A DEER HUNT ON THE GUALALA 



261 



Jim. " Bossy catchem deer eh? what kind 

 bird you callem? Quail, heap good bird." 



I examined the bunch again and found he 

 had half a dozen. " How you catchem, 

 Jim?" I asked. "How many times you 

 shoot?" 



'* Oh my catchem all one time," Jim re- 

 plied. " Me see 10 12 piecee. Have got one 

 bush. Quail no see me. Me walkee behind 

 him bush, allee same cat, shootem one time, 

 catchem 6 piecee. Me heap sabe." 



He felt so proud that he could not rest 

 until he had exhibited to me his skill as a 

 hunter. It turned out a lucky shot for me, 

 however, as he insisted on preparing his 

 game then and there, saying; " You likem 

 stew bossy? You gotem flour? Me be- 

 long heap good cook. Three 4 year me be- 

 long cook heap big ship. Me sabe stew, 

 makee all same chicken." He certainly did 

 understand stew, and I thought I had never 

 tasted a more savory mess than the one he 

 prepared. 



After dinner he produced a pipe almost as 

 large as himself, and we kept up a conversa- 

 tion in pidgeon English, until the young 

 moon had set. The night grew colder; the 

 shadows under the timber grew deeper; the 

 noise of the river drowned all sounds ex- 

 cept the hoot of an owl, when suddenly from 

 the opposite side of the stream came the un- 

 earthly scream of that panther, and the 

 echoes had not died away when it was an- 

 swered far up the canyon by another, and 

 in the direction of Jim's cabin. Jim's eyes 

 fairly bulged out of his head. He had picked 

 up his gun preparing to go home, but those 

 panthers were too much for him and he 

 begged me to allow him to stay at my camp 

 all night. I gave him a horse blanket and 

 robe, and he went to sleep under the wagon. 

 The next morning he had my breakfast 

 ready for me, before I had returned from my 

 morning swim. 



I had determined to get a buck on the 

 ridge where I had jumped so many the day 

 before, a buck with a head worth carrying 

 home, so I tackled the wood road again, 

 and found the tracks of one big buck that 

 had left his prints in the damp dust of the 

 road for 2 miles. He evidently preferred the 

 road to the wet brush, and I expected that 

 he would not travel far before making a bed. 

 The trail at last turned down the hill, and I 

 followed by the broken brakes and grass, 

 that seemed to be just rising after the pas- 

 sage of my buck. I knew that he could not 

 be very far away and I very cautiously fol- 

 lowed the faint trail that led at last into 



a patch of brakes of some half acre in extent. 

 Through the middle of this stretched an 

 enormous redwood tree, the victim of storm 

 or fire, and as the brakes were as high as my 

 shoulders I climbed on this log and made 

 my way into the middle of the opening, and 

 stood silent, listening intently. The matted 

 brakes made a view of the ground impos- 

 sible, and I was certain that the jungle con- 

 cealed a deer. A faint rustle behind me 

 caused me to turn, and I noticed a chip- 

 munk running up a dead tree. Suddenly, 

 with a crash, a beautiful buck broke cover 

 behind me almost under my feet. I had but 

 one shot, and it was one of those times when 

 one feels as though his rifle was part of his 

 body; no fumbling, no hesitation, a quick 

 steady shot, and my beautiful buck doubled 

 up with a broken neck. An examination 

 showed that he had made a bed against that 

 log, under tangled brakes so dense that he 

 was invisible to me. I stood almost over 

 him and he must have watched until I 

 turned, then made a dash for his life. His 

 10 point head now occupies a place of honor 

 in my den, and I never look at it that I do 

 not recall with admiration his brave dash 

 for life. 



A quiet stalk along the edge of a grain 

 field that night was successful and I added 

 a prong buck to my bag, when having all 

 the venison I could use and give to my 

 friends, I turned my attention to small 

 game, and the next day gave me a re- 

 spectable bunch. The Gualala furnished 

 a variety of small game, and my bag 

 contained jack rabbits, cottontails, doves, 

 quails, pigeons and grouse. The latter are 

 more plentiful farther back from the coast, 

 preferring the open mountains to the forests. 



The Gualala is one of the best regions in 

 California for all around sport, though some 

 sections may excel it in some one particu- 

 lar. The deer in the redwood region are 

 never as fat as they are on the grassy moun- 

 tains farther from the coast, and it is some- 

 times hard to find your game in the thick 

 forests; but late in the summer, after the 

 first rains, trailing is much easier, and the 

 deer seem glad to escape the wet brush and 

 get into the open. Huckleberry patches are 

 numerous in the " burns " on the ridges, 

 and it is seldom that a careful stalk among 

 them, when the berries are ripe, will not 

 show a deer or two. Bears are becoming 

 scarce now, and though I have seen the sign 

 of one or 2 on every visit. I have never man- 

 aged to get one. I believe the only way is to 

 hunt them with dogs. 



