884 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[Oct. 26, 1895. 



IN JONES'S BAYOU.-II. 



Chattanooga , Term. — I left the reader of my story of 

 Bolivar county, Miss., life at the termination of my first 

 Ashing expedition with Uncle John Randolph Martin. 

 Suffice it to say that Uncle Martin and I had several 

 more of these expeditions to Snake River during the 

 spring and summer months. Uncle John was bent upon 

 turning to advantage the resources of nature, and as he 

 enjoyed the sport also he made several trips to the 

 river every week, and always "ketched as much as his 

 mule could tote," to use his own expression. Uncle Mar- 

 tin did not fool away his time with perch, however. He 

 usually speared three or four large buffalo fish, and then 

 caught a sackful of black bass and brought them invari- 

 ably straight to the railroad camps. He would nearly 

 always leave threa or four nice bass at Mrs. Beavers 

 house for me, as he never bought or made any more 

 hooks or fishing apparatus after he made my acquaint- 

 ance. When he wanted anything he invariably sent to 

 me for it, and I nearly always had it for him. 



There were others of the residents of Jones's Bayou 

 who also fished at Snake River and sold their catch to 

 the railroad camps. Uncle Zack Jones, for whom the 

 bayou was named, and who had all the sandy-haired 

 girls, and also the finest pack of bearhounds in Bolivar 

 county, used to go fishing sometimes, but none were 

 as persistent and tireless as Uncle Martin. All, 

 however, could catch fish out of Snake River, as I 

 never in all my life saw a place that was as near 

 alive with fish as this was. The market fishermen 

 there did not have to use fish traps and baskets and 

 nets and set out lines, but in a few hours could catch 

 with a hook and line all they could carry home. They 

 all seemed to have an understanding about telling 

 the railroad men where the place was, because as many 

 times as I visited the river alone and in the company of 

 some of the natives, I never saw a railroad man upon its 

 banks. If it had become known to the men at work upon 

 the road, there would have been squads of them there 

 fishing all the time, and this would have entirely destroyed 

 the very lucrative business of selling fish by the natives. 

 Snake River is just such a place as Reel-Foot Lake, near 

 Memphis, only the fishing at Snake River is just twice as 

 good as it is at Reel-Foot Lake on account of there being 

 not so much of it done, Reel-Foot Lake is a place of 

 national reputation, and people go there for fishing and 

 duck shooting from all over the United States. Now, if 

 some of my readers will stpp off of the Memphis & New 

 Orleans Railroad at Jones's Bayou and hunt up some of my 

 old friends there and find Snake River, if they don't catch 

 fish I will pay for their trip. If any of the old residents 

 still live there and the railroad has not made them emi- 

 grate to a new country (as some of them threatened to do), 

 one will find a hearty welcome and a jolly companion to 

 accompany him to the river and pilot the way. 



Being busy with my work, and also finding an occa- 

 sional day for a fishing trip, the spring and summer soon 

 slipped away and frost announced the coming of cold 

 weather. Just as soon as the season opened I got out my 

 rifles and hunting paraphernalia and would combine 

 business with pleasure. My work or length of grading 

 and trestling was twenty miles, and as I had to go to 

 one end or the other once or twice every week, I had 

 ample opportunities for hunting. I would take one of 

 my rifles, and mounting a horse or mule strike into a 

 cattle trail that led in the direction I wished to travel. 

 In this way I would hunt to my destination and also on 

 the return trip. I did not usually follow the right of way 

 or cleared path of the railroad, as I knew the country 

 perfectly by this time, and was not afraid of getting lost. 



One day in September I was making one of my tripB 

 down the line and had my small .32-20 Winchester with 

 ine. I was walking, following a trail, and came sud- 

 denly out into the bed of a bayou from the switch cane. 

 All the bayou and stream beds are open and clear of both 

 cane and brush. Not 40yds. from me on the other side 

 "of the bayou stood a large doe, and at her side a fawn. 

 The fawn was almost grown and had the spots off of 

 it. The doe was pawing the ground in a very uneasy 

 manner, and I could tell by her actions that 

 Bhe apprehended the presence of danger. The 

 fawn was lying perfectly ' still with its face toward 

 me. I stopped, cocked my rifle and thought a moment 

 about as follows: "If I shoot the doe the chances are that 

 this small-bored rifle will only wound her, and she is sure 

 to get away from me in the cane." I raised my rifle and 

 tried to draw a bead on her head, but she was standing 

 broadside to me and the motion made by her pawing 

 rendered it almost impossible for me to get a good sight. 

 I took down my gun and thought again to see what I 

 should do. I hated to shoot her in the side and have her 

 run off and decay in the woods. I made up my mind 

 this time to shoot the fawn and let the doe go. I raised 

 my gun again and taking deliberate aim fired at the 

 sticking place in the fawn's throat. The poor little thing 

 gave a struggle or two to rise, but tumbled over and died. 

 The ball had struck it square in the throat and gone clear 

 through it lengthways. I walked up to where the fawn 

 lay and after cutting its throat to let it bleed, sat down 

 near by in the switch-cane. I had heard people say that 

 if you killed a fawn with its mother, and would only keep 

 out of -sight a few moments, you could always kill the 

 mother, and I wanted to satisfy myself on this point. I 

 had no idea of killing the doe, as the weather was warm 

 and the meat would have spoiled before I could possibly 

 have used it up, and I knew from the sign and the "white 

 flags" that I had seen all summer that I could kill a deer 

 any time I wanted one. 



I had not taken my seat more than five minutes before 

 I heard the bushes cracking and heard the doe bleat for 

 her fawn. 



The mother had returned facing danger to look for her 

 young. She had sprung into the cane at one leap at the 

 crack of the rifle. But her motherly love had brought 

 her back again. She made straight for the body of the 

 fawn, smelled it and then bleated the most pitiable bleat 

 that I ever heard. I sat there looking on and could have 

 killed her a dozen times, but would not do so. I was 

 ashamed of myself already and had no desire to kill the 

 poor animal. I pitied her from the bottom of my heart. 

 When a doe or any animal jumps up in front of me and 

 has a chance for its life, I will always shoot, I cannot help 



it, but it would have seemed like murder to have killed 

 that poor mother, who was bewailing the death of her 

 child. After looking on for several minutes I rose up and 

 the doe sprang into the cane and was gone. I picked up 

 my fawn after cutting off its head and feet and taking 

 out the entrails, and throwing it across my shoulder 

 started for home. It was not more than a mile to the 

 house and the fawn did not weigh over 35 or 40 lbs. ; but I 

 tell you I was hot and tired when I threw it down on the 

 front porch of Mrs. Bsaver's house. I then got a horse 

 and went down the line and attended to my business. 

 This was the first of many a deer that fell before my rifle 

 during the next fifteen months. But let me say, how- 

 ever, that I never slaughtered. When I had no use for 

 it and my friends did not want fresh meat I never killed, 

 as I have yet my first piece of game of any kind to sell. 

 I never have sold even a quail in my life, and I have killed 

 my share, I guess. Mrs. Beaver used to offer to pay me 

 for a deer when I brought one in, but I never would take 

 a cent. It always seemed to me that it would spoil some 

 of the keen sense of sportsmanship or the love of the 

 chase if I sold my game, and at that time I had never 

 read Fobest and Stream either. This aversion to pot and 

 market hunting was born in me and not cultivated. 



Two or three days after I killed the fawn I passed by 

 Uncle Andrew Jackson Taylor's house, and as I always 

 stopped to see my old friends when I was not in a hurry, 

 I told him of killing the fawn. Uncle Taylor told me 

 that he would go hunting with me some time. That he 

 knew every water hole and salting ground in Bolivar 

 county and could insure me a bear or deer every time I 

 went with him. He said that all you had to do was to 

 take your stand at the water hole and you were sure to 

 get a shot at a bear or deer about sunrise or sunset. In 

 the swamp everything is dry and dusty during the months 

 of July, August, September and October, and all the 

 lagoons and bayous dry up into water holes. The game 

 as well as cattle know where these water holes are. and 

 make regular trails through the cane to them. Iasked Uncle 

 Taylor if he did not think it a very unsportsmanlike trick 

 to sit in the fork of a tree and blow a deer's brains out 

 while it was taking a drink. He only laughed and said, 

 "I kaint see for the life of me whar is the difference, jist 

 so you get the deer." I said, "Why, Uncle Taylor, would 

 not you rather kill a deer running with the rifle barrel of 

 your gun than to blow its brains out with the shotgun 

 barrel standing still?" "Narry a bit of it," said Uncle 

 Taylor, "jist so I got the deer." 

 "Well!" I said, "you are all strange hunters to me." 

 Uncle Taylor had a combination rifle and shotgun that 

 was a terribly eff ective weapon for the kind of hunting he 

 indulged in — that is, watching water holes. It was a 

 muzzleloader; the rifle shot a half ounce ball, and the 

 shotgun barrel was No. 8 bore and chambered four big 

 blue whistler buckshot. What chance on earth had a 

 deer, bear or anything else with this cannon turned loose 

 on him while he was peacefully slaking his thirst? 



Uncle Taylor now informed me that there was a large 

 drove of nearly grown wild turkeys that were using the 

 back part of his cornfield, and that if I could hit them fly- 

 ing I could kill as many as I wanted. He said, "Me an' 

 Storkey hes ben outthar fur a week tryin' to kill one of 

 the durn critters, but they air tu slick fur us." Storkey 

 was Uncle Taylor's nephew, and was a grown man of 

 family and lived with Uncle Taylor. Neither he nor 

 Uncle Taylor could shoot on the wing, and the turkeys 

 were too sly to be shot on the ground. I thought to my- 

 self, how glad I am that these people cannot shoot on the 

 wing. To flush a drove of wild turkeys and knock one or 

 two down as they sail off is no mean sport. It is almost 

 equal to knocking down a deer on the run. I lost no time, 

 but made tracks for home. Now John Beaver, son of my 

 landlady, had as fine a muzzleloading shotgun as I ever 

 put to my face. It was of some English make, and was 

 formerly owned by a rich cotton planter near Greeneville. 

 The planter took the breechloader craze, and brought a new 

 breechloader from Memphis; so he sold the muzzleloader 

 to John for $10. It was a good one, however, and must 

 have cost $100 when it was new. I borrowed the gun and 

 went back to Uncle Taylor's as fast as a horse could carry 

 me. I arrived just about sundown, and Uncle Taylor told 

 me that the turkeys were in the field now, as he always 

 found them there at sunrise and sundown. He said 

 that he and Storkey would go with me and drive them 

 for me. 



We all started. I had loaded my gun carefully with a 

 reliable turkey load of No. 4 shot. Uncle Taylor and 

 Storkey went straight to the turkeys and I went around 

 and took my stand at the back of a field near an old tree, 

 where they said the turkeys always flew into the swamp. 

 I had not been there long, and was crouching with both 

 barrels cocked looking up in the air for the turkeys to 

 come sailing over. I thought they would fly as usual as 

 soon as Uncle Taylor or Storkey came in sight, and that 

 I would get one as they came over. Imagine my sur- 

 prise then when I heard a gentle put, put, put, coming 

 down the corn row. I knew what it meant. The turkeys 

 were running out of the field instead of flying, and they 

 were going to cross the fence just about where I stooped. 

 I watched and soon saw them. The old hen was in the 

 lead, and about a dozen nearly grown birds were follow- 

 ing her call, all in the same corn row. I honestly believe 

 I could have stooped down on an elevation with their 

 heads and scooped the whole drove. I did not want to 

 do this, however, as I never shoot a bird on the ground. 

 It makes no difference if it is nothing but a woodpecker; 

 I throw a rock at him and make him fly. So I at once 

 straightened up and the turkeys rose at sight of me. The 

 first one that got up I knocked down, and then as the 

 drove rose I got another. They were beauties, both 

 gobblers and almost as largo as the old hen. In about a 

 minute here came Uncle Taylor. He saw me me and 

 shoot on the wing and he thought I did it because I was 

 excited. He never dreamed that I had done such a trick 

 on purpose. He commenced on me, as I knew he would, 

 about as follows: "Well, Wingfield, you done dad blasted 

 good to git two on 'em; but ef you hadn't a ben aich a 

 durn fool to git up outer that ar fence corner you mout 

 a bagged the whole gang." 



When I told Uncle Taylor that I saw the turkeys com- 

 ing single file down the corn row and had flushed them 

 intentionally, he fairly made the atmosphere smell of 

 sulphur. "Well! durn your heart," he Baid, "ef you hed 

 jist shot into them turkeys, I could a tuck about six over 

 to the camps an' sold 'em, and then give you plenty too." 

 "Well," said I, "then I would not have had any more 

 turkeys to shoot at; as it is, they will be back here again 



to-morrow or next day, and we will have the same fun 

 over again." 



"Durn the fun!" said Uncle Taylor, "I want them tur- 

 keys to sell." 



"Well! you will have to pot them on the ground your- 

 self then, for I will never do it — not I," 



"Confound.it! that air 'xactly what Storkey an' me heB 

 ben tryin' to do fur two weeks, an' the blasted turkeys 

 will sail over us like buzzards and gobble at us as they go! 

 This air the £ust-time they ever run out o' the field an' ■ 

 you, blamed fool, went an' spiled it all." 



"Well, well! Uncle Taylor, don't get so mad; you can 

 have both of the turkeys I killed if you want them." 



Now the old man commenced to come back to himself 

 and turning around in a sorrowful way he said: "No it 

 hain't no use to row at ye, ye al'us talk to one so nice- 'ye 

 take one turkey an' I'll take t'other." So shouldering a 

 turkey each we started back to the house. Thus ended 

 my first turkey hunt. 



It was a week or more before I picked up a gun again. 

 This time it was early in the morning near the latter part 

 of September. The squirrels were abundant and as I was 

 fond of shooting them as well as eating them, I filled my 

 belt with cartridges and started out to kill a mess. There 

 was a ridge or belt of high timber about a mile and a 

 half in rear of Mrs. Beaver's house, and upon thiB ridge 

 grew a great many hickory nut and pecan trees. I had 

 been there before and knew that the squirrels were there 

 by the hundreds. So picking my way along a cattle trail, 

 I was soon on the ground, I found an abundance of the 

 game I was looking for, and soon had a dozen or more 

 fine gray and fox squirrels. I was sitting down by the 

 side of a small holly tree watching two squirrels eating 

 the berries, and debating to myself whether I would kill 

 any more or not, when I was startled by the sound of 

 something walking behind me. I had been shooting all 

 morning, but had not fired a shot for probably thirty 

 minutes, as I had stopped and breakfasted on the lunch 

 I had with me, I had no idea that there was any large 

 game within three miles of me, as I naturally supposed 

 the constant crack of my rffle would have scared it away 

 Imagine my surprise, I say, when a fine six-prong buck 

 walked leisurely by me, almost close enough for me to 

 touch him with the end of my gun. Why that deer did 

 not smell or see me has always been a mystery to me 

 But it did not. The buck grazed on the tender shoots of 

 the switch cane, which was about waist high, for sev- 

 eral minutes before I could compose myself enough to 

 even point my rifle at him. This is one time in my life 

 reader, when I had the "buck ague" or "fever " which- 

 ever you mind to call it, I shook like a leaf and 1 honestly 

 imagined I could hear my knee joints rattle. I was never 

 in my life more taken by surprise, and then the old 

 fellow was such a fine one too! None of your little old 

 "slink does" or "spike buckB" was he. He was one of the 

 granddaddies of hiB race, and had a pair of horns on his 

 head that any man would be proud of. I surveyed him 

 from head to foot, almost rooted to the ground as I was. 

 Every now and then the buck would stop feeding a 

 moment and knock at a fly, and when he turned his head 

 to hook a fly or rub it off with his horn he would actually 

 look me square in the face. I kept wondering to myself 

 "why don't he see me and run." I knew if he ever 

 started to run that I would be on my feet and pumpin°- 

 lead into him at the rate of twenty to the minute, but as 

 it was I was paralyzed. The conditions were different 

 from those surrounding the doe and the fawn. In the 

 doe and fawn case, the blue cane was thick as the hair 

 on a dog's back within 5ft. of them, and when once a deer 

 or anything is lost in that it is almoBt as if a wave of the 

 ocean had rolled over them, and left no impression or 

 sign by which to follow. In the case of the buck, both 

 myself and the buck were on the top of what they call in 

 the swamp a ridge. There was no blue cane within a quarter 

 mile of us, and the ridge was covered only with switch cane 

 about waist high. So I had an excellent chance to kill 

 the buck even with my small rifle, and if I had not done 

 so, I would not deserve the name even of a hunter. 

 Finally, after sitting like a knot on a log for five minutes 

 debating with myself about where was the best place to 

 Bhoot that buck, I summed up courage enough to raise 

 my rifle and try to take aim. I tried to get sight at his 

 ear or the base of hi8 skull, but he kept On bobbing his 

 head in reaching for fresh bites of cane, and my nerves 

 were in such a shattered condition that I gave it up, and 

 dropping the muzzle down aimed as best I could just be- 

 hind his foreleg. My rifle was shaking like an aspen leaf, 

 and the muzzle was describing a circle that would have 

 taken a step-ladder to draw on a schoolboy's blackboard. 

 But finally I decided that I had "dead aim" at a buck not 

 20ft. distant, and I sitting flat on the ground with my 

 elbow resting on my knees, so with an uncertain and al- 

 most sinking heart I fired. At the "ping" of the little 

 .32 20 the buck jumped high into the air and tucked his 

 tail. Whenever you see the ' 'white flag" go down, reader, 

 you may know you have drawn blood. They will never 

 do it unless the bullet or shot strikes them. I was like 

 Rip Van Winkle awakened from his twenty years' dream. 

 The "ping" of the ,32 had about as much electricity in it 

 for me as it had for the buck. It brought me to my 

 senBes, it reassured me and told me that I was an old ex- 

 perienced hunter, instead of a schoolboy. Before' the 

 deer had made three bounds, I was on my feet, a new 

 cartridge in the barrel, and then as he ran or tore away, 

 "ping, ping, ping, ping" spoke the little .32-20, 

 As the sound of the fifth shot rang out in the clear frosty 

 air, I saw the deer take a double header and come down 

 all in a heap. The ,32-20s had done the work and laid 

 low one of the kings of the forest. 



Strange to say, I was now as cool as if I had shot a 

 rabbit instead of a magnificent buck, and walking delib- 

 erately up to the old fellow put a ball in his head to stop 

 his suffering. I now went home, and securing the help 

 of my negro axeman and the two Beaver boys, Lem and 

 John, and Jim Pyron, we all went back to the scene of 

 the tragedy and put the buck, whole, upon a mule and 

 tied him fast. We returned home and skinned and 

 dressed him and nailed the head of horns up over the door. 

 That was the sweetest meat I ever ate, and I had lots of 

 fun telling my old hunting friends of how I had had the 

 "buck ague." They all laughed at me, but said, "You 

 got the deer just the same." That was all on earth those 

 old honest fellows cared about hunting. Getting the 

 meat was their idea of hunting, first, foremost and all 

 the time. 



In the mountains of East Tennessee we hunt dear with 

 hounds and run them by driving with a pack of dogs 



