JUNE 30, 1906.] 

Camps of the Buckskin Club. 
(Concluded from page 994.) 
[By an unfortunate transposition of the types, 
the concluding circumstances of the pursuit of 
Sam’s deer on Tuesday were omitted. The ac- 
count runs :] 
AgsouTt 2 o’clock we heard a shot, a short pause 
and four more shots in as many seconds—Sam’s 
automatic. Then a yell and three toots on a 
policeman’s whistle. Wants help. We answer 
two toots—I am coming; and Clate and I start on 
the jump in the direction the whistle sounded, 
running and whistling. An answering toot off 
to the left proved to be Bill. After going several 
hundred yards, we met Sam, out of breath, and 
pointing to a slough, he gasped, “A big buck in 
there! I hit him, but I do not know how hard.” 
Into the swamp we went, and out came the buck, 
bleeding but running well and pointed toward 
camp. We were following the blood trail, and it 
was plain that the deer was hard hit. After 
jumping the game out of the swamp, he ran two 
hundred yards and laid down. We put him up 
again, and Clate shot at him, using buckshot out 
of a 12-gauge shotgun. The deer made a valiant 
run of 175 yards and lay down again. The next 
time he was routed, he only ran 50 yards, stopped 
a shot from Bill’s rifle and went down in a 
swamp and was not able to get up. The guides 
went in on brush bridges and tried to drive it 
toward shore. Clate cut a long switch from a 
sapling, struck the deer several times, a snort and 
shake of the head showed a willingness to repel 
any familiarity, but the game old fellow had 
spent his strength. Sam used his last cartridge 
to finish him. We dragged logs, dead wood and 
branches, built a bridge, and pulled out a fat 
buck deer, weighing 230 pounds dressed. His 
head now adorns one of the banking institutions 
of the city of Pittsburg. 
Relating in detail the killing of this buck is 
done for no other purpose than to show the 
tenacity of life of the red deer of this section of 
Canada. The first shot fired struck him in the 
neck and brought him to the ground. He was up 
and away in a flash, running in a circle to get his 
bearing toward the lake. As he straightened out 
in his course and made off through the birches 
and tamaracks, he was hit again, the shot passing 
entirely through him from end to end, coming 
out a little left of the center of his breast. Either 
one of these wounds was a fatal one, yet his 
animal vitality and nerve carried him nearly a 
mile. He was shot through twice with buckshot, 
and once with a Snyder .35, before being finally 
put out by his original trouble, .38-40 Win- 
chester hammerless-automatic, in the hands of his 
original troubler, Sam of many hunts and kills. 
Wednesday, Nov. 8.—South side of the lake 
again and big dogs. We propose an early start 
and having previously honored Fred by _ unani- 
mously electing him fire builder (he did not vote; 
modest), we arranged to get him up between 
times. Barney hit the breeze before daylight, 
and had almost enough breakfast cooked before 
we all got the ice combed out. of our hair, after 
the plunge. The morning was fine. Thermom- 
eter 22 deg. Fahr., and very little wind. The 
dogs were sent in and we took our stands. The 
ball opened early, big Music bayed and bellowed, 
and game began to move. Clate and I were to- 
gether and thought to change our position and 
get over in front of the dogs. Clate turned to 
give me the direction, and he beheld a doe stand- 
ing forty feet to his left. In raising his rifle, he 
startled the deer, and it ran about fifty yards and 
stopped among some brush and dead _ leaves. 
Clate shot five times and I’m certain of shoot- 
ing four times, and the doe left for parts un- 
known, carrying with her a very poor opinion 
of our marksmanship. I offered to give my gun 
‘rules 
- morning 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
GAME BAR AND GUN | [Stet 
:— Se = 
to Clate if he would not say anything; he said, 
“You keep your gun, and don’t tell one me. It’s 
a saw off.” When we came to examine the 
clump of bushes, we found we had been shooting 
where we held, but the deer was standing on a 
raised rock behind the leaves and we had been 
cutting the branches and sod at her feet. We 
also found a little blood and each thought he had 
hit, but neither said a word. After following 
the trail a short distance, we lost it and came 
back, probably a slight wound in the leg, and 
that might mean good for fifty miles. We lo- 
cated at the same spot. The dogs were tonguing, 
and presently I saw a fawn coming over a ridge, 
straight towards me. I froze and on it came down 
into the swale that lay in front, out of sight, but 
I could hear the tump, tump of its feet on the 
rocks; then its ears and head showed up not fifty 
yards away, up into full view, and I have the 
sights of the gun on it to a hair. It stops and 
looks right down my throat. I fired, and my first 
deer went down on the moss, hit in the left 
breast, near the neck. 
As I arose to my feet, having knelt to shoot, 
another small deer came bobbing over the ridge 
and out of sight into the swale, evidently fol- 
lowing the track of the first one. 
I knelt again, thinking I would just pile up a 
few deer on that moss-covered rock while I was 
at it. The dogs were still running, and the deer 
came up at the same spot as the other, but 
swung over a little, got behind two pine trees, 
and stopped to look back toward the sound of 
the dogs. I could see not a bit of it but one 
ear and part of its nose; I wondered why Clate 
did not shoot it—it was in plain sight to him, and 
I had two tree trunks to get around. I waited 
as long as I could stand it, and then let go at 
the waving ear. Well, the way that animal faded 
away into the distance was astounding. I shot 
after it, but the bullet never caught up. 

Friday, Nov. 10.—I had an engagement to hunt 
the north side early with Alf. He had not killed 
a deer yet, and consequently was not allowed to 
shave. He was going out of the bush next 
morning and wanted to slick up some, but the 
are inexorable. Jesse went down to 
Sturgeon Bay to make arrangements for trans- 
portation to Point Aux Baril for himself, 
Alf, Fred Storms and Mart. He made 
the arrangements all right, but forgot the way 
home. Charlie Annis was out looking for the big 
dogs and found him about two miles off the 
trail, quarreling with his compass. Moral of the 
bush—“Do not fight: with your compass.” Alf 
and I came back to camp after an unsuccessful 
still-hunt in time to join the party with the small 
dogs going in on the south side. 
We took our stand near where my deer was , 
hung up. We had hardly got settled, when a 
small doe came along out of the slough, and I 
got it. With some help from Alf, I carried this 
deer a few feet and had it swung from the same 
tree the other was on. This was evidently my 
spot. Nothing else came our way and we moved 
along. Alf had a try at two deer, but the shoot- 
ing was not open and he scored two blanks. We 
had hunted carefully and hard from daylight 
until dark, in the endeavor of getting some game 
in Alf’s way, but the hunting gods were not with 
him, although every one in camp was working 
his rabbit’s foot for his success. Alf left next 
without the satisfaction of having 
downed big game, but he is firmly convinced that 
he will put the kibosh on to a whole lot next 
season. That night we enjoyed “the kind of 
tiredness that makes you want to spread, like 
molasses on country bread, and jest drip off those 
dreams that never come again.” 
The next morning, the party going out loaded 
one boat and one canoe with their dunnage and 



VY 
Vy 
i 
tents, and when the five men were all on board, 
there was barely enough side showing to make 
navigation safe. The packing up and breaking 
up of the party, took the edge off the hunters 
who remained. The day was spent in making 
short trips in quest of the two small hounds, Jack 
and Fide, who had followed the example set by 
the big fellows, and failed to come in the night 
before. The men going out, picked up the strays 
at Sucker Creek camp, five miles southwest, and 
took them home with them. Camp was rather 
lonesome that Saturday night, but the sleeping 
was still good. 
Sunday Morning, Nov. 12.—After eating 
venison steak and buckwheat cakes to the limit, 
and figuring the wind and clouds for signs of 
hunting weather for the morrow, the Master of 
the Hunt, Sam, discovered that the supply of coal 
oil, salt, baking powder and salt pork was run- 
ning low. Clate and I agreed to go to the lumber 
camp for the supplies. We took a canoe and 
stopped at the Aurora camp on the way up, and 
took pictures of their string of game, which in- 
cluded a three-year-old bull moose, and arrived 
at Mr. Bolanger’s headquarters at 11 o’clock. 
The boss was away in the bush, and while we 
waited, we took various views of the outfit—the 
stables, bunk house, cook house and the interior 
of the cook house with the serious-looking Indian 
cook and his wife in the background. The boss 
did not show up, and dinner was announced, and 
we were invited, yes urged insistently, to sit and 
eat. We made a feeble protest while walking 
toward the table. I had a fine seat at the head 
of one of the tables, and if those fellows attend 
to their knitting in the bush as they did in the 
mess shack, Bolanger is going to have a big run 
of logs on the spring drive. We had boiled beef, 
a quart of tea a piece in a pan, beans, currant 
pudding, biscuit and cake. Every once in awhile, 
one of the lumber jacks would get up and leave the 
table. I did not pay any attention to this, until 
I happened to look about, and found that only one 
man beside Clate and myself remained. He was 
a red-whiskered, red-cheeked picture-of-health 
fellow, and finally he heaved a sigh and resigned. 
We were champions, having eaten down a lumber 
camp, There is some glory in that and La Valley. 
The cook told Clate on the side that the last 
man to leave the table before we did, was con- 
sidered a feeder of no mean dimensions. We 
bought our supplies from the clerk and paddled 
home against a head wind; all conversation was 
cut out; it took all our puff to keep moving 
against the breeze. 
Nov. 13.—As Plupy Shupe says, “brite and 
fare’ it did not last. We had only fairly. got 
started in when it came on to snow with a change 
of wind. The weather turned cold, and a gale 
blew up, very suddenly. I had not anticipated 
a cold snap and was not dressed for it. Decid- 
ing to go back to camp, I told Clate, and started; 
went about twenty yards when he called me, and 
told me I was going directly away from camp, 
and when I looked at my compass, I fully agreed 
with him. It is a very simple feat to get com- 
pletely lost in this bush, in broad daylight and 
a snow storm, shifting winds and no sun _ will 
help change your course most effectually. 
After making such a fluky start, I was not 
anxious to try for the lake alone, and decided 
to stay and shiver. Clate found a narrow rift in 
the ridge, gathered some birch and deadwood, 
and started a little Indian fire, and we sat up 
close and got warm. In the course of forty of 
fifty minutes, the storm blew itself out and we 
left for camp. On the way a doe started up near 
us and blew a note of alarm. Clate shot twice 
at the noise; being unable to see the deer for 
dense growth of tamarack, and believing in the 
philosophy that, “The load in the gun _ never 
killed any game,” he blazed away. In fact, 
