240 
FOREST AND STREAM 
The Last of the Monster 
Being an Episode About Old and Experienced Hunters and a Tenderfoot. It is Again the Baffling Mystery 
of Failure on the Part of Applied Skill and Success that Comes Through Accident 
T HREE grizzled old hunters had decided to 
go to New Brunswick and hunt moose. 
They had killed plenty of deer in the 
Adirondacks for the last twenty-five years. As 
a matter of fact, none ever returned home with¬ 
out venison. About five years ago, they realized 
that they were getting old. They feared that 
their sight might fail, and besides that the moose 
and caribou were being thinned out. So all three 
of them made up their minds to hunt in the Cana¬ 
dian wilds for the biggest of American game. 
But when fall approached, every one of them de¬ 
cided to postpone that moose and caribou hunt 
for next year and return once more to the 
well-known hunting. grounds around Cranberry 
Lake, in St. Lawrence County. 
What was the attraction? 
That very same old buck they knew so well, 
saw every fall, had snap-shots at, and missed. 
They knew his haunts very well, knew his habits 
to perfection, only it was not the kind of a buck 
to be outwitted even by such veterans. 
Four years ago, John Morse, the crack shot, 
saw him for the first time at Brandy Brook. He 
was a big fellow, and his head was indeed a 
marvel. It was almost as big as that of a young 
elk buck. Morse had two running shots at him, 
but he never touched him. He told the story in 
camp and his comrades, James Cromwell and 
Adolph Miller became much interested. The 
next day all three hunted in that neighborhood 
and Cromwell, while approaching, heard a snort 
and the next thing he 'saw was a flying but gigan¬ 
tic buck that sprang out to his left, turned to 
the right into a clearing and jumped over a 
pile of bark at least twelve feet high, and then 
disappeared. Cromwell, the old experienced 
hunter, was so overcome with amazement, that 
he stood like a tenderfoot, almost paralyzed with 
excitement, no't knowing even that he had a rifle 
in his hand. 
The third day after this occurrence, Miller 
was walking on the crest of the hill, when not 
five yards to his left he jumped that very same 
big buck. He fired once and missed.- The way 
that buck knew how to get a tree between him¬ 
self and the hunter was remarkable. 
The monster was seen by other hunters, but 
he seemed to have a charmed life. Almost a 
hundred hunters had seen him and fired shots 
at him, but none of them drew blood. 
A't the end of the season it was known that 
the big fellow was still alive because nobody had 
killed him. For this reason the hunters returned 
every fall; they cared very little whether they 
would get any other deer at all, they were bent 
on getting “The Monster,” as they nicknamed 
him. 
All three saw him again at about the same 
place where he had appeared the first time. But 
he was always as quick as lightning, and no shot 
could do him any damage. The hunters were 
sure that his antlers had become larger from the 
glance they had at him. They knew his track, 
By D. M. Hermalin. 
for besides the fact that his hoof-marks were 
of an enormous size, his left hind leg had one 
half-hoof much shorter than the other, and in 
soft mud or a little snow it could be easily 
discerned. 
Those old hunters were masters at the game. 
They knew all the secrets of trailing, as travel¬ 
ling against the wind, stepping as lightly as the 
Indian hunter and always following on one side 
of the trail, so that the buck, while watching his 
back track, may not perceive his enemy. But it 
was of no avail; they could not catch the mon¬ 
ster napping. 
Then came that memorable day. All three 
were up early in the morning, with the intention 
of hunting for him. They put in eleven days 
of hunting, each one shot a buck, but that was 
not what they were after. They wanted “The 
Monster.” Only three days were left, and they 
would 'have to return to town and to business. 
They were ready to go out again, but a light 
drizzling rain -came when they sat down for 
breakfast- Then a strong easter began to blow, 
the lake seemed a stormy ocean, and then it 
came down in torrents, rain, hail and snow. 
They were partly tired and partly disgusted. 
They thus decided to wait, thinking the weather 
would change about noon-time, and they would 
be able to proceed. Or if not, they would stay 
in camp for this day and rest and put in the last 
two days in diligent work. 
Meanwhile, the proprietor and two hunters be¬ 
gan to discuss with them the extraordinary saga¬ 
city of the Monster. They related their several 
experiences with the big buck. Cromwell was 
the man who had seen him last, only one day 
before. He saw him disappear over a knoll, his 
white tail flaunting, not one hundred yards away. 
He seemed ghostly in his fleeting quickness, and 
somewhat uncanny in his lightning disappearance. 
When he reached the top of the knoll, he had 
a good glance at his large antlers, and a chance 
to fire a shot. He found afterward that the shot 
had struck the stump of a tree, just where the 
buck had glided by. Why had he not hit him? 
That Monster had a charmed life. It seemed 
Cromwell was sure that it was the Monster, be¬ 
cause he had seen his track and recognized the 
defective hind-leg. Miller followed the track of 
the Monster, which led up to the knoll, and had 
just heard Cromwell shooting, but did not see 
the animal. While these occurrences were being 
discussed, a new-comer, a young man of about 
twenty, sitting at the other end of the large 
table, eating his breakfast, had been listening 
attentively to all that was said. 
The young man, Arnold Robins, had arrived 
only last night and was asking for a guide to 
take him out hunting. Arrangements were made 
with a guide, but he did not appear, owing to the 
downpour. Robins, however, decided to go out 
alone, since he did not mind getting wet. Robins 
spoke very little, and only asked where he might 
go for a hunt, or where there was a most likely 
place to find deer. The proprietor jocosely told 
him that he might follow the tote road leading 
toward Brandy Brook and there have a chance 
of meeting the Monster. The young man asked 
for a better explanation and the proprietor gave 
him a short outline as to the history of this 
peculiar animal. 
The young fellow mused for a few minutes, 
then got up, took his rifle which stood in the 
corner, and remarked smilingly. 
“Gentlemen, I am going to get the Monster.” 
The rest of the party chuckled, and the young 
man left. 
Ah! What weather! It was fearful. The 
wind developed into a veritable gale, the tall 
timber was being lashed mercilessly by the rain 
and the storm, and the noise from the woods 
came as from a cataract. 
The rest decided to stay indoors. Then the 
chill of the weather penetrated the thin walls of 
The Game Keeper Fails to Recognize the Fish. 
