January, 1919 
FOREST AND S T R E A ~Sl 
7 
cut up and salted, and the next morning 
filled the Winchesters with cartridges, 
our pack sacks with grub and were off. 
It took about an hour to get to the prai- 
rie where Temp had seen the sign and 
upon going out to the wallow we found 
he Had been back. Trailer and Ranger 
took up the scent and were off pell mell 
after him, and the chase was on; out 
across the prairie and up the hill on the 
other side and over the hill and out of 
hearing. We hiked out for high ground, 
and when we got up on top we could hear 
them away down below us, and we could 
tell by the sound of their voices that they 
had overtaken him, and the fight was 
raging fast and furious. I told Temp to 
go straight down the ridge until he got 
entirely below them and wait. Temp 
lit out on a run, and after waiting a 
while I struck out and in probably twen- 
ty minutes I was close enough to shoot, 
but could not see them on account of 
brush. I kept moving up closer and 
closer when all at once I heard old Club 
Foot go crashing through the brush down 
the hill toward the creek. I ran now as 
fast as I could in hopes of getting to see 
them as they went up the hill on the op- 
posite side, and sure enough up he came 
after stopping at the water a few min- 
utes, with both dogs going after him sav- 
agely. First one w'ould catch him by the 
ham, but as he swung round to deliver a 
blow the dog would let go and get out 
of the way, and the other dog would do 
the same. Now was the time for me to 
get in my work, and the Winchester be- 
gan to crack. Once, twice, three times, 
down he went, and the dogs piled in on 
him. But he was up in no time and scat- 
tered them right and left. Just then I 
heard Temp’s gun begin to crack and 
down the hill came bear, dogs and all, 
straight toward me. I began to pour the 
lead into him, as it was evident now that 
he was going to try to get to me. I 
called to Temp to give it to him, and as 
he was above him he could do good exe- 
cution. But down in the creek he came, 
and as he climbed the bank I commenced 
to put bullets into his breast, and he 
rolled back and began to chew the bushes, 
and soon rolled over dead. 
T emp was literally wild with delight 
and hugged first one dog and then 
the other, declaring over and over 
that they were the best on earth. All 
we could do now was to take the hide and 
head of the bear, which we proceeded to 
do, leaving the feet on the hide to show 
that it was really the Club Foot Bear. 
This wound up our hunt, and I will say 
to the reader if you wish to see some of 
the teeth out of the mouth of old Club 
Foot, and also the horns of the elk, come 
to my house near Kerby in Southern Ore- 
gon, and I will show them to you. 
HUNTING THE WILD PIG IN ARIZONA 
SO GREAT IS THE SPORT OF ITS PURSUIT THAT THE AMERICAN PECCARY 
OR WILD PIG SHOULD HAVE LEGAL PROTECTION AS A GAME ANIMAL 
By J. G. BROWN 
H OW good it feels after a week at 
the desk to don khaki, shoulder 
the old rifle, shake off all cares 
and worries, and trudge over mesa and 
foothill where both animal and plant 
life are alike untamed! What a bless- 
ing to have game to hunt! And how 
little is the blessing appreciated ! These 
thoughts and many more surged through 
the mind of the writer as he traveled 
swiftly over a mountain road early one 
morning recently on the way to a pig 
hunt. The January air was crisp and 
exhilarating, the road smooth, the ma- 
chine running like a clock, and every- 
thing conducive to high spirits. In front 
the mountains loomed indistinctly through 
the purple morning haze; in the rear 
the sun, although not yet risen, tinged 
the very crests of the ranges with a 
golden halo. Out of the town a short 
distance a Mexican wood hauler was 
just breaking camp by the roadside. The 
coals were still glowing where he had 
boiled his coffee before harnessing his 
patient little team of burros. Farther 
on, the machine passed two blanketed 
Indians jogging along in a dilapidated 
buggy drawn by a more dilapidated 
horse, the brave sitting “humped up” on 
the seat and his squaw crouching di- 
rectly behind him in the bed of the rig. 
Rabbits, both jack and cottontail, hop- 
ped across the road from the foothills 
on the left toward the valley on the 
fight, on their way for a morning sip at 
the creek and a sly feed in some far- 
mer’s barley field. Still farther on a 
bevy of quail ran swiftly in the same 
direction. 
Before we realized it we passed Nine- 
Mile Water Hole and entered the pass 
in the Tucson Mountains. A sharp turn 
to the north, a half mile over the dry 
bed of the Santa Cruz, a short ride 
through barley fields just turning green, 
and we were on the mesa road leading 
to our destination. Burro Canyon in the 
Tortillita Mountains. 
The road over which we traveled was 
crossed by numerous sandy washes where 
the machine cut down and then stopped, 
necessitating a little shoulder work on 
the part of the hunters, until the driver 
bethought himself of the skid chains, 
when things went along smoother. How 
an eastern hunter would have enjoyed 
that road through giant cactus and mes- 
quite and palo verde parks, with rabbits 
and quail scurrying to cover, and oc- 
casional long-tailed road runners speed- 
ing across the way! Vander got in 
some revolver practise, but did little 
more than scare the jackrabbits into 
rigid immobility, or into wild, cavorting 
leaps. Five miles of this country 
brought the party into the foot hills. 
Here the chollas cactus plants with sil- 
very, glistening, densely-clustered spines 
formed small, dwarf-forestlike patches 
in the more level spots; mesquite and 
palo verde became more frequent and 
larger in the arroyos, and the giant cac- 
tus extended out over the foot hills. 
O NCE during the conversation one 
of the men noticed a movement 
behind a clump of brush that was 
so unlike that of rabbits or young cattle 
or any of the other foothill life, that he 
remarked its occurrence; but he had just 
caught the movement out of the tail of 
his eye, nothing more was seen, and it 
was soon forgotten. Shortly afterward 
the road dropped down into a broad wash 
and the party realized that the Canyon 
was not far away. The wash was like 
the dry bed of a river with banks five 
or six feet high. Here and there were 
large, green-trunked palo verde trees 
growing in the moist soil of the wash, 
whose banks were lined with a dense 
patchy growth of cat’s claw, mesquite, 
and prickly pear. Suddenly at a dis- 
tance of fifteen or twenty rods ahead 
a grayish-black object crossed the wash 
at a lumbering gallop, followed by an- 
other, and still another. Commotion 
reigned in the car. Wade, who was sit- 
ting with Rob in the front seat, was 
steadying a large canteen of water be- 
tween his feet, and now his feet were 
entangled in the carrying strap delaying 
both men in their endeavors to get out. 
Vander, dressed in. a long overcoat, was 
riding with his feet underneath a good- 
sized box of “grub,” while the writer, 
likewise apparelled, was held down by a 
suitcase containing a field camera and 
some canned goods. In the general 
scramble Wade reached terra firma first 
and got one shot as the last pig, number 
seven, crossed the wash and disappeared 
with the rest of the herd in the brush. 
The machine was now abandoned and the 
hunt began, but the herd had disap- 
peared as completely as if the earth had 
swallowed it up. The tracks could be 
followed for a short distance, but they 
finally became indistinguishable in a maze 
of burro and cattle tracks. So the party 
returned to the machine to recover 
breath, eat lunch, and make plans for 
the remainder of the day. 
A fter lunch, which by the way, 
was rather abbreviated, Vander 
and Wade took the east side of 
the wash and proceeded away from the 
mountains in the direction from which 
we had approached, for we believed that 
the movement seen in the bushes before 
the wash was reached on the way out 
had been made by pigs that belonged 
to the same herd. Rob and the writer 
