534 
FOREST AND STREAM 
October, 1920 
our hunting range is from twenty to one 
hundred yards. It takes a great deal of 
practice to attain any proficiency in 
shooting the bow, but it is worth while. 
You must earn your right to hunt. 
Having obtained the services of Ned 
Frost, of Cody, Wyoming, as our guide, 
a man who knows the grizzly thoroughly 
and has killed over three hundred him- 
self, we landed in Yellowstone late in 
May while the snow was still deep on 
the ground. The Canadian jay and the 
woodchuck seemed to be the only animal 
life left in the Park, the winter having- 
been the worst in thirty years. Con- 
trary to all past experiences, there were 
no bear around the camps. Our hunt 
started near the Canyon; the Sour Creek 
region, Sulphur Mountain, Alum Creek, 
all good bear grounds in the past, were 
explored. There were but few tracks 
in evidencg, mostly those of black bear. 
At the end of three or four 
days, we located with a glass 
five grizzlies at the head of 
Alum Creek, a sow, three 
large two-year-olds and an old 
male. But they were too far 
off and it was too late in the 
day to attempt getting them. 
Arthur Young and I were 
armed only with our trusty 
bows, a dozen arrows apiece, 
and hunting knives. In camp, 
of course, we had a second 
bow and a box of twelve dozen 
broad heads, the finest collec- 
tion of archery tackle since 
the battle of Crecy. Ned 
Frost carried his modern de- 
stroyer, a 35 automatic ride. 
This was to be used only in 
case of emergencies. We knew 
that the bow could not stop 
the mad rush of a bear. This 
embarrassing position of be- 
ing charged by a grizzly had 
entered fully into our consid- 
erations. We knew we could 
kill him because he is only 
flesh and blood anyway, and 
the arrow can slay any beast 
that lives. But what he does' 
between the time he is hit an ! 
the time he dies of hemorrhage 
opens up a wide field for con- 
jecture and deliberation. 
Perhaps you doubt whether an arrow 
can pierce the thick hide of a bear, and 
it does seem strange that a missile whose 
velocity is only one hundred and fifty 
feet a second, and whose weight is only 
an ounce and a quarter, can possibly do 
what a bullet often fails in doing. We 
have found that with a blunt arrow we 
can shoot through an inch pine board, 
and with steel arrow heads three inches 
long by one and a quarter wide, sharp- 
ened like daggers, we can shoot feathers 
and all clean through any animal in 
America. 
Broadly speaking, a bullet kills by 
shock, an arrow by hemorrhage. The 
bullet shatters bone, tears out large 
areas of tissue, destroys the brain and 
nerve centers and breaks down the ani- 
mal’s power of motion. Hemorrhage is 
a secondary phenomenon and a bullet 
often passes over large blood vessels 
without enough injury to cause bleeding. 
An arrow cannot crash into the heavy 
brain pan of a large animal. It cannot 
fracture large bones, although it has no 
difficulty in severing ribs. Any place it 
enters it cuts like a knife. It opens up 
every artery and vein that lies in its 
way; the hemorrhage is tremendous. A 
bullet mangles the tissue, leaving a bad- 
ly damaged but clotted area. The arrow 
wound is clean and its incision liberates 
few tissue juices to cause a clot; tech- 
nically speaking, it liberates little 
thrombo kynase, or clotting ferment. 
The ability of the modern hunter to 
break down his quarry has led him to 
abandon other methods of defence, when 
attacked. The aborigine used stealth, 
the ambush, the protected position, the 
spear, and fire, to frustrate the beasts’ 
counter attack. We considered all this, 
but decided that for the sake of safety 
we would sacrifice our sporting honor 
and resort to the gun when the tables 
were turned. 
Frost was told, however, that such an 
exigency must be considered a failure in 
our eyes. We hoped to get one or two 
bears clean and compromise on the rest. 
T HE next time we saw our grizzlies 
on Alum Creek we made out at a 
distance of three miles a large fe- 
male with three half grown cubs, large 
two-year-olds. They were digging roots on 
a half uncovered side hill. The morning 
was early, the wind was right, and we 
decided to attack immediately. Frost 
led off at a fast pace; we stuck close to 
his heels, bow and quiver at our sides. 
Down the river banks, through the 
swales, up the ravines, deep into the 
timber, a long way round we circled. 
At last we emerged on a sheltered point 
a quarter of a mile down wind from our 
bear. There they were, feeding slowly 
up the valley, working toward the snow 
line for a forenoon rest. 
We rested. Young and I put the fin- 
ishing touches on the edge of our arrow 
heads with a file. I took off my socks 
and dried them in the sun. The bear 
went leisurely up on a snow bank and 
lay down near the crest of the hill. We 
could approach them with the wind in 
our favor, and shoot over the ridge not 
more than fifty yards away from them. 
Ned gave the order to advance — Indian 
file — and we crept upon our first grizzly. 
W ELL, what does one think of when 
he goes out to shoot his first big 
bear? For months he plans and 
dreams and fits himself for the test, and 
now it is at hand. Can you hit him? 
What will he do? He may charge, then 
what next? Do you feel excited, or have 
you that intellectual detachment so es- 
sential for success? As for 
me, I felt happy and confident. 
Perhaps Young was think- 
ing of camp hot cakes. I do 
not know. Soon we reached 
the top of the hill. Right over 
the top were four fine bears. 
Ned took out his green silk 
pocket handkerchief and float- 
ed it, to test the direction of 
the wind. Yes, everything 
was 0. K. We drew three 
good arrows apiece from our 
quivers, and nocked one on the 
string. All ready, crouch low 
and advance without a sound. 
Now we stop, stick the two 
extra arrows in the ground, 
take off our hats and rise up. 
There they are, four inter- 
mingled hearth rugs on the 
snow, not twenty-five yards 
distant from us. 
I pick out the far one be- 
cause he looks good to me, 
and glancing out of the corner 
of my eye signal to Young to 
shoot. We draw our powerful 
bows to the full arc and let 
two deadly arrows fly. My 
bear rears up, an arrow plant- 
ed deep in his shoulder. There 
is a roar like dinner-time in a 
menagerie. Quickly I nock 
another arrow. The beasts are 
milling- around together, biting, pawing, 
mad with pain and surprise. 
I single out my boy pinioned with an 
arrow. e has thrown himself on his 
mother in his rage. I shoot and miss 
him clean, — too much action. I nock 
again. One large bear stands out in 
the circling, roaring bunch. She is bit- 
ing, cuffing, rearing on her hind legs, 
the blood runs from her mouth and nos- 
trils in frothy streams. Young’s arrow 
is deep in her chest. I drive a shaft into 
her, below her foreleg. 
The confusion and bellowing increase, 
and as I draw a fourth arrow from mv 
quiver, I glance up in time to see the 
old female’s hair rise on her back; she 
steadies herself in her wild hurtling and 
glares straight at us for the first time. 
“Now,” I say to myself, “she will charge.” 
And she does. Quick as thought she 
bounds towards us. Then a gun goes 
off at my elbow. The bear is literally 
The monarch of the mountains slain with one arrow 
