14 
FOREST AND STREAM 
January 3, 1914. 
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Our Northwest 
By CHINOOK 
I SHALL always retain pleasant recollections 
of the moment when, after a cruise of three 
days from Seattle, we dropped our “mud 
hook” in East Sound Bay; in ten minutes we 
were ashore on Orcas Island, one of the San 
Juan group. 
I think that I can say without exaggeration 
that there have been more deer killed on these 
islands than on any similar sized plot of ground 
in the world, and that there were plenty of them 
when we landed will he shown in the course of 
my narrative. I should like to say right here, 
to make excuse for our seemingly wanton slaugh¬ 
ter of them, that they were too thick for the 
safety of the ranchers who had orchards planted, 
and who wanted them thinned out a little. Al¬ 
though killed by the hundred, I have yet to hear 
of the first case (on good authority) of them 
being killed for their hides, newspaper items to 
the contrary, notwithstanding. 
Our first hunt was a “fire” hunt, a very com¬ 
mon but not always successful method of hunt¬ 
ing deer, as I shall show before I am done. An 
old frying pan with holes punched in the bottom 
for draught, and the handle wired on to a six- 
foot pole called the “Jack;” someone to carry 
the bag of pitch wood over his shoulder and 
feed the fire, and we were ready to start. We 
waited, however, until about nine o’clock, so that 
the game would be astir. As we left the house 
Frank offered to carry in all the deer that we 
might kill in the night time. He said they would 
“be asleep, and not waiting to be killed by every 
crank that chose to wander around with a ‘bon¬ 
fire’ over his shoulder.” 
It was a dark, damp night, and as we fol¬ 
lowed along the trail we peered around in all 
directions for the first “shine.” Drops of water 
were hanging to the bushes, and as we passed 
and they caught the reflection of our “jack,” they 
sparkled in a manner not soothing to nerves that 
were strung to their utmost tension, in eagerness 
to behold the sparkle of a deer’s eye. 
Suddenly our eyes were riveted on a pair 
of scintillating points of light that seemed almost 
> emit sparks of cold blue, as they twinkled in 
.he darkness of the overhanging brush. 
Slowly raising my rifle I drew a bead about 
six inches under the eyes, which looked not un¬ 
like two holes bored through a dark cloud, and 
into the bright moonlight beyond. Dropping still 
a little lower to make sure, I pulled the trigger, 
a stream of fire flashed from the muzzle, and 
when the smoke lifted the eyes were gone. 
Throwing in a fresh cartridge from the maga¬ 
zine, we stepped over several dead logs that lay 
between us and our prey, and with anxious eyes 
looked for signs of a struggle. Advancing to 
where the eyes had last been seen, we found a 
fine “spike buck,” with just the top of his skull 
raised off by the bullet; a half-inch higher and 
he would have been missed completely. We took 
out the intestines, and Frank, as good as his 
word, agreed to pack him in, and as it was- be¬ 
ginning to rain we did not “saddle” him up as 
we concluded we could carry him as he was. 
I helped Frank shoulder him, and picking up 
the “jack,” we started for home. Frank had only 
taken a few steps when the deer seemed to give 
a groan. Frank threw him down, jumping about 
ten feet in the opposite direction with a look of 
startled bewilderment that was amusing to see. 
After I had stopped laughing, and he had satis¬ 
fied himself that the deer was really dead, and 
that the groan was only the wind escaping from 
his windpipe, he shouldered him again, and car¬ 
ried him home, which was only a few hundred 
yards distant. 
John, Frank and myself, started one morning 
to get a deer, and to try and let Frank “do the 
honors,” as he had never shot one yet. We took 
our dog Carlo along to drive the game out of the 
“thickets,” and headed for Buck Mountain. 
I took the dog and beat the “fern plots” and 
“thickets,” while John and Frank walked along 
the ridges to catch a shot as they crossed to the 
next valley. They were walking along “visiting,” 
and talking together, when a shadow seemed to 
flit past them, but the clatter of small stones 
down the side of the gulley told them that the 
“shadow” was a pretty substantial one. Frank 
took a quick bead and pulled trigger, but as we 
had been shooting at a mark before we started, 
and he had failed to throw up a cartridge, the 
deer probably never heard the sharp click that 
followed his exit into the brush below. 
Stopping Carlo, who was hot on his trail, 
they sent him back to me, and the hunt went on. 
I had just climbed up a rocky wall about twenty 
feet high, when I heard the dog bark again, and 
I stepped over to where I could look down the 
slope of the hill, in the direction of the sound. 
There, coming up at a half run, were two half- 
grown fawns, and, I thought to myself, “now, 
here is a chance to take them both at one shot.” 
As they fell in line, I held my fire until they got 
into the required position. About half-way down 
the hill a narrow point of brush extended out 
from the woods for several yards, but the two 
fawns did not appear to be making for it, but for 
the opening in the brush where I stood. 
I heard John whistle to me, and turned my 
eyes for about one second in the direction I 
supposed him to be. But one look was enough. 
For when I looked for my fawns again, they 
were just disappearing in the point of brush, and 
all I saw was two white “flags” waving gracefully 
in the air. I almost felt mean enough to scold 
Carlo for what had happened. I ran down the 
hill and intercepted him as he came past. It was 
of no use to pursue them farther, as they were 
too far behind the boys for them to get a shot. 
I started the dog below me again, and soon 
after fell in with John and told him of my poor 
luck. 
“Next time be satisfied with one at a shot. 
I’ll have to kill one myself, or we won’t get any, 
the way you and Frank are starting in,” was 
all I got by way of consolation. So, “resolving” 
to get the next one, I let John take the “fern 
flat” ahead of us, and I followed up the ridge. I 
had almost reached the top, when I heard his 45 
crack, and I rushed up to the edge of the bluff 
and looked over. There was John rushing around 
like a madman in the fern below. 
“Did you get him?” I called out. 
“Yes, I saw him fall, but can’t find him. 
Come on down and see if he ain’t on the hillside 
below you. It’s a big buck and we don’t want 
to lose him.” 
I slid down a “sheep trail” and met John 
coming up, beating down the bushes and fern, 
trying to find the deer. 
“I saw him last, along by that log there, I 
think, but he ain’t there now. I tell you he’s a 
‘whopper’.” 
We looked all around, but could find nothing 
of him, and the longer we looked the bigger he 
grew in John's imagination, until he was about 
the biggest buck on the island. Going back to 
where the buck had disappeared, I whistled for 
Carlo. As soon as he came, I put him on the 
track, and in two minutes he was barking near 
the log where John said he had seen his big buck 
last. 
When we got there, Carlo was dragging a 
poor, little spotted fawn out from under the log, 
where it had crawled. It was hardly big enough 
to make a “patch” for the 45 that had gone 
through him. But sometimes they look a great 
deal larger than they really are, as I have ex¬ 
perienced myself. 
Frank had heard the shot, and running up, 
walked almost over the fawn, in his eagerness 
to see John’s buck. 
After a hearty laugh, in which John joined, 
we “hung up” the fawn, and spread out, with 
myself and Carlo in the middle, and away we 
went through the brush and fern, a low whistle 
from one or the other of us, serving as a guide, 
and as our course was along the base of a steep 
hillside, we managed to keep about a hundred 
yards or so apart. 
I fancy I hear some deer hunter say, “They 
must be queer deer.” Well, they are. I have 
hunted deer in Michigan, where the least noise 
would send the game flying, but these island deer 
seemed to go by sight, and not by sound, or scent. 
I have crashed through the brush, and almost 
fallen over them before they saw me, and started 
to run. I have seen them standing on some open 
hillside, 500 yards away, when a motion of the 
hand would put them on the jump. I have stood 
out in open ground, and had the dog chase them 
almost over me before they were aware of my 
presence, and then only when I made a move¬ 
ment to raise my rifle did they become aware of 
my presence. The more noise one made in the 
brush, when there were several hunters on the 
alert, the more deer each one would see, as they 
would pass within twenty yards of a half dozen 
men and be none the wiser. 
But to return. Carlo started another one 
off to our left, but Frank did not “open up” on 
him, so we judged he passed too far ahead. 
As the flat we were on drew to a point, it 
