IBS 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Feb. 22, 1896. 
soon found that the younger boys relied a great deal on 
Uncle Joe's judgment, and it was proved a dozen times 
during that day that, though Uncle Joe was old and 
would not ride faster than a walk, he had the best and 
keenest pair of ears in the entire party. We rode into a 
slough and all took off our hats to listen, each turning his 
head slowly about, and hotly chiding any horse that dared 
to stir a leaf or munch a bit of cane. (The good bear 
horse will not bite a cane leaf all day, and will stand 
motionless when his rider is listening for the dogs.) 
Presently Uncle Joe. without saying a word, laid out his 
hat, arm's length, in the direction where he heard the 
dogs. 
"Sho', man, dat's toreckly oppersite." 
"No, no; dat ain't right!'' murmured the others. 
For my part, I could hear nothing whatever of the dogs. 
But Uncle Joe's hat kept on pointing, his bald, gray- 
fringed head a little inclined, his quiet features showing 
just the least little bit of a benevolent interest. I can see 
nim now, in that wild woodland picture, motionless, his 
arm pointing steadily and silently, the other black faces 
looking at him eagerly and in question, but each strain- 
ing his own ears hard as he could to catch the faint 
whisper which Uncle Joe was positive he heard — over 
there somewhere, a thousand miles away. 
Busy Times. 
At length there were murmurs of surprise and of assent, 
though I confess it still remained all Greek to me. All 
except Uncle Joe spurred off directly back toward the 
slough where we first made the start. The bear had 
made a wide and fast circle and gotten back of us, cross- 
ing the ridges higher up and not going for the Hurricane 
at all. It was every one for himself now, except Uncle 
Joe. He jogged along on his mule, apparently undis- 
turbed over anything, At last the voice of the pack came 
to us clearly, and apparently the chase was coming right 
toward us. Then ensued some of the hottest riding and 
most exciting moments of the whole hunt. We broke 
heavy cane for a quarter of a mile, back and forward , 
edging in ahead of the dogs all the time. At length I 
found myself with Sam and Pete in the middle of an arm 
of the dreaded Hurricane, a horrible network of fallen 
logs, briers and vines. It seemed certain the pack would 
break into this a little way above us, and we rode there — 
how, I could never tell, but somehow. Then the pack 
turned back again, or part of them did. One big- voiced 
dog, which I took to be Jolly, kept on baying in one 
place, and part of the pack seemed to be near him, so 
that I thought the dogs had treed; but Sam and Pete said 
no, and off we went again to resume our breaking cane 
across the ridges. We crossed one series of ridges six 
different times, and it seemed to me that every time we 
crossed I lost a negro. I have a suspicion they didn't 
want to be bothered by ignorant white folks just at that 
time. Anyhow, at length I found myself all alone in the 
middle of the Mississippi Delta, a bear hunter on my own 
hook. But by the time a fellow has heard the hounds 
close up a few times the only thing he thinks about is 
how to get to the bear, not how to get home. 
I hunted by myself for a while and didn't get any bear 
and at length concluded the dogs had gone back, entirely 
away from our series of ridges. So I rode back, trying to 
find a slough which would take me up that way. I knew 
that if the bear came down our way either Sam or Pete 
would kill it, but the dogs did not seem to be running 
any one line in particular and I thought they had turned 
back. At last, after puzzling over the uncertainty of bear 
hunting for quite a while alone, I rode out into a big dry 
bayou bed, which I followed at full speed for a mile or 
so. Then I saw a quiet, white-headed figure jogging 
calmly along ahead of me, and who should it be but 
Uncle Joe, who was the nearest man to the pack at that 
very moment and who hadn't ruffled a hair on himself or 
his mule all that blessed afternoon, while the rest of us 
were killing ourselves! 
"I heahs 'em, sah, right ovah thah," said Uncle Joe, 
cheerfully. "They're comin' acrost above hyah a leetle 
way. I reckon if you ride up thah right fast you'll git to 
kill the bah." 
So far, so good; but though I did ride up there right fast 
for half a mile the bear did not come out. Again there 
was a turn back into that same mysterious bit of country, 
about a mile square, where the dogs had been working at 
full cry for over two hours. 
I stood and listened and at length heard the crackle of 
cane and the voice of some one shouting. I answered 
and a moment later Capt. Bobo and Bill came out into 
my bayou. 
Mysteries of the Chase. 
Capt. Bobo was wild. He didn't know what to think. 
He said the pack was bewitched, gone crazy. In all his 
life he had never seen them act so. "I don't know what 
they're after, I'm sure," he said. "My old bear dogs will 
be trailing along right out in the open woods on a cold 
trail apparently, and then all at once they will jump in 
together and boo! boo! they go, just as if they saw the 
bear right at them. It's been that way all the afternoon. 
I can't tell a thing about what they mean or what they 
are doing and I feel like killing the whole pack. Listen 
at them I There they go, three different packs and not 
one running bear, I'll bet a dollar! I never saw anything 
like it." 
Bobo was so mad I was afraid he would begin to sing 
before long and I didn't want him to do that, so I tried 
to divert his mind with pleasant speculations. After a 
while we all rode back the way we bad come from last. 
It was now after 5 o'clock and almost dark. 
i~ Narrowing the Circle. 
The reader may imagine, if he cares to, that the 
vagaries of the Bobo bear pack were transpiring that 
evening on a bit of heavy country about three miles from 
where the larger of our two field parties had been left 
that afternoon. Of that portion of the party only a few 
ever heard the pack at all, and no one of these was ever 
really in the hunt for very long. After Capt. Bobo and 
Bill left me at the start, those of us left behind on the 
ridges, myself, Pete, Sam and Uncle Joe, were really in 
the hunt more than anyone else. To these colored 
hunters the glory of the day belongs, for they insisted all 
along that the dogs had bear. When I got lost from all 
these I had made a long semi-circle about a mile and a 
half. When Capt. Bobo started on his back track we 
made another arc on this same circle, back toward the 
cane ridges again. Inside of this circle somewhere the 
dogs were working, Thus I had in all ridden nearly 
three-quarters of the way around the dogs when we next 
stopped. Here we were joined by Pete and Sam, who had 
come across the mooted territory by a slough not so far 
over as my bayou. And finally, about 5:15 in the even- 
ing, we were joined by Uncle Joe, who came jogging in 
on his old mule from somewhere or other, somehow or 
other, very tranquil and unconcerned. 
Our section of the field party was now all together, and 
our last stand was now made in a little open glade just 
at the edge of the heavy cane country where the mysteries 
of the chase were going on. .We were about six miles 
from camp, in the middle of the wildest and roughest of 
that wild country. It was dark. 
But the Dogs Bayed on. 
"It's no bear, that's one thing sure," said Capt. Bobo. 
"The bear don't live that my dogs wouldn't have run to a 
standstill before this. I don't know what's the trouble, 
but it's no use fooling. Call in the dogs." 
All hands now blew long and hard to call in the pack, 
but we only got a few, and none of the good ones except, 
I believe, old Henry, who had come back long before and 
net gone away far. Sam and Pete shook their heads and 
still insisted the dogs had bear, and that they could hear 
old Rock. As the last resort Sam was told to fire off his 
Winchester a few times — the one thing to which the dogs 
will always go. But even this did not bring in many of 
the pack, and still Sam and Pete murmured objections — 
which Capt. Bobo himself would not have needed had he 
not been so diBgusted with two days of unsatisfactory 
running. 
It was now quite night, and as the wilderness grew still 
and moist in the heavy, frosty dew of evening, all sounds 
became more distinct. At last we heard, all of us, and 
unmistakably, faint but positive, and not changing in 
location, the baying of the Bobo bear pack, denied for the 
moment by their master, but not to be denied of their 
prey. There was the ow! ow! of a deep-mouthed dog, 
which I think was old Jolly; and there was a chorus of 
other voices, and it was stationary! 
Treed! 
The murmurB of Sam and Pete broke out into words: 
"Dat's him! Dat's ole Rock in dah, sah, Cap'n. Ole 
Rock he ain't never open on nothin' but bah! Dat's bah, 
sho'hs yo' bohn, sah! Yes, sahr 
And then old Uncle Joe took off his hat and laid it out 
on the air at arm's length in the direction of the faint 
baying of the dogs. 
"I reckon hit's done treed, sah," said he. 
For an hour Capt. Bobo's face had been sour and long. 
It had been a bad day, and he wasn't happy. But as he 
listened to the baying of the distant dogs his face shortened 
about 1ft. and he looked a shade more comfortable, 
though he still insisted the fool dogs must be baying a coon. 
"Don' yo' nevah b'lieve it — dat ain't no coon!" said Sam, 
"Dat's bah!" 
The Canebrake at Night. 
"Come on, Hough!" said Bobo, suddenly. "We'll 
mighty soon find out what it is." So saying, he rode 
straight into what seemed a jet-black wall of braided wire 
fences. 
Here was where the Bobo of it came in. Those boys 
might catch him on an off day, when he had quinine or 
disgust in his head; but no man on earth can ride cane 
with Bobo, the bear hunter. This night he was riding a 
big mule, his hunting horse, Bob, having been lamed by 
a cane stab the day before. This mule was also a daisy. 
It was pitch dark, and one could not have seen much 
had it been daylight, for we were in the thickest thicket 
of the whole region. Yet the mule with lowered head 
plunged into the wall of cane, and it broke and swayed 
and yielded. There was a vast crushing and crashing 
mass of black just ahead of me, out of which came a 
voice not of complaint, but of irate resolution. Bobo was 
riding cane! For my part, all I had to do was to keep 
close up, so as to not to be shut out by the folding doors 
of cane. We both were much mauled by briers and 
vines and limbs of trees and stems of cane, against which 
there was no protection in the dark. I suppose it was an 
awful ride. Perhaps it took us a quarter of an hour, and 
perhaps we rode a quarter of a miie or less — the sound of 
the pack could not be heard very far in such cover. But 
the main concern was that every moment the baying of 
the pack grew louder as we rode on, and remained at the 
same place. 
The Bear in Sight. 
At last we got within about 150yds. of the dogs, whose 
music was now exceeding good to hear. Bobo silently 
got down, and motioned to me to also dismount and tie 
my horse. The four negroes were now a little way back 
of us in the cane. No one was talking now. 
Bobo crept on ahead of me through the dense black 
cane. At about 50yds. from the dogs he stopped, drew 
me to him and pointed. Away, far up, 75ft. above the 
ground, up a giant tree which sprung up out of the heart 
of the jungle of cane, I could see a big black object, as 
big as a pumpkin, but sort of sharp pointed, apparently 
growing out of the trunk of the tree. Then, as I looked 
more closely, I could see, very iodistinctly in the black 
shadows on the further side of the tree, the curve of a 
shadow which seemed to be blacker than the other shad- 
ows. Then I knew that what I saw was a bear, standing 
over a limb which forked on the far side of the tree, his 
hindlegs lower than his front ones. What in my first 
glance I took to be a pumpkin up in the oak tree 
was the bear's head, looking calmly and happily at 
the dogs, each of which was trying to jump 75t't. high. 
Bear Shooting by Dark. 
Bobo and I slipped on in, up to the very foot of the tree. 
At this time the moon was just beginning to rise, and 
though it was on the wrong side of the tree for us, it 
brightened up the sky so it made a fair background. The 
cane stood 25 ft. high about the tree, and down there every- 
thing was black as a pocket. As I looked up, I could see 
the bear's head plainly, hanging over a big limb; but as 
we came up, he swung his head over the limb uneasily, as 
if to move nigher up the tree. I could not see his body 
then, and for the moment was deceived, thinking the 
bear's head was the body of a coon. I whispered to Bobo, 
"Coon?" but he hissed back, "Bear!" and at that moment 
I saw the outline of a bear's body against the sky. I 
threw down the lever of my rifle to put a cartridge in the 
chamber, and at once went into action. 
"Wait till the boys get here," said Bobo, in a low tone 
of voice. "Don't shoot!" I suppose he feared I might 
cripple the bear, and that it might come down and give us 
a bad time in the cane in the dark. But I did not feel dis- 
posed to take any chances about those boys, who appeared 
to me mighty liable to begin shooting at my bear as soon 
as they saw him. So for once, and the only time, I delib- 
erately disobeyed orders. While Bobo was telling me not 
to shoot, I was busy drawing a sight on the bear. I drew 
it as fine as I could, then raised the breech a little more 
for luck, knowing that I could not see into the sights. 
Then I turned her loose. 
The Death of the Bear. 
There was a long stream of fire in front of my eyes, and 
then the smoke settled down in the moist air. I heard 
Bobo exclaim, "You broke his back!" Then I stepped 
clear of the smoke and fired carefully again, and yet 
again — the last shot I knew needlessly. There was a 
rattle of shots from the cane 40yds. away, where the col- 
ored boys were coming up, and Bobo fired a shot at the 
bear while it was falling. 
The bear was, so nearly as I could tell, standing upon a 
limb of the tree thicker than a man's body. My first shot 
killed it at once, and it sank down on the limb, its legs 
clinging and then relaxing just like those of a squirrel 
killed in a tree. It then toppled and fell off the limb, 
and came down, whirling over in an entire somersault as 
it fell, and striking the ground with a most excellent, 
pleasant, squ'shing sound, like 400,000 four-bushel sacks of 
beans. 
"Good Lord A'mighty, dog-gone!" cried Bobo, in his 
regulation war whoop, which he utters at the close 'of 
every bear chase. "We killed a bear!" This always in 
apparent joy and surprise, as if he had never seen one 
killed before. And you should have seen his face! No 
longer stern and dour, it was wreathed in a hundred 
smiles. Bobo was happy in the only way he ever gets 
really good and happy. "So you've got your bear," he 
said, "and I'm mighty glad of it. I wouldn't have missed 
this for $100. I knew you'd get your bear before long. 
We've had a long, hard day of it, and I'm glad we didn't 
go home beat." 
"I tole yo', ole Rock — " began Sam. 
"Oh! you go on away about old Rock!" said Capt. Bobo, 
good-humoredly now, "you go on and cut up the bear, 
and let's get out of here if we can." 
Expansive Bullets on Bear. 
The bear was stone dead when it struck the ground, as 
Bobo and I found at once when we rushed in to keep it 
from injuring the dogs, which swarmed on top of it as 
soon as it fell. We were curious to see the nature of the 
wound, as we had discussed at times the merits of the 
rifle I was using — a .45 70 405 Winchester, with the bullet 
made expansive by means of copper cylinder (just plain, 
factory-loaded ammunition, from the U. M. C. Co., with 
no frills or crimps on it). This gun I found not a very 
good one to carry in cane, because it is too long and 
heavy, but I found it a very good gun to kill bears with, 
at least in the dark. My first shot did not break the 
bear's back, as Bobo thought, and had it been from one of 
the .443 or .38s would not have knocked the life out of 
the bear, as it did. The bullet struck low down in the 
paunch of the bear, about midway — not a very good place 
to shoot a bear in the daytime, but good enough in the 
dark. It ranged, forward and upward, tore the lungs 
open, but did not touch the heart, and passed clear on 
out the other side of the animal, breaking three ribs in 
bits on the far side, and leaving a hola into which the 
bottom of a teacup would go easily. This bear weighed 
perhaps 3001bs., but it was killed by the shock as though 
it had been a squirrel. I am no believer in small bores, 
nor should I think a solid bullet desirable for any bear, 
if the big Government bullet can be had expansive. 
There is enough lead left to give plenty of penetration of 
a most ragged and direful sort. You muss a bear up a 
good deal when you shoot him with this kind of a load, 
but you immediately get what good meat there is left to 
him. 
Bobo had never before seen the action of an expansive 
bullet, and he was surprised to see what it done in tear- 
ing and crushing effect. He said he had never known 
any bullet could tear such a hole. The second shot, so 
nearly as we could tell, struck by mere accident within 
half an inch of the first one. This bullet, following nearly 
in the path of the first one, did not open so much, and 
left a hole about an inch across some three inches from 
the main wound on the far side. This may possibly have 
been only a fragment of the first bullet, though probably 
not. My third shot we could not trace and it no doubt 
was a miss, fired just as the bear fell out. 
"I 'specks I done killed dis bah," said Bill, as we started 
to skin the animal. "I done shot him right squah in the 
head. Yo'll find my bullet right in his head, shore." 
We did not find Bill's bullet in the bear's head, but we 
found some one's bullet in the opposite extremity, it hav- 
ing struck in the ham and ranged a third of the way up 
along the muscles of the back. 
Not so Much Glory. 
So I could say, I presume, that I killed a bear. But 
there was small glory in the mere killing of it. I should 
say that potting a bear out of a tree — even in the dark — 
was not so exciting as killing a quail on the wing, A 
quail is a startling and ferocious bird till you get used to 
him, and may well frighten a fellow; but a black bear up 
a tree, with a pack of dogs to tackle him if he comes 
down — I can't see the elements of much sporting glory in 
that sort of a situation. Your friends insist you must kill 
a bear; and so you must, or pass for a duffer. You do kill 
him, and then you feel as if you really were a duffer! 
When it comes to that sort of bear killing, the chances 
are so much against the bear that you can't help pitying 
the poor, black, woolly coward up the tree. It is a small 
feat in sportsmanship to merely blow a hole through him. 
Indeed, that is not the sportsmanship of the bear chase at 
all. The shot that kills the bear is the last and. perhaps 
one of the least stirring incidents of the chase. The 
sportsmanship has been in the ability to ride and keep 
with the dogs and to know what they are doing; and the 
sport has been in this attempt, combined with the luck of 
the field, pitted against the speed, strength and cunning 
of one of the largest animals pursued as game. Poor 
Cuffee! There's a lot of fun in him, but one could wish 
he were not such an errant coward. Over the mangled 
remains of the Cuffee that I slew, albeit I admit I am glad 
I did it, I can raise no paean of vain glory. It is true, we 
