100 
FOREST AND STREAM 
SOME 
WONDERFUL 
RECENT SCORES 
made in all sections of the coun¬ 
try under varying conditions 
At The Traps 
Made with the 
LEFEVER 
SHOT GUN 
Grand Southern Handicap, May 12-14. 
S. T. Day won with 96 ex. 100. (Mr. Day 
shot a $25 Lefever Durston Special.) 
Kansas State Championship, May 5, 6. 
E. W. Arnold won with 93 ex. I 00. West 
Virginia State Tournament, Charleston, 
W. Va., June 1 1-12. R. H. Bruns won 
with 289 ex. 300. Interstate Association 
Ninth Eastern Handicap, Bradford, Pa., 
June 17. W. C. Wootton won Preliminary 
Handicap with 97 ex. 100. 
Handle the Lefever Gun a few times. 
Borrow one if you have to. 
Try a 20-gauge this Year 
Write for Art Catalog 
LEFEVER ARMS CO. 
200 Maltbie St., Syracuse, N. Y. 
“Guns of Lasting Fame” 
Very much at home is he in this illimitable ex¬ 
panse of sage brush, cactus and soapweed. 
Every foot of it has been known to him since 
birth. Full well is he aware of the protection 
afforded him by these frozen sage bushes, so 
perfectly matching his splendid coat of grey. 
Time and time again he has crouched behind their 
friendly shelter, while hunters have ridden by 
within a hundred feet. 
As we close the last pasture gate and enter the 
great open ranges with its rolling hills, we 
swing out at a distance of fifty rods apart, in 
order to comb as much country as possible, each 
with a dog at his horse’s side. From under my 
horse’s very front feet springs a frightened jack- 
rabbit, and with a sharp yelp of excitement 
every dog is off like a streak in pursuit. Then 
at a sharp command from each of us they leave 
off and drop behind the horses. Their speed 
and endurance will be needed later. 
For five or six miles we ride over a country 
inhabited only by rabbits, prairie dogs and 
“kiotes.” The sharp, biting wind, under the 
warming influence of the rising sun, now loses 
its piercing qualities and bears on its wings 
promises of warmer days to come. 
Suddenly, as the top of a large “roll” is 
reached, an excited whoop I hear, and, turning 
quickly, am just in time to see “Long John” on 
his big, rangy grey, disappear down the hill to 
the right. No need at all to turn my little 
sorrel “speed devil,” for, at the first yell he 
knows “Long John” has started our “kiote.” 
“Dan,” the big, blue hound at my side, is split¬ 
ting the wind in eager endeavor to join the other 
three dogs at the extreme right. As we reach 
the spot from which “Long John” emitted his 
first yell my eye catches sight of a grey shadow 
the size of an ordinary shepherd dog, just disap¬ 
pearing around the bend of a small draw three 
hundred yards ahead of “Bingo,” the nearest dog. 
A partially eaten dead calf explains why the 
rider on the rangy grey pony had got so close to 
the wary wanderer of the range. If our game 
has gorged himself on the dead “maverick” the 
chase will be short and exciting, for he will be 
altogether too heavy to run either fast or far. 
But, anyhow, we’re off! 
Up dry arroyos, over sand-eoveied “blow-outs,” 
through prairie dog towns, at an express train 
speed where a misstep means broken bones, if 
not a broken neck, the wind roaring in the ears 
and eyes streaming tears until it is impossible to 
catch a glimpse as to where one is going, you 
shut your eyes and trust to Providence. 
By now it has become evident that the silent 
grey ghost of the plains has not feasted either 
long or heavily, for he is nearly holding his own 
against the killing pace set by the old leader 
“Bingo.” Always sticking to the draws, he leads 
up and down, over the hills, invariable losing 
ground. The pace is commencing to tell on all. 
The wiry, long-winded little ponies, as interested 
and as excited in the chase as we, slow up and 
settle to a dogged mile-eating lope. Another 
thousand yards and then the grim, gaunt grey 
hounds slowly but surely draw nearer to their 
game, which by now is becoming desperate. 
You must watch him and follow him closely. 
If he can gain sufficient lead on the dogs he will 
make a sudden spurt ahead and disappear quickly 
around the base of some neighboring hillock, 
like a flash turn at right angles, and with belly 
close to the ground make for the shelter of the 
great soapweed dose to the summit of the hill. 
The hounds four hundred yards in the rear, 
running their game by sight, are thrown into 
instant confusion when, on rounding the hill, 
they discover that the game has suddenly faded 
from sight. Seemingly powerless to hunt by 
scent, and the ground being so bare of snow as 
to make tracking impossible, it is here that the 
boys’ knowledge of the crafty grey fellow is 
brought into use. Instead of riding on up the 
draw thinking he has kept straight on and is just 
beyond the next bend in the little depression we 
have been following, three of us turn sharply in 
our tracks while the fourth keeps straight on to 
see if by any chance the “kiote” has continued 
his flight ahead. The dogs remain with us three, 
who spread out side by side a hundred feet 
apart, forming as near a half circle as possible. 
We ride at a sharp lope back over the same 
tracks we came up on, examining closely every 
sage brush. 
Just as we have arrived at the conclusion that 
our game has kept on the straightahead, there 
bursts out from the shelter of a giant sage bush, 
not ten feet away, a very much frightened and 
panic-stricken “kiote,” whom, had he not lost his 
nerve at the last moment, we would have passed 
right by, so perfectly did his thick, gray winter’s 
coat blend with his surroundings. 
His inability to stick it out in concealment will 
cost him his life, for old Dan was not twenty 
feet to the left of him when he left the shelter 
of the protective sage brush. Like a bullet 
from a gun the dog swerves in on him, with a 
burst of speed truly phenomenal, is on top of 
him and, with a wicked “shoulder slash,” turns 
him nearly half-way round, upsetting him com¬ 
pletely. The big dog’s momentum carries him 
eight or ten feet before he can recover himself. 
The “kiote,” his anger thoroughly aroused by the 
smarting cuts inflicted by Dan’s murderous in¬ 
cisors is on his feet in a trice, and, seeing that 
escape is now impossible, prepares for his last 
great fight against terrific odds. 
“Pat,” the blue-grey pup, on his first hunt and 
with his lesson still to be learned, rushes the 
fighting “kiote” alone, only to receive a terrible 
gash, exposing his windpipe to view, and re¬ 
tires coughing blood, to die on the sand in less 
than two minutes. “Berrie,” a lean, gaunt bitch, 
makes a sharp feint at the fighter’s throat and 
succeeds in attracting his attention, while old 
“Bingo” closes in on his exposed side and cata¬ 
pults into him with his ninety pounds of bone 
and sinew. Both go down in a tangle of feet 
and hair. With an ugly snarl, “Dessa,” mother 
of mortally-bitten “Pat,” quick as lightning leaps 
in and with a series of strokes with her teeth, 
almost disembowels the slayer of her son. 
At this stage of the game we dismount and 
take a hand. Using our quirts, and with sharp 
commands, we beat them off quickly as possible 
from the now thoroughly disabled quarry, who, 
in a minute more, would be torn literally to 
shreds, when we would be the loser of a much- 
desired and highly-prized little rug for our bunk- 
house floor. When the last dog has been beaten 
off I take my .41 and face the game little fighter, 
who, even now, is making ineffectual efforts to 
stand on his feet and fight to the last. As 
quickly as I can I end it all by a well-placed 
shot between the eyes, and just as Jack, the rider 
who had made the fruitless ride up the draw, 
makes his appearance over the hill, we all fall 
to, and in a jiffy we have our “kiote” skinned 
and the hide bound to the nearest saddle. 
The ponies, white with lather, are unsaddled 
and allowed to pick around, while the four of us 
light our pipes and sprawl out on the sun-warmed 
sand and talk over the events of the hunt which 
is just ended, until our ponies have sufficiently 
recovered their wind to go on with the hunt. 
Two more “kiotes” contributed their pelts be¬ 
fore the day’s sport is over, when we find 
ourselves nearly fifty miles from the ranch house. 
Reluctantly we turn our horses’ heads toward 
home, tired and hungry, but mighty well pleased 
with the results of our day’s sport. 
THE AUSTRALIAN MONKEY BEAR. 
(Continued from page 85.) 
fire comes along, it just squeals in a despairing 
sort of way, until the flames silence it. 
It seems to be a particularly stupid animal. I 
have seen a bear lose its way, and, in consequence 
climb the first eminence it came to. In one case 
this was a house, and the people inside found 
H next morning perched perilously on their chim¬ 
ney. I have seen a lost bear hanging to a very 
small tree, up which it had climbed with great 
difficulty. At one time a good many of these 
pretty and inoffensive animals were shot, but 
