1228 
deer. It has always seemed the fairest way to 
hunt and kill a deer. 
We had hunted several days without any suc¬ 
cess. A few days prior to this morning I had 
seen a magnificent buck jump the Penfield Road, 
heading for Kennedy Park. On the morning 
in question we had about a mile to walk to the 
hunting ground, though we were likely to see 
game at any point along the way. Knowing the 
advantage of being alone and away from the 
crowd I left camp in advance of the crowd and 
took my time to look over the different runways 
along our route. But I had not forgotten the 
big buck I had seen the week before, and my 
object was to get a shot at his majesty. I had 
learned from careful observation that he and 
his lady friends were accustomed to come out of 
the game park at night to make love in the Gor¬ 
don Thicket, and then return to the park early 
in the morning, crossing the road at what has 
since been called “Harris’s Crossing.” I ap¬ 
proached the Penfield Road very early and very 
carefully and started up the hill toward the 
crossing in question. I made up my mind that 
my face would be turned in the right direction 
this time, and I was ready. 
I was not disappointed, for when I got within 
sixty yards of his runway the same old buck 
was watching for me and standing very close 
to the road in the brush and ready to jump. The 
buck saw me first, and fearful that there might 
be danger in jumping the road directly in front 
of me, he turned in his tracks and went back 
into the thicket like a shot. I waited my op¬ 
portunity for a fairly open shot, and when he 
entered an open place about seventy yards from 
me and running diagonally to my right, I fired. 
The shot entered his front shoulder, breaking 
the shoulder and passing through his neck. At 
the report of the gun the buck went down, like 
Ty Cobb sliding into home plate; but in an in¬ 
stant he was up and gone giving me no oppor¬ 
tunity for a second shot. I called my com¬ 
panions and sent Zeke Hoover, an old trailer, 
into the thicket to report results. Zeke came 
back shortly and reported the buck badly 
wounded and bleeding freely. After a careful 
examination of the trail we concluded to hunt 
toward camp, get our lunch and then try for 
the buck. I preferred to follow the trail alone, 
I trailed him for over two miles. In that dis¬ 
tance the deer had laid down several times. I 
finally jumped him on an open ridge. As usual, 
he saw me first, though I had hoped to shoot 
him in his bed, and was making every effort to 
escape. I fired at a distance of perhaps a hun¬ 
dred yards, breaking his left shoulder and put¬ 
ting him down and out. When I approached 
him the buck tried to get up and attack me; and 
while standing upon his hind legs I was com¬ 
pelled to shoot him through the neck and finish 
him. 
In all my hunting experiences I have never 
seen so fine a Pennsylvania deer. He carried 
ten points, and weighed four days after he was 
killed, but not skinned, 246 pounds. His head 
also hangs in our camp, and it is with pride 
that I point to the head and antlers of the finest 
deer killed on our mountains for many years. 
The season for 1914 began November 15th and 
ended December 1st. We were in camp, the 
snow was fine and we had hung up three fine 
bucks, Boyce, Nugent and Amerman being the 
lucky hunters. Saturday morning came and I 
had not seen a deer, though I had taken orders 
all week. I had in mind the watch at the mouth 
of Stonehammer Run, made famous by the many 
big deer killed there. Early Saturday morning 
found me at this watch, at least two miles from 
FOREST AND STREAM 
camp. When I approached the mouth of the 
gulch I found one of our party, Charley Shoff. 
He had never shot at a deer, and when he saw 
me he kindly gave me his stand and took another 
position further up the gulch. In front of me 
frowned the rocky face of Lucky Point ridge, 
steep and rugged, with a beautiful sky line at 
the top. While I was looking over the situation, 
wondering whether I could reach a buck so near 
the sky, I heard Charley’s gun up the gulch, fol¬ 
lowed by seven more shots. I saw two splendid 
bucks coming down the mountain sides, almost 
abreast; then I saw one fall to Charley’s rifle 
One of the Little Tragedies of the Woods that 
We Read About Oftener Than Witness. 
and heard him call out: “I got the big one, 
yours is coming.” I felt that it was up to me to 
stop that splendid buck as he followed the sky 
line fleeing for his life. I felt that it was a long 
and a difficult shot; but he fell when the rifle 
cracked and was hidden by a clump of bushes. 
I threw off all my extra clothing and prepared 
to push my 200 pounds up that cliff to my buck. 
When I came within a few feet of where the 
buck lay hidden in the brush, he came at me 
head first, looking very vicious, and I only as- 
caped his horns by falling over a big log. 
The buck headed down the mountain, but a 
short distance below me he went down and out. 
I shot him the second time as he looked back at 
me, and broke his neck. My first shot had 
broken his left shoulder, and this broken shoul¬ 
der had saved my bacon. Both bucks were very 
fine specimens, carrying eight points each. Char¬ 
ley’s deer weighed 152 pounds and mine weighed 
175. Two more bucks were added to the num¬ 
ber killed that year, making seven in all, and 
the head and antlers of mine now hang in my 
library beside another big buck killed many 
years ago, and keeping company for two fine 
bull moose heads and a bull caribou killed on 
the Miramichi in New Brunswick, Canada. 
For some reason or other the deer season 
for 1915 was changed by the legislature, making 
the season the first fifteen days of December. 
This is a mistake if you have any regard for 
the comfort and pleasure of the hunters who pay 
for the privilege of hunting. It is a mistake, too, 
if you want venison fit to eat. Deer meat killed 
after the winter has set in is poor and unpala¬ 
table. But strange to say the first few days of 
December, 1915, was ideal weather for hunting 
and the usual number of deer were killed; but 
most of them were poor and under weight and 
unfit to eat. At our camp we killed five fine 
bucks, the writer killing the last one. I had 
been quite ill during the month of November, 
and at least two of my physicians advised me 
to go to the hospital and have my gall removed. 
I had suffered from several surgical operations 
and I at once rebelled; besides I had no gall to 
spare. Instead of going to the hospital I packed 
up my duffle and drove out to camp on the first 
day of the deer season. Under the advice of 
my family physician I took with me a jug of 
buttermilk, some fresh eggs, some soups and 
other delicacies fit for an invalid. These were 
all put into the camp pantry and I have never 
seen them since, and when the hunt was over I 
came home sound and well. During the first 
week of the hunt I saw but two deer, two fine 
big ones, but passed them up. I came home for 
Sunday but went back to camp the following 
Tuesday night. Wednesday we hunted all day, 
without any results, and that evening I got lost 
within a half mile of camp. Some time again 
I may tell you how easily it is to get lost in a 
night blizzard on the mountains, and of the first 
relief corps that so kindly came to my rescue 
and then how we all got lost. 
Thursday morning the boys made a drive to¬ 
ward the head of Lick Run and the Panther 
Rocks. Four fine deer were hanging at the 
camp. Boyce and Dowler who so kindly looked 
after me in my illness, had told me that unless 
I braced up and got into the hunt, the club 
would be shy one deer. We left camp at day¬ 
light. George P. Vallowe and I were assigned 
to the watch at the Panther Rocks. After walk¬ 
ing almost three miles through a foot of snow 
we took our places and waited the coming of 
the deer. We soon heard the drivers and the 
music of the cowbell; then I heard Vallowe 
shoot and a fine big buck came round the knoll 
straight for me. I saw that one horn was miss¬ 
ing, due, I think, to Vallowe’s shot. I waited 
until the deer came within thirty yards of me 
and fired one shot which caught him in the 
breast. Some one had mixed a 30-30 cartridge 
with my 32 special, and while I tried to right 
this trouble the deer turned to the right and 
disappeared over the hill. Then I heard Val¬ 
lowe call out, “We got him all right,” and the 
deer lay dead within thirty yards of my stand. 
In fifteen minutes all the boys came to us and 
the buck was dragged to camp. 
Thus Ended the Hunt—and the Story. 
