416 
FOREST AND STREAM 
August, 1919 
ture and promised to be at my house 
by six o’clock. I then immediately set 
about to perform the usual evening 
chores, in order that no time might be 
lost in starting after he arrived. 
By the time I had finished supper 
Frank, true to his promise, was at the 
gate with his famous coon dog, Jack. 
Jack was a large black and tan hound, 
six years old and an open trailer. 
After procuring a lantern, an axe, and 
my .22 Winchester rifle, I untied Hunter, 
a black and white hound almost identical 
in size with Jack, but a still trailer, 
however, and we started for the hunt- 
ing ground. 
About two miles west of the house 
is a large forest of oak and other hard 
wood through which a small river winds 
its way. We decided to make our way 
to this stream and proceed slowly along 
its course; letting our dogs hunt along 
the banks and through the surrounding 
forest. 
The night was dark and still, and the 
air crisp and cool. The odor of the 
withered autumn leaves from the for- 
est assailed our nostrils and, together 
with the autumn air, instilled* into our 
blood the spirit of the hunting season 
once more. 
On reaching the edge of the timber we 
untied the dogs and walked toward the 
river which was about a quarter of a 
mile away. The dogs, eager for the 
hunt, quickly dashed into the darkness 
ahead and were lost from view. Slowly 
we proceeded through the thick under- 
brush and over fallen trees, stopping 
often to listen for the dogs. In due time 
we arrived on the bank of the stream, 
and not having heard anything from 
either of the dogs, seated ourselves on 
a fallen tree trunk and waited. We had 
been sitting there only about twenty 
minutes when the deep bass notes of 
Jack’s voice pealed forth on the still air. 
“Coon,” exclaimed Frank, jumping to his 
feet. 
The dog was about a quarter of a mile 
north of us and only two or three hun- 
dred yards from the river. Going to- 
ward the stream, he crossed and turned 
south on the opposite side. As I said 
before. Hunter was a still trailer and 
we had no means of knowing whether he 
was in the chase.- Going at a lively rate. 
Jack passed opposite to us only a few 
yards from the water’s edge. After run- 
ning a little way further he recrossed 
the river and “barked treed.” His voice 
was immediately joined by Hunter’s 
showing that he was also in the race. 
Hurrying to the spot we found the 
dogs gazing into the branches of a large 
oak which stood on the very bank of 
the stream. After searching the tree 
top for several minutes, I located the 
coon’s eyes and immediately got busy 
with my little Winchester. At the third 
shot I succeeded in dislodging him and 
he crashed downward through the 
branches hitting the ground with a dull 
thud. As quick as a flash, both dogs 
were on top of him, prepared for a 
gallant fight; but a fight was out of the 
question, Mr. Coon was dead, the leaden 
pellet having penetrated his brain. He 
was a large male and exceedingly fat. 
Throwing my catch over my shoulder 
we started up-stream keeping near the 
water in order to give our dogs a chance 
to intercept any wily old coon who might 
come down to the river to fish. After 
we had gone half a mile without hear- 
ing anything to indicate that the dogs 
had struck a trail, we sat down to rest 
and await developments. 
Half an hour passed by and still not 
a sound from the dogs. Knowing that 
they must be near, we again started 
slowly ahead. We had not gone over 
fifty yards when again Jack’s voice 
sounded forth on the still air. This 
time he was going away from the river 
at a lively rate; evidently in close pur- 
suit of old ringtail. In about five min- 
utes time, both dogs “barked treed” 
over near the edge of the timber. Frank 
and I made a dash in the direction of 
the barking and after falling over a few 
logs and rocks and sustaining numerous 
bumps and bruises we finally arrived. 
k'- 
The two coyotes killed at one shot 
They were barking up a large oak with 
numerous branches which still held a 
good portion of the summer covering of 
leaves. For the next few minutes Frank 
and I were straining our eyes in an effort 
to locate the game ; but the wily old 
rascal was well concealed, and after a 
half hour of diligent searching, we de- 
cided to give him up as safe, so far as 
we were concerned. Frank suggested 
cutting the tree, but at my protest agreed 
with me that it would be a pity to de- 
stroy this giant of the forest; so we 
called our dogs away, leaving old ringtail 
safe among the branches. 
It was now twelve o’clock so we thought 
it best to be moving in the direction of 
home. As we were emerging from the 
timber Hunter suddenly “barked treed,” 
only a little way to our left. Hurrying 
over to him, we found a large opossum 
sticking against the side of a small 
sapling only a few feet from the ground. 
Frank shook him down and the dogs 
made short work of him. Once more 
we turned our weary footsteps in the 
direction of home, where we arrived at 
one A. M., tired, bruised, and hungry, 
but with cheerful minds and light hearts. 
John L. Jones, W. Va. 
TWO COYOTES AT ONE SHOT 
To the Editor of Forest and Stream; 
T WAS staying at my camp in the foot- 
hills of the Sierras, about seventy 
miles from Yosemite, for the holidays. 
It is a bare, rolling country, devoid alike 
of much vegetation or human interest, 
and is no sportsman’s paradise. Only 
the most optimistic hunter explores it 
with any great hope of success. Still, 
one must kill time somehow, so three 
of us started out with the idea of get- 
ting the filling for a quail pot pie. 
We had gone about ten miles up in 
the hills, and separated, my companions 
following an elusive “che-chako! che- 
chako!” that betokened a flock of quail 
while I kept along the creek, with my 
20-gauge, double-barreled shot gun ready, 
and my mind full of the everlasting sport- 
ing hopes. 
I had just come abreast of an open 
space and had stopped to rest when a 
queer rushing noise broke the heavy 
quiet of the gully. I had hardly time 
to turn when out from the brush burst 
two coyotes, coming straight for me, 
neck and neck, and going “lickety-lar- 
rup,” too fast to get my scent or — ! 
Was it for another reason that these 
usually solitary and timid beasts were 
hurling themselves upon me in this mad 
fashion? The horrible memory seized 
me of the coyotes crazed by rabies that 
I had seen killed recently in Nevada — 
the hideous deaths from the bites of such 
that I knew of. There was no time to 
let this fear possess me for they were 
coming like the wind. But suddenly, 
in the middle of their long lope, they 
stopped, threw themselves back — they 
had spotted me ! That settled the rabies 
theory for with the spotting they had 
whirled in their tracks. But I had no 
time for relief. Like the wind they 
had come and like the lightning they 
would be gone, for there is nothing 
faster or trickier on legs than the coyote, 
if he wants to be. As they whirled I 
realized what magnificent brutes they 
were — fat and in full pelt. A coyote 
at any time in such country was an ad- 
venture — one of these fine specimens 
would be an actual prize. There was no 
time for aiming. With the wild hope 
that I would wound at least one I fired 
with hands still shaking from their first 
start of surprise — so rapid had the whole 
action been. 
Instantly as though they were one 
body, the brutes reared in the air, their 
great jaws snapping viciously at each 
other, their legs spread, then with a 
convulsive throb they fell, simultane- 
ously, both stone dead ! I have bagged 
mountain goat and mountain lions, real 
he bears, and fish that were first cousins 
to the original fire-breathing sea serpent. 
But I doubt if my wildest hunt ever gave 
me the surprise that this kill in that 
quiet gully gave me on that sunny morn- 
ing in California. Nor has any trophy 
I ever brought in excited more interest 
than the two coyotes, which I killed at 
one shot, did in the little mining town 
of Hornitos where such a feat had never 
before been heard of. It is needless to 
say that I was very much elated over 
my good fortune. 
Louis A. Ginaca, California. 
