June 15, 1895.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
487 
My reward was about the same, however, after a criti- 
cal inspection. So I again pushed forward, and soon came 
within a quarter of a mile of the aforementioned horses, 
whereupon I began to study them more closely, for the 
wily pronghorn loves to associate with domestic stock, if 
for no other reason than to be sure of a show of escape if 
suddenly surprised by hunters. 
Approximating closer, I notice tbat the bronchos are 
aware of our coming, and seem to take considerable in- 
terest in us as we advance toward them. Their antics, 
too, cause me to smile, as they bunch up and come for- 
ward a "wee bit" at a time, and this as if being pushed 
by one another, so close do they huddle together in their 
inquisitive desire to know who we are and the meaning of 
our invasion upon their domain. 
Suddenly, as if having discovered our identity, and per- 
haps thinking of the distant corral, where they might be 
wanted, they wheel around and dash at a gallop in high 
glee, kicking and snorting for some 300yds. , and again face 
us in a defying attitude, when all at once my attention is 
called away from these frisky "critters" to something more 
interesting just now. 
Though watching the horses and admiring their wavy 
outlines as they sported m the light breeze that swept 
down from the north, a spare optic was nevertheless on 
the qui vive for any unusual move that was not on the 
programme of the immediate vicinity. So when a small 
bunch of antelope came jumping out from a gully to the 
right and were making for my erstwhile entertainers in 
the distance, you can bet I then and there promulgated 
plans for their destruction. As it were, the space between 
ua was too great for a sure shot, so I began to think of the 
most propitious way of getting at them. I could try stalk- 
ing, but they were already scared and started on the run 
by the horses, and a doubt as to the success of such a plan 
arose in my mind; though it might be a sure thing, it was 
also sure to me that it would consume the better paTt of 
the afternoon with everything against me, for they were 
going away from me all the time, and in the end would 
certainly have the wind in their favor, thereby deciding 
the result. 
I at once dropped all thoughts of stalking on perceiving 
the action of the game just as the horses made another 
dash for the bottoms. Would not the little band eventu- 
ally cross the trail left by the cayuses if forced to con- 
tinue their course. To me it occurred that such would 
prove to be the case if the antelcpe could be kept on the 
move, for they would make for the spot where 1 first dis- 
covered the horses every time those animals started on 
the run. Until now they had evidently not caught sight 
of me, because we stood in the channel of some former 
stream, or washout, and the thick and high chaparral 
ahead formed a sort of screen behind which ample pro- 
tection from their sharp eyes could be had, though I had 
to stoop over the horn of the saddle quite a bit at that. 
The idea that struck me was to hang over the left side 
of my pony in Indian fashion and make a dive in the 
direction taken by the horses, and watching the game 
from under the neck of the cayuse I was riding, take ad- 
vantage of the first little gully that lay in their line of ap- 
proach, if approach they did. Whether I was to be suc- 
cessful I did not know, but certain it was that I was will- 
ing to run chances on a scheme that appeared to me had 
some show of an auspicious ending; especially so with this 
one, as it would take up very little time should it prove a 
failure. 
Getting ready for the charge, I slowly started my pony 
out of the hollow, intending to give the game a chance to 
size us up first, rather than surprise them with a too sud- 
den, appearance by dashing right into view. They at first 
did not notice us, but as I kept the pony at a walk, I very 
soon distracted their attention from the good grass they 
were constantly nibbling along the trail and had them in- 
spect me critically, as I allowed the cayuse to come to a 
standstill, lowering its head as it did so, to feed. Finally 
after some time, I became a chestnut in tbeir eyes and 
they resumed their browsing, seemingly indifferent to my 
presence on the flat. This was my opportunity and I gave 
my pony a thump in the bread basket with my left that 
sent us flying over the prairie. 
Imagine my delight to see those creatures take up the 
same course, but always coming nearer the trail over 
which I sped. We went much faster than they did, how- 
ever, and before long I was neatly ensconced behind a 
small hillock directly in their path, with my pony not far 
off over a little ridge. I watched them as they came, one 
by one, the buck in the lead; there were exactly, eleven, 
three being young fawns. They had ceased running, but 
continued in my direction slowly, but surely, feeding on 
the way. When about 200yds. off they changed their 
course a little, which if followed would bring them ex- 
actly to where I lay in the brush. Somehow I did not 
approve of this move, so I sneaked around to my pony 
and awaited them there, relying on the sagacity of the an- 
imal for proper shelter when they came within shooting 
range. This was a fortunate move on my part, for the 
wary things again altered their line of progress and 
started in a southerly direction, perhaps the way they 
were previously going when first disturbed by the horses. 
It did not matter much with my present position, as 
they would pass me about 60yds. off; but had I remained 
where I was at first the chances are I would have missed 
them entirely on account of the lay of the ground; yes, 
the ridge is somewhat higher than my former site, so 
you see it would have obscured them from my view. Ah, 
but don't they look neat and trim with their red necks in 
contrast to the snowy whiteness of their bodies under- 
neath and the fleet and. nimble extremities that look like 
stakes driven into the ground, as they stand still now and 
then to reconnoiter. Those big, glassy eyes, too, which 
inform you of their owner's inoffensive dispositition ; how 
cruel to destroy their being. 
All these, however, cannot stay the appetites of a 
hungry cow outfit unless put before them in juicy steaks, 
so as soon as those creatures come near enough I inean to 
make a couple at least "gone coons." 
Standing behind my pony I watched them closely over 
the saddle bow, while the Winchester I carried rested on 
one foot, muzzle sky ward and ready for action. On they 
came, unconscious of the fate that awaits them. How 
the tittle ones romp among the chicos on their way to 
destruction. Did I say it? Well, no; I will preserve their 
little lives and confine my shooting to those that have 
enjoyed life somewhat longer. 
My cayuse begins to exhibit some signs of uneasiness 
as she sees me fumbling with the gun; being a little 
kittish she is perhaps preparing herself for the shock 
1 
that mav follow the first shot I fire across her spinal 
column," for that I mean to do when the time comes. 
She is used to the business though, and will, I hope, 
not mind a little familiarity of that sort when a whole 
camp depends on our very actions. 
The game does not suspect anything wrong in our 
direction, not even casting an inquisitive glance at my 
four-footed friend, who stands in full view. To them 
she appears harmless, like all other range stock, but a 
foe is concealed behind her that will show little mercy 
very shortly. As thev come along their close proximity 
affects me a little too, as I get ready by shoving the 
gun barrel across the seat of my saddle; about the right 
distance intervenes between us now, so I draw back 
the hammer and await the first good broadside that the 
fellow in front, with the big horns, may favor me with. 
Some moments elap3e before the desired target appears, 
keeping tab on him though, I soon catch him napping as 
he drops his head to one side and brings his stern around. 
Just what I want, says I, as an eye runs along the sights. 
Pulling the trigger I am gratified to see, 'neath the rising 
smoke, the buck in the act of taking his final jump and 
landing all in a heap in the brush. His companions are 
suddenly taken by surprise and shudder as they listen to 
the faint echoes in the distance of the shot that slew their 
leader. Another, followed by a third shot, rings out on 
the balmy air when the demoralized creatures seek refuge 
in flight and scamper off helter-skelter for the thick river 
bottoms to the west. Their white sterns are soon lost to- 
view as I look after them, so I hop into the saddle once 
more and ride over to the carcasses, three in all, and locate 
them. This done, it takes but a movement of the arm to 
draw the keen-edged steel, and presently I begin to dress 
the buck, who, though pretty big, is rather lean. The 
males are very nigh all alike just now, so there isn't much 
difference; the does, on the other hand, were plump, and 
as luck would have it, neither of the kids belonged to 
them, a fact which pleased me more than anything else. 
The ball received by the buck entered back of the 
shoulder and pierced its heart, while one doe was struck 
amidships, breaking its back, and the other through the 
paunch. This last one ran a short distance after being 
hit, and came close to receiving another leaden missile 
had it held out a bit longer, for I had already brought up 
my gun, when down it went, like the others. After con- 
suming nearly an hour or so in gutting the animals and 
preparing them for the saddle, I proceeded to get the 
mare in trim for her heavy load. Cinching her well, I 
led her alongside one of the does. Short ropes were fast- 
ened to the legs of both of the female carcasses, extend- 
ing around the shoulders and hips, and having two loops, 
which were made respectively for the horn and cantle of 
the saddle. These were fixed so that the heavy portion of 
each doe rested snugly an either side of the pony's back, 
and when I lifted the first one in place was very well 
satisfied with the result, though I do not know how the 
mare felt when fully packed; somewhat heavy, I guess. 
Placing the other where it belonged, I now came to the 
buck, who was a little the heavier. Grunting considerably 
beneath his weight, I finally got the carcass lengthwise 
over the saddle and well up on the shoulders of the mus- 
tang. This accomplished, it took very little time to lash it 
securely above the others, and when finished, a better ap- 
pearance could not be wished for. Inspecting the load, I 
felt sure that the pony would experience no inconvenience 
on the way, so I picked up my Winchester and started 
for home, not, however, without a parting glance of ap- 
preciation in the direction of my equine friends, as I 
thought of the part they played in my little game of 
strategy with the wily pronghorn. Gros Ventre. 
A DAY ON THE MARSHES. 
"Be down at the mouth of the old harbor at 4 o'clock to- 
morrow morning, and I will meet you with a boat and 
take you across." 
Accordingly, the next morning at the appointed hour, 
together with my gun and decoys, I was taken aboard, and 
in the gray of the early dawn George and I pulled across 
the creek that wound up through the marshes, and land- 
ing on the other side we waded to ti e stand where we 
hoped to do mighty execution among the yellow-legs, 
grass-birds, and plover ere the sun was many hours high. 
Seating myself upon the bench in our comfortable blind, 
I proceeded to sort and arrange my shells, and to make 
myself as comfortable as possible, while George splashed 
around in the inch or two of water that covered the flats 
"to our right lay the village." 
and placed a dozen or so decoys in as life-like positions as 
their clumsiness would allow. 
Suddenly, from away over the other side of the creek 
came the clear far-reaching whistle of a yellOw-leg, and 
George comes tumbling into the blind as if shot. Now 
though George is not such an expert as a colored guide of 
ours, of whom I have written before, he is by no means 
behindhand in the art of calling marsh birds, and the way 
in which he answers that particular bird is most pleasing 
to hear, to say the least. 
And evidently the bird thinks so too, for each reply is 
a little nearer, and now he is just visible — a tiny speck in 
the distance; and now he heads directly for us; and now 
he sees the decoys; and with set wings and whistling clear 
and loud he prepares to drop among them. But it is 
ow my turn to take a hand in the proceedings, and at 
the short, sharp report of the powder the bird lands 
among the decoys in a way that he had not intended ; and 
I — well, have 1 not opened the season with a good, 
plump, winter yellow-leg? And so through that beauti- 
ful August morning we" sat and enjoyed nature to the 
utmost, gathering in an occasional bird, for it was too 
early in the season for the heavy flights, and occasionally 
—and a little shamefacedly, I must confess— listening to 
the derisive whistle of one who had learned to dodge 
shot. 
I have said that it was a beautiful morning; and indeed 
it was, for although at, intervals of an hour or so there 
would come a smart shower, it only contributed to the 
beauty of the effect, for at the same time the sun would 
be shining but a little way from us. 
To our left wound the creek with just beyond the sand 
banks fringed with long beach-grass, and affording 
through numerous bmiks and gaps glimpses of the deep 
blue bay, flecked here and there with the white sails of 
the mackerel fishers. To our right some three-quarters 
of a mile distant lay the village, with the church spires 
just visible through the waving elms, and the tall chim- 
neys and long brick buildings of the deserted plant of the 
once famous Boston and Sandwich Glass Co. skirting the 
marsh and standing in bold relief against the dark green 
of t he village trees. 
Before us and behind us stretched the marsh, and away 
in the distance brown pastures stretched up to the edge 
of forests of pine and oak. But the marshes them- 
selves! Could anything be more beautiful? You may 
smile if you please, but would that there could be put on 
canvas the glories of that August day. 
Ever and anon great fleecy clouds would float across 
the sky, making wierd fantastic shadows on the green 
below; and the shades of green that were there! Cer- 
tainly a score or more, according as the sunlight fell upon 
the waving grass of the salt meadows, all glistening from 
the passing shower. 
Dotted here and there were great stacks of salt hay, 
placed on stilts to protect them from the tides, and look- 
"DOTTED HKRE AND THERE "WERE GREAT STACKS." 
ing picturesque in the extreme, as, like mounds of a race 
of gigantic ants, they loomed up close at hand, or ap- 
peared as mere specks in the distance on the level expanse. 
High overhead a gull sails by, and George wagers the 
cigars that I can't touch it. He is right, for in spite of 
the rapid bang, bang, from my la-bore, the gull sails 
serenely on until a charge of No. 6 from George's trusty 
Parker brings him to the ground with a broken wing. 
Ah, well, I am just from the city, and— but why make 
excuses? I confess that I never could point a gun as 
George can, and I don't expect to. 
So, though I miss a few, I do not complain, for I also 
bag a few, and then it is enough for me that I am far 
from the hot, stifling city, and with such clear, delicious 
air to breathe as the sojourner in the city knows not of, 
and with my old togs on, I am once again on the marshes 
I love so well : 
A level stretch of waving grass 
In changing shades of green, 
With shadows from the clouds above; 
And there, but dimly seen, 
The long, uncertain line that marks 
The winding of the creek, 
Where plover pipe, and grass-birds 
Feed, or play at hide and seek. 
And so, as all things, both good and bad, must have an 
ending, one of the pleasantest (if not the most successful) 
mornings that I ever enjoyed passed all too swiftly, and I 
hied me home to a dinner of broiled plover, and to cherish 
for years the memory of a day on the marshes, with 
which I fear I h?ve somewhat wearied you. Waldo. 
Small-Bore Ballets. 
Portland, Ind.— Editor Forest and Stream: I trust 
some one will answer "Aztec's" question in last week's 
number regarding small-bore bullets. The five deer shown 
in the photo I send you were killed with a .32-40 Winches- 
ter. None of these deer "dropped as if struck by light- 
ning," but had the spine of either been broken the drop 
would have been like something very sudden. 
Last October I shot a twelve-point buck through the 
upper part of the heart with a .38 and he ran eight jumps, 
covering 35yds. over logs two and three deep. The upper 
part of his heart was riddled. 
Of the deer shown in the photo, the first .32 ball went 
into the left shoulder and out through the right. He was 
a yearling buck. He whirled half round and received 
my second ball in the right and out at the left; he dropped. 
The distance was full 150yds. My next deer, a doe, ran 
across in front of me about 75yds. distant. My first shot 
went through her body about midway ; she ran about 50ft. 
and turned a somersault over a log. 
You can see where the buck was hit at the point of the 
shoulder; the ball ranged back and he fell headlong in- 
Bide 40yds. He was about 100yds. from me when shot 
and in heavy forest. The does on either side of the buck 
in the picture ran in a semi-circle around me, one after 
the other, and in the same order they each got a .32 ball 
through back of the shoulders as they passed through a 
small opening; then a broken leg each, and finally were 
laid low near each other by a ball through the shoulders. 
I have often seen the question asked: "What sized gun 
is preferable for deer hunting?" My answer would be a 
.38 or .45 of the calibers now in use. But whether a .30- 
cal. will kill depends upon where the deer is hit; and the 
same rule will apply in a measure with any sized gun. C. 
Why Is there Not More Forest Hunting? 
Portland, lnd —Editor Forest and Stream: I was in 
a measure ignorant about the lynx, and yet I am of 
the opinion that while it may be easily dispatched with a 
blow, yet if wounded (not mortally) and not hampered by 
