FROM THE GAME FIELDS. 



379 



as a goat could tread such a path. At one 

 point we crossed a rock slide, where a 

 false step would have landed us in the 

 lower lake, thousands of feet below. Even 

 our careful steps started pebbles, which 

 went bounding off far beyond sight and 

 sound. We finally came to a ledge 20 feet 

 high. Creeping on hands and knees under 

 a shelving rock, clinging to chance pro- 

 jections, we finally managed to get down.- 

 We soon struck another game trail and 

 found we were on the track of a big buck. 

 His footprints were clear and fresh. He was 

 evidently near: Cautioning the boys, we 

 moved along silently. He was going leis- 

 urely, evidently not alarmed, and at every 

 turn I expected to come on him. 



As we -got nearer the lake we fairly 

 crept, making scarcely a sound. Why? We 

 did not want the deer, but only to see 

 how big he was and how close we could 

 get to him. The boys followed me, watch- 

 ing each footfall, with eyes and ears open 

 for the least motion or sound. We had al- 

 most reached the bottom. Our buck could 

 not be far off. I rounded a ledge, about the 

 height of my head, and instinctively my 

 rifle went to my shoulder and my heart 

 stood still. There not 10 yards away was 

 a great reddish animal peacefully turning 

 over stones and dirt in a search for her 

 dinner. She neither saw nor heard me. 

 Stepping back, I told the boys there was a 

 bear beyond those rocks. We crept along 

 to where we could see, and there she was, 

 still grubbing. I let the boys have a hasty 

 look, and as neither had a gun, I drew on 

 her shoulder and fired. I was using smoke- 

 less powder and almost saw the bullet 

 strike. The blood spurted from the wound. 

 She turned, bit her side, saw us, gave a 

 ferocious growl and started for us. I do 

 not think I was excited, but somehow the 

 cartridge jammed. Before I could get an- 

 other shot the bear turned, and putting 

 her head between her forelegs, rolled down 

 the mountain and crawled into the bushes. 

 Then all was still. Where was she? What 

 would she do? These questions we asked 

 ourselves with no little interest. The boys 

 prepared to climb a tree. I got ready to 

 shoot. Standing thus for a few moments, 

 we decided she must be dead or past doing 

 harm, and began to investigate. We found 

 her, motionless, but was she dead? We 

 threw stones, looked, waited. She was 20 

 feet in the brush, but we could make out 

 her form and position perfectly. At last 

 I mustered courage and followed her 

 bloody trail. When within reach I gave 

 her a vigorous punch. She was dead. The 

 boys joined me and with our united 

 strength we rolled her down to where we 

 could skin her. She was old and tough, 

 but at last we had her skin and head 

 off. Eating a hasty lunch, we viewed 

 the lake. It was the most beautiful body 



of water I had ever seen, but it had some- 

 how lost interest. It was late and that 

 skin and head weighed a ton. If they had 

 weighed twice as much I would have car- 

 ried them or died in the attempt. Each 

 boy took a ham, and it was all he wanted 

 to carry. How we got back to the women 

 I often wonder. We got there, though, 

 tired and proud. Next afternoon we 

 walked in on those who had left us. When 

 they found what we had everybody yelled. 

 We were kept busy for days telling how 

 it happened. We are telling it yet. 



L. O. Vaughan, Jacksonville, 111. 



LYNX HUNTING WITH DOGS. 



Hunting the lynx, or wildcat, is the sport 

 of sports. Thousands of these animals 

 roam through the dense forests of the 

 Northwest. They are great travelers when 

 in search of prey. An old Tom will lie 

 quietly in a thicket sleeping throughout the 

 day, but when night -falls he starts out hunt- 

 ing. He usually has a regular route, and 

 takes in miles of country on his rounds, 

 killing all he can. Sometimes he kills a 

 half dozen groundhogs or rabbits, not eat- 

 ing a mouthful of them that night, but 

 returning later to gorge himself. If the 

 hounds get on his trail at such a time he 

 will tree as soon as he can. Cats kill a 

 great many fawns, grouse, etc. ; indeed, they 

 will kill anything not too large for them 

 to handle. 



During the mating season lynxes have 

 regular runways. I have seen logs worn 

 smooth by cats in their years of travel 

 over them. The female gives birth to 2 to 

 5 young in the latter part of April or early 

 in May. She is cunning in selecting a 

 place to rear her young. She retires to a 

 dense thicket and gets into a hollow tree 

 or log or under a bushy tree. I have seen 

 the den of an old lynx beautifully lined 

 with the fur of rabbits and mountain 

 beaver. When the kittens are 3 days old 

 the mother recovers her appetite. She hunts 

 in the early morning, killing all she can of 

 rabbits, beaver, etc., generally eating of 

 the first kill, but continuing to kill. She 

 then sneaks back to her kittens. She does 

 not cover the game left uneaten, but 

 lays it under a small* tree or bush and 

 claws and scratches the ground near it. On 

 her next trip she lugs it all near to her 

 kittens. 



At that time of the year I delight in 

 hunting lynx, as I can usually capture 

 a good many kittens besides getting the 

 old lady's scalp. Taking the dogs, I strike 

 into the hills in the early morning, going 

 to the first cat runway. The dogs nose the 

 logs to find if there has been a visitor 

 the night before. If not, I make for the 



