492 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[Jan. 8, 1891. 



COONS BY DAY AND NIGHT 



A THANKSGIVING HUNT. 



LAST Thanksgiving Day my copy of Forest and 

 Stream, of the issue of Nov. 20, reached me, and as 

 I sat enjoying its perusal, the coon stories reminded me of 

 my first Thanksgiving Day in California. I determined 

 then and there that when I got time I would commit the 

 events of that day on paper, for my own amusement as 

 well as (I hope) for that of my readers. In accordance 

 with that mental promise, although somewhat late in the 

 day, I will now attempt the task: 



The scene of my hunt was in Goluaa county, on the 

 banks of the Sacramento River, about 15 miles below the 

 town of Colusa; and the time was Thanksgiving Day, 

 1877. I wad a newcomer to the State, having only arrived 

 the previous spring, and was jtist recovering from an 

 attack of typhoid fever, with which my new home had 

 greeted me. Everything was new to me; country, climate, 

 scenery, people, game, everything! Even the typhoid 

 fever was a brand new ai-ticle, and one that did not im- 

 press itself upon me as being at all a desirable article to 

 have in the house. 



By Thanksgiving Day I had partly recovered my 

 strength, and being anxious and eager to get a chance at 

 the geese, which were clamoring in all directions, night 

 and day, I took a riding horse and went down the river 

 a couple of miles from where I was stopping at the ranch 

 of a friend. The horse they gave me was a Splendid Old 

 Ruin, and ought to have been called Baalbec, like Mark 

 Twain's. He was given me as safe, and warranted not to 

 buck if I shot from his back. He turned out to be like 

 many other old ruins, however; you never know what you 

 are going to meet with in them until thorough explora- 

 tion has been made. He looked as if all in the world he 

 wanted was to lie down somewhere and be forgotten. If 

 ridden without spurs he would go ten hours in a mile 

 easy, and never sweat a hair. If you got off his back, he 

 needed no tying, as he would just stand there and 

 meditate until your return. 



But the sequel will show what was left in the S. O. R. 

 when once awakened. 



The geese were all over the country in countless 

 thousands, and one would think, to look at them from the 

 ranch house, that they could be knocked over with a 

 club, so I mounted the S. O. R. and started out to gather 

 in a few dozen. 



I was at this time the proud and happy owner of a full- 

 blooded pointer that bad been given me a, few dayf pre- 

 viously. I did not want him at all, but my friend, the 

 donor, thought I was suffering for a dog more than he 

 was and sent him to me per express, charges prepaid, so 

 there he was and what could I do? Especially as the 

 dog adopted me at once, and killed and brought to me no 

 less than three chiekens the very first day of our acquaint- 

 ance. I rather discouraged him in that pursuit by means 

 of three feet of trace-chain and afterward, if he killed 

 any more chickens, he never brought them to me. He 

 was a good dog, spoiled by bad training, and despite his 

 many failing contrived to wag himself pretty deeply into 

 my affections. His tail had met with an accident in his 

 youth and he had only a six-inch stump left, but this be 

 used with such effect that it looked like a halo around his 

 stern when he was putting in his best licks with it. 

 "When I was a boy I had a little dog with only about an 

 inch of a stump— "but that's another story!" 



By the way, all dogs ought to have a name, and mine 

 was called Sport. I didn't want Sport's assistance in 

 goose hunting but that made no difference to him. Just 

 as soon as he sawjme mount with a gun in hand he deter- 

 mined to go along and help, and all hands on the ranch, 

 together with all the discouraging remarks I could think 

 of at the time, couldn't prevent his doing it. He just 

 went out half a mile or so on the ranch and sat down and 

 waited to see what direction he was going to have to 

 take, in order to be along and have his share of the fun. 



After we got started he kept about half a mile ahead 

 of me and didn't leave a goose in that part of the country. 

 To say that I was angry wouldn't do justice to the oc- 

 casion. I coaxed and commanded, wheedled and scolded 

 to no purpose, and finally lost my temper and yelled cuss 

 words enough at him to paralyze any common dog, but 

 they never paralyzed him, and he kept right on hunting 

 geese. 



I finally gave it up in despair and turned toward the 

 timber lining the river bank, determined to give the dog 

 a chance at his legitimate game — quail. Many spots of 

 the banks were thickly timbered with oak and syca- 

 more, with a dense tangle of undergrowth, consisting of 

 wild rose bushes, briers and grapevines, in which dwelt 

 many varmints of all kinds, and in local parlance, a "right 

 smart chance" of quail. 



The old dog now retrieved his lost character a little, 

 and it was not long until the pockets of my hunting coat 

 began to bulge with birds retrieved in excellent style by 

 Sport, and handed up to me as I sat on the S. 0. R. with 

 such a proud delight that I could do no otherwise than 

 forgive the old scamp. 



Here and there along the river, at varying distances 

 from its banks, little mottles or islands of timber exist. 

 In one of these, I marked down a very large bevy of 

 birds, and when I had finished with those" I was then en- 

 gaged with, I went in quest of them. Before I reached 

 the spot every last bird of the lot took wing and flew to 

 the river. I shot two as they passed, which Sport handed 

 up to me, and while I was reloading he entered the tim- 

 ber. In two or three minutes he commenced a most ex- 

 cited baying in the heart of the wood, and presently 

 he became intensely excited, as I could tell by his loud, 

 and almost continuous yells. There was only about two 

 acres of ground in the patch of timber, but it was so dense 

 that from no side could I get a view into it of over ten 

 yards in extent. I tried to call the dog out, supposing he 

 was baying a wild hog, but he would not come. My 

 voice seemed only to excite him further, and he got fairly 

 frantic. 



At last I dismounted, and leaving the S. O. R. in a deep 

 train of thought, attempted to penetrate the thicket. The 

 dog heard me coming, and redoubled his yells. After 

 infinite labor, and at the cost of many a painful scratch, 

 I reached a point near the center of the wood, and 

 straightened up and gazed around. Some twenty yards 

 away stood an oak stub, about 35ft. high, with two or 

 three branches near its top, covered with a grape vine, 



Clinging in this vine were three large coons, and a gray 

 fox stood at the top of all, with his feet spread wide 

 apart, resting on the swaying branches of the vine. At 

 the foot of the tree was old Sport, frantic with excite- 

 ment. He would spring from the ground as high as he 

 could leap, grab a mouthful of the bark of the oak, and 

 fall back into the briers, immediately to repeat the per- 

 formance. My gun was a muzzleloading Greener (but 

 few breechloaders were in use here then), and both bar- 

 rels were loaded with No. 9 shot for quail. After view- 

 ing the novel and interesting sight for a moment, I threw 

 up my gun and fired one barrel at the lowest coon in the 

 bunch. This failed to knock him down, and only set him 

 to drawing for a higher seat among the congregation. I 

 then gave him the second, which knocked him down, 

 and from the yells and squalls which immediately arose 

 from the foot of the tree, I knew that Sport and he were 

 having a, picnic. 



I commenced reloading as fast as possible, using coarse 

 goose shot for the charges, but before I could get the caps 

 on the largest coon of all backed down the tree and 

 escaped, taking advantage of the clog being engaged in 

 another direction. I tried to force myself through the 

 thorny tangle to the foot of the tree to stop him, but 

 being still weak from the effects of the fever, had to 

 desist. Host no time, however, in reloading, and was 

 just in time to tumble the second coon as he was follow- 

 ing his companion down the tree. All this time the fox 

 stood without a motion, as beautiful a picture as I ever 

 saw. He would glance at me and then at the scrimmage 

 still going on among the briers as unconcernedly as 

 though he had no personal interest in the affair. I finally 

 gave him the other charge and dropped him after the 

 coons. I again loaded my gun, not knowing but all the 

 surrounding trees were festooned with coons and foxes, 

 and slowly forced my way to where first the snarls of 

 the coon and then the howls of the dog showed that the 

 battle still raged, and that first one and then the other 

 was getting the best of it. My presence incited the dog 

 to greater efforts, and soon he got a "strangle hold" on 

 his opponent and "brought his shoulders to the carpet," 

 and won the match and all the gate money. 



Old Sport was not born with blue blood in his veins for 

 nothing. He "stayed with" his man in grand style and 

 won the fight against a heavy male coon, only slightly 

 wounded, in a way to shame many a boasted "coon dog." 



After great effort and two trips I got the game out to 

 where the S. O. R. still stood busily thinking, and pro- 

 ceeded to tie it to the saddle. While thus engaged, a 

 large flock of geese came clamoring over, and much 

 to my surprise I brought down one with each barrel. 



Gentlemen! but wasn't this luck? Twenty-three quail, 

 two geese, two coons and a fox, all in one afternoon! If 

 any one can beat that on an every-day common goose 

 hunt, let me see the color of his hair! After tying on the 

 game, I mounted and broke into the S. O. R.'s train of 

 thought with a dig in the ribs with the butt of the gun. 

 Right there was where I made the mistake of the day. 

 The Splendid Old Ruin awoke to his surroundings, took 

 one sniff at his odorous burden, and in just one minute 

 and a half by the clock had bucked himself clear of 

 everything, saddle and all, and was making Salvator time 

 for his stable. 



It was interesting while it lasted, but, thank the Lord! 

 it didn't last long. Talk about riding a trip hammer! 

 Why, that would be comparative fun to the way this old 

 fiencl bucked! First my hat came off; then the game 

 began to come up and hit me in the face and the small of 

 my back; then I had to throw away my gun so as to have 

 both hands to hold on with; next it began to rain dead 

 quail out of my pockets; and finally he got me to coming 

 down as he was going up, and that settled it. The next 

 thing I knew I was sitting on the ground, with my teeth 

 all loose and a kink in my spine, my game, gun, saddle 

 and blanket scattered around, and the horse nearly home. 

 Old Sport was sitting in front of me, spatting the ground 

 with his stump of a tail, and now and then licking his 

 wounds in a manner that showed he was proud of them. 



I was demoralized, there's no use denying it; and weak 

 and sick I sat there until my friend, alarmed by the S. O. 

 R.'s return riderless to the ranch, hitched up bis team and 

 came down the river hunting for me. 



Thus ended my goose quail-coon-fox hunt— the first I 

 ever made in California, and the only one I ever made 

 anywhere that yielded such a variety of game on such 

 short notice. Arefar. 



Auburn, Oal. 



ONE KIND OF COON HUNT. 



The writer participated in an unsuccessful coon hunt 

 recently— not the regulation night hunt that one reads 

 about with the setting of yelping dogs and flaring torches, 

 but an inpromptu, daylight affair. 



It was in the Newington woods, a few miles south of 

 Hartford. A light snow, which had. fallen the day before, 

 covered the old crust and made tracking possible, though 

 not very easy. I had been amusing myself by untangling 

 the windings of various animals' tracks; squirrels, rabbits, 

 foxes, etc, , when about three in the afternoon I came on 

 the trail of a very large coon. The coon had been walk- 

 ing in the bed of a tiny stream, which, being spring water, 

 had melted the surrounding snow and so made a path 

 where he could walk without leaving any tell-tale tracks. 

 Just at this point, however, he had reached the end of his 

 tether in the spring which gave rise to the stream, and 

 his trail was doubly plain by reason of the mud which 

 had clung to his paws. 



I followed the footprints across a road, and then down 

 an old wood trail to a place where trampled ground and 

 broken bushes showed that a horse had been tied. From 

 scattered oats and human footprints leading further into 

 the woods, I concluded that some one had left his horse 

 here while hunting; but why this man, whoever he was, 

 had not noticed the coon tracks I cannot tell. He had 

 crossed the trail several times before: at the foot of a giant 

 hemlock it abruptly ended. No doubt he was after rabbits, 

 and didn't know a coon track from a cow track. 



The hemlock had low branches, and it did not take me 

 long to make up my mind to climb it. About two- thirds 

 of the way up was a nest of dead leaves and branches, 

 and just as I reached this the coon, an enormous yellow 

 old fellow, raised himself out of it and began climbing 

 the tree. I started down, the other way, as fast as I 

 I could. Up to this moment I had not seriously expected 

 to see a coon. I was out for a walk more than anything 

 else, and had not even brought a pistol--wbieh was prob- 

 ably the reason of my luck. I remembered a farmhouse, 



however, within half a mile, and at once set out for it as 

 fast as I could go, with the intention of borrowing a gun. 

 It was growing dark and there was no other house near. 

 I knew that coons had an unexcelled reputation for tough- 

 ness, but I thought I could kill this one with a large 

 enough club— and it was my only chance to bring it to 

 bay . Accordingly, having cut a stout stick about 2ft. long, 

 and having slung this to my wrist by a piece of cord, I 

 again climbed the tree. The coon was just where I had 

 left him, and allowed me to get within a few feet before 

 he moved. Then he started for the top of the tree and I 

 after him, climbing hand over hand as fast as I could, for 

 I wanted to reach the top at the same time as the coon. 

 Up the coon went till I thought he would never stop. The 

 tree grew so small that I could clasp it with my hand, 

 and finally bent under the coon's weight. Then he 

 stopped, probably realizing that without wings he couldn't 

 mount higher, and began turning. 



Cornered coons are said to be much worse than corn- 

 nered rats, as they are bigger. This old yellow codger, 

 gritting his teeth in my face, looked ugly against the 

 sky, but I was ready for him and did not allow him to 

 open the ball. I had a good grip on the tree with my 

 left hand, and leaning back I hit him over the side of the 

 head with all the force I could bring to bear. He hung 

 for an instant and then fell. I dodged, and as he passed 

 struck him a second bio w. 



I heard the coon fall through the branches and then 

 strike the ground like a thousand of brick. Then all was 

 still. I waited thirty seconds or more breathlessly, and 

 then, uncertain whether he was dead or not, I threw the 

 club in the direction he had gone. At once there was a 

 commotion. The leaves cracked, and the next moment 

 the coon shot out from the shade of the tree and began 

 climbing the hill above at a "do or die" rate, 



I did not wait further developments, but descended the 

 tree as fast as I could well fall out of it. But though I 

 found the trail, and though 1 followed it until dark, up 

 ledges and down ledges, I could catch no sight of the 

 coon. The trail headed straight for Hartford, where no 

 doubt the coon was hastening to get out an "assault and 

 battery" warrant. B. 



Haktforo, Conn. 



IN COLD WATER STYLE. 



Here it is the middle of November and we of the West- 

 ern slope are just perusing Forest and Stream of Oct. 

 16. The first article that strikes my eye is "The Coon 

 Hunters" and your query as to whether they have been 

 idle or unsuccessful. 



Now I am not a coon hunter either by profession nor 

 choice, for, as Judge Whalley says of the wild goose, if 

 there is any living thing for which I. entertain a supreme 

 contempt it is a coon. But there are coons and coons 

 nevertheless, and we knights of the rod and gun have 

 our experiences with this noble beast of the forest and 

 henhouse at intervals, whether we hold him in contempt 

 or vice verm. An old coon has quite a chunk of brain 

 and what he has is just the right kind for his business. 

 He is cunning, quick-witted, discreet, pugnacious in a 

 pinch, tenacious and resolute, 



Well, as I was about to say, one night in October Harry 

 Beal, Bill Story and myself, with our dogs and duck 

 guns, started on foot down the Willamette River for 

 Dowes Lake. We started about 3 o'clock A.M. in order 

 to get the early morning flight of ducks. It was a fine 

 starlit night, but no moon. Shortly before reaching the 

 lake the dogs commenced to raise merry Cain off to the 

 left on the bank of a little round wapato pond. Our first 

 thoughts were of cougars and wildcats, and we hurried 

 down to help the dogs. One side of the pond "was 

 fringed with scrubby willows, and on our approach some 

 "varmint" dropped out of one of these and ran out into 

 the pond. The dogs, all ambitious to immortalize them- 

 selves by some heroic act at the beginning of a day's hunt, 

 and each urged on by the assumed ferocity of his com- 

 panions and our hurried advance, rushed in after his 

 unknown highness. Then there was considerable "fuss 

 and feathers" and some fighting; but it was so dark that 

 we could only discern four dark objects bobbing around 

 at a lively rate some 20ft. away. We could not take a 

 hand in the melee, even had we desired (doubtful), on 

 account of the depth of water and the miry bottom, and 

 firing was out of the question of course.' But the pre- 

 liminary skirmish did not last long and my setter struck 

 out for the shore, his ardor considerably dampened and 

 his ideas of heroic conduct materially modified. Close in 

 his wake came Harry's dog with the appearance of hav- 

 ing received satisfaction. 



Storey's dog, a powerful red Irish, would not give up 

 the fight, and came up smiling for the second round. 

 We then and there passed judgment on the respective 

 merits of the dogs. Pat's staying qualities were admirable. 

 He was the hero of the hour. We all admired his pluck, 

 but the sequel condemned his judgment. 



Now a coon may be a suck-egg and a thief, but he is 

 nobody's fool, and an old coon knows that he is more 

 than a match for any ordinary dog in deep water where 

 neither has a foot rest. So this varmint struck out for 

 deep water, and Pat after him; but no amount of urging 

 could induce the other dogs to aid their brother in dis- 

 tress. Away went varmint and away went dog, while 

 we circumambulated the pond to prevent the victim's 

 escape. By lying close to the ground I could dimly see 

 two dark objects on the gloomy waters of the pond. 

 Time rolled on. The victim found he could not safely 

 leave the pond, for wherever he sought a landing he found 

 a man with a gun. From where I was stationed the 

 glimmer of the starlight on the water gave me a better 

 opportunity to observe the movements of the contestants 

 than either of my companions had. We could not shoot 

 on account of the dog; in fact, I alone could see the 

 objects, and only dimly. So we waited, watched and 

 listened. 



Presently Pat either got mad or his second wind, or 

 both, and with a spurt overtook his supposed victim right 

 at the center of the pond. Whew! spit! bang! razors in 

 the air! Well, we have all heard of geysers, boiling 

 springs, volcanic eruptions in mid-ocean, but this was the 

 first thing of the kind I had ever observed by starlight. 

 "Brief and sangumary" are the correct words I believe. 

 Then all was still. The silence was even more oppressive 

 than before, and I could see but one dark object quietly 

 leaving- the field of battle. I looked in vain for the pur- 

 suer. He had met the enemy and— "W f hat's the trouble?" 

 called Storey from across the pond, "Nothing," said I, 



