Jan. io, 1914. 
FOREST AND STREAM 
49 
The Story of Our Northwest Cruise 
J OHN and I went over the same ground the 
next day, with better results, although we 
did not start as much game. 
I had started up a side hill and was just be¬ 
low a big log that lay stretched out about a hun¬ 
dred feet both to the right and left of me, and 
was just thinking of the advisability of climbing 
over or going around the obstruction, when I 
heard Carlo bark, and the next moment I could 
hear the “bump,” “bump,” “bump” of a deer as 
he came directly toward me. I got the rifle in 
position, but all I saw of my intended victim 
was his horns as they appeared to jump along the 
log which, as luck would have it, lay between us. 
I have noticed repeatedly that deer have no feel¬ 
ings of regret as to what lies between the hunter 
and themselves. I am almost led to believe, some¬ 
times, that their habit of appearing on the “wrong- 
side” of obstacles is premeditated. 
I clambered up on the log, too late, of course, 
to get a shot, but not too late to see the fun. 
I could see John standing down in a little 
opening with his rifle held in readiness to shoot. 
But as he is a little deaf in his right ear, he had 
not located the sound exactly, of the deer’s ap¬ 
proach, and he had stepped out into the opening 
to be ready, if it came that way. He had no 
idea that it was behind him, or that Carlo had 
started it, for he had seen the dog just a few 
minutes earlier in front of him. So he never 
looked to the rear, but straight ahead, and as his 
deaf ear was toward the trail which he had just 
left, he could hear the deer coming nearer and 
nearer, but couldn’t tell exactly from what direc¬ 
tion it was approaching. 
I saw the deer come out of the brush, and 
as it saw John it stopped short, and stood for 
fully a minute, making as comical a picture as 
it was ever my fortune to see. The open piece 
of ground surrounded by the green forest and 
contrasting with the light yellow of the ferns 
with which the opening was carpeted; the deer 
half “squatting” right in the position it had 
stopped in; the figure of a man dressed in a 
pair of dark blue pants, bright red shirt and big 
white slouch hat, as he held his rifle at a “pre¬ 
sent” and turned his head first to one side, and 
then the other, in an eager look to sight the 
game, which he knew was somewhere close, made 
the situation so ludicrous that it was all I could 
do to contain my merriment, and yell, “Look 
behind you!” 
As I spoke I saw the deer start around the 
edge of the opening toward where the trail left 
it again. Had John turned to the right he 
couldn’t have helped seeing it, but he turned to 
the left, keeping his back square toward the 
deer, which, by this time, was going pretty lively, 
owing to the fact that Carlo was on the track, 
and right behind him. To this day I cannot con¬ 
vince him that the deer stood and “sized him up” 
for fully a minute, and concluding he was harm¬ 
less, only turned out of his way enough to get 
around him, and then went on. 
I almost fell off the log in my wild bursts 
of laughter, to see the position of John as he 
heard the retreating jump of the deer, and could 
not see it. 
Waiting until the dog came back, we swung 
around in a big circle and started back toward 
home, and as a gulch lay toward the right, John 
said he would keep along the ridge, and I sug¬ 
gested I should go down the bottom with the 
dog. As I crawled down through a “thicket,” 
Carlo struck a fresh scent and started off along 
By CHINOOK 
(Continued from last week.) 
the side hill, and I concluded to continue on 
from the bottom, over to the other side of the 
gully. 
There was a lot of dead brush and a big 
“windfall” in a little flat place along a tiny 
stream that flowed through it, and I looked for 
a good place to get across. There was an up¬ 
rooted sapling lying with one end on the bank 
where I stood, and I thought by crossing on this 
I could get far enough over to jump to the other 
bank, so, balancing myself, I started. 
I was nearly over the middle of the brush 
when the sapling parted and down I went, but 
managed to keep on my feet. I felt something 
move as I went down, and at the same moment 
a big buck shot up in the air like a rocket, and, 
with his horns thrown back until they lay almost 
flat on his back, his forelegs folded down on his 
breast, and the hind ones extended straight out, 
he sailed up toward the tops of the bushes that 
lined the bank, and I distinctly remember saying 
out loud: “Good gracious, will he never stop?” 
But he did. As he struck the firm ground I got 
my rifle in position, but, owing to being tangled 
in the brush, I could not balance myself, so I 
missed him. He started up the gulch and just 
as he ran behind a tree I planted a bullet right 
in the heart—of the tree, of course. 
I can close my eyes at any time and see that 
deer ascending up toward the blue dome of the 
sky; how he got started out of that brush with¬ 
out a springboard or a cannon to help him is 
more than I can tell. Yet I do not know why I 
should wonder at it, in face of the fact that I 
have seen one of these island deer stand on wet 
marsh land ten feet away from a six-foot fence, 
and when scared by our approach, clear the 
obstruction by about three feet, without taking 
a single step, or even “squatting” to get a spring. 
After extricating myself out of the brush 
heap, I kept on down the hollow to where it 
opened out into a little valley, perhaps a hundred 
yards wide. As I was keeping along the edge 
of the brush, I heard something coming through 
the ferns on the flat below me. I stepped up 
several steps higher so I could look down, and 
there I saw a half-grown deer sneaking along 
through the fern. I sent a bullet through his 
foreshoulder, and he was so close to me that 1 
saw where it struck him, but he went on. I fired 
a second shot as he disappeared in the brush, but 
I knew he wouldn’t go very far, and as I heard 
Carlo bark, I looked off down the valley just in 
time to see a big doe come leaping over the brush 
and fern. She stopped about a hundred and fifty 
yards away, and turned around to see where the 
dog was; she made a pretty target. I drew a 
course sight on her foreshoulder, and when the 
smoke cleared away she had disappeared. 
I rushed down to where I saw her last, and 
there she lay, with Carlo hanging on to her throat 
for dear life. She struck at the dog with her 
hind feet, but he had learned by this time to 
keep out of the reach of those wicked feet. I 
cautiously approached her from behind, and cut 
her throat, the blood spurting out all over my 
arm and over the dog. 
“Come on, Carlo, old dog! We’ve got an¬ 
other one up here somewhere,” I said, and away 
I rushed with the bloody hunting knife in one 
hand and the rifle in the other, the dog following 
at my heels. On reaching the place where I 
had shot the first deer, Carlo started off on his 
trail, and I followed. The dog seemed to be 
somewhat excited, and probably I was myself by 
that time, for when he poked his nose into a hole 
at the base of an old stump, I gave him a “boost” 
with my foot to shoo him on. He went on 
toward the stump, but soon circled around the 
back, and I was just losing patience with him, 
when he began to bark at the hole, as though 
driving out a rabbit. The hole was not big 
enough for him to crowd into, as he was a big 
dog. However, I struck a match and held it 
inside the hole. To my utmost astonishment I 
saw the deer, coiled up like a dog asleep, and 
stone dead. I have never heard before or since 
of a deer crawling into a hole, although I have 
known young ones to crawl under logs. I sup¬ 
pose, however, he made a dying leap, and shot 
into the hole head first, as I had to straighten 
him around before I could extricate him, and 
then he could hardly be pulled through. 
I dragged him down to where the doe lay, 
and after whistling to John, and getting no an¬ 
swer, I hung her up as far as I could lift her, 
and after “saddling up” the small one, I put it 
on like a vest, and started for home, where I 
found John waiting for me. He, not having 
heard me shoot, had gone on, thinking I was 
ahead of him. 
We lit a lantern after supper and went back 
after the doe, and found that the tree I had bent 
down to hang her on was not strong enough, for 
she lay, over half of her, on the ground, and it 
was all we could do to “pack” her when we 
carried her home on a pole between us. 
We were talking about “fire” hunting that 
night, and John told of a hunt that had hap¬ 
pened on the island a few years before. 
It seems that a novice in this art of hunt¬ 
ing came to the island and got an old hunter 
to go out with him and carry the pitch wood. 
They started out with the “tenderfoot” in the 
lead carrying the “jack” and the rifle. After get¬ 
ting a “shine” or two, and invariably missing 
them, they started for home, and on the road they 
went over the ridge of Buck Mountain. As they 
came up to where they could see the open timber 
on top, the novice suddenly stopped, and throw¬ 
ing his rifle into position he fired. 
“Get this one?” growled the old hunter. 
“I don’t know; I only saw one eye, and when 
I shot he turned his head. There he is again.” 
Bang! 
“Fetch him?” 
“No, the darned cuss only turns one eye in 
sight at a time. Now, I’ll get him this time.” 
Bang! went the rifle for the third time. 
“Better bring a Gatling gun the next time,” 
said the hunter; “Here, let me try him.” 
“Wait a minute; I want to kill him my- 
There’s his eye again,” excitedly said the would 
be “fire” hunter, and taking careful aim this 
time he fired again. But the eye he was shoot¬ 
ing at turned up again and again, and every time 
the eye came into sight the tenderfoot shot. 
“Well! When you get yer gun empty cum 
along home, fer yer can’t bring that deer home 
with you; it’s too heavy.” And the hunter started 
back down the hill. 
“Hold on, I’ll get him next time,” pleaded 
the poor, deluded shooter. 
“I rather guess not; yer shootin’ at the flash¬ 
light in the lighthouse on Saturna Island, ten 
miles off,” was the somewhat discouraging reply 1 , 
and the crestfallen “fire” hunter returned home, 
having found out that “all is not deer’s eyes that 
sparkles.” 
This was as bad as the man who went out 
