764 
“Didn’t you hear that awful yell,” I exclaim¬ 
ed. “Somebody is being murdered around 
here.” 
“Oh that—that’s nothing but ‘painter’ (pan¬ 
ther) calling his mate,” he replied. 
“But I am not his mate or his equal,” I said, 
“and I am sure he spoke to me.” 
The yell came again about this time and I 
jumped. Mr. L. laughed so long, so loud, so deep 
and so good, I lost my temper. When he could 
speak without choking, he said, “how close do you 
think that ‘varmint’ is, to us?” 
“It seemed to me like he was either on me or 
under me, I couldn’t tell which.” 
He began laughing again and I clubbed one of 
the tent stakes and threatened to nail him one, 
but on second thought, 1 decided that if I did hit 
him and didn't see me do it, he would never 
find it out, for he was a very large, brawny man, 
being over six feet in height and his shoulders 
corresponded in width, while I was a mere 
stripling, weighing less than a hundred pounds. 
“Why son.” he answered, “that ‘varmint’ may 
be as much as a mile from here.” 
This sounded incredible to me and as the 
light of approaching dawn was now showing in 
the East, we chunked up the fire and he proceed¬ 
ed to enlighten me on the “painter.” He said 
they were called mountain lions or cougers 
in the West. That, to his knowledge, he had 
never known one to attack human beings, altho 
he had heard of such things. That they could 
throw their voices like a ventriloquist. That 
he had hunted them at night, in the Spring of 
the year, and had been led on and on by the 
will-o-the-wisp way they had of throwing their 
voices in one place and their bodies in another. 
That he had killed very few in the many years 
he had hunted in the bottoms and that the nearest 
he had ever come to being attacked by one, was 
a time when one had made a mistake and stalked 
him for a turkey. He was seated at the foot of 
a large tree calling turkeys. A gobbler had 
answered and was coming toward his position. 
The tree he was under had a very heavy growth 
of muscadine vine clinging to it. From time 
to time he noticed the stems of the vine shake 
and quiver, but he was so interested in the com¬ 
ing gobbler that he did not investigate the cause 
of the queer action of the vine. 
Finally, the vine shook violently and he, in 
sudden alarm, threw his head back and looked 
up. His blood turned to ice for a moment, for 
he found himself looking squarely into the eyes 
of a panther and the panther’s face was but a 
few feet from his. The panther was up the tree 
coming down to catch the turkey hen that was 
calling the gobbler. My friend eyed the panther 
and the panther eyed him. Both were too much 
surprised to move for several moments. Mr. L. 
was the first to make a move which was to gath¬ 
er his wits and slowly raise the muzzle of his gun 
in a line with his enemy and pull the trigger. 
The panther rolled out of the tree, falling almost 
upon him and an examination showed that the 
FOREST AND STREAM 
My First Deer 
By Mique Webb. 
(Concluded from last week.) 
rifle ball had bored a hole through his body from 
stem to stern. 
Our camp was on the bank of the bayou, but 
our hunting grounds lay on the further side. 
There was a dozen yards of very soft, sticky 
mud between the solid bank and the little trick¬ 
ling stream in the middle of it. It was about 
time to start on our hunt and lunch or breakfast 
was served first. I had to fall back on cold, 
baked sweet potato for my share. I couldn't stand 
the other. Did you ever try to masticate a cold, 
baked sweet-potato without water to wash it 
down? I firmly believe, it takes more saliva 
to get this vegetable down than any other species 
of food I know of. I was hungry. Even the 
potato tasted good to me and I waddled it around 
in my mouth for a long time, trying to grease 
my swallowing apparatus preparatory to bolting. 
But when I did swallow, it stuck in my throat 
or a little below. I choked until I was getting 
black in the face. I couldn’t get it down or up 
and I couldn't make a sound to attract my part¬ 
ner’s attention. Mr. L. had his back to me and 
was some distance away. I wanted one thing— 
water. I broke for the little trickling stream. 
I hit that soft mud and the first few jumps, 
found me floundering in it, up to my knees. But 
it was water or my life and I fell on my stomach 
and literally clawed my way to the precious stuff. 
I felt that it was a race with death, with pain 
for a jockey and whiplash. I passed under the 
wire just in time. I reached the water, drank 
deeply and then lay over in the mud enjoying my 
release. Mr. L. again enjoyed himself at my 
expense. 
Caked with sticky, slimy mud and still support¬ 
ing an aching void down in my middle “innerds,” 
I was in no humor for hunting deer or anything 
else except something to appease my hunger. So 
when Mr. L. said we must be moving, I wanted 
to know which way? 1 said I had had enough 
and was quite sure I had not lost any deer in 
that country. I voted to go home. He cleaned 
me up a bit and appealed to my sticking ability. 
We, finally, crossed the bayou. 
It had drizzled rain all night and this had con¬ 
tributed greatly to my discomfort, for my feet 
were wet. my clothes were wet and the air was 
chilly. When we reached the further side of the 
bayou, we struck a belt of thick, heavy, ten-foot 
high cane. It was in early November and this 
cane was in full leaf. These leaves held the 
moisture of the drizzle. Through the cane was 
just the trace of a path. This we threaded and 
as we touched each cane, we received a copious 
shower bath of water that was little short of ice. 
<Ve were on foot, having left our horse and 
mule in camp. It was to be a still hunt, but 
from my stand point I had much rather it had 
been a race. I wanted action. I was wet, mud¬ 
dy, slimy, hungry, mad—extremely uncomforta¬ 
ble and I didn’t care a cent whether we saw a 
deer or not. 
After passing through the cane belt, we came 
into an open park like woods of pecan trees. 
The nuts were lying thick upon the ground. At 
the slightest provocation, they would come rain¬ 
ing down. Squirrels were busy and we could 
locate them by the falling nuts. It was just good 
daylight by this time. After walking about two 
hundred yards from the break into these woods, 
Mr. L. caught me by the arm and pointed to our 
left, and there, 1 saw three big, fat possums 
feeding on the ground. We walked quietly up 
to them and they turned over on their backs, 
grinning and then played dead. They made 
absolutely no attempt to escape. We knocked 
them in the head with our rifle butts and hung 
them up to await our return. 
Resuming our walk, we saw many others, but 
three were enough and we killed no more. After 
about two hours of this leisurely sauntering, Mr. 
L. laid his hand on my shoulder and indicated 
that I should get ready. I had not seen any¬ 
thing. Had not heard anything and I did not 
obey him with any alacrity, but I did get behind 
a tree and cock my gun. I was still so uncom¬ 
fortable that my enthusiasm was at a low ebb. 
Mr. L. dropped down behind a log and began 
looking intently in one direction. I did the same. 
There was a heavy clump of cane in our im¬ 
mediate front and in a few moments a fine five 
point buck walked out of it into full view. He 
was the most majestic looking animal I ever saw. 
His quick nervous movements—his stately pose— 
his shinning coat without one wrinkle in i't—his 
crested, antlered head—his slim, graceful, taper¬ 
ing legs—his small, impatient, stamping feet, 
made a picture that will never fade from my 
brain. He had a white spot in the center of his 
head. He stood facing us, seeming to be trying 
to discover what it was that had alarmed him. 
• I was spell-bound for a moment, or was I 
waiting for Mr. L. to shoot? I cannot answer 
this question. I have tried but it is beyond me. 
Mr. L. was waiting for me to shoot. I know I 
was not excited. I was too miserable for that. 
I had my rifle sighted on the white spot in the 
center of his head and at last, I pulled the 
trigger. Just before I shot, he had plunged his 
head to the ground, nervously scented it, then 
raised it quickly 'to its full height and then 
brought it on a level or a little below the level 
of his body. It was then that I pulled the trig¬ 
ger. A deer stands with his hind-quarters a 
little above his fore-quarters. My bullet went 
about three inches high, striking him in the center 
of the back, about the middle, breaking his 
spine, thus, so to speak, uncoupling him. The 
wound seemed to take away all power from his 
hind-quarters, but he danced around on his fore¬ 
quarters. For the moment it looked as if he 
could have gone where he pleased if he had been 
cut in two. His hind-quarters seemed to anchor 
him to the spot. 
Mr. L. jumped from behind his log the mo¬ 
ment he saw that shot was successful and be¬ 
gan yelling, “shoot ’im—Shoot ’iin—SHOOT 
TM.” He had previously instructed me, that if 
we did see one, to keep shooting at him as long 
