, Texas, on the way from San An- 

 tonio to Corpus Christi. We had been on 

 the road since long before sun-up, our last 

 camp having been at old Fort Merrill. We 

 were making the trip on foot, in good old 

 infantry fashion, accompanied by a pony 

 drawing a 2-wheeled cart, containing our 

 camping outfit. 



While cooking dinner at our midday 

 stop we were visited by men from the 

 ranch, who evinced great curiosity about 

 our rig, but more particularly regarding my 

 Krag-jorgensen rifle, the first they had 

 seen. The weapon was then new, even to 

 the army. When they found we had 

 stopped to lunch only, they tried hard to 

 persuade us to remain in that neighborhood. 

 Buck Cates, a typical plainsman, dressed 

 in picturesque chaparejos, said to us : 



"You fellers don't want better huntin' 

 than ther' is 'round here. We've right 

 smart deer an' turkey, millions of Mexican 

 and Bob White quails, and some wicked 

 javelinas." 



Noticing my perhaps satiric smile at the 

 last mentioned game, he added : 



"Oh, they ain't like them tame critters 

 'round San-tone. These fellers fight when 

 hard pushed. Why, only last week one of 

 them ripped my pony so bad I had to shoot 

 him as well as the hog." 



This interested us, and we decided to lay 

 over that day at least and have a boar 

 hunt. After a social nip from the demi- 

 john our visitors departed, saying they 

 would return in an hour with saddle horses 

 for us. Hardly had we finished our meal 

 when down the road came the 3 cowboys, 

 all mounted, and each leading a spare horse. 



When they drew rein I confessed that I 

 felt rather timid about hunting on horse- 

 back, never having ridden much on ac- 

 count of my 200-weight. I said I preferred, 

 if it did not make any difference, to go on 

 foot. Buck again brought his power of 

 persuasion to bear and wound up by intro- 

 ducing me to Kate. Kate was a gentle 

 looking black mare, about 12 years old. As 

 I stroked her nose she put her head 

 against my breast as if to say, "Trust me." 

 At last I consented, on the further assur- 

 ance from Buck that she was like a rock- 

 ing chair to ride. We rode down a ranch 

 road about 2 miles, and drew rein while 

 well in a thick chaparral. 



"Mac," said Buck, turning to me, "ride 

 along until I signal you to stop. Bill, you 



437 



follow, and stop 'bout 150 yards in rear of 

 him, and the rest of you space out in the 

 same way. The plan is to beat through 

 this bush to the left of the road and with 

 our line we ought to root out some porkers. 

 Go ahead !" 



I rode for perhaps half a mile, occasion- 

 ally looking over my shoulder for Buck's 

 signal. I shortly received it, and imme- 

 diately halted. Indicating the direction by 

 a sweep of his arm, Buck gave another sig- 

 nal and all entered the bush. 



There my troubles began. Kate soon 

 showed signs of nervousness, walking fast 

 and leaving me to dodge as best I could 

 the thorny branches of the mesquite. Often 

 a branch would catch me full in the face 

 or entangle the rifle slung across my back, 

 almost nauseating me. Kate became more 

 and more excited. I was on the verge of 

 quitting when, with a snort, she broke into 

 a furious gallop. Vainly I tried to check 

 her, but on she flew, while the branches 

 tore my face and clothes. She heeded not 

 my pitiful "Whoa, Kate!" Instead, she 

 seemed to go all the faster. In sheer des- 

 peration I threw myself forward with 

 both arms around her neck and hung on 

 for dear life. I could feel the blood 

 trickling down my face, back and legs, and 

 was becoming faint, when Kate pulled up 

 in a little clearing as suddenly as she had 

 started. 



I dismounted, or, rather, fell from the 

 saddle. When I rose to my feet my next 

 scare came. There, with his back against 

 a tree, stood a javelina; his little eyes blaz- 

 ing, bristles standing, and snapping his 

 tusks after the fashion of his species. Me- 

 chanically I unslung my Krag and, taking 

 the best aim that my blood-blinded eyes 

 would permit, fired. Good luck guided the 

 bullet and the brute dropped dead without 

 a quiver. 



While congratulating myself on my nar- 

 row escape from serious injury, the remain- 

 der of the party rode up. They had heard 

 my crashing ride through the bush and my 

 shot, and were an astonished looking group. 



"Well, young feller," drawled Buck, "yer 

 fooled me 'bout your ridin' and it's your 

 turn to laugh ; 'though yer don't look much 

 like a broncho buster. Anyway, there isn't 

 a man at the ranch that could chase a 

 boar and kill him in better style. It is just 

 like you army fellers ; always got somethin' 

 up yer sleeve." All of which caused me 

 to feel well satisfied with myself and in- 

 definitelv postponed the explanation I was 

 about to 'make. My companions, Newman 



