36 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[July 30, 1904. 
roRTSMAN TOURIST 
A Summer in Newfoundland. — VI. 
(Continued from page 67 ) 
Fat venison we wanted, wanted it badly. Good, juicy 
ribs, and steaks, and marrow bones are wonderfully ap- 
petizing after a diet of salmon, and the possibility that 
the game might carry but mediocre antlers, never oc- 
curred to me — nor did I care whether it did or not. 
The breeze was light but favorable, and just by the 
bank of the inlet was a choice' spot for watching. 
Nothing, however, appeared for two hours but clouds 
of black flies, and never have I felt them more wicked 
and all-pervading than during the first hour of that 
evening at Andrew's Pond. We had retired a few 
yards back from the water, to boil a kettle of tea and 
rest for the night, when a splash away up shore caused 
William hastily to smother a newly lighted fire, while 
I ran down to the pond. He was coming quickly, an 
old white-necked stag, well antlered, splashing along 
at a rapid trot. He had reached the opposite side of 
the outlet almost before I had time to press a couple 
of caps down over the nipples;, but the distance was 
too great for the rickety old gun, and we wanted those 
fat 'quarters badly. 
Boldly wading in, the water soon reached his withers, 
and a moment later the stag stood knee deep on my 
side of the stream. He stood motionless, gazing in- 
tently into the bushes, for already the scent of smoke 
had reached his nostfils. Two discharges in quick 
succession; the cheap black powder roared like a can- 
non and dense clouds of smoke almost concealed the 
caribou, as the latter reeled backward into deeper 
water. "You hit un," yelled William, and together we 
rushed out on the sand spit, only to see our stag 
floundering about in four feet of icy water. He seemed 
paralyzed and struggled helplessly and aimlessly around 
in circles. The wound was evidently mortal, and he 
would probably die in a few minutes; but load again 
we must and put him out of misery as speedily as 
possibly. Accordingly, I handed William the gun and 
ramrod for the purpose of recharging, as he was more 
familiar with muzzleloaders and knew just how much 
powder the well-worn barrels would stand. In doing 
so, however, the screw was unfortunately broken from 
the end of the ramrod with two or three inches of 
wood; but at the time this seemed merely a trivial 
mishap, as the animal appeared to be weakening fast 
and about to give up. William rammed vigorously for 
seconds before returning the piece, and then, placing 
a cap on the left nipple, .whispered, ."Shoot dat un 
first." So I walked out knee-deep into the stream 
and, taking aim at the stag not ten yards away, pulled 
the trigger — and only the cap snapped. Another and 
another were tried with the same result. Even a few 
grains of powder placed in the touch-hole as primer 
brought no response. 
Something was wrong, and the load must be drawn. 
So hastily taking off my coat, I drew out the safety 
pin • which fastened my money in its inside pocket, 
bent it, tore a strip from my flannel shirt, and spent 
fully ten minutes in lashing it securely to the end of 
the rod, and drawing both loads. But imagine my 
utter astonishment and chagrin when twenty-four 
harmless buckshot — two full loads — rolled from the left 
barrel, while a good handful of coarse-grained powder 
fell from the right. Fully twelve minutes had elapsed 
since firing the first shot, and all this time my stag 
had been floundering helplessly in the water, the blood 
visibly trickling from six or seven small bullet holes 
a little high in the shoulder. But he was slowly re- 
viving with a truly wonderful recuperative power, and 
now stood in the shallows on the opposite side, still 
in easy range but only ten feet from the thickest alder 
tangle that ever bordered a stream. One barrel was 
hastily reloaded, and just as he entered the bushes I 
took a good true sight on his side, pulled the trigger, 
and the gun "blew" or hung fire, the charge passing 
completely astern. 
It was too late. Darkness had fallen and a thick 
night fog hung heavy over the bushes. I did not re- 
proach the guide for his unexcusable carelessness in 
loading the gun, for he was already on the verge of 
breaking down. Rain fell heavily all night long and, 
soaked to the skin, we sat and shivered in silence. 
Well, we never saw that stag again; but the pity 
of it all was, that the great beast lay dead somewhere 
back among the spruces, and now his bones are bleach- 
ing white and his flesh has become the prey of bears 
and foxes. That was a sad experience; probably no 
hunter ever recorded one more harrowing or more 
truly exasperating in all its details, and I relate it 
with great reluctance, as it is not a tale which a sports- 
man would care to exploit before the public. But the 
blunder serves a purpose and teaches a lesson. 
No animal is dead, merely because it has fallen to the 
crack, of the rifle, and experience has often proved that 
the wise hunter is the man who hurries forward for a 
finishing shot. Of course, when tracking in the snow 
this rule is not so imperative, for then even a slightly 
wounded animal may be followed with ease; but when 
the woods are wet and leaves are on the trees a blood 
trail is very difficult to follow. Especially is this true 
should the game be wounded by a mushroom bullet 
from a small caliber rifle, which, although powerful 
enough, frequently lacks in. its projectile sufficient 
weight, and consequently loses greatly in momentum 
and striking energy. 
A .30-30 is a very deadly weapon if well handled; but 
within my experience, at least, its bullets have rarely 
penetrated competely through the body of an animal 
as large as a caribou. The single hole of entry is 
small, very small, often clotting with blood within an 
hour, and then the trail ceases. For this reason, many 
of the old New Brunswick woodsmen, among them 
such, notable characters as Henry Braithwaite and 
William Carson, of Boiestown, are reluctant to enter 
the woods with, a man who carries a .30-30. Carson 
told me last September that during the season of 
1901, five bull moose, all wounded with the above named 
rifle, escaped to die in the woods, and his party came 
out without a head. 
Some years ago a friend of mine took a long shot 
at a buck, standing on the shore of Beaver Pond in 
the Adirondacks. The latter was fully 200 yards away 
and collapsed in a heap at the report of the .38 
Winchester. "You broke his back, all right," remarked 
the guide; but, fortunately, we put all steam on the 
paddles and, before reaching the spot, our buck was 
again on his feet waiting for a second shot. Later, 
when skinning the animal, but one bullet hole could be 
found, and it was some time, and only after a very 
careful examination, that the mystery of the first shot 
was finally explained. The lead never even cut the 
skin, but had merely stunned the deer by striking the 
base of one antler an inch or two above the skull ; and it 
is safe to say that, had we not plied the paddles vigor- 
ously, my friend would have lost the fine head which now 
adorns his study wall. A Brooklyn physician whom I 
met in Newfoundland related a less successful experience 
with a bull moose back upon the headwaters of the Little 
Sou'west Miramichi in New Brunswick. He had 
wounded the bull severely with two bullets from a high 
power rifle, and as the great brute stood broadside at 
one hundred yards, brought him down with a third well- 
directed shot. The doctor left his moose crashing around 
among the bushes, apparently in the last throes of death, 
and returned to camp for ax and skinning knife. . Half 
an hour later the bull had .departed for parts unknown, 
and was never seen again. 
No, no animal is dead until it has ceased to breathe, 
and it is as imprudent as it is illogical to proceed on any 
other assumption. 
The effect of bullet wounds on big game of such great 
vitality and , strength as bear or moose is also" a subject 
of much general misapprehension among laymen. A 
vital spot must be reached, and when it is, death or help- 
lessness is sure to result. No one at any distance — ex- 
cept, perhaps, an expert — would be foolish enough to 
aim at the head or spine of an animal, although a bullet 
in either of these places would result in immediate and 
total collapse. Never but once have I seen a caribou 
drop without stepping out of his foot-prints, and that was 
two years ago, when a young friend who accompanied me 
to Newfoundland aimed at the shoulder and struck the 
brain of a stag at seventy yards with a .30-40 Winchester. 
The tyro usually aims at the very center of the animal, 
or else at the horns, and plants his bullet, if at all, 
through the latter's stomach or intestines, which is about 
as good as a miss. Directly back of the shoulder and 
low down, or head on in the chest, or quartering through 
the body so that the lungs are reached, are all vital spots, 
and a sure, speedy death. Great care should be exercised 
when shooting for the shoulder not to aim too high, as 
such a wound merely results in a temporary paralysis, 
similar to that which affected the stag at Andrew's Pond. 
To completely disable an animal is just as certain as a 
mortal wound, but less humane; and both shoulders or 
hips broken, although rarely occurring, are sure shots. 
Occasionally, in the case of moose and deer, but quite fre- 
quently with the clumsy, thick-set caribou, a leg broken 
well up becomes a disabling shot, especially if the animal 
be an old and heavy stag. Last year I shattered the 
thigh of a large stag with a .303 Savage expanding bullet, 
and the animal never moved ten yards after the bone was 
broken ; had it been a white-tailed deer he might have 
escaped. At the time I was surprised at the caribou's 
apparent inability to leave the spot, and remarked the 
same to my guide, Robert Stroud, a man who has shot 
"deer" ever since he could carry a gun, and he replied 
that it was not infrequent in the case of a leg broken 
well up. During the great midwinter hunt of the New- 
foundlanders, when thousands of the animals are killed 
for their meat, Stroud always does his share of the work 
on the open plains back of Alexander Bay, and he has 
had ample opportunity to follow up hundreds of wounded 
animals. Sad it is, that the fishermen are so poorly 
equipped with modern firearms; their heavy muzzleload- 
ers are charged with nails, slugs, and buckshot, indis- 
criminately, and when a volley is fired into a herd of 
fleeing caribou, only a comparative few of the wounded 
animals fall at the first discharge. 
To brand all hunting whatever as cruel and- degenerate, 
is of course, as Theodore Roosevelt aptly remarks, 
"merely a bit of unhealthy sentimentalism ;" but as long 
as game is to be killed, it is the hunter's . duty to aim 
straight, and be sure of a vital spot ; and after all has 
been said, the surest place, if fairly exposed, is low down 
back of the foreshoulder. We sportsmen want dead ani- 
mals quickly killed and not maimed or wounded ones 
dying by themselves days or weeks after being hurt,, for 
the game resources of this land, or any land, are not suffi- 
cient to warrant inaccurate, careless shooting, and poor 
crippled creatures struggling off into the woods to die. 
A slight wound is worse than a clear miss; and no man 
has any business in the woods with a rifle in his hands 
who cannot place his shots within a ten-inch circle at, 
at least, a hundred yards. 
Perhaps less depends on the particular make or style 
of a rifle than upon the man behind it; but, nevertheless, 
any gun ever made is none too good, none too accurate 
or powerful, and a choice should be given careful con- 
sideration. During the last half century wonderful 
progress has been made in the development of the mili- 
tary and sporting rifle. In no field of modern industry 
have the brains of industry and the trained skill of the 
artisan been applied more effectively than to implements 
of war. The quaint picturesqueness of such characters as 
Daniel Boone and Davy Crockett would be strangely 
marred if they were pictured armed with a rifle of to- 
day ; and . old Leatherstocking's simple mind would be 
sadly perturbed at the passing of the buckskin pouch, the 
powder-horn, and "la longue carbine" of the early 
courriers du bois— those quaint, stalwart figures of our 
early history. Yes, the long-barreled, muzzleloading 
smooth-bore has truly become a relic of the past; but 
from it have been evolved weapons of wonderful ac- 
curacy at long range, and terrific shocking power. Each 
new year produces its latest patents and improvements, 
and almost within the year a weapon has been placed 
upon the market that will shoot in quick succession five 
300-grain soft-nosed bullets at an individual muzzle 
velocity of over 2,000 foot seconds, with a striking energy 
of about 3,500 foot pounds. 
For nearly ten years articles have appeared in our 
sporting magazines which, if collected, would fill dozens 
of volumes, all bearing upon the relative merits of large 
vs. small caliber high power rifles for hunting purposes ; 
but still the discussion continues, in some localities as 
vehemently as ever, and still it will continue just so long 
as success is achieved by the advocates of either weapon. 
We constantly hear the opinion of the man who has shot 
a few deer or a couple of moose with a .30-30 or .303, 
but he is in no better position to decide the controversy 
than many men who have done the same with a .45. A 
. .22- caliber has been known to kill a deer, and will do it 
again, while a .50 smooth-bore is as deadly on rabbits as 
it is on bear. Only men of long and wide experience in 
the woods, or better still, a well compiled comparative 
table of authentic data citing thousands of instances, are 
competent to decide the most effective caliber and load 
under all conditions. No one would think of shooting 
prongbuck at great distances on the plains with the heavy, 
slow-flying ball of an elephant gun; nor would a sports- 
man of any experience expect to use a double-barreled 
express rifle on the white goats or bighorn of the Rocky 
Mountains. On the other hand, our small bore, flat tra- 
jectory rifles of to-day would prove, and have proved, 
inadequate and unserviceable for the big game of India 
or Africa. They are not adapted to close range shooting 
in the jungles, where great momentum and terrific shock- 
ing power are essential, and they never were intended for 
such work. But after all has been said, there can truly 
be no "very best rifle'"— one which is superior to any 
other on all animals under all conditions ; and the man 
who boldly proclaims his .30-30 or another who heralds 
his .45-90 as "the best- gun on the market," must be men 
either of very narrow practical experience, or very shal- 
low mental depth. 
I was glad to leave Andrew's Pond, and so was Wil- 
liam glad of a chance to forget any lurking memories of 
that sandy beach by the inlet, and the long rainy night 
which followed our experience with the stag. So early 
next morning we pushed on toward an unnamed lake, 
some ten miles to the eastward, which, by courtesy, I 
will call Sand Pond. 
It has been said of General Sheridan that once, when 
passing through the dry, arid regions of Texas, he made 
this remark : "If I owned hell and Texas, I would sell 
Texas and live in hell." Evidently the general had never 
traveled the Newfoundland interior during fly-time, for 
if he had held a fee simple of the barren ground between 
Andrew's and Sand Ponds, he might have thrown it in 
along with Texas, and paid a few dollars to boot. 
Stretching out before us lay over a hundred square miles 
of the most desolate, wobegone country that God ever 
created; endless marshes soaked with water, and naked 
hills seamed and scarred by winter's ice. Little clumps 
of stunted, half-starved spruces gleaned a meagre sus- 
tenance from the scanty soil. The climate seemed as mild 
as that of Maine, but vegetation and flora were of the 
sub-arctic zone. The sun blazing down burned as readily 
as on Cape Cod, but a few patches of crusted snow still 
filled the deeper fissures of the highlands. A terrible- 
winter would soon hold those vast wastes in its icy grasp. 
■ "Tucks" were everywhere, and anyone who has never 
traveled through them has yet in store an experience 
equally demoralizing upon clothes and temper. lust im- 
agine yourself- tramping over a ridge covered with short, 
crisp moss, It is like a velvet carpet, and a good three- 
