[Illustration: THE SHADES OF SHERWOOD FOREST]

HUNTING with the

BOW & ARROW

By

Saxton Pope

With 48 Illustrations

 * * * * *

DEDICATED

TO

ROBIN HOOD

A SPIRIT THAT AT SOME TIME DWELLS IN

THE HEART OF EVERY YOUTH

CONTENTS

I. --THE STORY OF THE LAST YANA INDIAN. 

II. --ISHI'S BOW AND ARROW. 

III. --ISHI'S METHODS OF HUNTING. 

IV. --ARCHERY IN GENERAL. 

V. --HOW TO MAKE A BOW. 

VI. --HOW TO MAKE AN ARROW. 

VII. --ARCHERY EQUIPMENT. 

VIII. --HOW TO SHOOT. 

IX. --THE PRINCIPLES OF HUNTING. 

X. --THE RACCOON, WILDCAT, FOX, COON, CAT, AND WOLF. 

XI. --DEER HUNTING. 

XII. --BEAR HUNTING. 

XIII. --MOUNTAIN LIONS. 

XIV. --GRIZZLY BEAR. 

XV. --ALASKAN ADVENTURES. 

 A CHAPTER OF ENCOURAGEMENT BY STEWART EDWARD WHITE. 

 THE UPSHOT. 

ILLUSTRATIONS

THE SHADES OF SHERWOOD FOREST

A DEATH MASK OF ISHI

ISHI AND APPERSON

CALLING GAME IN AMBUSH

THE INDIAN'S FAVORITE SHOOTING POSITION

CHOPPING OUT A JUNIPER BOW

OUR CARAVAN LEAVING DEER CREEK CANYON

ISHI FLAKING AN OBSIDIAN ARROW HEAD

THE INDIAN AND A DEER

THREE TYPES OF HUNTING ARROWS

A BLUNT ARROW SHOT THROUGH AN INCH BOARD

"BRER" FOX UP A TREE

ART YOUNG SHOOTS FISH

DETAILS OF BOW CONSTRUCTION

SEVERAL STEPS IN ARROW MAKING

ARROW HEADS OF VARIOUS SORTS USED IN HUNTING

NECESSARY ARCHERY EQUIPMENT

AN ARCHER'S MEASURE, A FISTMELE

THE ENGLISH METHOD OF DRAWING THE ARROW

NOCKING THE SHAFT ON THE STRING

THE LONG BOW FULL DRAWN

WILL AND MAURICE THOMPSON, AS THEY APPEARED IN 1878

SHOOTING BRUSH RABBITS

ARCHERS IN AMBUSH

ISHI RIDING A HORSE FOR THE FIRST TIME

A REST AT NOON

A LYNX THAT MET AN ARCHER

THE CHIEF LOOKING OVER GOOD DEER COUNTRY

MR. COON BROUGHT INTO CAMP

A PRETTY PAIR OF WINGS

JUST A LITTLE HUNT BEFORE BREAKFAST

YOUNG AND COMPTON WITH A QUAIL APIECE

WOODCHUCKS GALORE!

PORCUPINE QUILLS TO DECORATE A QUIVER

A FATAL ARROW AT 65 YARDS

THE CHIEF AND ART GET A BUCK AT 85 YARDS

TOM MURPHY WITH HIS TWO BEST DOGS, BUTTON AND BALDY

YOUNG AND I ARE VERY PROUD OF OUR MAIDEN BEAR

ARTHUR YOUNG AND HIS COUGAR

OUR FIRST MOUNTAIN LION

WE PACK THE PANTHER TO CAMP

CAMP AT SQUAW LAKE, WYOMING

THE RESULT OF OUR FIRST ENCOUNTER WITH GRIZZLY BEAR

BRINGING HOME THE TROPHIES

LOOKING FOR GRIZZLIES ON CUB CREEK

THE TREE THAT NED FROST CLIMBED TO ESCAPE DEATH

MY FEMALE GRIZZLY AND THE ARROW THAT KILLED HER

ARTHUR YOUNG SLAYS THE MONARCH OF THE MOUNTAINS

BULL MOOSE BAGGED ON THE KENAI PENINSULA

THE GREAT KADIAC BEAR BROUGHT LOW

ARTHUR YOUNG OUTWITS THE ALASKA BIGHORN

 * * * * *

Hunting with the Bow and Arrow

I

THE STORY OF THE LAST YANA INDIAN

The glory and romance of archery culminated in England before thediscovery of America. There, no doubt, the bow was used to its greatestperfection, and it decided the fate of nations. The crossbow and thematchlock had supplanted the longbow when Columbus sailed for the NewWorld. 

It was, therefore, a distinct surprise to the first explorers ofAmerica that the natives used the bow and arrow so effectively. Infact, the sword and the horse, combined with the white man'ssuperlative self-assurance, won the contest over the aborigines morethan the primitive blunderbuss of the times. The bow and arrow wasstill more deadly than the gun. 

With the gradual extermination of the American Indian, the westwardmarch of civilization, and the improvement in firearms, this contestbecame more and more unequal, and the bow disappeared from the land. The last primitive Indian archer was discovered in California in theyear 1911. 

When the white pioneers of California descended through the northernpart of that State by the Lassen trail, they met with a tribe ofIndians known as the Yana, or Yahi. That is the name they calledthemselves. Their neighbors called them the Nozi, and the white mencalled them the Deer Creek or Mill Creek Indians. Different from theother tribes of this territory, the Yana would not submit without astruggle to the white man's conquest of their lands. 

The Yana were hunters and warriors. The usual California natives wereyellow in color, fat and inclined to be peaceable. The Yana weresmaller of stature, lithe, of reddish bronze complexion, and instead ofbeing diggers of roots, they lived by the salmon spear and the bow. Their range extended over an area south of Mount Lassen, east of theSacramento River, for a distance of fifty miles. 

From the earliest settlement of the whites, hostilities existed betweenthem. This resulted in definitely organized expeditions against theseIndians, and the annual slaughter of hundreds. 

The last big round-up of Mill Creek Indians occurred in 1872, whentheir tribe was surprised at its seasonal harvest of acorns. Upon thisoccasion a posse of whites killed such a number of natives that it issaid the creek was damned with dead bodies. An accurate account ofthese days may be obtained from Watterman's paper on the Yana Indians. [1][Footnote 1: Vol. 13, No. 2, _Am. Archaeology and Ethnology_. ]

During one of the final raids upon the Yana, a little band of Indianwomen and children hid in a cave. Here they were discovered andmurdered in cold blood. One of the white scouting party laconicallystated that he used his revolver to blow out their brains because therifle spattered up the cave too much. 

So it came to pass, that from two or three thousand people, the Yanawere reduced to less than a dozen who escaped extermination. These weremainly women, old men and children. This tribal remnant sought therefuge of the impenetrable brush and volcanic rocks of Deer CreekCanyon. Here they lived by stealth and cunning. Like wild creatures, they kept from sight until the whites quite forgot their existence. 

It became almost a legend that wild Indians lived in the Mount Lassendistrict. From time to time ranchers or sheep herders reported thattheir flocks had been molested, that signs of Indians had been found orthat arrowheads were discovered in their sheep. But little credence wasgiven these rumors until the year 1908, when an electric power companyundertook to run a survey line across Deer Creek Canyon with the objectof constructing a dam. 

One evening, as a party of linemen stood on a log at the edge of thedeep swift stream debating the best place to ford, a naked Indian roseup before them, giving a savage snarl and brandishing a spear. In aninstant the survey party disbanded, fell from the log, and crossed thestream in record-breaking time. When they stopped to get their breath, the Indian had disappeared. This was the first appearance of Ishi, [2][Footnote 2: Ishi is pronounced "E-she. "] the Yana. 

Next morning an exploring expedition set out to verify the excitedreport of the night before. The popular opinion was that no suchwildman existed, and that the linemen had been seeing things. One ofthe group offered to bet that no signs of Indians would be found. 

As the explorers reached the slide of volcanic boulders where theapparition of the day before had disappeared, two arrows flew pastthem. They made a run for the top of the slide and reached it just intime to see two Indians vanish in the brush. They left behind them anold white-haired squaw, whom they had been carrying. She was partiallyparalyzed, and her legs were bound in swaths of willow bark, seeminglyin an effort to strengthen them. 

The old squaw was wrinkled with age, her hair was cropped short as asign of mourning, and she trembled with fear. The white men approachedand spoke kindly to her in Spanish. But she seemed not to understandtheir words, and apparently expected only death, for in the past tomeet a white man was to die. They gave her water to drink, and tried tomake her call back her companions, but without avail. 

Further search disclosed two small brush huts hidden among the laureltrees. So cleverly concealed were these structures that one could passwithin a few yards and not discern them. In one of the huts acorns anddried salmon had been stored; the other was their habitation. There wasa small hearth for indoor cooking; bows, arrows, fishing tackle, a fewaboriginal utensils and a fur robe were found. These were confiscatedin the white man's characteristic manner. They then left the place andreturned to camp. 

Next day the party revisited the site, hoping to find the rest of theIndians. These, however, had gone forever. 

Nothing more was seen or heard of this little band until the year 1911, when on the outskirts of Oroville, some thirty-two miles from the DeerCreek camp, a lone survivor appeared. Early in the morning, brought tobay by a barking dog, huddled in the corner of a corral, was anemaciated naked Indian. So strange was his appearance and so alarmedwas the butcher's boy who found him, that a hasty call for the townconstable brought out an armed force to capture him. 

Confronted with guns, pistols, and handcuffs, the poor man was sickwith fear. He was taken to the city jail and locked up for safekeeping. There he awaited death. For years he had believed that to fall into thehands of white men meant death. All his people had been killed bywhites; no other result could happen. So he waited in fear andtrembling. They brought him food, but he would not eat; water, but hewould not drink. They asked him questions, but he could not speak. Withthe simplicity of the white man, they brought him other Indians ofvarious tribes, thinking that surely all "Diggers" were the same. Buttheir language was as strange to him as Chinese or Greek. 

And so they thought him crazy. His hair was burnt short, his feet hadnever worn shoes, he had small bits of wood in his nose and ears; heneither ate, drank, nor slept. He was indeed wild or insane. 

By this time the news of the wild Indian got into the city papers, andProfessor T. T. Watterman, of the Department of Anthropology at theUniversity of California, was sent to investigate the case. Hejourneyed to Oroville and was brought into the presence of this strangeIndian. Having knowledge of many native dialects, Dr. Watterman triedone after the other on the prisoner. Through good fortune, some of theYana vocabulary had been preserved in the records of the University. Venturing upon this lost language, Watterman spoke in Yana the words, _Siwini_, which means pine wood, tapping at the same time the edge ofthe cot on which they sat. 

In wonderment, the Indian's face lighted with faint recognition. Watterman repeated the charm, and like a spell the man changed from acowering, trembling savage. A furtive smile came across his face. Hesaid in his language, _I nu ma Yaki_--"Are you an Indian?" Wattermanassured him that he was. 

A great sense of relief entered the situation. Watterman had discoveredone of the lost tribes of California; Ishi had discovered a friend. 

They clothed him and fed him, and he learned that the white man wasgood. 

Since no formal charges were lodged against the Indian, and he seemedto have no objection, Watterman took him to San Francisco, and there, attached to the Museum of Anthropology, he became a subject of studyand lived happily for five years. 

From him it was learned that his people were all dead. The old womanseen in the Deer Creek episode was his mother; the old man was hisuncle. These died on a long journey to Mt. Lassen, soon after theirdiscovery. Here he had burned their bodies and gone into mourning. Thefact that the white men took their means of procuring food, as well astheir clothing, contributed, no doubt, to the death of the olderpeople. 

Half starved and hopeless, he had wandered into civilization. Hisfather, once the chieftain of the Yana tribe, having domain over allthe country immediately south of Mt. Lassen, was long since gone, andwith him all his people. Ranchers and stockmen had usurped theircountry, spoiled the fishing, and driven off the game. The acorn treesof the valleys had been taken from them; nothing remained but evilspirits in the land of his forefathers. 

Now, however, he had found kindly people who fed him, clothed him, andtaught him the mysteries of civilization. When asked his name, he said:"I have none, because there were no people to name me, " meaning that notribal ceremony had been performed. But the old people had called himIshi, which means "strong and straight one, " for he was the youth oftheir camp. He had learned to make fire with sticks; he knew the lostart of chipping arrowheads from flint and obsidian; he was thefisherman and the hunter. He knew nothing of our modern life. He had noname for iron, nor cloth, nor horse, nor road. He was as primitive asthe aborigines of the pre-Columbian period. In fact, he was a man inthe Stone Age. He was absolutely untouched by civilization. In himscience had a rare find. He turned back the pages of history countlesscenturies. And so they studied him, and he studied them. 

From him they learned little of his personal history and less of thatof his family, because an Indian considers it unbecoming to speak muchof his own life, and it brings ill luck to speak of the dead. He couldnot pronounce the name of his father without calling him from the landof spirits, and this he could only do for some very important reason. But he knew the full history of his tribe and their destruction. 

His apparent age was about forty years, yet he undoubtedly was nearersixty. Because of his simple life he was in physical prime, mentallyalert, and strong in body. 

He was about five feet eight inches tall, well proportioned, hadbeautiful hands and unspoiled feet. 

His features were less aquiline than those of the Plains Indian, yetstrongly marked outlines, high cheek bones, large intelligent eyes, straight black hair, and fine teeth made him good to look upon. 

As an artisan he was very skilful and ingenious. Accustomed toprimitive tools of stone and bone, he soon learned to use most expertlythe knife, file, saw, vise, hammer, ax, and other modern implements. 

Although he marveled at many of our inventions and appreciated matches, he took great pride in his ability to make fire with two sticks ofbuckeye. This he could do in less than two minutes by twirling one onthe other. 

About this time I became an instructor in surgery at the UniversityMedical School, which is situated next to the Museum. Ishi was employedhere in a small way as a janitor to teach him modern industry and thevalue of money. He was perfectly happy and a great favorite witheverybody. 

From his earliest experience with our community life he manifestedlittle immunity to disease. He contracted all the epidemic infectionswith which he was brought in contact. He lived a very hygienicexistence, having excellent food and sleeping outdoors, but still hewas often sick. Because of this I came in touch with him as hisphysician in the hospital, and soon learned to admire him for the finequalities of his nature. 

[Illustration: A DEATH MASK OF ISHI, THE LAST YANA INDIAN]

Though very reserved, he was kindly, honest, cleanly, and trustworthy. More than this, he had a superior philosophy of life, and a high moralstandard. 

By degrees I learned to speak his dialect, and spent many hours in hiscompany. He told us the folk lore of his tribe. More than forty mythsor animal stories of his have been recorded and preserved. They are asinteresting as the stories of Uncle Remus. The escapades of wildcat, the lion, the grizzly bear, the bluejay, the lizard, and the coyote areas full of excitement and comedy as any fairy story. 

He knew the history and use of everything in the outdoor world. Hespoke the language of the animals. He taught me to make bows andarrows, how to shoot them, and how to hunt, Indian fashion. He was awonderful companion in the woods, and many days and nights we journeyedtogether. 

After he had been with us three years we took him back to his owncountry. But he did not want to stay. He liked the ways of the whiteman, and his own land was full of the spirits of the departed. 

He showed us old forgotten camp sites where past chieftains made theirvillages. He took us to deer licks and ambushes used by his people longago. One day in passing the base of a great rock he scratched with histoe and dug up the bones of a bear's paw. Here, in years past, they hadkilled and roasted a bear. This was the camp of _Ya mo lo ku_. His owncamp was called _Wowomopono Tetna_ or bear wallow. 

We swam the streams together, hunted deer and small game, and at nightsat under the stars by the camp fire, where in a simple way we talkedof old heroes, the worlds above us, and his theories of the life tocome in the land of plenty, where the bounding deer and the mighty bearmet the hunter with his strong bow and swift arrows. 

I learned to love Ishi as a brother, and he looked upon me as one ofhis people. He called me _Ku wi_, or Medicine Man; more, perhaps, because I could perform little sleight of hand tricks, than because ofmy profession. 

But, in spite of the fact that he was happy and surrounded by the mostadvanced material culture, he sickened and died. Unprotected byhereditary or acquired immunity, he contracted tuberculosis and fadedaway before our eyes. Because he had no natural resistance, he receivedno benefit from such hygienic measures as serve to arrest the diseasein the Caucasian. We did everything possible for him, and nursed him tothe painful bitter end. 

When his malady was discovered, plans were made to take him back to themountains whence he came and there have him cared for properly. Wehoped that by this return to his natural elements he would recover. Butfrom the inception of his disease he failed so rapidly that he was notstrong enough to travel. 

Consumed with fever and unable to eat nourishing food, he seemed doomedfrom the first. After months of misery he suddenly developed atremendous pulmonary hemorrhage. I was with him at the time, directedhis medication, and gently stroked his hand as a small sign offellowship and sympathy. He did not care for marked demonstrations ofany sort. 

He was a stoic, unafraid, and died in the faith of his people. 

As an Indian should go, so we sent him on his long journey to the landof shadows. By his side we placed his fire sticks, ten pieces ofdentalia or Indian money, a small bag of acorn meal, a bit of driedvenison, some tobacco, and his bow and arrows. 

These were cremated with him and the ashes placed in an earthen jar. Onit is inscribed "Ishi, the last Yana Indian, 1916. "

And so departed the last wild Indian of America. With him the neolithicepoch terminates. He closes a chapter in history. He looked upon us assophisticated children--smart, but not wise. We knew many things andmuch that is false. He knew nature, which is always true. His were thequalities of character that last forever. He was essentially kind; hehad courage and self-restraint, and though all had been taken from him, there was no bitterness in his heart. His soul was that of a child, hismind that of a philosopher. 

With him there was no word for good-by. He said: "You stay, I go. "

He has gone and he hunts with his people. We stay, and he has left usthe heritage of the bow. 

II

HOW ISHI MADE HIS BOW AND ARROW AND HIS METHODS OF SHOOTING

Although much has been written in history and fiction concerning thearchery of the North American Indian, strange to say, very little hasbeen recorded of the methods of manufacture of their weapons, and lessin accurate records of their shooting. 

It is a great privilege to have lived with an unspoiled aborigine andseen him step by step construct the most perfect type of bow and arrow. 

The workmanship of Ishi was by far the best of any Indian in America;compared with thousands of specimens in the museum, his arrows were themost carefully and beautifully made; his bow was the best. 

It would take too much time to go into the minute details of his work, and this has all been recorded in anthropologic records, [1][Footnote 1: See _Yahi Archery_, Vol. 13, No. 3, _Am. Archaeology andEthnology_. ]but the outlines of his methods are as follows:

The bow, Ishi called _man-nee_. It was a short, flat piece of mountainjuniper backed with sinew. The length was forty-two inches, or, as hemeasured it, from the horizontally extended hand to the opposite hip. It was broadest at the center of each limb, approximately two inches, and half an inch thick. The cross-section of this part was elliptical. At the center of the bow the handgrip was about an inch and a quarterwide by three-quarters thick, a cross-section being ovoid. At the tipsit was curved gently backward and measured at the nocks three-quartersby one-half an inch. The nock itself was square shouldered andterminated in a pin half an inch in diameter and an inch long. 

The wood was obtained by splitting a limb from a tree and utilizing theouter layers, including the sap wood. By scraping and rubbing onsandstone, he shaped and finished it. The recurved tips of the bow hemade by bending the wood backward over a heated stone. Held in shape bycords and binding to another piece of wood, he let his bow season in adark, dry place. Here it remained from a few months to years, accordingto his needs. After being seasoned he backed it with sinew. First hemade a glue by boiling salmon skin and applying it to the roughenedback of the bow. When it was dry he laid on long strips of deer sinewobtained from the leg tendons. By chewing these tendons and separatingtheir fibers, they became soft and adhesive. Carefully overlapping theends of the numerous fibers he covered the entire back very thickly. Atthe nocks he surrounded the wood completely and added a circularbinding about the bow. 

During the process of drying he bound the sinew tightly to the bow withlong, thin strips of willow bark. After several days he removed thisbandage and smoothed off the edges of the dry sinew, sized the surfacewith more glue and rubbed everything smooth with sandstone. Then hebound the handgrip for a space of four inches with a narrow buckskinthong. 

In his native state he seems never to have greased his bow norprotected it from moisture, except by his bow case, which was made ofthe skin from a cougar's tail. But while with us he used shellac toprotect the glue and wood. Other savages use buck fat or bear grease. 

The bowstring he made of the finer tendons from the deer's shank. Thesehe chewed until soft, then twisted them tightly into a cord having apermanent loop at one end and a buckskin strand at the other. While wetthe string was tied between two twigs and rubbed smooth with spittle. Its diameter was one-eighth of an inch, its length about forty-eightinches. When dry the loop was applied to the upper nock of his bowwhile he bent the bow over his knee and wound the opposite end of thestring about the lower nock. The buckskin thong terminating thisportion of the string made it easier to tie in several half hitches. 

When braced properly the bowstring was about five inches from the bellyof the bow. And when not in use and unstrung the upper loop was slippedentirely off the nock, but held from falling away from the bow by asecond small loop of buckskin. 

Drawn to the full length of an arrow, which was about twenty-sixinches, exclusive of the foreshaft, his bow bent in a perfect arcslightly flattened at the handle. Its pull was about forty-five pounds, and it could shoot an arrow about two hundred yards. 

This is not the most powerful type of weapon known to Indians, and evenIshi did make stronger bows when he pleased; but this seemed to be theideal weight for hunting, and it certainly was adequate in his hands. 

According to English standards, it was very short; but for hunting inthe brush and shooting from crouched postures, it seems better fittedfor the work than a longer weapon. 

According to Ishi, a bow left strung or standing in an uprightposition, gets tired and sweats. When not in use it should be lyingdown; no one should step over it; no child should handle it, and nowoman should touch it. This brings bad luck and makes it shoot crooked. To expunge such an influence it is necessary to wash the bow in sandand water. 

In his judgment, a good bow made a musical note when strung and thestring is tapped with the arrow. This was man's first harp, the greatgrandfather of the pianoforte. 

By placing one end of his bow at the corner of his open mouth andtapping the string with an arrow, the Yana could make sweet music. Itsounded like an Aeolian harp. To this accompaniment Ishi sang afolk-song telling of a great warrior whose bow was so strong that, dipping his arrow first in fire, then in the ocean, he shot at the sun. As swift as the wind, his arrow flew straight in the round open door ofthe sun and put out its light. Darkness fell upon the earth and menshivered with cold. To prevent themselves from freezing they grewfeathers, and thus our brothers, the birds, were born. 

Ishi called an arrow _sa wa_. 

In making arrows the first thing is to get the shafts. Ishi used manywoods, but he preferred witch hazel. The long, straight stems of thisshrub he cut in lengths of thirty-two inches, having a diameter ofthree-eighths of an inch at the base when peeled of bark. 

He bound a number of these together and put them away in a shady placeto dry. After a week or more, preferably several months, he selectedthe best shafts and straightened them. This he accomplished by holdingthe concave surface near a small heap of hot embers and when warm heeither pressed his great toe on the opposite side, or he bent the woodbackward on the base of the thumb. Squinting down its axis he lined upthe uneven contours one after the other and laid the shaft aside untila series of five was completed. He made up arrows in lots of five orten, according to the requirements, his fingers being the measure. 

The sticks thus straightened he ran back and forth between two groovedpieces of sandstone or revolved them on his thigh while holding thestones in his hand, until they were smooth and reduced to a diameter ofabout five-sixteenths of an inch. Next they were cut into lengths ofapproximately twenty-six inches. The larger end was now bound with abuckskin thong and drilled out for the depth of an inch and a half toreceive the end of the foreshaft. He drilled this hole by fixing along, sharp bone in the ground between his great toes and revolved theupright shaft between his palms on this fixed point, the buckskinbinding keeping the wood from splitting. 

The foreshaft was made of heavier wood, frequently mountain mahogany. It was the same diameter as the arrow, only tapering a trifle towardthe front end, and usually was about six inches long. This wascarefully shaped into a spindle at the larger end and set in therecently drilled hole of the shaft, using glue or resin for thispurpose. The joint was bound with chewed sinew, set in glue. 

The length of an arrow, over all, was estimated by Ishi in this manner. He placed one end on the top of his breast-bone and held the other endout in his extended left hand. Where it touched the tip of hisforefinger it was cut as the proper length. This was about thirty-twoinches. 

The rear end of his arrow was now notched to receive the bowstring. Hefiled it with a bit of obsidian, or later on, with three hacksaw bladesbound together until he made a groove one-eighth of an inch wide bythree-eighths deep. The opposite end of the shaft was notched in asimilar way to receive the head. The direction of this latter cut wassuch that when the arrow was on the bow the edge of the arrowhead wasperpendicular, for the fancied reason that in this position the arrowwhen shot enters between the ribs of an animal more readily. He did notseem to recognize that an arrow rotates. 

At this stage he painted his shafts. The pigments used in the wildswere red cinnabar, black pigment from the eye of trout, a greenvegetable dye from wild onions, and a blue obtained, he said, from theroot of a plant. These were mixed with the sap or resin of trees andapplied with a little stick or hairs from a fox's tail drawn through aquill. 

His usual design was a series of alternating rings of green and blackstarting two inches from the rear end and running four inches up theshaft. Or he made small circular dots and snaky lines running down theshaft for a similar distance. When with us he used dry colors mixedwith shellac, which he preferred to oil paints because they driedquicker. The painted area, intended for the feathers, is called theshaftment and not only helps in finding lost arrows, but identifies theowner. This entire portion he usually smeared with thin glue or sizing. 

A number of shafts having been similarly prepared, the Indian was readyto feather them. A feather he called _pu nee_. In fledging arrows Ishiused eagle, buzzard, hawk or flicker feathers. Owl feathers Indiansseem to avoid, thinking they bring bad luck. By preference he took themfrom the wings, but did not hesitate to use tail feathers if reduced toit. With us he used turkey pinions. 

Grasping one between the heel of his two palms he carefully separatedthe bristles at the tip of the feather with his fingers and pulled themapart, splitting the quill its entire length. This is called strippinga feather. Taking the wider half he firmly held one end on a rock withhis great toe, and the other end between the thumb and forefinger ofhis left hand. With a piece of obsidian, or later on a knife blade, hescraped away the pith until the rib was thin and flat. 

Having prepared a sufficient number in this way he gathered them ingroups of three, all from similar wings, tied them with a bit of stringand dropped them in a vessel of water. When thoroughly wet and limpthey were ready for use. 

While he chewed up a strand of sinew eight or ten inches long, hepicked up a group of feathers, stripped off the water, removed one, andafter testing its strength, folded the last two inches of bristles downon the rib, and the rest he ruffled backward, thus leaving a free spacefor later binding. He prepared all three like this. 

Picking up an arrow shaft he clamped it between his left arm and chest, holding the rear end above the shaftment in his left hand. Twirling itslowly in this position, he applied one end of the sinew near the nock, fixing it by overlapping. The first movements were accomplished whileholding one extremity of the sinew in his teeth; later, having appliedthe feathers to the stick, he shifted the sinew to the grasp of theright thumb and forefinger. 

One by one he laid the feathers in position, binding down the last twoinches of stem and the wet barbs together. The first feather he appliedon a line perpendicular to the plane of the nock; the two others wereequidistant from this. For the space of an inch he lapped the sinewabout the feathers and arrow-shaft, slowly rotating it all the while, atlast smoothing the binding with his thumb nail. 

The rear ends having been lashed in position, the arrow was set asideto dry while the rest were prepared. 

Five or ten having reached this stage and the binding being dry andsecure, he took one again between his left arm and chest, and with hisright hand drew all the feathers straight and taut, down the shaft. Here he held them with the fingers of his left hand. Having marked asimilar place on each arrow where the sinew was to go, he cut thebristles off the rib. At this point he started binding with anotherpiece of wet sinew. After a few turns he drew the feathers taut againand cut them, leaving about a half inch of rib. This he bound downcompletely to the arrow-shaft and finished all by smoothing the wetlapping with his thumb nail. 

The space between the rib and the wood he sometimes smeared with moreglue to cause the feather to adhere to the shaft, but this was not theusual custom with him. After all was dry and firm, Ishi took the arrowand beat it gently across his palm so that the feathers spread outnicely. 

As a rule the length of his feathers was four inches, though onceremonial arrows they often were as long as eight inches. 

After drying, the feathers were cut with a sharp piece of obsidian, using a straight stick as a guide and laying the arrow on a flat pieceof wood. When with us he trimmed them with scissors, making a straightcut from the full width of the feather in back, to the height of aquarter of an inch at the forward extremity. On his arrows he left thenatural curve of the feather at the nock, and while the rear bindingstarted an inch or more from the butt of the arrow, the feather droopedover the nock. This gave a pretty effect and seemed to add to thesteering qualities of the missile. 

Two kinds of points were used on Ishi's arrows. One was the simpleblunt end of the shaft bound with sinew used for killing small game andpractice shots. The other was his hunting head, made of flint orobsidian. He preferred the latter. 

Obsidian was used as money among the natives of California. A boulderof this volcanic glass was packed from some mountainous districts andpieces were cracked off and exchanged for dried fish, venison, orweapons. It was a medium of barter. Although all men were more or lessexpert in flaking arrowheads and knives, the better grades of bows, arrows, and arrow points were made by the older, more expertspecialists of the tribe. 

Ishi often referred to one old Indian, named _Chu no wa yahi_, wholived at the base of a great cliff with his crazy wife. This man ownedan ax, and thus was famous for his possessions as well as his skill asa maker of bows. From a distant mountain crest one day Ishi pointed outto me the camp of this Indian who was long since dead. If ever Ishiwished to refer to a hero of the bow, or having been beaten in a shot, he always told us what _Chu no wa yahi_ could have done. 

To make arrowheads properly one should smear his face with mud and sitout in the hot sun in a quiet secluded spot. The mud is a precautionagainst harm from the flying chips of glass, possibly also a good luckritual. If by chance a bit of glass should fly in the eye, Ishi'smethod of surgical relief was to hold his lower lid wide open with onefinger while he slapped himself violently on the head with the otherhand. I am inclined to ascribe the process of removal more to thehydraulic effect of the tears thus started than to the mechanical jarof the treatment. 

He began this work by taking one chunk of obsidian and throwing itagainst another; several small pieces were thus shattered off. One ofthese, approximately three inches long, two inches wide and half aninch thick, was selected as suitable for an arrowhead, or _haka_. Protecting the palm of his left hand by a piece of thick buckskin, Ishiplaced a piece of obsidian flat upon it, holding it firmly with hisfingers folded over it. 

In his right hand he held a short stick on the end of which was lasheda sharp piece of deer horn. Grasping the horn firmly while the longerextremity lay beneath his forearm, he pressed the point of the hornagainst the edge of the obsidian. Without jar or blow, a flake of glassflew off, as large as a fish scale. Repeating this process at variousspots on the intended head, turning it from side to side, firstreducing one face, then the other, he soon had a symmetrical point. Inhalf an hour he could make the most graceful and perfectly proportionedarrowhead imaginable. The little notches fashioned to hold the sinewbinding below the barbs he shaped with a smaller piece of bone, whilethe arrowhead was held on the ball of his thumb. 

Flint, plate glass, old bottle glass, onyx--all could be worked withequal facility. Beautiful heads were fashioned from blue bottles andbeer bottles. 

The general size of these points was two inches for length, seven-eighths for width, and one-eighth for thickness. Larger headswere used for war and smaller ones for shooting bears. 

Such a head, of course, was easily broken if the archer missed hisshot. This made him very careful about the whole affair of shooting. 

When ready for use, these heads were set on the end of the shaft withheated resin and bound in place with sinew which encircled the end ofthe arrow and crossed diagonally through the barb notches with manyrecurrences. 

Such a point has better cutting qualities in animal tissue than hassteel. The latter is, of course, more durable. After enteringcivilization, Ishi preferred to use iron or steel blades of the samegeneral shape, or having a short tang for insertion in the arrowhead. 

Ishi carried anywhere from five to sixty arrows in a quiver made ofotter skin which hung suspended by a loop of buckskin over his leftshoulder. 

His method of bracing or stringing the bow was as follows: Grasping itwith his right hand at its center, with the belly toward him, and thelower end on his right thigh, he held the upper end with his left handwhile the loop of the string rested between his finger and thumb. Bypressing downward at the handle and pulling upward with the left handhe so sprung the bow that the loop of the cord could be slipped overthe upper nock. 

[Illustration: ISHI AND APPERSON, THE GUIDE, ONCE OLD ENEMIES, NOWFRIENDS]

[Illustration: CALLING GAME IN AMBUSH]

[Illustration: THE INDIAN'S FAVORITE SHOOTING POSITION]

[Illustration: CHOPPING OUT A JUNIPER BOW]

In nocking his arrow, the bow was held diagonally across the body, itsupper end pointing to the left. It was held lightly in the palm of theleft hand so that it rested loosely in the notch of the thumb while thefingers partially surrounded the handle. Taking an arrow from hisquiver, he laid it across the bow on its right side where it laybetween the extended fingers of his left hand. He gently slid the arrowforward until the nock slipped over the string at its center. Here heset it properly in place and put his right thumb under the string, hooked upward ready to pull. At the same time he flexed his forefingeragainst the side of the arrow, and the second finger was placed on thethumb nail to strengthen the pull. 

Thus he accomplished what is known as the Mongolian release. 

Only a few nations ever used this type of arrow release, and the Yanaseem to have been the only American natives to do so. [2][Footnote 2: See Morse on _Arrow Release_. ]

To draw his bow he extended his left arm. At the same time he pulledhis right hand toward him. The bow arm was almost in front of him, while his right hand drew to the top of his breast bone. With both eyesopen he sighted along his shaft and estimated the elevation accordingto the distance to be shot. 

He released firmly and without change of position until the arrow hit. He preferred to shoot kneeling or squatting, for this was mostfavorable for getting game. 

His shooting distances were from ten yards up to fifty. Past this rangehe did not think one should shoot, but sought rather to approach hisgame more closely. 

In his native state he practiced shooting at little oak balls, orbundles of grass bound to represent rabbits, or little hoops of willowrolled along the ground. Like all other archers, if Ishi missed a shothe always had a good excuse. There was too much wind, or the arrow wascrooked, or the bow had lost its cast, or, as a last resource, thecoyote doctor bewitched him, which is the same thing we mean when wesay it is just bad luck. While with us he shot at the regulation strawtarget, and he is the first and only Indian of whose shooting anyaccurate records have been made. 

Many exaggerated reports exist concerning the accuracy of the shootingof American Indians; but here we have one who shot ever sincechildhood, who lived by hunting, and must have been as good, if notbetter, than the average. 

He taught us to shoot Indian style at first, but later we learned theold English methods and found them superior to the Indian. At the endof three months' practice, Dr. J. V. Cooke and I could shoot as well asIshi at targets, but he could surpass us at game shooting. 

Ishi never thought very much of our long bows. He always said, "Toomuch _man-nee_. " And he always insisted that arrows should be paintedred and green. 

But when we began beating him at targets, he took all his shafts homeand scraped the paint off them, putting back rings of blue and yellow, doubtless to change his luck. In spite of our apparent superiority atsome forms of shooting, he never changed his methods to meetcompetition. We, of course, did not want him to. 

Small objects the size of a quail the Indian could hit with regularityup to twenty yards. And I have seen him kill ground squirrels at fortyyards; yet at the same distances he might miss a four-foot target. Heexplained this by saying that the target was too large and the brightcolored rings diverted the attention. He was right. 

There is a regular system of shooting in archery competition. InAmerica there is what is known as the American Round, which consists ofshooting thirty arrows at each of the following distances: sixty, fifty, and forty yards. The bull's-eye on the target is a trifle overnine inches and is surrounded by four rings of half this diameter. Their value is 9, 7, 5, 3, 1, successively counting from the centeroutward. The target itself is constructed of straw, bound in the formof a mat four feet in diameter, covered with a canvas facing. 

Counting the hits and scores on the various distances, a good archerwill make the following record. Here is Arthur Young's best score:

March 25, 1917. 

At 60 yards 30 hits 190 score 11 golds 50 yards 30 hits 198 score 9 golds 40 yards 30 hits 238 score 17 golds

 Total 90 hits 626 score 37 golds

This is one of the best scores made by American archers. 

Ishi's best record is as follows:

October 23, 1914. 

At 60 yards 10 hits 32 score 50 yards 20 hits 92 score 2 golds 40 yards 19 hits 99 score 2 golds

 Total 49 hits 223 score 4 golds

His next best score was this:

At 60 yards 13 hits 51 score 50 yards 17 hits 59 score 40 yards 22 hits 95 score

 Total 52 hits 205 score

My own best practice American round is as follows:

May 22, 1917. 

At 60 yards 29 hits 157 score 50 yards 29 hits 185 score 40 yards 30 hits 196 score

 Total 88 hits 538 score

Anything over 500 is considered good shooting. 

It will be seen from this that the Indian was not a good target shot, but in field shooting and getting game, probably he could excel thewhite man. 

III

ISHI'S METHODS OF HUNTING

Hunting with Ishi was pure joy. Bow in hand, he seemed to betransformed into a being light as air and as silent as falling snow. From the very first we went on little expeditions into the countrywhere, without appearing to instruct, he was my teacher in the old, oldart of the chase. I followed him into a new system of getting game. Weshot rabbits, quail, and squirrels with the bow. His methods here werenot so well defined as in the approach to larger game, but I was struckfrom the first by his noiseless step, his slow movements, his use ofcover. These little animals are flushed by sound and sight, not scent. Another prominent feature of Ishi's work in the field was hisindefatigable persistence. He never gave up when he knew a rabbit wasin a clump of brush. Time meant nothing to him; he simply stayed untilhe got his game. He would watch a squirrel hole for an hour ifnecessary, but he always got the squirrel. 

He made great use of the game call. We all know of duck and turkeycalls, but when he told me that he lured rabbits, tree squirrels, wildcats, coyote, and bear to him, I thought he was romancing. Goingalong the trail, he would stop and say, "_Ineja teway--bjum--metchi biwi_, " or "This is good rabbit ground. " Then crouching behind a suitablebush as a blind, he would place the fingers of his right hand againsthis lips and, going through the act of kissing, he produced a plaintivesqueak similar to that given by a rabbit caught by a hawk or in mortaldistress. This he repeated with heartrending appeals until suddenly oneor two or sometimes three rabbits appeared in the opening. They camefrom distances of a hundred yards or more, hopped forward, stopped andlistened, hopped again, listened, and ultimately came within ten orfifteen yards while Ishi dragged out his squeak in a most patheticmanner. Then he would shoot. 

To test his ability one afternoon while hunting deer, I asked the Yanato try his call in twelve separate locations. From these twelve callswe had five jackrabbits and one wildcat approach us. The cat came outof the forest, cautiously stepped nearer and sat upon a log in a brightopen space not more than fifty yards away while I shot three arrows athim, one after the other; the last clipped him between the ears. 

This call being a cry of distress, rabbits and squirrels come with theidea of protecting their young. They run around in a circle, stamptheir feet, and make great demonstrations of anger, probably as much toattract the attention of the supposed predatory beast and decoy himaway, as anything else. 

The cat, the coyote, and the bear come for no such humane motive; theyare thinking of food, of joining the feast. 

I learned the call myself, not perfectly, but well enough to bringsquirrels down from the topmost branches of tall pines, to have foxesand lynx approach me, and to get rabbits. 

Not only could Ishi call the animals, but he understood their language. Often when we have been hunting he has stopped and said, "The squirrelis scolding a fox. " At first I said to him, "I don't believe you. " Thenhe would say, "Wait! Look!" Hiding behind a tree or rock or bush, in afew minutes we would see a fox trot across the open forest. 

It seemed that for a hawk or cat or man, the squirrel has a differentcall, such that Ishi could say without seeing, what molested his littlebrother. 

Often have we stopped and rested because, so he said, a bluejay calledfar and wide, "Here comes a man!" There was no use going farther, theanimals all knew of our presence. Only a white hunter would advanceunder these circumstances. 

Ishi could smell deer, cougar, and foxes like an animal, and oftendiscovered them first this way. He could imitate the call of quail tosuch an extent that he spoke a half-dozen sentences to them. He knewthe crow of the cock on sentinel duty when he signals to others; heknew the cry of warning, and the run-to-shelter cry of the hen; hercommand to her little ones to fly; and the "lie low" cluck; then atlast the "all's well" chirp. 

Deer he could call in the fawn season by placing a folded leaf betweenhis lips and sucking vigorously. This made a bleat such as a lambgives, or a boy makes blowing on a blade of grass between his thumbs. 

He also enticed deer by means of a stuffed buck's head which he wore asa cap, and bobbing up and down behind bushes excited their curiosityuntil they approached within bow-shot. Ordinarily in hunting deer, theIndian used what is termed the still hunt, but with him it was morethan that. First of all he studied the country for its formation ofhills, ridges, valleys, canyons, brush and timber. He observed thedirection of the prevailing winds, the position of the sun at daybreakand evening. He noted the water holes, game trails, "buck look-outs, "deer beds, the nature of the feeding grounds, the stage of the moon, the presence of salt licks, and many other features of importance. Ifpossible, he located the hiding-place of the old bucks in daytime, allof which every careful hunter does. Next, he observed the habits ofgame, and the presence or absence of predatory beasts that kill deer. 

Having decided these and other questions, he prepared for the hunt. Hewould eat no fish the day before the hunt, and smoke no tobacco, forthese odors are detected a great way off. He rose early, bathed in thecreek, rubbed himself with the aromatic leaves of yerba buena, washedout his mouth, drank water, but ate no food. Dressed in a loin cloth, but without shirt, leggings or moccasins, he set out, bow and quiver athis side. He said that clothing made too much noise in the brush, andnaturally one is more cautious in his movements when reminded by hissensitive hide that he is touching a sharp twig. 

From the very edge of camp, until he returned, he was on the alert forgame, and the one obvious element of his mental attitude was that hesuspected game everywhere. He saw a hundred objects that looked likedeer, to every live animal in reality. He took it for granted that tendeer see you where you see one--so see it first! On the trail, it was acrime to speak. His warning note was a soft, low whistle or a hiss. Ashe walked, he placed every footfall with precise care; the moststealthy step I ever saw; he was used to it; lived by it. For everystep he looked twice. When going over a rise of ground he eitherstooped, crawled or let just his eyes go over the top, then stopped andgazed a long time for the slightest moving twig or spot of color. Ofcourse, he always hunted up wind, unless he were cutting across countryor intended to flush game. 

At sunrise and sunset he tried always to get between the sun and hisgame. He drifted between the trees like a shadow, expectant and nervedfor immediate action. 

Some Indians, covering their heads with tall grass, can creep up ondeer in the open, and rising suddenly to a kneeling posture shoot at adistance of ten or fifteen yards. But Ishi never tried this before me. Having located his quarry, he either shot, at suitable ranges, or madea detour to wait the passing of the game or to approach it from a morefavorable direction. He never used dogs in hunting. 

When a number of people hunted together, Ishi would hide behind a blindat the side of a deer trail and let the others run the deer past. Inhis country we saw old piles of rock covered with lichen and moss thatwere less than twenty yards from well-marked deer trails. Fornumberless years Indians had used these as blinds to secure camp meat. 

In the same necessity, the Indian would lie in wait near licks orsprings to get his food; but he never killed wantonly. 

Although Ishi took me on many deer hunts and we had several shots atdeer, owing to the distance or the fall of the ground or obstructingtrees, we registered nothing better than encouraging misses. He wasundoubtedly hampered by the presence of a novice, and unduly hastenedby the white man's lack of time. His early death prevented our ultimateachievement in this matter, so it was only after he had gone to theHappy Hunting Grounds that I, profiting by his teachings, killed myfirst deer with the bow. 

That he had shot many deer, even since boyhood, there was no doubt. Toprove that he could shoot through one with his arrows, I had himdischarge several at a buck killed by our packer. Shooting at fortyyards, one arrow went through the chest wall, half its length; anotherstruck the spine and fractured it, both being mortal wounds. 

It was the custom of his tribe to hunt until noon, when by that timethey usually had several deer, obtained, as a rule, by the ambushmethod. Having pre-arranged the matter, the women appeared on thescene, cut up the meat, cooked part of it, principally the liver andheart, and they had a feast on the spot. The rest was taken to camp andmade into jerky. 

In skinning animals, the Indian used an obsidian knife held in his handby a piece of buckskin. I found this cut better than the averagehunting knife sold to sportsmen. Often in skinning rabbits he wouldmake a small hole in the skin over the abdomen and blow into this, stripping the integument free from the body and inflating it like afootball, except at the legs. 

In skinning the tail of an animal, he used a split stick to strip itdown, and did it so dextrously that it was a revelation of how easythis otherwise difficult process may be when one knows how. He tannedhis skins in the way customary with most savages: clean skinning, brainemulsion, and plenty of elbow grease. 

[Illustration: OUR CARAVAN LEAVING DEER CREEK CANYON]

[Illustration: ISHI FLAKING AN OBSIDIAN ARROW HEAD]

[Illustration: THE INDIAN AND A DEER]

His people killed bear with the bow and arrow. Ishi made a distinctionbetween grizzly bear, which he called _tet na_, and black bear, whichhe called _bo he_. The former had long claws, could not climb trees, and feared nothing. He was to be let alone. The other was "all samepig. " The black bear, when found, was surrounded by a dozen or moreIndians who built fires, and discharging their arrows at his openmouth, attempted to kill him. If he charged, a burning brand wassnatched from the fire and thrust in his face while the others shot himfrom the side. Thus they wore him down and at last vanquished him. 

In his youth, Ishi killed a cinnamon bear single handed. Finding itasleep on a ledge of rock, he sneaked close to it and gave a loudwhistle. The bear rose up on its hind legs and Ishi shot him throughthe chest. With a roar the bear fell off the ledge and the Indianjumped after him. With a short-handled obsidian spear he thrust himthrough the heart. The skin of this bear now hangs in the Museum ofAnthropology in mute testimony of the courage and daring of Ishi. Hadthis young man been given a name, perhaps they would have called himYellow Bear. 

While he shot many birds, I never saw Ishi try wing shooting except ateagles or hawks. For these he would use an arrow on which he hadsmeared mud to make it dark in color. A light shaft is readilydiscerned by these birds, and I have often seen them dodge an arrow. But the darker one is almost invisible head on. The feathers of thearrows were close cropped to make them swift and noiseless. 

The sound of a bowstring is that of a sharp twang accompanied by amuffled crack. To avoid this and make a silent shot, the Indian boundhis bow at the nocks with weasel fur; this effectually damped thevibration of the string, while the passage of the arrow across the bow, which gives the slight crack, is abolished by a heavy padding ofbuckskin at this point. 

Ishi never wore an arm guard or glove or finger stalls to protecthimself as other archers do. He seemed not to need them. When hereleased the arrow, the bow rotated in his hand so that the stringfaced in the opposite direction from which it started. His thumb alonedrew the string, and this was so toughened that it needed no leathercovering. 

In a little bag he carried extra arrowheads and sinews, so that in apinch he could mend his arrows. 

When not actually in use, he promptly unstrung his bow, and gentlystraightened it by hand. In cold weather he heated it over a firebefore bracing it. The slightest moisture would deter him fromshooting, unless absolutely necessary--he was so jealous of his tackle. If his bowstring stretched in the heat or dampness, as sinew is liableto do, he shortened it by twisting one end prior to bracing it. 

Before shooting he invariably looked over each arrow, straightened itin his hands or by his teeth, re-arranged its feathers, and saw thatthe point was properly adjusted. In fact, he gave infinite attention todetail. With him, every shot must count. Besides arrows in his quiver, he carried several ready for use under his right arm, which he keptclose to his side while drawing the bow. 

In all things pertaining to the handicraft of archery and the techniqueof shooting, he was most exacting. Neatness about his tackle, care ofhis equipment, deliberation and form in his shooting were typical ofhim; in fact, he loved his bow as he did no other of his possessions. It was his constant companion in life and he took it with him on hislast long journey. 

IV

ARCHERY IN GENERAL

Our experience with Ishi waked the love of archery in us, that impulsewhich lies dormant in the heart of every Anglo-Saxon. For it is astrange thing that all the men who have centered about this renaissancein shooting the bow, in our immediate locality, are of Englishancestry. Their names betray them. Many have come and watched and shota little, and gone away; but these have stayed to hunt. 

From shooting the bow Indian fashion, I turned to the study of itshistory, and soon found that the English were its greatest masters. Inthem archery reached its high tide; after them its glory passed. 

But the earliest evidence of the use of the bow is found in theexistence of arrowheads assigned to the third interglacial period, nearly 50, 000 years ago. 

That man had material culture prior to this epoch, there is no doubt, and the use of the bow with arrows of less complicated structure musthave preceded this period. 

All races and nations at one time or another have used the bow. Eventhe Australian aborigine, who is supposed to have been too low inmental development to have understood the principles of archery, used aminiature bow and poisoned arrow in shooting game. In the magnificentcollection of Joseph Jessop of San Diego, California, I saw one ofthese little bows scarcely more than a foot long. The arrows, hestated, the natives carried in the hair of their heads. 

Those who are interested in the archaeology of the bow should read thevolume on archery of the Badminton Library by Longmans. 

Various peoples have excelled in shooting, notably the Japanese, theTurks, the Scythians, and the English. Others have not been suited bytemperament to use the bow. The Latins, the Peruvians, and the Irishseem never to have been toxophilites. The famous long bow of Merrie OldEngland was brought there by the Normans, who inherited it from theNorsemen settled along the Rhine. Here grew the best yew trees in daysgone by, and this, doubtless, was a strong determining factor in thesuperior development of their archery. 

Before the battle of Hastings, the Saxons used the short, weak weaponcommon to all primitive people. The conquered Saxon, deprived of allarms such as the boar-spear, the sword, the ax, and the dagger, naturally turned to the bow because he could make this himself, and hecopied the Norman long bow. 

Although the first game preserves in England were established byWilliam the Conqueror at this time, the Saxon was permitted to shootbirds and small beasts in his fields and therefore was allowed to use ablunt arrow, headed with a lead tip or pilum, hence our term pile, ortarget point. If found with a sharp arrowhead, the so-called broad-headused for killing the king's deer, he was promptly hanged. The evidenceagainst such a poacher was summed up thus in the old legend:

 Dog draw, stable stand Back berond, bloody hand. 

One found following a questing hound, posed in the stand of an archer, carrying game on his back, or with the evidence of recent butchery onhis hands, was hanged to the nearest tree by his own bowstring. 

It was under these circumstances that outlawry took the form of deerkilling and robust archery became the national sport. In these days thelegendary hero, the demi-myth, Robin Hood, was born. What boy has notthrilled at the tales of Greenwood men, the well-sped shaft, thearrow's low whispering flight, and the willow wand split at a hundredpaces?

Every boy goes through a period of barbarism, just as the nations havepassed, and during that age he is stirred by the call of the bow. I, too, shot the toy bows of boyhood; shot with Indian youths in the Armyposts of Texas and Arizona. We played the impromptu pageants of RobinHood, manufactured our own tackle, and carried it about with unfailingfidelity; hunted small birds and rabbits, and were the usual savages ofthat age. 

But when it comes to the legends of the bow, the records of these pastglories are so vague that we must accept them as a tale oft told; itgrows with the telling. 

It seems that distances were measured in feet, paces, yards, or rodswith blithe indifference, and the narrator added to them at will. Robinis supposed to have shot a mile, and his bow was so long and so strongno man could draw it. In sooth, he was a mighty hero, and yet theballads refer to him as a "slight fellow, " even "a bag of bones. " As ayouth he slew the king's deer at three hundred yards, a right goodlyshot! And no doubt it was. 

Of all the bows of the days when archery was in flower, only tworemain. These are unfinished staves found in the ship _Mary Rose_, sunkoff the coast of Albion in 1545. This vessel having been raised fromthe bottom of the ocean in 1841, the staves were recovered and are nowin the Tower of London. They are six feet, four and three-quartersinches long, one and one-half inches across the handle, one and one-quarter inches thick, and proportionately large throughout. Thedimensions are recorded in Badminton. Of course, they never have beentested for strength, but it has been estimated at 100 pounds. 

Determined to duplicate these old bows, I selected a very fine grainedstave of seasoned yew and made an exact duplicate, according to therecorded measurements. 

This bow, when drawn the standard arrow length of twenty-eight inches, weighed sixty-five pounds and shot a light flight arrow two hundred andtwenty-five yards. When drawn thirty-six inches, it weighed seventy-sixpounds and shot a flight arrow two hundred and fifty-six yards. Fromthis it would seem that even though these ancient staves appear to bealmost too powerful for a modern man to draw, they not only are wellwithin our command, but do not shoot a mile. 

The greatest distance shot by a modern archer was made by Ingo Simon, using a Turkish composite bow, in France in 1913. The measured distancewas four hundred and fifty-nine yards and eight inches. That is verynear the limit of this type of bow and far beyond the possibilities ofthe yew long bow. But the long bow is capable of shooting heaviershafts and shooting them harder. 

Since archery is fast disappearing from the land, and the material forstudy will soon become extinct, I have undertaken to record thestrength and shooting qualities of a representative number of theavailable bows in preservation, together with the power of penetrationof arrows. 

To do this, through the mediation of the Department of Anthropology ofthe University of California, I have had access to the best collectionof bows in America. Thousands of weapons were at my disposal in variousmuseums, and from these I selected the best preserved and strongest toshoot. 

The formal report of these experiments is in the publications of theUniversity, and here 'tis only necessary to mention a few of thefindings. 

In testing the function of these bows and their ability to shoot, abamboo flight arrow made by Ishi was used as the standard. It wasthirty inches long, weighed three hundred and ten grains, and had verylow cropped feathers. It carried universally better than all otherarrows tested, and flew twenty per cent farther than the best Englishflight arrows. 

To make sure that no element of personal weakness entered into thetest, I had these bows shot by Mr. Compton, a very powerful man and oneused to the bow for thirty years. I myself could draw them all, andchecked up the results. 

It is axiomatic that the weight and the cast of a bow are criteria ofits value as a weapon in war or in the chase. Weight, as used by anarcher, means the pull of a bow when full drawn, recorded in pounds. 

The following is a partial list of those weighed and shot. They are, ofcourse, all genuine bows and represent the strongest. Each was shot atleast six times over a carefully measured course and the greatestflight recorded. All flights were made at an elevation of forty-fivedegrees and the greatest possible draw was given each shot. In fact wespared no bows because of their age, and consequently broke two in thetesting. 

 Weight Distance Shot Alaskan. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 80 pounds 180 yards Apache. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . 28 " 120 " Blackfoot. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 45 " 145 " Cheyenne. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . 65 " 156 " Cree. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . 38 " 150 " Esquimaux. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 80 " 200 " Hupa. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . 40 " 148 " Luiseno. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 48 " 125 " Navajo. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . 45 " 150 " Mojave. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . 40 " 110 " Osage. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 40 " 92 " Sioux. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 45 " 165 " Tomawata. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . 40 " 148 " Yurok. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 30 " 140 " Yukon. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 60 " 125 " Yaki. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . 70 " 210 " Yana. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . 48 " 205 "

The list of foreign bows is as follows:

 Weight Distance Shot Paraguay. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . 60 pounds 170 yards Polynesian. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . 49 " 172 " Nigrito. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 56 " 176 " Andaman Islands. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . 45 " 142 " Japanese. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 48 " 175 " Africa. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 54 " 107 " Tartar. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 98 " 175 " South American. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 50 " 98 " Igorrote. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 26 " 100 " Solomon Islands. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . 56 " 148 " English target bow (imported). . 48 " 220 " English yew flight bow. .. .. .. .. 65 " 300 " Old English hunting bow. .. .. .. . 75 " 250 "

It will be seen from these tests that no existing aboriginal bow isvery powerful when compared with those in use in the days of robustarchery in old England. 

The greatest disappointment was in the Tartar bow which was broughtexpressly from Shansi, China, by my brother, Col. B. H. Pope. With thispowerful weapon I expected to shoot a quarter of a mile; but with allits dreadful strength, its cast was slow and cumbersome. The arrow thatcame with it, a miniature javelin thirty-eight inches long, could onlybe projected one hundred and ten yards. In making these shots bothhands and feet were used to draw the bow. A special flight arrowthirty-six inches long was used in the test, but with hardly anyincrease of distance gained. 

After much experimenting and research into the literature, [1][Footnote 1: Balfour, _Composite Bows_. ]I constructed two horn composite bows, such as were used by the Turksand Egyptians. They were perfect in action, the larger one weighingeighty-five pounds. With this I hoped to establish a record, but aftermany attempts my best flight was two hundred and ninety-one yards. Thisweapon, being only four feet long, would make an excellent buffalo bowto be used on horseback. 

In shooting for distance, of course, a very light missile is used, andnothing but empirical tests can determine the shape, size, and weightthat suits each bow. Consequently, we use hundreds of arrows to findthe best. For more than seven years these experiments have continued, and at this stage of our progress the best flight arrow is made ofJapanese bamboo five-sixteenths of an inch in diameter, having aforeshaft of birch the same diameter and four inches long. The nock isa boxwood plug inserted in the rear end, both joints being bound withsilk floss and shellacked. The point is the copper nickel jacket of thepresent U. S. Army rifle bullet, of conical shape. The feathers areparabolic, three-quarters of an inch long by one-quarter high, three innumber, set one inch from the end, and come from the wing of an owl. The whole arrow is thirty inches long, weighs three hundred and twentygrains, and is very rigid. 

With this I have shot three hundred and one yards with a moderate windat my back, using a Paraguay ironwood bow five feet two inches long, backed with hickory and weighing sixty pounds. This is my best flightshot. 

It is not advisable here to go further into this subject; let it standthat the English yew long bow is the highest type of artillery in theworld. 

Although the composite Turkish bows can shoot the farthest, it is onlywith very light arrows; they are incapable of projecting heavier shaftsto the extent of the yew long bow, that is, they can transmit velocitybut not momentum; they have resiliency, but not power. 

Besides these experiments with bows, many tests were made of the flightand penetration of arrows. A few of the pertinent observations are herenoted. 

A light arrow from a heavy bow, say a sixty-five pound yew bow, travelsat an initial velocity of one hundred and fifty feet per second, asdetermined by a stopwatch. 

Shooting at one hundred yards, such an arrow is discharged at an angleof eight degrees, and describes a parabola twelve to fifteen feet highat its crest. Its time in transit is of approximately two and one-fifthseconds. 

Shooting straight up, such an arrow goes about three hundred and fiftyfeet high, and requires eight seconds for the round trip. This test wasmade by shooting arrows over very tall sequoia trees, of known height. 

The striking force of a one-ounce arrow shot from a seventy-five poundbow at ten yards, is twenty-five foot pounds. This test is made byshooting at a cake of paraffin and comparing the penetration with thatmade by falling weights. Such a striking force is, of course, insignificant when compared with that of a modern bullet, viz. , threethousand foot pounds. Yet the damage done by an arrow armed with asharp steel broad-head is often greater than that done by a bullet, aswe shall see later on. 

A standard English target arrow rotates during flight six completerevolutions every twenty yards, or approximately fifteen times asecond. Heavy hunting shafts turn more slowly. This was ascertained byshooting two arrows at once from the same bow, their shafts beingconnected by a silk thread, so that one paid off as the other wound upthe thread. The number of complete loops, of course, indicated thenumber of revolutions. A sand-bank makes a good butt to catch them. Inrotating, much depends on the size and shape of the feather. 

Shooting a blunt arrow from a seventy-five pound bow at a white pineboard an inch thick, the shaft will often go completely through it. Abroad hunting head will penetrate two or three inches, then bind. Butthe broad-head will go through animal tissue better, even cutting bonesin two; in fact, such an arrow will go completely through any animalbut a pachyderm. 

To test a steel bodkin pointed arrow such as was used at the battle ofCressy, I borrowed a shirt of chain armor from the Museum, a beautifulspecimen made in Damascus in the 15th Century. It weighed twenty-fivepounds and was in perfect condition. One of the attendants in theMuseum offered to put it on and allow me to shoot at him. Fortunately, I declined his proffered services and put it on a wooden box, paddedwith burlap to represent clothing. 

Indoors at a distance of seven yards, I discharged an arrow at it withsuch force that sparks flew from the links of steel as from a forge. The bodkin point and shaft went through the thickest portion of theback, penetrated an inch of wood and bulged out the opposite side ofthe armor shirt. The attendant turned a pale green. An arrow of thistype can be shot about two hundred yards, and would be deadly up to thefull limit of its flight. 

The question of the cutting qualities of the obsidian head as comparedto those of the sharpened steel head, was answered in the followingexperiment:

A box was so constructed that two opposite sides were formed by freshdeer skin tacked in place. The interior of the box was filled withbovine liver. This represented animal tissue minus the bones. 

At a distance of ten yards I discharged an obsidian-pointed arrow and asteel-pointed arrow from a weak bow. The two missiles were alike insize, weight, and feathering, in fact, were made by Ishi, only one hadthe native head and the other his modern substitute. Upon repeatedtrials, the steel-headed arrow uniformly penetrated a distance oftwenty-two inches from the front surface of the box, while the obsidianuniformly penetrated thirty inches, or eight inches farther, approximately 25 per cent better penetration. This advantage isundoubtedly due to the concoidal edge of the flaked glass operatingupon the same principle that fluted-edged bread and bandage knives cutbetter than ordinary knives. 

In the same way we discovered that steel broad-heads sharpened byfiling have a better meat-cutting edge than when ground on a stone. 

In our experience with game shooting, we never could see the advantageof longitudinal grooves running down the shaft of the arrow, such assome aborigines use, supposed to promote bleeding. In the first placethese marks are inadequate in depth, and secondly it is not theexterior bleeding that kills the wounded animal so much as the internalhemorrhage. 

A sufficiently wide head on the arrow cuts a hole large enough topermit the escape of excess blood, and, as a matter of fact, nearly allof our shots are perforating, going completely through the body. 

Conical, blunt, and bodkin points lack the power of penetration inanimal tissue inherent in broad-heads; correspondingly they do lessdamage. 

[Illustration (up-left): THREE TYPES OF HUNTING ARROWS]

[Illustration (up-right): A BLUNT ARROW SHOT THROUGH AN INCH BOARD]

[Illustration (down-left): "BRER" FOX UP A TREE]

[Illustration (down-right): ART YOUNG SHOOTS FISH]

Catlin, in his book on the North American Indian, relates that theMandans, among other tribes, practiced shooting a number of arrows insuccession with such dexterity that their best archer could keep eightarrows up in the air at one time. 

Will Thompson, the dean of American archery, writing in _Forest andStream_ of March, 1915, says very definitely that the feat of thelegendary hero, Hiawatha, who is supposed to have shot so strong andfar that he could shoot the tenth arrow before the first descended, ismanifestly absurd. Thompson contends that no man ever has, or ever willkeep more than three arrows up in the air at once. 

Having read this and determined to try the experiment of dextrousshooting, I constructed a dozen light arrows having wide nocks andflattened rear ends so they might be fingered quickly. Then I devised away of grasping a supply of ready shafts in the bow hand, and inventedan arrow release in which all the fingers and thumb held the arrow onthe string, yet remained entirely on the right side of it. 

After quite a bit of practice in accurate, later in rapid, nocking, Isucceeded in shooting seven successive arrows in the air before thefirst touched the ground. I used a perpendicular flight. Upon severaloccasions I almost accomplished eight at once. I feel that withconsiderable practice eight, and even more, are possible, proving againthat there is an element of truth in all legends. 

It has long been a bone of contention among archers which element ofthe yew, the sap wood or the heart, gives the greater cast. To obtainexperimental evidence, I constructed two miniature bows, eachtwenty-two inches long, one of pure white sap wood, the other of theheart from the same stave. I made them the same size, and weighingabout eight pounds when drawn eight inches. 

Shooting a little arrow on these bows, the sap wood shot forty-threeyards; the red wood sixty-six yards, showing the greater cast to be inthe red yew. 

Corroborating this, Mr. Compton relates that while working in Barnes'sshop in Forest Grove, Oregon, during the last illness of that notedbowyer, he came across a laminated bow made entirely of sap wood. Barnes stated that he had constructed it at the instigation of WillThompson. The cast of this bow was slow, flabby, and weak. As ashooting implement it was a failure. 

Taking two pieces of wood, one white and one red, each twelve incheslong, I placed them in a bench vise and fastened a spring scale to thetop of each. Drawing the sap wood four inches from the perpendicular, it pulled eight pounds. Drawing the heart wood the same distance itpulled fourteen pounds, showing the greater strength of the latter. When drawn five inches from a straight line, the red piece broke. Thesap wood could be bent at a right angle without fracture. 

It is obvious from this that the sap wood excels in tensile strengththe red wood in compression strength and resiliency. In fact, they arereciprocal in action. The red yew on the belly of the bow gives theenergy, the sap wood preserves it from fracture. It is, in fact, equivalent to sinew backing, and though less durable, probably addsmore to the cast of the bows. 

In our experiments with a catgut and rawhide backing, we have not foundthat they add materially to the cast of a bow, only insure it againstfracture. On the other hand, sap wood and hickory backing materiallyadd to the power of the implement. 

The little red yew bow used in the previous experiment was backedheavily with rawhide and catgut. It then weighed ten pounds, but onlyshot sixty-three yards, showing a decrease in cast. But the backingpermitted its being drawn to ten inches, when it shot a distance ofeighty-five yards. A draw of twelve inches fractured it across thehandle. 

In a similar experiment it was shown that two pieces of wood of thesame size, but one being of a coarse-grained yew running sixteen linesto the inch, the other a fine-grained piece running thirty-five linesto the inch, the finer grain had the greater strength and resiliency upto the breaking point, but the yellow coarse-grained piece was moreflexible and less readily broken. 

The question often arises, "How would an arrow fly if the bow is heldin a mechanical rest and the string released by a mechanical release?"Such an apparatus would permit of several experiments. It would answersome of the queries that naturally pass through the mind of everyarcher. 

_Question 1. _ How accurate is the bow and arrow as a weapon ofprecision, or as they say in ballistics, "What is the error ofdispersion?"

_Question 2. _ What is the angle of declination to the left of the pointof aim in the flight of such an arrow?

_Question 3. _ What is the effect of placing the cock feather next thebow?

_Question 4. _ What is the effect of shooting different arrows? How dothey group? Would not such a machine give accurate data regarding theflight of new arrows and help in the selection of shafts for targetshooting?

_Question 5. _ What effect does the time of holding a bow full drawnhave on the flight of an arrow?

_Question 6. _ What is the result of changing the weight of bows whenthe arrows remain the same?

Therefore, we devised a rest, consisting of a post set firmly in theground, with a rigid cross arm and a vise-like hand grip. This latterwas padded thickly with rubber, so that some resiliency was permitted. The bow was fastened in this mechanical hand by sturdy set screws. 

At the other end of the cross arm a hinged block was attached, fromwhich projected two short wooden fingers, serving the exact function ofthe drawing hand. These were spaced so that the arrow nock fittedbetween them, and when the string was pulled into position and caughtupon these fingers, the bow was drawn 28 inches. 

We adopted a system of loading, drawing and releasing on count, so thatevery shot was delivered with equal time factors. 

_Answer 1. _ Using the same arrow each time, with the target set at 60yards, we found, of course, that the arrow always flies to the leftwhen drawn on the left side of the bow, and that the angle ofdivergence for a 50 pound bow and a 5 shilling English target arrow wasbetween six and seven degrees. Using a stronger bow this angle wasincreased, --also that with a weaker arrow the angle was greater, --butsix degrees might be designated as the normal declination. 

_Answer 2. _ Every rifle expert knows what his gun is capable of, inaccuracy, and an archer should know just what to expect of an arrowunder the most favorable conditions. We therefore tried shooting thesame arrow over the same course with the same release, under thesefairly stable conditions: The day was calm. We shot an arrow ten timesin succession and all the shots centered in a six inch bull's-eye; thatis, none went out of a circle of this diameter. In other words, atsixty yards a bow can shoot arrows with an error of dispersion of nomore than six inches. This is surprisingly accurate for a weapon ofthis sort, when it is considered that the best rifles of today willaverage between one and a half to three inches dispersion at 100 yards. 

_Answer 3. _ Placing the cock feather next the bow diverts the arrow tothe left and causes it to drop lower on the target. The group formed bysix flights was fairly close and consistent. 

_Answer 4. _ Out of nine arrows tested, five consistently made a goodclose group and four as consistently went out. The "outs, " however, were uniform in the direction and distance they took. It would bepossible by this machine to select arrows that would make co-incidentalpatterns. It is obvious, however, that differences in individual arrowsare greatly exaggerated by the apparatus, because it was quite apparentby this test that any good archer could group these hits much closerthan the machine delivered them. 

_Answer 5. _ In our shooting, we universally allotted five seconds fordrawing, setting and discharging. However, when this time was increasedto fifteen seconds, we found that our groups averaged seven andone-half inches lower. This shows the decided loss of cast incidentalto long holding of the bow. 

_Answer 6. _ Placing a 65 pound bow in the frame immediately showedincreased reactions throughout. The lateral divergence in arrow flightwas increased to fifteen degrees and all individual reactions werecorrespondingly increased. The flight of the individual arrow was lessconsistent, showing plainly the necessity of a proper relation inweight between the arrow and bow, --a very essential factor in accurateshooting. 

In conclusion, it seems to me that the machine naturally exaggeratedthe errors, for this reason. If the pressure of the arrow against thebow, in passing, amounts to two ounces, the arrow will fly a two ounceequivalent to the left, when the bow is held rigidly. An arrow thatexerts four ounces pressure will fly correspondingly a greater distanceto the left. But when the bow is held in the hand, there isconsiderable give to the muscles and the two ounce pressure iscompensated for; thus, the arrow tends to fly straight. The four ouncearrow would with the same adjustment hold a correspondingly straightercourse. 

The vertical error, however, depends more on the weight of the arrow, on the feathering, the holding time, the maintainance of tension, andon the release of the bowstring. 

There are many problems in the ballistics of archery that are unsolved, waiting the experiments of modern science. Empirical methods havedictated the art so far. In target equipment and shooting there is awide field for investigation. Our interests, however, are more those ofthe hunter, and less those of the physicist. 

V

HOW TO MAKE A BOW

Every field archer should make his own tackle. If he cannot make andrepair it, he will never shoot very long, because it is in constantneed of repair. 

Target bows and arrows may be bought in sporting stores, here or inEngland, but hunting equipment must be made. Moreover, when a manmanufactures his bow and arrows, he appreciates them more. But it willtake many attempts before even the most mechanically gifted can expectto produce good artillery. After having made more than a hundred yewbows, I still feel that I am a novice. The beginner may expect hisfirst two or three will be failures, but after that he can at leastshoot them. 

Since there are so many different kinds of bows and all so inferior tothe English long-bow, we shall describe this alone. 

Yew wood is the greatest bow timber in the world. That was provedthousands of years ago by experience. It is indeed a magic wood!

But yew wood is hard to get and hard to make into a bow once having gotit. Nevertheless, I am going to tell you where you can get it and howto work it, and how to make hunting bows just as we use them today, andpresumably just as our forefathers used them before us. Later on Ishall tell you what substitutes may be used for yew. 

The best yew wood in America grows in the Cascade Mountains of Oregon, in the Sierra Nevada and Coast Ranges of northern California. Byaddressing the Department of Forestry, doubtless one can get incommunication with some one who will cut him a stave. Living inCalifornia, I cut my own. 

A description of yew trees and their location may be had fromSudworth's "_Forest Trees of the Pacific Slope_, " to be obtained fromthe Government Printing Office at Washington. 

My own staves I cut near Branscomb, Mendocino County, and at GrizzlyCreek on the Van Duzen River, Humboldt County, California. Splendidstaves have been shipped to me from this latter county, coming from theneighborhood of Korbel. 

Yew is an evergreen tree with a leaf looking a great deal like that ofredwood, hemlock, or fir at a distance. It is found growing in themountains, down narrow canyons, and along streams. It likes shade, water, and altitude. Its bark is reddish beneath and scaly or fuzzy onthe surface. Its limbs stand straight out from the trunk at an acuteangle, not drooping as those of the redwood and fir. 

The sexes are separate in yew. The female tree has a bright redgelatinous berry in autumn, and the male a minute cone. It isinteresting that in bear countries the female trees often have longwounds in the bark, or deep scratches made by the claws of theseanimals as they climb to get the yew berries. It is also stated by someauthorities that the female yew has light yellow wood, is coarsergrained, and does not make so good a bow. I have tried to verify this, but so far I have found some of my bear marked female yew to be thebetter staves. 

The best wood is, of course, dark and close grained. This generallyexists in trees that have one side decayed. It seems that the rotstains the rest of the wood and nature makes the grain more compact tocompensate for the loss of structural strength. It is also apparentthat yew grown at high altitudes, over three thousand feet, is superiorto lowland yew. 

In selecting a tree for a hunting bow, the stave must be at least sixfeet long, free from limbs, knots, twists, pitch pockets, rot, smallsprouting twigs and corrugations. One will look over a hundred trees tofind one good bow stave; then he may find a half dozen excellent stavesin one tree. 

There is no such thing as a perfect piece of yew, nor is there aperfect bow; at least, I have never seen it. But there is a bow inevery yew tree if we but know how to get it out. That is the mystery ofbowmaking. It takes an artist, not an artisan. 

Before one ever fells a tree, he should weigh the moral right to do so. But yew trees are a gift from the gods, and grown only for bows. If youare sure you see one good bow in a tree, cut it. Having felled it andmarked with your eye the best stave, cut it again so that your stave isseven feet long. Then split the trunk into halves or quarters withsteel or wooden wedges so that your stave is from three to six incheswide. Cut out the heart wood so that the billet is about three inchesthick. Be careful not to bruise the bark in any of these operations. 

Now put your stave in the shade. If you are compelled to ship it byexpress, wrap it in burlap or canvas, and preferably saw the endssquare and paint them to prevent checking. When you get it home put itin the cellar. 

If you must make a bow right away, place the stave in running water fora month, then dry in a shady place for a month, and it is ready foruse. It will not be so good as if seasoned three to seven years, but itwill shoot; in fact, it will shoot the same day you cut it from thetree, only it will follow the string and not stand straight as itshould. Of course, it will not have the cast of air-seasoned wood. 

The old authorities say, cut your yew in the winter when the sap isdown, or as Barnes, the famous bow-maker of Forest Grove, Oregon, usedto say: "Yew cut in the summer contains the seeds of death. " But thisdoes not seem to have proved the case in my experience. I am fullyconvinced that the sap can be washed out and the process of seasoninghastened very materially by proper treatment. 

Kiln dried wood is never good as a bow. It is too brash; but after thefirst month of shade, the staves may be put in a hot attic to theiradvantage. 

In selecting the portion of the tree best suited for a bow, choose thatpart that when cut will cause the stave to bend backward toward thebark. Since your bow ultimately will bend in the opposite direction, this natural curve tends to form a straighter bow, or as an archerwould say "set back a bit in the handle. "

If it is impossible to get a stave six feet in length, then a widestave three and a half feet long may be used. It is necessary in thiscase to split it and join the two pieces with a fishtail splice in thehandle. Target bows are made this way, to advantage, but such amakeshift is to be deprecated in a hunting bow. The variations oftemperature and moisture combined with hard usage in hunting demand asolid, single stave. It must not break. Your life may depend upon it. 

Before engaging in any art, it is necessary to study the anatomy ofyour subject. The anatomical points of a bow have a time-honorednomenclature and are as follows: Bows may be single staves, orone-piece bows, those of one continuity and homogeneity; spliced bowsconsist of two pieces of wood united in the handle; backed bows have anadded strip of wood glued on the back; and composite bows are made upof several different substances, such as wood, horn, sinew, and glue. 

That surface of the bow which faces the string when drawn into action, that is, the concave arc, is called the belly of the bow. The oppositesurface is the back. A bow should never be bent backwards, away fromthe belly; it will break. 

The center of the bow is the handle or hand grip; the extremities arethe tips, usually finished with notches cut in the wood or surmountedby horn, bone, sinew, wooden or metal caps called nocks. These aregrooved to accommodate the string. The spaces between the nocks and thehandle are called the limbs. 

A bow that when unstrung bends back past the straight line is termedreflexed. One that continues to bend toward the belly is said to followthe string. A lateral deviation is called a cast in the bow. 

The proper length of a yew bow should be the height of the man thatshoots it, or a trifle less. Our hunting bows are from five feet sixinches to five feet eight inches in length. The weight of a hunting bowshould be from fifty to eighty pounds. One should start shooting with abow not over fifty pounds, and preferably under that. At the end of aseason's shooting he can command a bow of sixty pounds if he is astrong man. Our average bows pull seventy-five pounds. Though it ispossible for some of us to shoot an eighty-five pound bow, such aweapon is not under proper control for constant use. 

Some pieces of yew will make a stronger bow at given dimensions thanothers. The finer the grain and the greater the specific gravity, themore resilient and active the wood, and stronger the bow. 

Taking a yew stave having a dark red color and a layer of white sapwood about a quarter of an inch thick, covered with a thinmaroon-colored bark, let us make a bow. Counting the rings in the woodat the upper end of the stave, you will find that they run over fortyto the inch. 

Ishi insisted that this end of the stave should always be the upper endof the weapon. It seems to me that this extremity having the mostcompact grain, and the strongest, should constitute the lower limb, because, as we shall see later on, this limb is shorter, bears thegreater strain, and is the one that gives down the sooner. 

We shall plan to make the bow as strong as is compatible with goodshooting, and reduce its strength later to meet our requirements. 

Look over the stave and estimate whether it is capable of yielding twobows instead of one. If it be over three inches wide, and straightthroughout, then rip it down the center with a saw. Place one stave ina bench vise and carefully clean off the bark with a draw knife. Do notcut the sap wood in this process. 

Cut your stave to six feet in length. Sight down it and see how theplane of the back twists. If it is fairly consistent, draw a straightline down the center of the sap wood. This is the back of your bow. Nowdraw on the back an outline which has a width of an inch and a quarterextending for a distance of a foot above and a foot below the center. Let this outline taper in a gentle curve to the extremities of the bow, where it has a width of three-quarters of an inch. This will serve as arough working plan and is sufficiently large to insure that you willget a strong weapon. 

With the draw knife, and later a jack plane, cut the lateral surfacesdown to this outline. The back must stand a tremendous tensile strainand the grain of the wood should not be injured in any way. But you maysmooth it off very judiciously with a spoke shave, and later with afile. The transverse contour of this part of the bow remains as it wasin the tree, a long flat arc. 

Shift the stave in the vise so that the sap wood is downward, and setit so that the average plane of the sap is level. With the raw knifeshave the wood very carefully, avoiding cutting too deeply or splittingoff fragments, until the bow assumes the thickness of one andone-quarter inches in the center and this decreases as it approachesthe tips, where it is half an inch thick. 

The shape of a cross-section of the belly of the bow should be a fullRoman arch. Many debates have centered on the shape of this part of theweapon. Some contend for a high-crested contour, or Gothic arch, whatis termed "stacking a bow"; some have chosen a very flat curve as thebest. The former makes for a quick, lively cast and may be desirable ina target implement, but it is liable to fracture; the latter makes asoft, pleasant, durable bow, but one that follows the string. Choosethe happy medium. 

The process of shaping the belly is the most delicate and requires moreskill than all the rest. In the first place you must follow the grainof the wood. If the back twists and undulates, your cut must do thesame. The feather of the grain must never be reversed, but descend byperfect gradation from handle to tip. 

Where a knot or pin occurs in the wood, here you must leave moresubstance because this is a weak spot. If the pin be large and youcannot avoid it, then it is best to drill it out carefully and fill thecavity with a solid piece of hard wood set in with glue. A pin crumbleswhile an inserted piece will stand the strain. If such a "Dutchman" benot too large nor too near the center of either limb, it will notmaterially jeopardize the bow. If, in your shaving, you come across asharp dip in' the grain, such that will make a decided concavity, hereleave a few more layers of grain than you would were the contour even;for a concave structure cannot stand strain as well as a straight one;the leverage is increased unduly. 

The following measurements, with a caliper, are those of my favoritehunting bow, called "Old Horrible, " and with which I've slain many abeast. The width just above the handle is 1-1/4 by 1-1/8 inches thick. Six inches up the limb the width is 1-1/4, thickness 11-1/16. 

Twelve inches above the handle it is a trifle less than 1-1/4 wide by 1inch thick. Eighteen inches above the handle it is 1-1/8 wide by 7/8thick. Twenty-four inches above it is 15/16 wide by 3/4 thick. Thirtyinches above it is 11/16 by 9/16 thick. At the nock it is practically1/2 by 1/2 inches. 

Having got the bow down to rough proportions, the next thing is to cuttwo temporary nocks on it, very near the ends. These consist in lateralcuts having a depth of an eighth of an inch and are best made with arat tail file. 

Now you can string your bow and test its curve. 

Of course, you must have a string, and usually that employed in theseearly tests is very strong and roughly made of nearly ninety strands ofBarbour's linen, No. 12. Directions for making strings will be givenlater on. 

It is difficult to brace a new heavy bow and one will requireassistance. In the absence of help he can place it in the vise, one ofthose revolving on a pivot, and having the string properly adjusted onthe lower limb, pull on the upper end in such a way that the otherpresses against the wall or a stationary brace, thus bending the bowwhile you slip the expectant loop over the open nock. Or you can havean assistant pull on the upper nock, while you brace the bow yourself. 

In ancient times, at this stage, the bow was tillered, or tested forits curve, or, as Sir Roger Ascham says, "brought round compass, " whichmeans to make it bend in a perfect arc when full drawn. 

The tiller is a piece of board three feet long, two inches wide, andone inch thick, having a V-shaped notch at the lower end to fit on thehandle and small notches on its side two inches apart, for a distanceof twenty-eight inches. These are to hold the string. 

Lay the braced bow on the floor, place the end of the tiller on thehandle while you steady the tiller upright. Then put your foot on thebow next the tiller and draw the string up until it slips in the firstnotch, say twelve inches from the handle. If the curve of the bow isfairly symmetrical, draw the string a few inches more. If again itdescribes a perfect arc raise the string still farther. A perfect arcfor a bow should be a trifle flat at the center. If, on the other hand, one limb or a part of it does not bend as it should, this must bereduced carefully by shaving it for a space of several inches over thespot and the bow tested again. 

Proceeding very cautiously, at the same time not keeping the bow fulldrawn more than a second or two at a time, you ultimately get the twolimbs so that they bend nearly the same and the general distribution ofthe curve is equal throughout. 

As a matter of fact, a great deal of experience is needed here. Bymarking a correct form on the floor with chalk, a novice may fit hisbow to this outline. 

The perfect weapon is a trifle stiff at the center and the lower limb ashade stronger than the upper. 

The real shooting center, the place where the arrow passes, is actuallyone and one-quarter inches above the geographic center, and the handconsequently is below this point. Your finished hand grip, being fourinches long, will be one and a quarter inches above the center and twoand three-quarters below the center. This makes the lower limbcomparatively shorter, so it must be relatively stronger. Your bow, therefore, when full drawn should be symmetrical, but when simplybraced, the bend of the upper limb is perceptibly greater than thestronger lower limb. 

You will find the bow we have made will pull over eighty pounds, evenafter it is thoroughly broken to the string. It is necessary, therefore, to reduce it further. This is done with a spoke shave, avery small hand plane or a file. Ultimately I use a pocket knife as ascraper, and sandpaper and steelwool to finish it. 

Your effort must be to get every part of the wood to do its work, forevery inch is under utmost strain, and one part doing more than therest must ultimately break down, sustain a compression fracture, or, asan archer would say, "chrysal or fret. "

"A bow full drawn is seven-eighths broken, " said old Thomas Waring, theEnglish bowmaker, and he was right. Draw your bow three inches morethan the standard cloth yard of twenty-eight inches and you break it. It is more accurate to say that a full drawn bow is nine-tenths broken. 

It is also essential that the bow be stiff in the handle so that itwill be rigid in shooting and not jar or kick, which one weak at thispoint invariably does. 

A bow should be light at the tips, say the last eight inches, which isaccomplished by rounding the back slightly and reducing the width atthis point. This gives an active recoil, or as it is described, "whipended. " This can be overdone, especially in hunting-bows, where alittle more solidity and safety are preferable to a brilliant cast. 

And so you must work and test your bow, and shoot it, and draw it upbefore a full length mirror and observe its outline, and get yourfriends to draw it up and pass judgment on it. In fact, while theactual work of making a bow takes about eight hours, it requires monthsto get one adjusted so that it is good. A bow, like a violin, is a workof art. The best in it can only be brought out by infinite care. Like aviolin, it is all curved contours, there is not a straight line in it. Many of my bows have been built over completely three or four times. Old Horrible first pulled eighty-five pounds. It was reduced, shortened, whip ended, and worked over again and again so to tune thewood that all parts acted in harmony. Every good bow is a work of love. 

Your bow is now ready to shoot, but let us weigh it first. Brace it andput it horizontally in the vise with the string facing you. Take aspring scale registering at least eighty pounds and catch the hookunder the string. Draw it until the yardstick registers twenty-eightinches from the string to the back of the bow. Now read the scale; thatis its weight. 

As a matter of convenience I have devised a stick that facilitates theweighing. I take a dowel and attach to one end by glue and binding abent piece of iron so fashioned that the extremity serves as a hook todraw the string and the bent portion permits the attachment of thescale. The dowel is marked off in inches so that one can test differentlengths of draw. With the bow in the bench vise, this measure hooked onthe string and resting on the bow at the arrow plate, the scale ishooked in place, the dowel drawn down to the standard length and theregistered weight read off on the scale. 

If you still find that your bow is too strong for you, it must befurther reduced. Begin all over again with the spoke shave and thefile, trying to correct any inequalities that may have existed beforeand reducing it to what ultimately will be sixty-five pounds. Put onthe string and weigh it again and again until you get the weight youwant. If you have reduced it too much, cut it down two or four inches;it will be stronger and shoot better. 

All yew bows tend to lose in strength after much use, and your new oneshould pull five pounds more than the required weight. If a bow is putaway in a dry, warm place for several years it nearly always increasesin strength. In our experience one in constant use lasts from three tofive years. The longer the bow, the longer its life. Some, of course, break or come to grief after a short period, others live to honorableold age. Yew bows are in existence today that were made many thousandsof years ago, but, of course, they would break if shot. Many bows overone hundred years old are still in use occasionally. I have estimatedthat the average life of a good bow should exceed one hundred thousandshots, after which time it begins to fret and show other signs ofweakness. 

Keeping in mind the idea of making your weapon as beautiful, assymmetrical and resilient as possible, free from dead or overstrainedareas, work it down with utmost solicitude until it approaches yourideal. Smooth it with sandpaper; finish it with steelwool. 

Now comes the process of putting on the nocks. A bow shoots wellwithout them, but is safer with them. 

From time immemorial, horn tips have been put on the ends of the limbsto hold the string. We have used rawhide, hardwood, aluminum, bone, elkhorn, deer horn, buffalo horn, paper fiber or composition, and cow'shorn. The last seems best of all. From your butcher secure a number ofhorns. With a saw cut off three or four inches of the tip. Place one ina vise and drill a conical hole in it an inch and a quarter deep andhalf an inch wide. This can be done by using a half-inch drill whichhas been ground on a carborundum stone to a conical point the properlength. In this hole set a stout piece of wood with glue. This permitsyou to hold the horn in the vise while you work it. 

After the glue has set, take a coarse file and shape the horn nock tothe classical shape, which is hard to describe but easy to illustrate. It must have diagonal grooves to hold the string. The nock for theupper limb has also a hole at its extremity to receive the buckskinthong which keeps the upper loop of the string from slipping too fardown the bow when unbraced. 

The nocks for hunting bows should be short and stout, not over one anda half inches long, for they get a lot of hard usage in their travels. They should also be broader and thicker than those used on target bows. 

Two nocks having been roughly finished, they are loosened from theirwooden handles by being soaked in boiling water, and are ready for use. Cut the ends of the bow to fit the nocks in such a way that they tipslightly backward when in place, but do not attach them yet. 

[Illustration: DETAILS OF BOW CONSTRUCTION]

At this point we back the bow with rawhide. Ordinarily a yew bowproperly protected by sapwood requires no backing; but having had manybows break in our hands, we at last took the advice of Ishi and backedthem. Since then no bow legitimately used has broken. 

The rawhide utilized for this purpose is known to tanners as clarifiedcalfskin. Its principal use is in the manufacture of artificial limbs, drum heads and parchment. Its thickness is not much more than that ofwriting paper. 

Having secured two pieces about three feet in length and two incheswide, soak them in warm water for an hour. 

While this is being done, slightly roughen the back of your bow with afile. Place it in the vise and size the back with thin, hot carpenter'sglue. When the hide is soft, lay the pieces smooth side down on a boardand wipe off the excess water. Quickly size them with hot glue, removethe excess with your finger, turn the pieces over and apply them to thebow. Overlap them at the hand grip for a distance of two or threeinches. Smooth them out toward the tips by stroking and expressing allair bubbles and excess glue. Wrap the handle roughly with string tokeep the strips from slipping; also bind the tips for a short distanceto secure them in place. Remove the bow from the vise and bandage itcarefully from tip to tip with a gauze surgical bandage. Set it asideto dry over night. When dry, remove the bandage and string binding, cutoff the overlapping edges of the hide and scrape it smooth. Having gotit to the required finish, size the exterior again with very thin glue, and it is ready for the final stage. 

The tips of the bow having been cut to a conical point and the nocksfitted prior to the backing process the horn nocks are now set on withglue; the ordinary liquid variety will do. 

Glue a thin strip of wood on the back of the bow to round out thehandle. This should be about one-eighth of an inch thick, one inch wideand three inches long and rounded at the edges. 

Bind the center of your bow with heavy fish line to make the handgrip, carefully overlapping the start and finish. A little liquid glue orshellac can be placed on the wood to fix the serving. Some preferleather or pigskin for a handgrip, but a cord binding keeps the handfrom sweating and has an honest feel. 

The handle occupies a space of four inches with one and a quarterinches above the center and two and three-quarters below it. Finish offthe edges of the cord binding with a band of thin leather half an inchwide. This should be soaked in water, beveled at the edge, sized withglue, put around the bow, and overlapped at the back. I also glue asmall piece of leather on the left-hand side of the bow above thehandle to prevent the arrow chafing the wood at this spot. This iscalled the arrow plate and usually is made of mother-of-pearl or bone;leather is better. These finishing pieces are wrapped temporarily withstring until they dry. 

The bow is then given a final treatment with scraper and steelwool andis ready for the varnish. 

The best protection for bows seems to be spar varnish. This keeps outmoisture. It has two disadvantages, however; it cracks after muchbending, and it is too shiny. The glint or flash of a hunting bow willfrighten game. I have often seen rabbits or deer stand until the bowgoes off, then jump in time to escape the arrow. At first we believedthey saw the arrow; later we found that they saw the flash. Bows reallyshould be painted a dull green or drab color. But we love to see thenatural grain of the wood. 

The finish I prefer is first of all to give a coat of shellac to thebacking, leather trimmings and cord handle. After it is dry, give thewood a good soaking with boiled linseed oil. Using the same oiled clothplace in its center a small wad of cotton saturated with an alcoholicsolution of shellac. Rub this quickly over the bow. By repeated oilingand shellacking one produces a French polish that is very durable andelastic. 

Permit this to dry and after several days rub the whole weapon withfloor wax, giving a final polish with a woolen cloth. 

When on a hunt one should carry a small quantity of linseed oil andanoint his bow every day or so with it. Personally I add one part oflight cedar oil to two parts of linseed. The fragrance of the formeradds to the pleasure of using the latter. 

When not in use hang your bow on a peg or nail slipped beneath theupper loop of the string; do not stand it in a corner, this tends tobend the lower limb. Keep it in a warm, dry room; preserve it frombruises and scratches. Wax it and the string often. Care for it as youwould a friend; it is your companion in arms. 

SUBSTITUTES FOR YEW

Where it is impossible to obtain yew, the amateur bowyer has a largevariety of substitutes. Probably the easiest to obtain is hickory, although it is a poor alternative. I believe the pig-nut or smooth barkis the best variety. One should endeavor to get a piece of secondgrowth, white sapwood, and split it so as to get straight grain. 

This can be worked on the same general dimensions as yew, but theresulting bow will be found slow and heavy in cast and to have anincurable tendency to follow the string. It will need no rawhide backand will never break. 

Osage orange, mulberry, locust, black walnut with the sap wood, redcedar, juniper, tan oak, apple wood, ash, eucalyptus, lancewood, washaba, palma brava, elm, birch, and bamboo are among the many woodsfrom which bows have been made. 

With the exception of lancewood, lemon wood, or osage orange, which arehard to get, the next best wood to yew is red Tennessee cedar backedwith hickory. 

Go to a lumber yard and select a plank of cedar having the fewest knotsand the straightest grain. Saw or split a piece out of it six feetlong, two inches wide, and about an inch thick. Plane it straight androughen its two-inch surface with a file. Obtain a strip of whitestraight-grained hickory six feet long, two inches wide, and a quarterinch thick. 

Roughen one surface, spread these two rough surfaces with a good liquidglue and place them together. With a series of clamps compress themtightly. In the absence of clamps, a pile of bricks or weights may beused. After several days it will be dry enough to work. 

From this point on it may be treated the same as yew. The hickorybacking takes the place of the sap wood. 

Cedar has a soft, lively cast and the hickory backing makes it almostunbreakable. 

This bow should be bound with linen or silk every few inches like afishing rod. Several coats of varnish will keep the glue from beingaffected by moisture or rain. 

Since both woods are usually obtainable at any lumber yard, thereshould be no difficulty in the matter save the mechanical factorsinvolved. These only add zest to the problem. A true archer must be acraftsman. 

MAKING A BOWSTRING

A bow without a string is dead; therefore, we must set to work to makeone. 

Sinew, catgut, and rawhide strings were used by the early archers, buthave been abandoned by the more modern. Animal tissue stretches when itis put under strain or subjected to heat and moisture. Silk makes agood string, but it is short-lived and is not so strong as linen. 

A comparative test of various strings was made to determine whichmaterial is the strongest for bows. Number 3 surgical catgut isapparently a D string on the violin. Taking this as a standarddiameter, a series of waxed strings of various substances were made andtested on a spring scale for their breaking point. The results are asfollows:

 Horsehair breaks at 15 pounds. Cotton breaks at 18 pounds. Catgut breaks at 20 pounds. Silk breaks at 22 pounds. Irish linen breaks at 28 pounds. Chinese grass fiber breaks at 32 pounds. 

This latter, with similar unusual fibers, is not on the market in theform of thread, so is of no practical use to us. 

We use Irish linen or shoemakers' thread. It is Barbour's Number 12. Each thread will stand a strain of six pounds; therefore, a bowstringof fifty strands will suspend a weight of 300 pounds. 

A target bow may have a proportionately lighter string than a huntingbow because here a quick cast is desired; but in hunting, security isnecessary. We therefore allow one strand of linen for every pound ofthe bow. 

This is the method of manufacturing a bowstring as devised by the lateMr. Maxson and described in _American Archery_. Some few alterationshave been introduced to simplify the technique. 

It is advisable to take the threads in your hands as you follow thedirections. 

If you propose making a string for a sixty-five-pound bow, it shouldhave about sixty threads in it, and these are divided into threestrands of twenty threads each. Start making the first of these strandsby measuring off on the bow a length eight inches beyond each end--thatis, sixteen inches longer than your bow. Double your thread back, drawing it through your hand until you reach the beginning. Now repeatthe process of laying one thread with another, back and forth, untiltwenty are in the strand. But these must be so arranged that each isabout half an inch shorter than the preceding, thus making the end ofthe strand tapered. 

When twenty are thus stroked into one cord, they are heavily waxed bydrawing the strand through the hand and wax, from center to the ends, each way. Now roll the greater part of this strand about your fingersand make a little coil which you compress, but allow about twenty-fourinches to remain free and uncoiled. Thus abbreviated it is easier tohandle in the subsequent process of twisting it into a cord. 

Make two other strands exactly like this, roll them into a compressedcoil and lay them aside. Now to form the loop or eye it is necessary tothicken the string at this point with an additional splice. So lay outanother strand of twenty threads six feet long. Cut this into sixpieces, each twelve inches in length. Take one of these and so pull theends of the threads that they are made of uneven length, or that theends become tapered. Wax this splice thoroughly; do this to each one inturn. 

Now pick up one of your original strands and apply to its tapered endand lying along the last foot of its length one of the above describedsplices. Wax the two together. So treat the two other strands. 

Grasp the three cords together in your left hand at a point nine inchesfrom the end. With the right hand pick up one strand near this pointand twist it between the thumb and finger, away from you, rolling ittight, at the same time pulling it toward you. Seize another strand, twist it from you and pull it toward you. Continue this process witheach in succession, and you will find that you are making a rope. Bythe time the rope is three inches in length, it is long enough to foldon itself and constitute a loop. Proceed to double it back so that theloose ends of the strands are mated and waxed into cohesion with thethree main strands of the string. Arrange them nicely so that theyinterlace properly and are evenly applied. 

Now while being seated, slip the upper limb of your bow under yourright knee and over the left, and drop the new formed loop of yourstring over the horn nock. Begin again the process of twisting eachstrand away from you while you pull it toward you. Continue the motionuntil you have run down the string a distance of eight inches. Duringthe process you will see the wisdom of having rolled the excess stringup into little skeins to keep them from being tangled. Thus the uppereye is formed. At this stage unwind your skeins and stretch the stringdown the bow, untwisting and drawing straight the three strands. 

Seize them now three inches below the lower nock of your bow. At thispoint apply the short splices for the lower loop. They should be solaid on that three inches extends up the string from this point and therest lies along the tapered extremity. Wax them tight. Hold the threelong strands together while you give them final equalizing traction. Start here and twist your second loop, drawing each strand toward youas you twist it away from you until a rope of three inches is formedagain. This you double back on itself, mate its tapered extremitieswith the three long strands of the string and wax them together. 

Slip the upper loop down your bow and nock the lower loop on the lowerhorn. Swing your right knee over the bow below the string and set theloop on this horn while you work. Give the string plenty of slack. 

Start again the twisting and pulling operation, keeping the strandsfrom tangles while you form the lower splice of the string. When it iseight inches long, take off the loop and unroll the twist in the mainbody of the string. Replace the loop and brace your bow. This will takethe kinks from the cord. Wax it thoroughly and, removing the lowerloop, twist the entire bowstring in the direction of the previousmaneuver until it is shortened to the proper length to fit the bow. Nock the string again and, taking a thick piece of paper, fold it intoa little pad and rub the bowstring vigorously until it assumes a round, well-waxed condition. 

If the loops are properly placed, the final twisting should make onecomplete rotation of the string in a distance of one or two inches. Acloser twist tends to cut itself. 

If, by mistake, the string is too short or too long, and adjusting thetwist does not correct it, then you must undo the last loop to overcomethe error. The fork of these loops is often bound with waxed carpetthread to reduce their size and strengthen them. The whole structure atthis point may be served with the same thread to protect it frombecoming chafed and worn. 

The center of the string and the nocking point for the arrow must nowbe served with waxed silk, linen, or cotton thread to protect it frombecoming worn. 

Ordinarily we take a piece of red carpet thread or shoe button thread, about two yards in length, wax it thoroughly and double it. Start withthe doubled end, threading the free end through it around the string, and wind it over, from right to left. The point of starting thisserving is two and one-half inches above the center of the bowstring. 

When you come to the nocking point, or that at which an arrow standsperpendicular to the string while crossing the bow at the top of thehandle, make a series of overlapping threads or clove hitches. Thiswill form a little lump or knot on the string at this point. Continueserving for half an inch and repeat this maneuver; again continue theserving down the string for a distance of four or five inches, finishing with a fixed lashing by drawing the thread under the last twoor three wraps. 

A nocking point of this character has two advantages: the first is thatyou can feel it readily while nocking an arrow in the dark or whilekeeping your eye on the game, and the other point is that the knotsprevent the arrow being dislodged while walking through the brush. 

We have found that by heating our beeswax and adding about one-quarterrosin, it makes it more adhesive. 

In hot or wet weather it is of some advantage to rub the string with analcoholic solution of shellac. Compounds containing glue or any harddrying substance seem to cause the strings to break more readily. Paraffin, talcum powder, or a bit of tallow candle rubbed on theserving and nocking point is useful in making a clean release of thestring. 

So far as dampness and rain go, these never interfere with the actionof the string. A well-greased bow will stand considerable water, thougharrows suffer considerably. 

Wax your string every few days if in use; you should always carry anextra one with you. 

Strings break most commonly at the nocking point beneath the serving. Here they sustain the greatest strain and are subject to most bending. An inspection at this point frequently should be done. An impendingbreak is indicated by an uneven contour of the strands beneath theserving. Discard it before it actually breaks. 

By putting a spring scale between one of the bow nocks and the end ofthe string, the unexpected phenomenon is demonstrated that there isgreater tension on a string when the bow is braced but not drawn up. Afifty-six pound bow registers a sixty-four pound tension on the string. As the arrow is drawn up the tension decreases gradually until twenty-six inches are drawn, when it registers sixty-four pounds again. 

At the moment of recoil, when the bow springs back into position, thisstrain must rise tremendously, for if the arrow be not in place thestring frequently will be broken. 

The tension on the string at the center or nocking point during theprocess of drawing a bow--that is, the accumulated weight--rises quitedifferently in different bows. The arrow being nocked on the string, itis ordinarily already six inches drawn across the bow. Now in the samefifty-six pound bow for every inch of draw past this, the weight risesbetween two and three pounds. As the arrow nears full draw, the weightincreases to such a degree that the last few inches will register fiveor six pounds to the inch, depending on many variable factors in thebow. 

The gradient thus formed dictates the character of a bow to a greatextent. One that pulls softly at first and in the last part of the drawis very stiff, will require more careful shooting to get the exactlength of flight than one whose tension is evenly distributed. 

Reflexed bows are harder on strings than those that follow the string. A breaking cord may fracture your bow. I saw Wallace Bryant lose abeautiful specimen this way. One of Aldred's most perfect make, darkSpanish yew and more than fifty years old, flew to splinters justbecause a treacherous string parted in the center. Sturdy hunting bowsare not so liable to this catastrophe, but be sure you are not caughtout in a game country with a broken string and no second. You will seeendless opportunities to shoot. Wax is to an archer what tar is to asailor; use it often, and always have two strings to your bow. 

VI

HOW TO MAKE AN ARROW

Fletching is a very old art and, necessarily, must have many empiricalmethods and principles involved. There are innumerable types of arrows, and an equal number of ways of making them. For an excellentdescription of a good way to make target arrows, the reader is referredto that chapter by Jackson in the book _American Archery_. 

Having learned several aboriginal methods of fletching and studied allthe available literature on the subject, we have adopted the followingmaneuvers to turn out standard hunting arrows: The first requisite isthe shaft. Having tested birch, maple, hickory, oak, ash, poplar, alder, red cedar, mahogany, palma brava, Philippine nara, Douglas fir, red pine, white pine, spruce, Port Orford cedar, yew, willow, hazel, eucalyptus, redwood, elderberry, and bamboo, we have adopted birch asthe most rigid, toughest and suitable in weight for hunting arrows. Douglas fir and Norway pine are best for target shafts; bamboo forflight arrows. 

The commercial dowel, frequently called a maple dowel, is made of whitebirch and is exactly suited to our purpose. It may be obtained inquantities from dealers in hardwoods, or from sash and door mills. Ifpossible, you should select these dowels yourself, to see that they arestraight, free from cross-grain, and of a rigid quality. For huntingbows drawing over sixty pounds, the dowels should be three-eighths ofan inch in diameter; for lighter bows five-sixteenths dowels should beused. They come in three-foot lengths and bundles of two hundred andfifty. It is a good plan to buy a bundle at a time and keep them in theattic to dry and season. 

Where dowels are not obtainable, you can have a hickory or birch planksawed up or split into sticks half an inch in diameter, and plane theseto the required size, or turn them on a lathe, or run them through adowel-cutting machine. 

Take a dozen dowels from your stock and cut them to a length oftwenty-eight and one-quarter inches, or an inch less or more accordingto the length of your arms. In doing this you should try to remove theworst end, keeping that portion with the straightest grain for the headof your shaft. 

Having cut them to length, take a hand plane and shave the last sixinches of the rear end or shaftment so that the diameter is reduced toa trifle more than five-sixteenths of an inch at the extremity. 

Now comes the process of straightening your shafts. By squinting downthe length of the dowel you can observe the crooked portions. If theseare very bad, they should be heated gently over a gas flame and thenbent into proper line over the base of the thumb or palm. A pair ofgloves will protect the hand from burning. If the deviation be slight, then mere manual pressure is often sufficient. During this process thefuture arrow should be tested for strength. If it cannot standconsiderable bending it deserves to break. If it is limber, discard it. 

Nocking the shaft comes next. Hunting arrows require no horn, bone, aluminum, or fiber nock. Simply place the smaller end of the shaft in avise and cut the end across the grain with three hack saws boundtogether, your cut being about an eighth of an inch wide bythree-eighths deep; finish it carefully with a file. Thus nock them alland sandpaper them smooth throughout, rounding the nocked endgracefully. To facilitate this process I place one end in amotor-driven chuck and hold the rapidly revolving shaft in a piece ofsandpaper in my hand. When finished the diameter should be a trifleunder three-eighths of an inch at the center and about five-sixteenthsat the nock. 

Mark them now, where the feathers and binding should go. At a point oneinch from the base of the nock make a circular line, this is for therear binding; five inches above this make another, this is for thefeather; one inch above this make another, this is for the frontbinding; and an inch above this make another, this is for the paintedribbon. 

Feathers come next, but really they should have come long ago. The bestare turkey feathers, so we won't talk about any others. The time to getthem is at Thanksgiving and Christmas. Then you should get on goodterms with your butcher and have him save you a boxful of turkey wings. These you chop with a hatchet on a block, saving only the six or sevenlong pinions. Put them away with moth balls until you need them. Ofcourse, if you cannot get turkey feathers when you want them, goose, chicken, duck, or plumes from a feather duster may be employed. Yourmilliner can tell you where to purchase goose feathers, but these areexpensive. 

Cutting arrow feathers is a pleasant occupation around the fire in thewinter evenings, and the real archer has the happiness of making histackle while his mind dwells upon the coming spring shooting. As hemakes his shaft he wonders what fate will befall it. Will it speed awayin a futile shot, or last the grilling of a hundred practice flights, or will it be that fortunate arrow which flies swift and true andbrings down the bounding deer? How often have I picked up a shaft andmarked it, saying, "With this I'll kill a bear. " And with some I'vedone it, too!

So your feathers should be cut in quantity. This is the way you cutthem: Select a good clean one, steady it between your palms while withyour fingers you separate the bristles at the tip. Pull them apart, thus splitting the rib down the center. If by chance it should notsplit evenly, take your sharpened penknife and cut it straight. 

Have ready a little spring clip, such as is used to hold your cravat ormagazine in a book store. One end of this is bent about a safety-pin sothat it can be fastened to your trousers at the knee. Now you have asort of knee vise to hold your feather while trimming it. Place thebutt of the rib in the jaws of the clip and shave it down to thethickness of a thirty-second of an inch. Make this even and level sothat the feather stands perpendicular to it. With a pair of longscissors cut off the lateral excess of rib on the concave side of thefeather. This permits it to straighten out. 

At the same stage cut the feather roughly to shape; that is, fiveinches long, half an inch at the anterior end, an inch wideposteriorly, and having an inch of stem projecting at each extremity. 

For this work you must keep your pocket-knife very sharp. With practiceyou should cut a feather in two or three minutes. 

Donnan Smith, a worthy archer and a good fletcher, has devised a springclamp which holds the feather while being cut. It is composed of astrong binder clip to which are soldered two thin metal jaws the sizeand shape of a properly cut feather. Having stripped his feather, heclamps it rib uppermost between the jaws and trims the rib with aknife, or on a fast-revolving emery stone, or sandpaper disc. Thisaccomplished, he turns the feather around in the clamp and cuts thebristles to the exact shape of the metal jaws with a pair of scissors. It is an admirable method. 

Some fletchers cut their feathers on a board by eye with only a knife. James Duff, the well-known American maker of tackle, learned this inthe shop of Peter Muir, the famous Scotch fletcher. 

If you wish to dye your feathers it may be done by obtaining theaniline dye used on wool. Adding about 10 per cent of vinegar to theaqueous solution of the stain, heat it to such a temperature that youcan just stand your finger in it. Soak your feathers in this hotsolution, stir them for several minutes, then lay them out on a pieceof newspaper to dry in the sun. Red, orange, and yellow are used forthis purpose; the former helps one to find a lost arrow, but all colorstend to run if wet, and stain the clothing. 

Having prepared a sufficient quantity of feathers, you are ready tofledge your shaft. Select three of a similar color, strength, and fromthe same wing of the bird. With a stick, run a little liquid glue alongthe rib of each and lay it aside. Along the axis of your arrow runthree parallel lines of glue down the shaftment. The first of these isfor the cock feather and should be on a line perpendicular to the nock. The other two are equidistant from this. A novice should mark theselines with a pencil at first. 

Now comes a difficult task, that of putting on the feathers. Many waysand means have been devised, and in target arrows nothing is betterthan just sticking them on by hand. Some have used clamps, some usepins, some lash the feathers on at the extremities with thread, andthen glue beneath them. We take the oldest of all methods, which isshown in the specimens of old Saxon arrows rescued from the Nylanderboat in Holland, [1][Footnote 1: See _Archer's Register_ of 1912. ]also depicted in many old English paintings--that of binding thefeathers with a piece of thread running spirally up the shaft betweenthe bristles. 

Starting at a point six inches from the nock, set your thick end of therib in position on the lines of glue. Hold the shaft under your leftarm while with the left thumb, forefinger, and middle finger steady thefeathers as they are respectively put in place. With one end of a pieceof cotton basting thread in your teeth and the spool in your righthand, start binding the ribs down to the arrow shaft. After a few turnsproceed up the shaftment, adjusting the feathers in position as yourotate the arrow. Let your basting thread slip between the bristles ofthe feather about half an inch apart. When you come to the rear end, finish up with several overlapping turns and a half-hitch. Line up yourfeathers so that they run straight down the shaftment and areequidistant. Of one thing be very sure--see that your feather runs atrifle toward the concave side, looking from the rear, and that therear end deviates quite perceptibly toward this direction. This insuresproper steering qualities to your arrow. Set it aside and let it dry. 

When all are dry, remove the basting thread and trim the ribs to thepencil marks, leaving them about three-quarters of an inch long. Beveltheir ends to a slender taper. 

The next process is that of binding the feathers in position. Thematerial which we use for this purpose is known as ribonzine, a thinsilk ribbon used to bind candy boxes. In the absence of this, flosssilk may be employed. Cut it into pieces about a foot long. Put alittle liquid glue on the space reserved for binding and, whilerevolving the shaft under your arm, apply the ribbon in lapping spiralsover the feather ribs. Cover them completely and have the bindingsmooth and well sized in glue. The ribbon near the nock serves toprotect the wood at this point from splitting. When dry, clean yourshaft from ragged excess of glue with knife and sandpaper, and finishup by running a little diluted glue with a small brush along the sideof the feather ribs to make them doubly secure. 

Now comes the painting. 

We paint arrows not so much for gayness, as to preserve them againstmoisture, to aid in finding them when lost, and to distinguish oneman's shaft from another's. 

Chinese vermilion and bright orange are colors which are mostdiscernible in the grass and undergrowth. With a narrow brush, paintbetween your feathers, running up slightly on to the rib, covering theglue. If your silk ribbon binding is a bright color--mine is green--youcan leave it untouched. We often paint the nock a distinguishing colorto indicate the type of head at the other end, so that in drawing theshaft from the quiver we can know beforehand what sort it will be. Thelivery should be painted in several different rings. My own colors arered, green, and white. 

One or two coats are applied according to the fancy of the archer. Theline between the various pigments should be striped with a thin blackring. 

Unless you use a lathe to hold your arrows in the painting process, youcan employ two wooden blocks or rests, one having a shallow countersunkhole on its lateral face to hold the nock while rotating, the otherhaving a groove on its upper surface. Clamp these on a bench, or on theopposite arms of your easy chair before the fire, and you can turn yourshafts slowly by hand while you steady your brush and apply the paintin even rings. 

At this stage I have added a device which seems to be helpful innocking arrows in the dark, or while keeping one's eye on the game. Having put a drop of glue on the ribbon immediately above the nock andbehind the cock feather, I affix a little white glass bead. One canfeel this with his thumb as he nocks his arrow, when in conjunctionwith knots on his string, he can perform this maneuver entirely bytouch. 

The paint having dried, varnish or shellac your arrow its entirelength, avoiding, of course, any contact with the feathers. In due timesandpaper the shaft and repeat the varnishing. Rub this down withsteelwool and give it a finishing touch with floor wax. 

Here we are ready for the arrow-heads. 

We use three types of points. The first is a blunt head made by bindingthe end of the shaft with thin tinned iron wire for half an inch andrunning on solder, then drilling a hole in the end of the shaft andinserting an inch round-headed screw. In place of soldered wire, onecan use an empty 38-caliber cartridge, either cutting off the base ordrilling out the priming aperture to admit the screw. This type ofarrow we use for rough practice, shooting tin cans, trees, boxes, andother impedimenta. It makes a good shaft for birds, rabbits, and smallgame. 

A second type of head we use is made of soft steel about a sixteenth ofan inch thick. We cut it with a hack saw into a blunt, barbed, lanceolate shape having a blade about an inch long and half an inchwide, also a tang about the same length and three-eighths of an inchwide. 

This we set into a slot sawed in the arrow in the same plane as thenock, and bind the shaft with tinned wire, number 30, solderedtogether. The end of the shaft has a gradual bevel where it meets thelateral face of the head. 

This is a sturdy little point and will stand much abuse. We use it forshooting birds, squirrels, and small vermin. 

But the point that we prefer to shoot is the old English broad-head. Starting from small dimensions, we have gradually increased its size, weight and strength and cutting qualities till now we shoot a headwhose blade is three inches long, an inch and a quarter wide, a trifleless than a thirty-second thick. It has a haft or tubular shank an inchlong. Its weight is half an ounce. The blades are made of spring steel. After annealing the steel we score it diagonally with a hack saw, whenit may be broken in triangular pieces in a vise. With a cold chisel, anangular cut is made in the base to form the barbs. With a file andcarborundum stone, they are edged and shaped into blades as sharp asknives. Soft, cold drawn steel will serve quite as well as spring steelfor these blades, but it does not hold its edge. It may be purchased athardware supply depots in the form of strips an inch and a half wide, by one-thirty-second thick, and is much easier to work than thetempered variety. 

Then taking three-eighths number . 22 gauge steel or brass tubing, wesmash it to a short bevel on the anvil, file off the corners and cut itto a length of an inch and three-quarters. This makes the haft orsocket. Fixing a blade, barbs uppermost in the vise, this tubing isdriven lightly into position, the filed edges of the beveled endpermitting the blade to be held between the sides of the tubing. Asmall hole is drilled through the tubing and blade, and a soft ironwire rivet is inserted. The blade is held over a gas flame while thejoint between it and the tubing is filled with soft soldering compoundand ribbon solder. 

The heated head is plunged into water and later finished with file andemery cloth. The whole process of making a steel broad-head requiresabout twenty minutes. Every archer should manufacture his own. Then hewill treat them with more respect. Very few artisans can make them, andif they can, their price is exorbitant. 

Be sure that your heads are straight and true. To set them on yourshaft, cut the wood to fit, then heat a bit of ferrule cement and setthem on in the same plane as the nock. In the absence of ferrulecement, which can be had at all sporting goods stores, one can usechewing gum, or better yet, a mixture of caoutchouc pitch and scaleshellac heated together in equal parts. Heat your fixative as you wouldsealing wax, over a candle, also heat the arrow and the metal head. Puton with these adhesives, it seldom pulls off. In the wilds we often fixthe head with pine resin. Glue can be used, but it is not so good. 

Having brought your arrows to this stage, the next act is to trim thefeathers. First run them gently through the hand and smooth out theirveins; then with long-bladed scissors cut them so that the anterior endis three-eighths of an inch high, while the posterior extremity is oneinch. I also cut the rear tip of the feather diagonally across, removing about half an inch to prevent it getting in the way of thefingers when on the string. 

Mr. Arthur Young cuts his feathers in a long parabola with a die madeof a knife blade bent into shape. These things are largely a matter oftaste. 

Look your arrows over; see that they are straight and that the feathersare in good shape, then shoot them to observe their flight. Number themabove the ribbon so that you can keep record of their performances. Theweight of such an arrow is one and one-half ounces. 

The small blunt, barb-headed arrows we often paint red their entirelength. Because they are meant for use in the brush, they are morereadily lost; the bright color saves many a shaft. 

To make a hunting arrow requires about an hour, and one should bewilling to look for one almost this time when it is lost. Findingarrows is an acquired art. Don't forget the advice of Bassanio: "In myschool days when I had lost one shaft, I shot his fellow of theself-same flight, the self-same way, with more advised watch to findthe other forth; and by adventuring both, I oft found both. "

If, indeed, the shaft cannot be found, then give it up with good grace, remembering that after all it is pleasant work to make one. Dedicate itto the cause of archery with the hope that in future days some one maypick it up and, pricking his finger on the barb, become inoculated withthe romance of archery. 

When an arrow lodges in a root or tree, we work the head back and forthvery carefully to withdraw it. A little pair of pliers comes in veryhandy here. If it is buried deeply we cut the wood away from it with ahunting knife. Blunt arrows, called bird bolts by Shakespeare, are bestto shoot up in the branches of trees at winged and climbing game. 

In our quivers we usually carry several light shafts we call eaglearrows, because they are designed principally for shooting at thisbird. 

Once while hunting deer, and observing a doe and fawn drinking at apool, we saw a magnificent golden eagle swoop down, catch the startledfawn and lift it from the ground. Mr. Compton and I, having such arrowsin our quivers, let fly at the struggling bird of prey. We came soclose that the eagle loosened the grip of his talons and the fawndropped to earth and sped off with its mother, safe for the time being. 

[Illustration: SEVERAL STEPS IN ARROW MAKING]

Often we have shot at hawks and eagles high up in the air, where toreach them we needed a very light arrow, and they have had many closecalls. For these we use a five-sixteenths dowel, feather it with short, low cut parabolic feathers and put a small barbed head on it about aninch in length. Such an arrow we paint dark green, blue, or black, sothat the bird cannot discern its flight. 

It is great sport to shoot at some lazy old buzzard as he comes withinrange. He can see the ordinary arrow, and if you shoot close, hedodges, swoops downward, flops sidewise, twists his head round andround, and speeds up to leave the country. He presents the comicpicture of a complacent old gentleman suddenly disturbed in hismonotonous existence and frightened into a most unbecoming loss ofdignity. 

Eagle arrows can be used for lofty flights, to span great canyons, torout the chattering bluejay from the topmost limb of a pine, and sooneror later we shall pierce an eagle on the wing. 

We make another kind of shaft that we call a "floo-floo. " In Thompson's_Witchery of Archery_ he describes an arrow that his Indian companionused, which gave forth such a fluttering whistle when in flight thatthey called it by this euphonious name. This is made by constructingthe usual blunt screw-headed shaft and fledging it with wide uncutfeathers. It is useful in shooting small game in the brush, because itsflight is impeded and, missing the game, it soon loses momentum andstops. It does not bound off into the next county, but can be foundnear by. As a rule, these are steady, straight fliers for a shortdistance. 

In finishing the nock of an arrow, it should be filed so that it fitsthe string rather snugly, thus when in place it is not easily disturbedby the ordinary accidents of travel. Still this tightness should be atthe entrance of the nock, while the bottom of the nock is made a triflemore roomy with a round file. I file all my nocks to fit a certaintwo-inch wire nail whose diameter is just that of my bowstring. 

After arrows have been shot for a time and their feathers have settled, they should again be trimmed carefully to their final proportions. Theheads, if found too broad for perfect flight, should be ground a triflenarrower. 

When hunting, one does well to carry in his pocket a small flat filewith which to sharpen his broad-heads before shooting them. They shouldhave a serrated, meat-cutting edge. Even carrying arrows in a quivertends to dull them, because they chafe each other while in motion. Fromtime to time you should rub the shafts and heads with the mixture ofcedar and linseed oil, thus keeping them clean and protected fromdampness. 

On a hunting trip an archer should carry with him in his repair kit, extra feathers, heads, cement, a tube of glue, ribonzine, linen thread, wax, paraffin, sandpaper, emery cloth, pincers, file and smallscissors. With these he can salvage many an arrow that otherwise wouldbe too sick to shoot. 

Extra arrows are carried in a light wooden box which has littlesuperimposed racks on which they rest and are kept from crushing eachother. 

As a rule, nothing does an arrow so much good as to shoot it, andnothing so much harm as to have it lie inactive and crowded in thequiver. 

The flight of an arrow is symbolic of life itself. It springs from thebow with high aim, flies toward the blue heaven above, and seems tohave immortal power. The song of its life is sweet to the ear. The rushof its upward arc is a promise of perpetual progress. With perfectgrace it sweeps onward, though less aspiring. Then flutteringimperceptibly, it points downward and with ever-increasing speed, approaches the earth, where, with a deep sigh, it sinks in the soil, quivers with spent energy, and capitulates to the inevitable. 

VII

ARCHERY EQUIPMENT

Besides a bow and arrow, the archer needs to have a quiver, a bow case, a waterproof quiver case, an arm guard or bracer, and a shooting gloveor leather finger tips. Our quivers are made of untanned deer hide, usually from deer shot with the bow. The hide, having been properlycleaned, stretched, and dried, is cut down the center, each half makinga quiver. Marking a quadrilateral outline twenty-four inches on twosides, twelve at the larger end, and nine at the smaller, in such a waythat the hair points from the larger to the smaller end; cut this pieceand soak it in water until soft, and wash it clean with soap. At thesame time cut a circular piece off the tough neck skin, three inches indiameter. 

With a furrier's needle having three sharp edges, and heavy waxedthread, or better yet, with catgut, sew up the longer sides of the skinwith a simple overcast stitch. Let the hair side be in while sewing. Inthe smaller end sew the circular bottom. Invert the quiver on a stick;turn back a cuff of hide one inch deep at the top. To do this nicely, the hair should be clipped away at this point. This cuff stiffens themouth of the quiver and keeps it always open. 

Now put your quiver over a wooden form to dry. 

[Illustration: ARROW HEADS OF VARIOUS SORTS USED IN HUNTING]

I have one like a shoemaker's last, made of two pieces of woodseparated by a thin slat which can be removed, permitting easywithdrawal of the quiver after drying. When dry, your quiver will beabout twenty-two inches deep, four inches across the top, and slightlyconical. 

Cut a strip of deer hide eight inches long by one and a half wide, shave it, double the hair side in, and attach it to the seamy side ofthe quiver by perforating the leather and inserting a lacing ofbuckskin thongs. Leave the loop of this strap projecting two inchesabove the top of the quiver. In the bottom of your quiver drop a roundpiece of felt or carpet to prevent the arrow points coming through thehide. 

If you are not so fortunate as to have deer hide, you may use any stiffleather, or even canvas. This latter can be made stiff by painting orvarnishing it. 

Such a receptacle will hold a dozen broad-heads very comfortably andseveral more under pressure. It should swing from a belt at the righthip in such a way that in walking it does not touch the leg, while inshooting it is accessible to the right hand or may then be shiftedslightly to the front for convenience. 

In running we usually grasp the quiver in the right hand, not only toprevent it interfering with locomotion, but to keep the arrows fromrattling and falling out. When on the trail of an animal we habituallystuff a twig of leaves, a bunch of ferns or a bit of grass in the mouthof the quiver to damp the soft rustling of the arrows. Sometimes, ingoing through brush or when running, we carry the quiver on a beltslung over the left shoulder. Here they are out of the way and give thelegs full action. 

To keep the arrows dry, and to cover them while traveling, we make asheath for the quiver of waterproof muslin. This is long enough tocover the arrows and has a wire ring a bit larger than the top of thequiver sewn in the cloth some three inches from the upper end. Thiskeeps the feathers from being crushed. The mouth of this cover isclosed with a drawstring. On the side adjacent to the strap of thequiver, an aperture is cut to permit this being brought through andfastened to the belt. 

The bow itself has a long narrow case made of the same cloth, orcanvas, or green baize with a drawstring at the top and a leather tipat the bottom. Where several bows are packed together, each has awoolen bow case and all are carried in a canvas bag, compositioncarrying cylinder, or in a wooden bow box. In hunting we prefer thecanvas bag, but you must carry it yourself, any one else will breakyour bows. 

The bracer, or arm guard, is a cuff of leather worn on the left forearmto prevent the stroke of the bowstring doing damage. Some archers canshoot without this protection, but others, because of their style ofshooting or their anatomical formation, need it. It can be made like abutcher's cuff, some six or eight inches long, partially surroundingthe forearm and fastened by three little straps or by lacing in theback. Another form is simply a strip of thin sole leather from two tothree inches wide by eight long, having little straps and bucklesattached to hold it in position on the flexor surface of the wrist andforearm. 

[Illustration: NECESSARY ARCHERY EQUIPMENT]

The bracer not only keeps the arm from injury, but makes for a cleanrelease of the arrow. Anything such as a coat sleeve touching thebowstring when in action, diverts the arrow in its flight. On thesleeve of your shooting jersey you can sew a piece of leather for anarm guard. 

While one may pick up a bow and shoot a few shots without a glove orfinger protection, he soon will be compelled to cease because ofsoreness. Doubtless the ancient yeoman, a horny-handed son of toil, needed no glove. But we know that even in those days a tab of leatherwas held in the hand to prevent the string from hurting. The gloveprobably is of more modern use and quite in favor among target archers. We have found it rather hot in hunting, so have resorted to leatherfinger tips. These are best made of pigskin or cordovan leather, whichis horse hide. This should be about a sixteenth of an inch thick andcut to such a form that the tips enclose the finger on the palmarsurface up to the second joint and leave an oval opening over theknuckle and upper part of the finger nail. The best way to make them isto mould a piece of paper about each of the first three fingers on theright hand, gathering the paper on the back and crimping it with thethumb nail to show where to cut the pattern. Lay the paper out flat andcut it approximately according to the illustrated form. 

Transferring these outlines to the leather, cut three piecesaccordingly, soak them in water and sew them. This stitching is bestdone by previously punching holes along the edges with a fine awl andsewing an overcast stitch of waxed linen thread which, having reachedthe end, returns backward on its course through the same holes. Thismakes a criss-cross effect which is strong and pleasing to the eye. 

The ends of the finger cots should be sewed closed, protecting thefingers from injury and keeping out dirt. While the leather is stillsoft and damp, place the tips on the fingers and press them home. Atthe same time flex them strongly at the joints and try to keep thembent there. Such angulation helps not only in holding the bowstring, but keeps the tip from coming off under pressure. When dry, theseleather stalls should be numbered according to the finger to which theybelong, coated lightly with thin glue on the inside and waxed on theouter surface. Then they are ready for use. 

An archer should have two sets of tips so that, should misfortunebefall him and he loses one, he is not altogether undone. When not inuse keep them in your pocket or strung on the strap of your bracer. Inby-gone days they were sewed to straps which fastened to a wrist belt, thus were more secure from loss, but more cumbersome. 

From time to time oil your tips and always keep them from beingroughened or scratched. With a small amount of glue in the tip one hasonly to moisten his fingers in his mouth and the leather stall willstick on firmly. We have also used lead plaster of the pharmacopoeiafor the same adhesive purpose. 

In the absence of pockets in ancient days, the archer carried his extraequipment in a wallet slung at his waist. Even now it seems a handything to have a deerskin wallet six by eight inches, by an inch or moredeep. I frequently carry my tips, extra string, wax, file wrapped in acloth, and a bit of lunch, in such a receptacle. 

With his bow, his quiver, a wallet, our modern archer is ready andcould step into Sherwood Forest feeling quite at home. 

VIII

HOW TO SHOOT

First, brace your bow. To do this properly, grasp it at the handle withyour right hand, the upper horn upward and the back toward you. Placethe lower horn at the instep of your right foot, and the base of yourleft palm against the back of the bow, near the top below the loop ofthe string. Holding your left arm stiff and toward your left side, yourright elbow fixed on your hip, pull up on the handle by twisting yourbody so that the bow is sprung away from you. The string is nowrelaxed, and the fingers of the left hand push it upward till it slipsin the nock. 

Don't try to force the string, and don't get your fingers caughtbeneath it. Do most of the work with the right hand pulling against therigid left arm. 

The proper distance between the bow and the string at the handle is sixinches. This is ordinarily measured by setting the fist on the handleand the thumb sticking upright, where it should touch the string. Thisis the ancient fistmele, an archer's measure, also used in measuringlumber. 

Hunting bows should be strung a little less than this because of theprolonged strain on them. Target bows shoot cleaner when higher strung. 

Change your bow to your left hand and drop the arm so that the upperend of the bow swings across the body in a horizontal position. Draw anarrow from the quiver with the right hand and carry it across the bowtill it rests on the left side at the top of the handle. Place the leftforefinger over the shaft and keep it from slipping while you shiftyour right hand to the arrow-nock, thumb uppermost. Push the arrowforward, at the same time rotating it until the cock feather, or thatperpendicular to the nock, is away from the bow. As the feathers passover the string and the thumb still rests on the nock, slip the fingersbeneath the string and fit it in the arrow-nock. 

Now turn the bow upright and remove your left forefinger from itsposition across the shaft. The arrow should rest on the knuckleswithout lateral support. Now place your fingers in position forshooting. The release used by the old English is the best. Thisconsists in placing three fingers on the string, one above the arrow, two below. The string rests midway between the last joint and the tipof the finger. The thumb should not touch the arrow, but lie curled upin the palm. 

The release used by children consists in pinching the arrow between thethumb and forefinger, and is known as the primary loose. This type isnot strong enough to draw an arrow half way on a hunting bow. 

Stand sidewise to your mark, with the feet eight or ten inches apart, at right angles to the line of shot. Straighten your body, stiffen theback, expand the chest, turn the head fully facing the mark, look at itsquarely, and draw your bow across the body, extending the left arm asyou draw the right hand toward the chin. 

Draw the arrow steadily, in the exact plane of your mark, so that whenthe full draw is obtained and the arrowhead touches the left hand, theright forefinger touches a spot on the jaw perpendicularly below theright eye and the right elbow is in a continuous line with the arrow. This point on the jaw below the eye is fixed and never varies; nomatter how close or how far the shot, the butt of the arrow is alwaysdrawn to the jaw, not to the eye, nor to the ear. Thus the eye glancesalong the entire length of the shaft and keeps it in perfect line. Thebow hand may be lowered or raised to obtain the proper elevation andlength of flight. The left arm is held rigidly but not absolutelyextended and locked at the elbow. A slight degree of flexion here makesfor a good clearance of the string and adds resiliency to the shot. 

The arrow is released by drawing the right hand further backward at thesame time the fingers slip off the string. This must be done so firmly, yet deftly, that no loss of power results, and the releasing hand doesnot draw the arrow out of line. Two great faults occur at this point:one is to permit the arrow to creep forward just before the release, and the other is to draw the hand away from the face in the act ofreleasing. Keep your fingers flexed and your hand by your jaw. All thefingers of the right hand must bear their proper share of work. Thegreat tendency is to permit the forefinger to shirk and to put too muchwork on the ring finger. 

If the arrow has a tendency to fall away from the bow, tip the upperlimb ten degrees to the right and pull more on the right forefinger, also start the draw with the fingers more acutely flexed, so that asthe arrow is pinched between the first and second fingers and as theytend to straighten out under the pressure of the string, the arrow ispressed against the bow, not away from it. 

In grasping the bow with the left hand, it should rest comfortably inthe palm and loosely at the beginning of the draw. The knuckle at thebase of the thumb should be opposite the center of the bow, the handset straight on the wrist. As you draw, be sure that the arrow comes upin a straight line with your mark, otherwise the bow will be twisted inthe grasp and deflect the shot. Then fully drawn, set the grasp of theleft hand without disturbing the position of the bow, make the left armas rigid as an oak limb; fix the muscles of the chest; make yourselfinflexible from head to toe. Keep your right elbow up and rivet yourgaze upon your mark; release in a direct line backward. Everything mustbe under the greatest tension, any weakening spoils your flight. 

The method of aiming in game shooting consists in fixing binocularvision on the object to be hit, drawing the nock of the arrow beneaththe right eye and observing that the head of the arrow is in a directline with the mark by the indirect vision of the right eye. Both eyesare open, both see the mark, but only the right observes the arrowhead, the left ignores it. Your vision must be so concentrated upon one pointthat all else fades from view. Just two things exist--your mark andyour arrowhead. 

At a range of sixty or eighty yards, the head of the arrow seems totouch the mark while aiming. This is called point blank range. Atshorter lengths the archer must estimate the distance below the mark onwhich his arrow seems to rest in order to rise in a parabolic curve andstrike the spot. At greater ranges he must estimate a distance abovethe mark on which he holds his arrow in order to drop it on the objectof his shot. 

If his shaft flies to the left, it is because he has not drawn the nockbeneath his right eye, or he has thrown his head out of line, or thestring has hit his shirt sleeve or something has deflected the arrow. 

If it falls to the right, it is because he has made a forward, creepingrelease, or weakened in his bow arm, or in drawing to the center of thejaw instead of the angle beneath the eye. 

If the arrow rattles on the bow as it is released, or slaps it hard inpassing, it is because it is not drawn up in true line, or because itfits too tightly on the string, or because the release is creeping andweak. Always draw fully up to the barb. 

If his arrows drop low and all else is right, it is because he has notkept his tension, or has lowered his bow arm. 

After the arrow is released, the archer should hold his posture asecond, bow arm rigidly extended, drawing hand to his jaw, right elbowhorizontal. This insures that he maintains the proper position duringthe shot. There should be no jerking, swinging, or casting motions; allmust be done evenly and deliberately. 

The shaft should fly from the bowstring like a bird, without quaver orflutter. All depends upon a sharp resilient release. 

Having observed all the prerequisites of good shooting, nothing soinsures a keen, true arrow flight as an effort of supreme tensionduring the release. The chest is held rigid in a position of moderateinspiration, the back muscles are set and every tendon is drawn intoelastic strain; in fact, to be successful, the whole act should becharacterized by the utmost vigor. 

To get the best instructions for shooting the bow, one should read SirRoger Ascham in _Toxophilus_, and Horace Ford on _Archery. _

Game shooting differs from target shooting in that with the latter apoint of aim is used, and the archer fixes his eyes upon this pointwhich is perpendicular above or below the bull's-eye. The arrowhead isheld on the point of aim, and when loosed, flies not along the line ofvision, but describes a curve upward, descends and strikes not thepoint of aim, but the bull's-eye. 

The field archer should learn to estimate distances correctly by eye. He should practice pacing measured lengths, so that he can tell howmany yards any object may be from him. 

In hunting he should make a mental note of this before he shoots. Infact we nearly always call the number of yards before we loose thearrow. 

Where a strong cross-wind exists, a certain amount of windage isallowed. But up to sixty yards the lateral deflexion from wind isnegligible; past this it may amount to three or four feet. 

In clout shooting and target practice, one must take wind intoconsideration. In hunting we only consider it when approaching game, asa carrier of scent, because our hunting ranges are well under a hundredyards and our heavy hunting shafts tack into the wind with littlelateral drift. 

[Illustration: AN ARCHER'S MEASURE, A FISTMELE]

[Illustration: THE ENGLISH METHOD OF DRAWING THE ARROW]

[Illustration: NOCKING THE SHAFT ON THE STRING]

[Illustration: THE LONG BOW FULL DRAWN]

No matter how much a man may shoot, he is forever struggling with histechnique. I remember getting a letter from an old archer who had shotthe bow for more than fifty years. He was past seventy and had toresort to a thirty-five pound weapon. He complained that his releasewas faulty, but he felt that with a little more practice he couldperfect his loose and make a perfect shot. Since writing he has enteredthe Happy Hunting Grounds, still a trifle off in form. 

Even a sylvan archer needs to practice form at the targets. He shouldstudy the game from its scientific principles as formulated by HoraceFord, the greatest target shot ever known. 

The point-of-aim system and target practice improve one's hunting. Hunting, on the other hand, spoils one's target work. The use of heavybows so accustoms the muscles to gross reactions that they fail toadjust themselves to the finer requirements of light bows and to theprecise technique of the target range. 

The field archer gets his practice by going out in the open andshooting at marks of any sort, at all distances, from five to twohundred yards. A bush, a stray piece of paper, a flower, a shadow onthe grass, all are objects for his shafts. 

The open heath, shaded forest, hills and dales, all make good grounds. As he comes over a knoll a bush on the farther side represents a deer, he shoots instantly. He must learn to run, to stop short and shoot, fresh or weary he must be able to draw his bow and discharge one arrowafter another. With the bow unstrung walking along the trail, often wehave stopped at the word of command, strung the bow, drawn an arrowfrom the quiver, nocked it, and discharged it within the space of fiveseconds. Deliberation, however, is much more desirable. 

Let several archers go into the fields together and roam over the land, aiming at various marks; it makes for robust and accurate gameshooting. 

Shooting an exact line is much easier than getting the exact length. For this reason it is easier to split the willow wand at sixty oreighty yards than it seems. 

Often we have tried this feat to amuse ourselves or our friends, andseldom more than six arrows are needed to strike such a lath or stickat this distance. Hitting objects tossed in the air is not so difficulteither. A small tin can or box thrown fifteen or twenty feet upward ata distance of ten or fifteen yards can be hit nearly every time, especially if the archer waits until it just reaches the apex of itscourse and shoots when it is practically stationary. 

Shooting at swinging objects helps to train one in leading running orflying game. 

Turtle shooting, that form in which the arrow is discharged directlyupward and is supposed to drop on the mark, is difficult and attendedwith few hits, but it trains one in estimating wind drift. 

An archer should also learn the elevation or trajectory at which hisarrows fly at various distances. Shooting in the woods over hanginglimbs may interfere with a good shot. In this case the archer can kneeland thus lower his flight to avoid interception. 

In kneeling it seems that the right knee should be on the ground, whilethe left foot is forward. This is a natural pose to assume duringwalking, and the left thigh should be held out of the way of thebow-string. When not in use, but braced, the bow should be carried inthe left hand, the string upward, the tip pointing forward. It nevershould be swung about like a club nor shouldered like a gun. 

Shooting from horseback is not impossible, but it must be done off theleft side of the horse, and a certain amount of practice is necessaryfor the horse as well as for the archer. 

It is surprising how accurately one can shoot at night. Even thedimmest outline will serve the bowman, and his shaft has an uncanny wayof finding the mark. 

When it comes to missing the mark, that is the subject for a sad story. It takes an inveterate optimist to stand the moral strain of persistentmissing. In fact, it is this that spoils the archery career of many atyro--he gives up in despair. It looks so easy, but really is sodifficult to hit the mark. But do not be cast down, keep eternally atpractice, and ultimately you will be rewarded. Nothing stands a man insuch good stead in this matter as to have started shooting in hisyouth. 

And do not imagine that we are infallible in our shooting. Some of themost humiliating moments of our lives have come through poor shooting. Just when we wanted to do our best, before an expectant gathering, wehave done our most stupid missing. But even this has its compensationsand inures us to defeat. 

It is a striking fact that we shoot better when confronted by the gameitself. Under actual hunting conditions you will hit closer to yourpoint than on the target field. 

Study every move for clean, accurate shooting, and analyze yourfailures so that you can correct your faults. Extreme care and utmosteffort will be rewarded by greater accuracy. 

Other things being equal, it is the man who shoots with his heart inhis bow that hits the mark. 

IX

THE PRINCIPLES OP HUNTING

In the early dawn of life man took up weapons against the beasts abouthim. With club, ax, spear, knife, and sling he protected himself orsought his game. To strike at a distance, he devised the bow. With theimplements of the chase he has won his way in the world. 

Today there is no need to battle with the beasts of prey and littlenecessity to kill wild animals for food; but still the hunting instinctpersists. The love of the chase still thrills us and all the misty pastechoes with the hunter's call. 

In the joy of hunting is intimately woven the love of the greatoutdoors. The beauty of woods, valleys, mountains, and skies feeds thesoul of the sportsman where the quest of game only whets his appetite. 

After all, it is not the killing that brings satisfaction, it is thecontest of skill and cunning. The true hunter counts his achievement inproportion to the effort involved and the fairness of the sport. 

With the rapid development of firearms, hunting tends to lose itssporting quality. The killing of game is becoming too easy; there islittle triumph and less glory than in the days of yore. Gamepreservation demands a limitation of armament. We should do well toabandon the more powerful and accurate implements of destruction, andrevert to the bow. 

Here we have a weapon of beauty and romance. He who shoots with a bow, puts his life's energy into it. The force behind the flying shaft mustbe placed there by the archer. At the moment of greatest strain he mustdraw every sinew to the utmost; his hand must be steady; his nervesunder absolute control; his eye keen and clear. In the hunt he pits hiswell-trained skill against the instinctive cunning of his quarry. Bythe most adroit cleverness, he must approach within striking distance, and when he speeds his low whispering shaft and strikes his game, hehas won by the strength of arm and nerve. It is a noble sport. 

However, not all temperaments are suited to archery. There must besomething within the deeper memories of his inheritance to which thebow appeals. A mere passing fancy will not suffice to make him anarcher. It is the unusual person who will overcome the earlydifficulties and persevere with the bow through love of it. 

The real archer when he goes afield enters a land of subtle delight. The dew glistens on the leaves, the thrush sings in the bush, the softwind blows, and all nature welcomes him as she has the hunter since theworld began. With his bow in his hand, his arrows softly rustling inthe quiver, a horn at his back, and a hound at his heels, what more cana man want in life?

In America our hearts have heard the low whistle of the flying arrowand the sweet hum of the bowstring singing in the book, _The Witcheryof Archery_ by Maurice Thompson. To Will and Maurice Thompson we owe adebt of gratitude hard to pay. The tale of their sylvan exploits in theeverglades of Florida has a charm that borders on the fay. We who shootthe bow today are children of their fantasy, offspring of their magic. As the parents of American archery, we offer them homage and honor. 

Ernest Thompson Seton is another patron of archery to whom all who haveread _Two Little Savages_ must be eternally grateful. Not only has hegiven us a reviving touch of the outdoors, but he puts the bow andarrow in its true setting, a background of nature. 

When Arthur Young, Will Compton, and I began hunting with the bow, wewrote Will Thompson to join us. Because he is such a commanding figurein the history of our craft, I think it proper to quote from one of hisletters:

"MY DEAR DR. POPE:

"The _Sunset Magazine_ containing your charming account of Ishi andyour hunting adventures, and the bunch of photographs of the transfixeddeer, quail, and rabbits came duly, and are mine, now, tomorrow, andfor life. You were very fortunate to have won your archery triumphswhere you could photograph them. I would give much indeed if I couldhave photos of the scenes of my brother's and my successes in thesomber and game-thronged wilds of the gloomy Okefinokee Swamp. I thinkI sent you long ago the two numbers of _Forest and Stream_ in which thehistory of that most wonderful of all my outings appeared. If I did notdo so I will loan you the only copy I have. Let me know. 

"I am glad, so glad, that you young athletic men are following the wildtrails armed with the most romantic weapon man ever fashioned, and Iwould give almost any precious thing I hold to fare with you once tothe game land of your choice, and to watch and wait by a slender trailwhile you and your young, strong comrades stole through the secrethaunts of the wild things, and to listen to the faint footfalls of thecoming deer, roused by your entrance into their secret lairs. To seethe soft and devious approach of the wary thing; to see the liftedlight head turned sharply back toward the evil that roused it from itsbed of ferns; to feel the strong bow tightening in my hand as the thin, hard string comes back; to feel the leap of the loosened cord, the jarof the bow, and see the long streak of the going shaft, and hear thealmost sickening 'chuck' of the stabbing arrow. No one can know how Ihave loved the woods, the streams, the trails of the wild, the ways ofthe things of slender limbs, of fine nose, of great eager ears, of mildwary eyes, and of vague and half-revealed forms and colors. I have beentheir friend and mortal enemy. I have so loved them that I longed tokill them. But I gave them far more than a fair chance. 

"How many I have missed to one I have killed! How often the fiercearrow hissed its threat close by the wide ears! How often the puff oflifted feathers has marked the innocuous passage of my very best arrow!How often the roar of wings has replied to the 'chuck' of mysteel-head shaft as it stabbed the tree branch under the grouse's feet!_Oh, le bon temps, que de siècle de fer_. 

"Let me know whether I sent you _Deep in Okefinokee Swamp_. I encloseyou a little poem published long ago in _Forest and Stream_ and pickedup by the _Literary Digest_ and other periodicals. You will, I think, feel the love of the bow, and the outdoors, as well as the great cryfor the lost brother running through the long sob that pervades it. 

"Send me anything you publish, for I know I should be pleased. Love toyou and a handgrasp to your comrade archers. 

"WILL THOMPSON. "

After the Civil War, where both youths fought in the Confederate Armyand Maurice was wounded, they returned to their Southern home, brokenin health, reduced in circumstances, and deprived of firearms byGovernment restrictions. They turned to the bow and hunting asnaturally as a boy turns to play. Out of their experiences we have alyric of exquisite purity, _The Witchery of Archery_. 

As a result of the interest stimulated by the recount of theirexploits, the National Archery Association was established and held itsfirst tournament at Chicago in the year 1879. It has ever sincenurtured the sport and furthered competitive enthusiasm. 

Maurice later became a noted author, Will an attorney-at-law, the deanof American archers and a poet of remarkably happy expression. Here Ifeel at liberty to insert one of Will Thompson's verses, sent me inpersonal communications:

 AN ARROW SONG

 A song from green Floridian vales I heard, Soft as the sea-moan when the waves are slow; Sweeter than melody of brook or bird, Keener than any winds that breathe or blow; A magic music out of memory stirred, A strain that charms my heart to overflow With such vast yearning that my eyes are blurred. Oh, song of dreams, that I no more shall know! Bewildering carol without spoken word! Faint as a stream's voice murmuring under snow, Sad as a love forevermore deferred, Song of the arrow from the Master's bow, Sung in Floridian vales long, long ago. 

 WILL H. THOMPSON. 

 _A memory of my brother Maurice. _

The Thompsons devoted much of their bow shooting to birds. Not only didthey hunt, but they studied the abundant avian life of the Floridacoast. 

An archer must always, perforce, study animate nature and learn itsways before he can capture it. In our early training with Ishi, theIndian, he taught us to look before he taught us to shoot. "Little bitwalk, too much look, " was his motto. The roving eye and the light stepare the signs of the forest voyageur. 

The ideal way for an archer to travel is to carry on his shoulders aknapsack containing a light sleeping bag and enough food to last him aweek. With me this means coffee, tea, sugar, canned milk, dried fruit, rice, cornmeal, flour and baking powder mixture, a little bacon, butter, and seasoning. This will weigh less than ten pounds. With otherminor appurtenances in the ditty bag, including an arrow-repairing kit, one's burden is less than twenty pounds, an easy load. 

If you have a dog, make him carry his own dry meal in littlesaddle-bags on his back, as Dan Beard suggests. Then, with two dozenarrows in your quiver, and your bow, the open trail lies ahead. Thereis always meat to be had for the shooting. The camp fire and your dogare companions at night, and at dawn all the world rolls out before youas you go. It is a happy life!

When Ishi started to shoot with me, one bowman after another appearedon the scene to join us. Among the first came Will Compton, a man ofmature years and many experiences. Brought up on the plains, he learnedto shoot the bow with the Sioux Indians. As a boy of fourteen he shothis first deer with an arrow. From that time on, deer, elk, antelope, birds of all sorts, and even buffalo fell before this primitive weapon. He later hunted with the gun until the very ease of killing turned himagainst it. So when he came to us, he was a seasoned archer. Upon avisit to a Japanese archery gallery in the Panama-Pacific Exposition hemet for the first time Arthur Young, also an expert hunter with thegun. A friendship sprang up between them, and Compton taught Young toshoot the bow. 

Compton had worked in the shop of Barnes, the bowmaker of Forest Grove, Oregon, and later he went into the Cascade Mountains and cut yew staveswith an idea of selling them to the English bowyers. The Great War of1914 prevented this, and so we had an unlimited supply of yew wood foruse. 

We three gravitated together and shot with Ishi until his last sicknessand departure. Then our serious work began. We found it not only adelightful way of hunting, but a trio makes success more certain in thefield. 

In California there is an abundance of game; small animals existeverywhere and there is no better training than to stalk the waryground squirrel or the alert cottontail. These every archer shouldschool himself to hit before he ventures after larger beasts. 

Infinite patience and practice are needed to make a hunter. He mustearn his right to take life by the painful effort of constant shooting. 

We shot together, and many are the bags of game we filled. Wediscovered in the humble ground squirrel a delectable morsel morepalatable than chicken; re-discovered it, we may say, because theIndian knew it first. In killing these little pests we take to the openfields, approach a burrow by creeping up a gully or dip in the land, rise up and shoot at such distances as we can. I recall one day whenYoung and I got twenty-four squirrels with the bow. Upon anotheroccasion Young by himself secured seventeen in one morning; the lastfive were killed with five successive arrows, the last squirrel beingforty-two paces away. 

Rabbits are best hunted in company. Here the startled rodent skipsbriskly off, down his accustomed run, only to meet another archerstanding motionless, ready with his arrow. 

It seems legitimate with this rudimentary weapon to shoot animals onthe stand, or set, a sporting permit not granted to the devotee of theshotgun, who has a hundred chances to our one. 

We found from the very first that the arrow was more humane than thegun. Counting all hunters, for every animal brought home with the gun, whether duck, quail, or deer, at least two are hit and die in pain inthe brush. 

Just to illustrate this, Mr. Young reported to me the results of hisshooting with a small rifle at ground squirrels. So expert is he thatto hit a squirrel in any spot but the head is quite unusual. In oneday's shooting between himself and his young son, they hit thirty-sixanimals, sixteen of these escaped and disappeared down their burrows, there to die later of their wounds. 

[Illustration: THE PATRON SAINTS OF AMERICAN ARCHERY, WILL AND MAURICETHOMPSON, AS THEY APPEARED IN 1878]

With the arrow it is different. Not only is the destructive power asgreat as a small bullet, but the shaft holds the animal so that itcannot escape. Practically none are lost in our hunts. A strangephenomenon is seen in larger animals; they are easier to kill with anarrow than small ones. A shot in either the chest or abdominal cavityof a deer is invariably fatal in a few minutes; while a rabbit maycarry an arrow off until the obstructing undergrowth checks his flight. It seems that their vital areas and blood vessels being smaller, areless readily injured by the missile. A bullet can crash into the brainof an animal, tear out a mass of tissue and generally shatter hisstructure, but cause little bleeding. An arrow wound is clean-cut andthe hemorrhage is tremendous, but if not immediately fatal, it healsreadily and does little harm. The pain is no greater with the arrowthan with the bullet. 

Our hunting of squirrel and rabbits was merely preparatory to thetaking of larger game; but even on our more pretentious expeditions, wefill the vacant hours with lesser shooting and fill the camp kettlewith sweet tidbits. 

Many a quail, partridge, sage hen, or grouse has flown from the heatherinto our bag transfixed by a feathered shaft. Both Compton and Younghave shot ducks and geese, some on the wing. But we cannot compete withthe experiences of Maurice Thompson who, shooting ninety-eight arrows, landed sixteen ducks on the wing. 

Some amusing incidents have occurred in bird shooting. We consider thebluejay a legitimate mark any day; he is a rascal of the deepest dye, so we always shoot at him. Compton once tried one of his long shots ata jay on the ground nearly eighty yards off. His line was good, but hisshot fell short. The arrow skidded and struck the bird in the tail justas he left the ground for flight. The two rose together and sailed offinto space, like an aeroplane, with a preposterously long rudder, thearrow out behind. They slowly wheeled in a circle a hundred yards indiameter when the bird, nearing the archer, fell exhausted at his feet. Compton picked up the jay, drew the arrow from the shallow skin woundabove his tail, and tossed him in the air. He disappeared with a volleyof expletives. 

With an arrow it is also possible to shoot fish. Many wise old trout, incurious and contented, deep in the shadowed pool, have been coaxed tothe frying pan through the archer's skill. Well I recall once, howshooting fish not only brought us meat, but changed our luck. Young andI were on a bear hunt. It had been a long, weary and unsuccessful questof the elusive beast. Bears seemed to have become extinct, so we tookto shooting trout in a quiet little meadow stream. Having buried anarrow in the far bank, with a short run and a leap Young cleared thebrook and landed on the greensward beyond. The succulent turf slippedbeneath his feet and, like an acrobat, the archer turned a backsomersault into the cold mountain water. Bow, clattering arrows, camera, field glasses and man, all sank beneath the limpid surface. With a shout of laughter he clambered to the bank, his faithful bowstill in his hand, his quiver empty of arrows, but full of water. Aftera hasty salvage of all damaged goods, we journeyed along, no worse forthe wetting. But immediately we began to see bear signs and ultimatelygot our bruin. Young later said that if he had known the change of luckthat went with a good ducking, he would have tried it sooner. 

We have often been asked if we do not poison our arrow points. Mostpeople seem to have the idea that an arrow is too impotent to causedeath; they conceive it a refined sort of torture and have noconception of its destructive nature. 

It is true that we thought at first of putting poison on our arrowsintended for lions, and we did coat some broad-heads with mucilage andpowdered strychnine, but we never used them. My physiologic experimentswith curare, the South American arrow poison, aconitin, the JapaneseAinu poison, and buffogen, the Central American poison, had convincedme that strychnine was more deadly. It would not harm the meat in thedilution obtained in the blood, and it was cheap and effective. 

Buffogen is obtained by the natives by taking the tropical toad, BuffoNigra, enclosing it in a segment of bamboo, heating this over a slowfire and gathering the exuded juice of the dessicated batrachian. It isa very powerful substance, having an action similar to that ofadrenalin and strychnine. 

Salamandrine, an extract obtained from the macerated skin of the commonred water-dog, is also violently toxic. 

But we had a disgust for these things. We soon learned, moreover, thatour arrows were sufficient without these adjuncts, and we deemed itunsportsmanlike to consider them. Therefore, we abandoned the idea. 

Ishi knew of the employment of these killing substances, but he did notuse them. In his tribe they made a poison by teasing a rattlesnake andhaving it strike a piece of deer's liver. This was later buried in theground until it rotted, and the arrow points were smeared with thisrevolting material. It was a combination of crotalin venom and ptomainepoisons, a very deadly mess. 

We much prefer the bright, clean knife-blade of our broad-heads to anyother missile. 

The principles involved in seeking game with the bow and arrow arethose of the still hunt, only more refined. 

An archer's striking distance extends from ten to one hundred yards. For small animals it lies between ten and forty; for large game fromforty to eighty or a hundred. The distance at which most small gameflush varies with the country in which they live, the nature of theirenemies, and the prevalence of hunters. Quail and rabbits usually willpermit a man to approach them within twenty or thirty yards. This theyhave learned is a safe distance for a fox or wildcat who must hurlhimself at them. It is quite a fair distance for any man with anyweapon, particularly the bow. 

Most small game, especially rabbits, have sufficient curiosity to standafter their first startled retreat. Beneath a bush or clump of weedsthey squat and watch on the _qui vive_. The arrow may find them therewhen it strikes, but often the very flash of its departure and thequick movement of the hand send the little beastie flying to his cover. Here two sportsmen working together succeed better; one attracts therabbit's attention, the other shoots the shot. 

[Illustration: SHOOTING BRUSH RABBITS]

[Illustration: ARCHERS IN AMBUSH]

[Illustration: ISHI RIDING A HORSE FOR THE FIRST TIME]

The marmot or woodchuck, is an impudent and cautious animal and he is adifficult mark for a bowman's aim. But nothing has more comicsituations than an afternoon spent in a ground-hog village. After anincontinent scuttle to his burrow, an old warrior backs into his hole, then brazenly lifts his head and fastens his glittering eye upon you. The contest of quickness then begins; the archer and the marmot playshoot and dodge until one after the other all the arrows are exhaustedor a hit is registered. The ground-hog never quits. I can recall onestrenuous noon hour in an outcropping of rock where, between shatteredarrows, precipitous chasing of transfixed old warriors, defiantwhistlers on all sides, we piled up nearly a dozen victims. 

Quail hunting requires careful shooting, but it is good training forthe bowman. A sentinel cock, sitting on a low limb, warns his covey ofour approach, but he himself makes a gallant mark for the archer. I sawCompton spit such a bird on his arrow at fifty yards, while a confusedscurrying flock made easy shooting for two hunters. I am ashamed to saythat we have often taken advantage of the evening roosting of thesebirds in trees to secure a supper for ourselves. 

But the archer must exercise caution in this team work in the brush. Heshould never forget that an arrow will kill a man as readily as it doesan animal and that one should always consider where his shot ultimatelywill land, both for the purpose of finding his shaft and avoidingaccidents. Arrows have a great habit of glancing. Once when huntingquail in a patch of willow in a dry wash, Compton shot at a bird on abranch, missed it, and at the same instant Young, who was on theopposite side of the thicket, heard a thwack at his right and turned tofind a broad-head arrow buried up to the barbs in a willow limb justthe height of the heart. It gave us all pause for thought. Look beforeyou shoot!

While small game may be taken by tactics of moderate cunning, largerand more wary animals must be hunted by artful measures. Deer, stillabundant in our land, and properly safeguarded by game laws, test thewoodsman's skill to the utmost. To learn the art of finding deer, orsuccessful approach and ultimate capture, one must study life in theopen. Let him read the work of Van Dyke on still-hunting [1][Footnote 1: _The Still-hunter_, by Van Dyke. The Macmillan Co. ]to gain some idea of the many problems entailed. 

In our country we have the Columbia black tail deer. Of course, onlybucks should be shot; as an old forest ranger said to me, "Does ain'tdeer. " And no one but a starving man would shoot a fawn. Here bucks arehunted only in the fall, just as they shed their velvet and before therutting season. At this time they keep pretty quiet in the brush orseek the higher lookout points on mountain ridges. They browse mostlyat night and are to be met wandering to water or back to their beds. The older ones lie very quietly and seldom move far from their cover. Sometimes in the heat of the day they stir about or go to drink. Theyounger bucks are more audacious and seem to feel that their wisdom andstrength can carry them anywhere. For this reason a two-year-old orforked horn is much more frequently brought down. 

It is interesting to note that even in this day of civilization and theextinction of wild life, deer are to be found within a radius of twentymiles from our largest cities in California. We, however, invariablyjourney by rail or motor car from fifty to three hundred miles to domost of our hunting. We seek those regions that are most primeval. Heregame is largely in an undisturbed condition. From some station oroutpost we pack with horses into the foothills or higher levels of theCoast Range or Sierra Nevada Mountains. Having made camp in a shelteredspot, we hunt on foot over the adjacent country. 

Just at dawn and at sunset are the favorite times for finding deer. 

The hunters rise from their sleeping bags, make a hasty meal of coffeeand cakes, and long before the light of dawn sweeps the eastern sky, they must be on the trail. Silently and alert they enter the land ofsuspected deer. Taking advantage of every bit of cover, traveling intothe wind where possible, looking at every shadow, every spot of movingcolor, they advance. Where trails exist they follow these, or if theground be carpeted with soft pine needles, they flit between the deepershades of the forest, watchful, and hearing every woodland sound. 

Often the crashing bound of a deer through the brush proves thatcautious though the archer may be, more cautious is the deer. Or havingseen him first, the archer crouches, advances to a favorable spot, gauges the distance, clears his eye, and nerves himself for a supremeeffort. He draws his sturdy bow till the sharpened barb pricks hisfinger and bids him loose--a hit, a leap, a clattering flight. Watchingand immovable, the archer listens with straining ears. He must notstir, he must not follow; later he can trail the quarry. Give thewounded deer time to lie down and die, then find him. 

It is a surprising experience to see animals stand and let arrows fallabout them without fear. An archer has special privileges because heuses nature's tools. 

The whizzing missile is no more than a passing bird to the beast. Whathurt can that bring? The quiet man is only an interesting object on thelandscape, there is no noise to cause alarm. Most animals are ruled bycuriosity till fright takes control. But some are less curious thanothers, notably the turkey. There is a story among sportsmen thatdescribes this in the Indian's speech. "Deer see Injun. Deer say, 'Isee Injun; no, him stump; no, him Injun; no, maybe stump. ' Injun shoot. Turkey see Injun; he say, 'I see Injun. ' He go!"

The use of dogs in deer hunting should be restricted to trailingwounded animals. Here a little mongrel, if properly trained, servesbetter than a blooded breed. No dog should be permitted to run deer, especially if wounded. It is only the dog's nose we need, not his legs. An ideal canine for an archer would be one having the olfactory organsof a hound and the reasoning capacity of a college professor. With himone could trail animals, yet not flush them; perceive the imminence ofgame, yet not startle it; run coyotes, wolves, cougars, and bear, yetnever confuse their scent nor abandon the quest of one for that ofanother. But as it is, no dog seems capable of doing all things, so weneed specialists. A good bear and lion dog should never taste deer meatnor follow his tracks. 

[Illustration: A REST AT NOON]

[Illustration: A LYNX THAT MET AN ARCHER]

[Illustration: THE CHIEF LOOKING OVER GOOD DEER COUNTRY]

A good coon dog should stick to coons and let rabbits alone. And thesort of dog an archer needs for deer is one that can point them, yetwill not follow one unless it is wounded. 

Every good dog will come to the ringing note of the horn. 

And after all, there lies the soul of the sport. The fragrance of theearth, the deep purple valleys, the wooded mountain slopes, the cleansweet wind, the mysterious murmur of the tree tops, all call the hunterforth. When he hears the horn and the baying hound his heart leapswithin him, he grasps his good yew bow, girds his quiver on his hip, and enters a world of romance and adventure. 

X

THE RACCOON, WILDCAT, FOX, COON, CAT, AND WOLF

Of all the canny beasts, Brother Coon is the wisest, and were it notfor his imprudence and self-assurance, he would be less frequentlycaptured than the coyote, who is also a very clever gentleman. As itis, a raccoon hunt is a nocturnal escapade that may be enjoyed by anylively boy or man who happens to own a coon dog. 

Now a coon dog is any sort of a dog that has a sporting instinct and alarge propensity for combat. We have, of course, that product ofculture and breeding, the coon hound, an offshoot from the English foxhound. This dog is a marvel in his own sphere. 

Although we have not devoted a great deal of time to coon hunting, oneor another of our group has counted the scalps of quite a number of_Procyon lotor_. Having been accepted as a companion of one or two ormore ambitious and enthusiastic dogs, we start out at dusk to hunt thecreek bottoms for coons. Provided with bows, blunt arrows, and alantern, we unleash the dogs, and the fun begins. 

One must be prepared to scramble through blackberry vines, nettles, tangled swamps, and to climb trees. The dogs busy themselves sniffingand working through the underbrush, crossing the creek back and forth, investigating old hollow trees, displaying signs of exaggeratedinterest and industry. 

Suddenly there is a change in their vocal expression. Heretofore theshort, snappy bark has spoken only of anticipation and eagerness; nowthere comes the instinctive yelp of the questing beast, the hound onthe scent. It bursts from them like a wail from the distant past. As ifshot, they are off in a bunch. A clatter of sounds, scratching, rustling, and scrambling, we hear them tearing through the brush. Wefollow, but are soon outdistanced. Down the creek bed we go, splashthrough mud, clamber over logs, stop, listen, and hear them baying, afar off. Their voices rise in a chorus, some are high-pitched, incessant yelps, some are deep-voiced, bell-like tones. We know theyhave him treed and, breathless, we push forward, arriving in the orderof our physical vigor, those with the best legs and lungs coming first. 

High up in a tree, out on a limb, we see a shadowy form and two glowingorbs--that is the coon. The dogs are insistent; since they cannotclimb, although they try, man must rout the victim out. Somebody turnsa flashlight on the varmint. Frank Ferguson is the champion coonhunter; so he draws a blunt arrow from his quiver, takes quick aim andshoots. A dull thud tells that he has hit, but the coon does not fall. Another arrow whistles past, registering a miss; then a sharp click asthe blunt point of the third arrow strikes the creature's head, astifled snarl, a falling body, a rush of dogs on the ground, and all isover. The hounds are delighted, and we count one chicken thief theless. 

Sometimes the coon becomes the aggressor. He boldly enters our camp atnight and purloins a savory ham or rifles the larder and eats a poundof butter. He fully deserves what is coming to him. I loose Teddy andDixie, my two faithful hounds. The morning mist is rising from thestream, the tree trunks are barely visible in the early dawn, thegrasses drip with dew. 

The eager dogs take up the trail and start on a run up the stream bank. They cross on a great fallen tree and mount the wooded hill on theother side where I lose them in the jungle. I run on by instinct, listening for their directing bark. Once in a while I catch it faintlyin the distance. They must be mounting rapidly and too busy to bark. Again it is audible far off to my left and I force my tired legs torenewed energy, climbing higher and higher. 

Up I mount through the forest, alert for the telltale yelp. There itis, a whine and faint, stifled guttural sounds, but so indistinct andso obscured by the prattle of the stream and the murmuring tree topsthat I fail to locate it. So I flounder on through vines andunderbrush, wondering where my dogs have gone. I blow the horn andDixie answers with a pathetic howl, away off to the right. I run andblow the horn again; again that puppy whine. Teddy doesn't answer and Iwonder how Dixie could have been lost, though after all, he is only arecent graduate from the kennel and unseasoned in this world of caninemisery and wisdom. Unexpectedly, I come upon him, looking verydisconsolate and somewhat mauled. There is no doubt about it, he hasrushed in where angels fear to tread. He has received a recent lessonin coon hunting. So I console him with a little petting and ask himwhere is Teddy. Just then I hear a subterranean gurgle and scuffle andrushing off to a nearby clump of trees, I find that away down under theground in a hollow stump, there is a death struggle going on--Teddy andthe coon are having it out. From the sounds I know that Ted has him bythe throat and is waiting for the end. But he seems very weak himself. As I shout down the hole to encourage him, the coon, with one finaleffort, wrests himself free from the dog and comes scuttling out of thehole. With undignified haste I back away from the outlet and fumble ablunt arrow on the string, and I am just in time, for here comes one ofthe maddest and one of the sickest coons I ever saw. With a hasty shotback of the ear, I bowl him over and put him out of his misery. Turninghim over with my foot to make sure he is finished, I note how desperatethe fight must have been. His neck and brisket are a mass of mangledflesh and skin. Then reaching deep down in the hole I grab poorexhausted Teddy by the scruff of his neck, lift him out, and let himregain his breath in the fresh air. He certainly is a weary champion. The coon has bitten him viciously between the legs and along theabdomen. After a while we all go down to the stream and there bathe thewounded heroes. 

With the rascally old coon over my shoulder, we three wander back tocamp in time for congratulations and wonderment of the children and theconsolation of hot victuals. 

That is a typical coon hunt with us. Some are less damaging to thedogs, but usually this little cousin of the bears is able to give agood account of himself in the contest. 

Ferguson and his pack of fox terriers have had more experience with theredoubtable raccoon than the rest of us; he hunts them for their pelts. He is also a trapper for the market and long since has found that theblunt arrow shot from a light bow serves very admirably for dispatchingthe captured varmint when once trapped. 

The fox is more difficult to meet in the wilds. His business hours arealso at night, but he extends them not infrequently both into thesunrise and twilight zones. One of the most beautiful sights I everwitnessed came unexpectedly while hunting deer. 

It was evening; dusky shadows merged all objects into a common drab. Two silent, graceful foxes rose over the crest of a little eminence ofground before me. Outlined distinctly against a red dirt bank acrossthe ravine, they stood just for a moment in surprise. I drew my bow andinstantly loosed an arrow at the foremost. It flew swift as anight-hawk and with a rush of wind passed his head. As is usual atdusk, I had overestimated the distance. It was but forty yards; Ithought it fifty. 

Half-startled, but not alarmed, the two foxes fixed their gaze upon mea second, then gracefully, and with infinite ease, they cleared athree-foot bush without a run and disappeared in the gloom. 

But in that leap I gained all the thrill that I missed with my arrow. Such facile grace I never saw. Without an effort they rose, hovered aninstant in midair, straightened their wonderful bushy tails as anaeroplane readjusts its flight, and soared level across the obstacle. One final downward curve of that beautiful counterbalance landed themsmoothly on the distant side of the bush where, with uninterruptedspeed, they vanished from sight. For the first time I appreciated why afox has such a light, long, fluffy caudal appendage. Marvelous!

[Illustration: MR. COON BROUGHT INTO CAMP]

[Illustration: A PRETTY PAIR OF WINGS]

[Illustration: JUST A LITTLE HUNT BEFORE BREAKFAST]

[Illustration: YOUNG AND COMPTON WITH A QUAIL APIECE]

Often at night when coming late to camp through the woods, a fox hasemerged from the outer sphere of darkness and given a querulous littlebark at me. Wheeling with a bright light on the head, I could have shothim, but then he is such a harmless little denizen of the woods that Ihate to kill him. But after all, is he really harmless? The littleculprit! He actually does a deal of harm, destroying birds' nests, eating the young, catching quail and rabbits--I don't know that weshould spare him. 

With horses and hounds we have chased many foxes over the sage andchaparral-covered hills. 

The fox terrier and the black and tan are excellent dogs for this sortof work. These little hunters are keen for the sport and make their waybeneath the brush where a larger dog follows with difficulty. Withstrident yelps the pack picks up the hot trail, and off they rush, helter skelter, through the sage and chaparral; we circle and crosscut, dash down the draw, traverse the open forest meadow and follow thefurious procession into the trees. 

There the hard-pressed little fox makes a final spurt for a large redpine, leaps straight for the bare trunk, mounts like a squirrel andgains a rotten limb, panting with effort. As we approach he climbsstill higher and lodges himself securely in the crotch of the tree, gazing furtively down at the dogs. 

Who ever thought that a fox could climb such a tree! It was twenty feetto the first foothold on a decayed branch; yet there he was, and we sawhim do it. 

Sometimes when the fleeing fox has mounted a smaller tree, we haveshaken him from his perch and let the dogs deal with him as they thinkbest--for a dog must not be too often cheated of his conquest or heloses heart. Sometimes we have mounted the tree and slipped a nooseover the fox's neck, brought him close, tied his wicked little jawstightly together with a thong, packed him off on the horse to show himto the children in camp, and later given him his liberty. Or, as in thecase of our little villain up the pine tree, we have drawn a carefularrow and settled his life problems with a broad-head. 

In winter time the trap and the blunt arrow add another fur collar tothe coat of the feminine sybarite. 

The woods and plains are full of hunters. The hawk is on the wing; themurderous mink and weasel never cease their crimes; the bird seeks theslothful worm and jumping insect; the fox, cat, and wolf forever questfor food. And so we, hunting in the early morning light, once saw aflock of quail flushed long before our presence should have given themcause for flight. Compton and Young, arrows nocked and muscles taut, crept cautiously to the thicket of wild roses out of which flew thequail. There, stooping low, they saw the spotted legs of a lynx softlystalking the birds. Aiming above the legs where surely there must be abody, Young sped an arrow. There was a thud, a snarl, and an animaltore through the crackling bushes. Out from the other side bounded thecat, and there, not twenty yards off, he met Compton. Like a flashanother arrow flew at him, flew through him, and down he tumbled, aflurry of scratching claws, torn up grasses and dust. Young's arrow, having been a blunt barbed head, still lodged in his chest, and as thelynx succumbed to death I took his picture. 

Lazy, sleepy cat, both lynx and wildcats, we meet not infrequently onour travels. Still they are ever up to mischief in spite of theirindolent casual appearance. Often have we seen them slink out from abunch of cover, cross the open hillside, and there, if within range, receive an archer's salute. Many times we miss them, sometimes we hit;but that's not the point, we are not so anxious to get them as to sendgreetings. 

Then, too, since Ishi taught us to do it, we have called these warycreatures from the thicket and sometimes got a shot. 

With the dogs, the story is soon told and the rôle of the bowman iswithout triumph; so for this reason, we prefer the accidental meetingsand impromptu adventures to the more certain contact. Still when atnight we hear the tingling call of the lynx up in the woods, we yearnfor a willing dog and a taut bowstring. 

With the distant barking wail of the prairie wolf or coyote, one feelsdifferently. I presume that man has become so accustomed to the dogthat he has rather a kindly feeling toward this little brother of theplains, called by the Aztecs coyote, or "wild one. " We know his evilpropensities and his economic menace, but still we love him, or atleast, look upon him much as the Indians do, as a sort of comedianamong animals. 

Ishi used to tell me of his laughable experiences with coyotes. Whencoming home at night with a haunch of venison on his shoulder, a bandof these gamins of the wilds would follow him teasing at his heels. Ishi would turn upon them with feigned fury and chase them back intothe shadows or wield his bow as a short lance and jab them vigorouslyin the ribs--when he could. 

With him the coyote was the reincarnation of a mythical character, halfbuffoon, half magician. He was cunning, crafty, humorous, and evil, allin one, and no doings of the animal folk ever progressed very farwithout the entrance of the "coyote doctor" on the scene. He was thedoer of tricks and caster of spells, but still he himself met withmisadventure--witness how he lost his claws. Of course, he had longclaws like the bear in the beginning, and fine silky fur. But onenight, coming weary from hunting and cold, he crept into a hollow oakgall to sleep. The wind fanned the embers of the camp-fire and the drygrass burst into a blaze. It swept up to the sleeping coyote, whereonly his feet protruded from his hollow spherical den. Here they hungout for lack of room. So, of course, his claws were burned off beforethe pain wakened him. He leaped out of his nest, dashed through theblaze, and plunged into the creek, not in time, however, to keep hisbeautiful long hair from being singed. Even to this day he has thathalf-scorched, moth-eaten pelt, and his claws are only those of acoyote. 

When met in the open, the prairie wolf seems so weary and listless. Ifat a distance, he protests at your entrance upon his domain with aforlorn wail, or insolently stares at you from a ridge. He sits andlooks or moves about dyspeptically waiting for you to go. 

Once I remember that we saw one sitting on his haunches a hundred andeighty yards away. Compton loosed an arrow at him, one of thosewhining, complaining shafts that drone through the air. The coyoteheard it coming; he pricked up his ears, pointed his nose skyward, roseand limped lively to the left, turned, peered into the sky, and ran ashort distance to the right, then loped off just in time to be missedby the descending arrow, which landed exactly where he sat originally. It was indeed a most ludicrous performance, incidentally a splendidshot. 

Just as with a rifle, the coyote simply is not there when your missilestrikes. He doesn't seem to bestir himself greatly, but just seems todrag himself out of harm's way at the last moment. How often have welet fly at him, sometimes at a group of them, but seldom has he beenhit. A beginner's luck seems to fool him, however. One of our neophyteswith the bow, having had his tackle less than a month, was out ridingin his new automobile in company with a group of friends. The bow atthat time was his vade-mecum; he never left it home. He chanced to seea stray coyote near the side of the highway when, after passing it ahundred yards or so, he stopped his machine, grabbed his trusty weapon, which he had hardly learned to shoot, strung it, nocked an arrow, andran back to take a shot at the animal in question. His eagerness andobvious incapacity so amused the gay company in the machine, that theycheered him on with laughter and ridicule. 

Undaunted, our bowman hastened back, saw the crafty beast retreating ina slinking gallop, drew his faithful bow, and shot at sixty yards. Unerringly the fatal shaft flew, struck the coyote back of the ear andlaid him low without a quiver. 

Mad with unexpected triumph, our archer dragged his slain victim backto the car to meet the jeering company, and confounded them with hissuccess. Loud were the shouts of joy; a war dance ensued to celebratethe great event. When done the merry party cranked up the machine andsped on its fragrant way, a happier and a more enlightened bevy ofchildren. 

Thus is shown the danger of utter innocence. 

These chance meetings seem rather unlucky for coyotes. Frank Ferguson, when trapping in the foothills of the Sierras, repeatedly had his trapsrobbed by an impudent member of the wolf family. One day while makinghis regular rounds and approaching a set, he saw in the distance acoyote run off with the catch of his trap. Seeing that the wolf turnedup a branch creek, Ferguson cut across the intervening neck of thewoods to intercept him if possible. He reached the stream bottom at themoment the coyote came trotting past. Having a blunt arrow on thebowstring, he shot across the twenty-five yards of bank, and quiteunexpectedly cracked the animal on the foreleg, breaking the bone. Ajet of blood spurted out with astonishing force, and the brutestaggered for a space of time. This gave Ferguson a moment to nock asecond shaft, a broad-head, and with that accuracy known to come inexcitement, he drove it completely through the animal's body, killingit instantly. When next we met after this episode, he showed me thebloody arrows and wolf skin as mute evidence of his skill. 

Ferguson was won over to archery when, as packer upon our first triptogether, he asked Compton to show him what could be done with the bowin the way of accurate shooting. Compton is particularly good at longranges, so he pointed out a bush about one hundred and seventy-fiveyards distant. It was about the size of a dog. Compton took unusualcare with his shots, and dropped three successive arrows in that bush. When "Ferg" saw this he took the bow seriously. 

The timber wolf is seldom met in our clime, and so for this reason hehas been spared the fate common to all fearsome beasts that cross thetrail of an archer. But with that fateful hope which has foreshadowedand seemingly insured our subsequent achievement, I fervently wish thatsome day we may meet, wolf and bowman. 

In the absence of this the more austere and wicked member of thefamily, we shall continue from time to time to speed a questing arrowin the general direction of the furtive coyote. 

XI

DEER HUNTING

Deer are the most beautiful animals of the woods. Their grace, poise, agility, and alertness make them a lovely and inspiring sight. To seethem feed undisturbed is wonderful; such mincing steps, such daintynibbling is a lesson in culture. With wide, lustrous eyes, mobile earsever listening, with moist, sensitive nostrils testing every vagrantodor in the air, they are the embodiment of hypersensitiveself-preservation. And yet deer are not essentially timid animals. Theywill venture far through curiosity, and I have seen them from thehilltop, being run by dogs, play and trifle with their pursuers. Thedog, hampered by brush and going only by scent, follows implicitly thetrail. The deer runs, leaps high barriers, doubles on his tracks, stopsto browse at a tempting bush, even waits for the dog to catch up withhim, and leads him on in a merry chase. I feel sure that unless badlycornered or confused by a number of dogs or wolves, the deer does notoften develop great fear, nor is he hard put to it in these episodes. Quite likely there is an element of sport in it with him. 

Why men should kill deer is a moot question, but it is a habit of thebrute. For so many hundreds of years have we been at it, that we canhardly be expected to reform immediately. Undoubtedly, it is a sign ofundeveloped ethnic consciousness. We are depraved animals. I must admitthat there are quite a number of things men do that mark them as farbelow the angels, but in a way I am glad of it. The thrill and glow ofnature is strong within us. The great primitive outer world is stillunconquered, and there are impulses within the breast of man not yetmeasured, curbed and devitalized, which are the essential motives oflife. Therefore, without wantonness, and without cruelty, we shall huntas long as the arm has strength, the eye glistens, and the heartthrobs. 

Lead on!

To go deer hunting, the archer should seek a country unspoiled bycivilization and gunpowder. It should approach as nearly as possiblethe pristine wilderness of our forefathers. The game should beunharried by the omnipresent and dangerous nimrod. In fact, as a matterof safety, an archer particularly should avoid those districts overrunby the gunman. The very methods employed by the bowman make him a readytarget for the unerring, accidental bullet. 

Never go in company with those using firearms; never carry firearms. The first spoils your hunting, and the second is unnecessary and onlygives your critic a chance to say that you used a gun to kill youranimal, then stuck it full of arrows to take its picture. 

On our deer hunts we first decide upon the location, usually in somemountain ranch owned by a man who is willing and anxious to have ushunt on his grounds. The sporting proposition of shooting deer with abow strikes the fancy of most men in the country. If we are unfamiliarwith the district, the rancher can give us valuable informationconcerning the location of bucks, and this saves time. Usually he isour guide and packer, supplying the horses and equipment for acompensation, so we are welcome. Some of the intimate relationsestablished on these expeditions are among the pleasantest features ofour vacation. 

Having reached the hunting grounds, we make camp. Tents are pitched, stores unpacked and arranged, beds made and all put in order for a stayof days or weeks. 

Each archer has with him two or more bows, and anywhere from two to sixdozen arrows. About half of these are good broad-heads and the rest areblunts or odd scraps to be shot away at birds on the wing, at marks, orsome are shot in pure exhilaration across deep canyons. 

As a rule, there are two or three of us in the party, and we hunttogether. 

Having decided what seems the best buck ground, we rise before daylightand, having eaten, strike out to reach the proposed spot beforesunrise. There we spread out, approximately a bowshot apart, that is tosay, two hundred yards. In parallel courses we traverse the country;one just below the ridges where one nearly always finds a game trail;one part way down, working through the wooded draws; and the thirdgoing through the timber edge where deer are likely to lurk or beddown. 

In this way we cross-cut a good deal of country, and one or the otheris likely to come upon or rout out a buck. With great caution weprogress very quietly, searching every bit of cover, peering at everyfallen log, where deer often lie, standing to scrutinize everyconspicuous twig in anticipation that it may be horns. Does, of course, we see in plenty. So carefully do we approach that often we have comeup within ten yards of female deer. Once Compton sneaked up on a doenursing her fawn. He crept so close that he could have thrown his haton them. While he watched, the mother got restless, seemed to sensedanger without scenting or seeing it. She moved off slowly, pulling herteats out of the eager fawn's mouth, gave a flip to her hind legs andhopped over him, then meandered leisurely to the crest of the hill. Thelittle fellow, unperturbed, licked his chops, ran his tongue up hisnose, shook his ears, and seeing mother waiting for him, trotted awayunaware of the possible danger of man. But we do not shoot does. 

So we travel. Sometimes a startled deer bounds down the hillsideleaving us chagrined and disappointed. Sometimes one tries this and isdefeated. One evening as we returned to camp, making haste because ofthe rapidly falling night, we startled a deer that plunged down thesteep slope before us. Instantly Compton drew to the head and shot. Hisarrow led the bounding animal by ten yards. Just as the deer reachedcover at a distance of seventy-five yards, the arrow struck. It enteredhis flank, ranged forward and emerged at the point of the oppositeshoulder. The deer turned and dashed into the bush. As it did so theprotruding arrow shaft snapped; we descended and picked up the brokenpiece. Following the crashing descent of the buck down the canyon, wefound him some two hundred yards below, crumpled up and dead against amadrone tree. It was a heart shot, one of the finest I ever hope tosee. Compton is a master at the judgment of distance and the speed ofrunning game. 

Having worked out a piece of country by the method of sub-division, wemeet at a pre-arranged rendezvous and plan another sortie. 

If the sun has not risen above the peaks, we continue this method ofcombing the land until we know the time for bucks has passed. For thisreason we work the high points first, and the lower points last, for inthis way we take advantage of the slowly advancing illumination. 

Sometimes, using glasses, we pick out a buck at a considerabledistance, either in his solitary retreat, or with a band of deer; andwe go after him. Here we figure out where he is traveling and make adetour to intercept him. This is often heartbreaking work, up hill anddown dale, but all part of the game. 

Young and Compton brought low a fine buck by this means on one of ourrecent hunts. Seeing a three-pointer a mile distant, we all advanced ata rapid pace. We reached suitable vantage ground just as the buckbecame aware of our presence. At eighty yards Young shot an arrow andpierced him through the chest. The deer leaped a ravine and took refugein a clump of bay trees. We surrounded this cover and waited for hisexit. Since he did not come out after due waiting, Compton cautiouslyinvaded the wooded area, saw the wounded deer deep in thought; hefinished him with a broad-head through the neck. 

[Illustration: WOODCHUCKS GALORE!]

[Illustration: PORCUPINE QUILLS TO DECORATE A QUIVER]

[Illustration: A FATAL ARROW AT 65 YARDS]

[Illustration: THE CHIEF AND ART GET A BUCK AT 85 YARDS]

Not having had any large experience myself in hunting deer withfirearms, the use of the bow presented no great contrast. Mr. Young hasoften said, however, that it gave him more pleasure to shoot at a deerand miss it with an arrow, than to kill all the deer he ever had with agun. For my part, I did not want to kill anything with a gun. It didnot seem fair; so until I took up archery, I did not care to hunt. 

Therefore, the analysis of my feelings interested me considerably as webegan to have experiences with the bow. 

The first deer I shot at was so far off that there was no chance to hitit, but I let drive just to get the sensation. My arrow sailedharmlessly over its back. The next I shot at was within good range, butmy arrow only grazed its rump. And that deer did something that I neversaw before. It sagged in the middle until its belly nearly touched theground, then it gathered its seemingly weakened legs beneath it, andgalloped off in a series of bucks. We laughed immoderately over itsantics; in fact, some of our adventures have been most ludicrous attimes. 

Once, when two of us shot at an old stag together as it raced far offdown the trail, the two arrows dropped twenty yards ahead of it. Instantly the stag came to an abrupt stop, smelled first one arrow atone side of the trail, and the other on the opposite side, deliberateda moment, bolted sidewise and disappeared. What he got in his olfactoryinvestigation must have been confusing. He smelled man; he smelledturkey feathers; and he smelled paint. What sort of animals do youthink he imagined the arrows to be?

This reminds me that Ishi always said that a white man smelled like ahorse, and in hunting made a noise like one, but apparently he doesn'talways have horse sense. 

I saw this exemplified upon one occasion. When camped in a beautifullittle spot we were disturbed by the arrival of a party of some fourmen, five horses, and three dogs--all heavily accoutred for the chase. With our quiet Indian methods, we caused little excitement in the land, but they burst in upon us with a fury that warned all game for milesaround. 

The day after their arrival, alone on a trail, I heard one of this bandapproaching; half a mile above me his noise preceded him. Down he cameover brush and stones. I stepped quietly beside a bush and waited as Iwould for an oncoming elephant. With gun at right shoulder arms, knapsack and canteen rattling, spiked shoes crunching, he marched pastme, eyes straight ahead; walking within ten yards and never saw me. Twenty deer must have seen him where he saw one. That night this sameman came straggling wearily into our midst and asked the way to hiscamp. He explained that he had put a piece of paper on a tree to guidehim, but that he could not find the tree. We asked him what luck. Hesaid that there were only does in the country. Perhaps he was right, because that is all they shot. We found two down in the gullies afterthey had gone. For a week they hunted all over the place with horses, guns, and dogs, and got no legitimate game. During this same time, beneath their very noses, we got two fine bucks. So much for the men ofiron. 

The first buck I ever landed with the bow thrilled me to such an extentthat every detail is memorable. After a long, hard morning hunt, I wasreturning to camp alone. It was nearly noon; the sun beat down on thepungent dust of the trail, and all nature seemed sleepy. The air, heavywith the fragrance of the pines, hardly stirred. 

I was walking wearily along thinking of food, when suddenly my outervisual fields picked up the image of a deer. I stopped. There, eightyyards away, stood a three-year-old buck, grazing under an oak. His backwas toward me. I crouched and sneaked nearer. My arrow was nocked onthe string. The distance I measured carefully with my eye; it was nowsixty-five yards. Just then the deer raised its head. I let fly anarrow at its neck. It flew between its horns. The deer gave a startedtoss to its head, listened a second, then dipped its crest again tofeed. I nocked another shaft. As it raised its head again I shot. Thisarrow flew wide of the neck, but at the right elevation. The buck nowwas more startled and jumped so that it stood profile to me, lookingand listening. I dropped upon one knee. A little rising ground andintervening brush partially concealed me. As I drew a third arrow frommy quiver its barb caught in the rawhide, and I swore a soft viciousoath to steady my nerves. Then drawing my bow carefully, lowering myaim and holding like grim death, I shot a beautifully released arrow. It sped over the tops of the dried grass seeming to skim the groundlike a bird, and struck the deer full and hard in the chest. It was awelcome thud. The beast leaped, bounded off some thirty yards, staggered, drew back its head and wilted in the hind legs. I had stayedimmovable as wood. Seeing him failing, I ran swiftly forward, andalmost on the run at forty yards I drove a second arrow through hisheart. The deer died instantly. 

Conflicting emotions of compassion and exultation surged through me, and I felt weak, but I ran to my quarry, lifted his head on my knee andclaimed him in the name of Robin Hood. 

Looking him over, it was apparent that my second shaft had hit him inthe base of the heart, emerged through the breast and only stopped inits flight by striking the foreleg. The first arrow had gone completelythrough the back part of the chest, severed the aorta, and flown pasthim. There it lay, sticking deep into the ground twenty yards beyondthe spot where he stood when shot. 

After the body had been cleaned and cooled in the shade of an oak, wepacked it home in the twilight, an easy burden for a light heart. Thisis the fulfilment of the hunter's quest. It was the sweetest venison weever tasted. 

We have had little experience in trailing deer on the snow and none inthe use of dogs to run them. Doubtless, the latter method under someconditions is admirable, particularly in very brushy countries. 

But we have preferred the still hunt. Lying in wait at licks we havedone so to study animal life and in conjunction with the Indian tolearn his methods, but neither the lick nor the ambush appealed to usas sport. In fact, we have hunted deer more for meat than for trophies, and quite a number of our kills have been in a way incidental tohunting mountain lions or other predatory animals. 

Once, when on a lion trail, the dogs ran down a steep trail ahead ofme, and there in the creek bottom they started a fine large buck. Oneach side of the path the brush was very high, and up this corridordashed the buck. There was no room for him to pass, and he came upon mewith a rush. When less than twenty yards away, I hastily drew my bowand drove an arrow deep into his breast. With a lateral bound hecleared the brushy hedge and was lost to view. The dogs had beentrained not to follow deer; but since they saw me shoot it, they ran inhot pursuit. I sounded my horn and brought them back, and scolded them. But fearing to lose the deer, I decided to go down to the ranch house, a couple of miles away, and borrow Jasper and his dog, Splinters. NowSplinters was some sort of a mongrel fise, an insignificant-lookinglittle beast that had come originally from the city and presumably washopelessly civilized. Jasper, however, had recognized in him certainlatent talents and had trained him to follow wounded deer. He paid noattention to any scent except that of deer blood. In an accidentalencounter with the hind foot of a horse, Splinters had lost the sightof one eye and the use of one ear; but in spite of the lopsidedprogression occasioned by this disability, he was infallible withwounded bucks. 

So Jasper came, and Splinters trotted along at his heels. At the spotwhere the deer leaped off the trail, we let the dog smell a drop ofblood. After a deliberate, unexcited investigation, he began to wanderthrough the brush. Occasionally he stopped to stand on his hind legsand nose the chaparral above him, then wandered on. Just about thistime I stepped on a rattlesnake, and, after a hasty change of location, directed my efforts toward dispatching the snake. By the time I hadfinished this worthy deed, Jasper and Splinters were lost to view; so Isat down and waited. After a quarter of an hour I heard a distantwhistle. 

Following Jasper's signal, I descended to the creek below me, went ashort distance up a side branch, and there were all three--Jasper, Splinters, and the deer. The latter had made almost a complete circle, half a mile in extent, and dropped in the creek, not a hundred yardsfrom his starting point. 

My arrow had caused a most destructive wound in the lungs and greatvessels of the chest, and it was remarkable that the animal could havegone so far. We were of the opinion that if my own dogs had not startedto run him, the deer would have gone but a short distance and lain downwhere in a few minutes we could have found him dead. 

While, after all, the object of deer hunting is to get your deer, itdoes seem that some of our keenest delight has been when we have missedit. So far, we have never shot one of those massive old bucks withinnumerable points to his antlers; they have all been adolescent orprospective patriarchs. But several times we have almost landed the bigfellow. 

Out of the quiet purple shadow of the forest one evening there steppedthe most stately buck I ever saw. His noble crest and carriage weresuperb. On a grassy hillside, some hundred and fifty yards away, hestood broadside on. With a rifle the merest tyro might have bowled himover. In fact, he looked just like the royal stag in the picture. 

Two of us were together--a little underbrush shielded us. We drew ourbows, loosed the arrows and off they flew. The flight of an arrow is abeautiful thing; it is grace, harmony, and perfect geometry all in one. They flew, and fell short. The deer only looked at them. We nockedagain and shot. This time we dropped them just beneath his belly. Hejumped forward a few paces and stopped to look at us. Slowly we reachedfor a third arrow, slowly nocked and drew it, and away it went, whispering in the air. One grazed his withers, the other pierced himthrough the loose skin of the brisket and flew past. 

With an upward leap he soared away in the woods and we sent ourblessing with him. His wound would heal readily, a mere scratch. Wepicked up our arrows and returned to camp to have bacon for supper, perfectly happy. 

An arrow wound may be trivial, as was this one, or it may besurprisingly deadly, as brought out by an experience of Arthur Young. Once when stalking deer, the animal became alarmed and started to runaway behind a screen of scrub oak. Young, perceiving that he was aboutto lose his quarry, shot at the indistinct moving body. Thinking thathe had missed his shot, he searched for his arrow and found that it hadplowed up the ground and buried its head deep in the earth. When hepicked it up, he noted that it was strangely damp, but since he couldnot explain it, he dismissed the matter from his mind. 

Next day, hunting over the same ground, he and Compton found the deerless than a hundred and fifty yards from this spot. It had run, fallen, bled, risen and fallen down hill, where it died of hemorrhage. Theirinspection showed that the arrow had struck back of the shoulder, gonethrough the lungs and emerged beneath the jaw. With all this it hadflown yards beyond, struck deeply in the earth, and was only a trifledamp. 

Upon another occasion, while hunting cougars with a hound, I cameabruptly upon a doe and a buck in a deep ravine. It was open season andwe needed camp meat. Gauging my distance carefully, I shot at the buck, striking him in the flank. For the first time in my life, I heard anadult deer bleat. He gave an involuntary exclamation, whirled, butsince he knew not the location or the nature of his danger, he did notrun. 

My hound was working higher up in the canyon, but he heard the bleat, when like a wild beast he came charging through the undergrowth andhurled himself with terrific force upon the startled deer, bearing himto the ground. There was a fierce struggle for a brief moment in whichthe buck wrenched himself free from the dog's hold upon his throat andwith an effort lunged down the slope and eluded us. Because of the manydeer trails and because the hound was unused to following deer, nightfell before we could locate him. 

Next day we found the dead buck, but the lions had left little meat onhis bones--in fact, it seemed that a veritable den of these animals hadfeasted on him. 

The striking picture in my mind today is the fierceness and the savageonslaught of my dog. Never did I suspect that the amiable, gentle petof our fireside could turn into such an overpowering, indomitablekiller. His assault was absolutely bloodthirsty. I've often thought howgrateful I should be that such an animal was my friend and companion inthe hunt and not my pursuer. How quickly the dog adjusts himself to thebow! At first he is afraid of the long stick. But he soon gets the ideaand not waiting for the detonation of the gun, he accepts the hum ofthe bowstring and the whirr of the arrow as signals for action. Somedogs have even shown a tendency to retrieve our arrows for us, andnothing suits them better than that we go on foot, and by their sidescan run with them and with our silent shafts can lay low what theybring to bay. In fact, it is a perfect balance of power--the hound withhis wondrous nose, lean flanks and tireless legs; the man with hishuman reason, the horn, and his bow and arrow. 

We who have hunted thus, trod the forest trails, climbed the loftypeaks, breathed the magic air, and viewed the endless roll of mountainridges, blue in the distance, have been blessed by the gods. 

In all, we have shot about thirty deer with the bow. The majority ofthese fell before the shafts of Will Compton, while Young and I havecontributed in a smaller measure to the count. Despite the vagueregrets we always feel at slaying so beautiful an animal, there is anexultation about bringing into camp a haunch of venison, or hanging thedeer on the limb of a sheltering tree, there to cool near the icyspring. By the glow of the campfire we broil savory loin steaks, andwhen done eating, we sit in the gloaming and watch the stars come out. Great Orion shines in all his glory, and the Hunters' Moon rises goldenand full through the skies. 

Drowsy with happiness, we nestle down in our sleeping bags, resting ona bed of fragrant boughs, and dream of the eternal chase. 

XII

BEAR HUNTING

Killing bears with the bow and arrow is a very old pastime, in fact, itranks next in antiquity to killing them with a club. However, it hasfaded so far into the dim realms of the past that it seems almostmythical. 

The bear has stood for all that is dangerous and horrible for ages. Nodoubt, our ancestral experiences with the cave bears of Europe stampedthe dread of these mighty beasts indelibly in our hearts. The AmericanIndians in times gone past killed them with their primitive weapons, but even they have not done it lately, so it can be considered a lostart. 

The Yana's method of hunting bears has been described. Here they madean effort to shoot the beast in the open mouth. Ishi said that theblood thus choked and killed him. But after examining the bear skulls, it seems to me that a shot in the mouth is more likely to be fatalbecause the base of the brain is here covered with the thinnest layersof bone. Arrows can hardly penetrate the thick frontal bones of theskull, but up through the palate there would be no difficulty inentering the brain. At any rate, it is here that the Yana directedtheir shots. Apparently, from Ishi's description, it took quite a timeto wear down and slay the animal. 

All Indians seem to have had a wholesome respect for the grizzly, themighty brother of the mountains, and they gave him the right of way. 

The black bear is, of course, the same animal whether brown orcinnamon, these color variations are simply brunette, blonde and auburncomplexions, the essential anatomical and habit characteristics areidentical. 

The American black bear at one time ranged all over the United Statesand Canada. He has recently become a rare inhabitant of the eastern andmore thickly populated districts; yet it is astonishing to hear thateven in the year of 1920 some four hundred and sixty-five bears weretaken in the State of Pennsylvania. 

In the western mountains he is to be met with quite frequently, but isnot given to unprovoked attack, and with modern firearms an encounterwith him is not fraught with great danger. He, or more properly, shewill charge man with intent to kill upon certain rare occasions--whenwounded, surprised, or when feeling that her young are in danger. Butthe bear, in company with all the other animals of the wilds, haslearned to fear man since gunpowder was invented. Prior to this time, it felt the game was more equal, and seldom avoided a meeting, evencourted it. 

Bears are a mixture of the curious comedy traits with cunning andsavage ferocity. In some of their lighter moods and pilfering habits, they add to the gayety of life. 

While hunting in Wyoming one night, on coming to camp we discovered ayoung black bear robbing our larder. He had a ham bone in his jaws aswe approached. Hastily nocking a blunt arrow on my bowstring, I let flyat sixty yards as he started to make his escape. I did not wish tokill, only admonish him. The arrow flew in a swift chiding stroke andsmote him on his furry side with a dull thud. With a grunt and a bound, he dropped the bone and scampered off into the forest while the arrowrattled to the ground. His antics of surprise were most ludicrous. Wesped him on his way with hilarious shouts; he never came again. 

Upon a different occasion with another party, where the camp wasbothered by the midnight foraging of a bear, our guide arranged to playa practical joke upon a certain "tenderfoot. " Unknown to the victim, hetied a chunk of bacon to the corner of his sleeping bag with a piece ofbale wire. In the middle of the night the camp was awakened by apandemonium as the sleeping bag, man and all disappeared down the slopeand landed in the creek bed below, where the determined bear, hangingon to the bacon, dragged the protesting tenderfoot. Here he abandonedhis noisy burden and left the scene of excitement. No doubt, this goesdown in the annals of both families as the most dramatic and stirringmoment of life. 

Bear stories of this sort tend to give one the idea that these beastscan be petted and made trustworthy companions. In fact, certainsentimental devotees of nature foster the sentiment that wild animalsneed naught but kindness and loving thoughts to become the bosom friendof man. Such sophists would find that they had made a fatal mistake ifthey could carry out their theories. The old feud between man and beaststill exists and will exist until all wild life is exterminated or issemi-domesticated in game preserves and refuges. 

Even domestic cattle allowed to run wild are extremely dangerous. Theirfear of man breeds their desperate assault when cornered. 

The black bear has killed and will kill men when brought to bay orwounded or even when he feels himself cornered. 

Although largely vegetarian, bear also capture and devour prey. Youngdeer, marmots, ground squirrels, sheep, and cattle are their diet. Incertain districts great damage is done to flocks by bears that havebecome killers. In our hunts we have come across dead sheep, slain andpartially devoured by black bears. All ranchers can tell of thedepredations of these animals. 

In Oregon and the northern part of California, there are many men whomake it their business to trap or run bears with dogs to secure theirhides and to sell their meat to the city markets. It is a hardy sportand none but the most stalwart and experienced can hope to succeed atit. In the late autumn and early winter the bears are fat and in primecondition for capture. 

Having graduated from ground squirrels, quail and rabbits, and havinglaid low the noble deer, we who shoot the bow became presumptuous andwanted to kill bear with our weapons. So, learning of a certainadmirable hunter up in Humboldt County by the name of Tom Murphy, wewrote to him with our proposal. He was taken with the idea of the bowand arrow and invited us to join him in some of his winter excursions. 

In November, 1918, we arrived in the little village of Blocksburg, onthe outskirts of which was Murphy's ranch. In normal times, Tom cutswood, and raises cattle and grain for the market. In the winter monthshe hunts bear for profit and recreation. In the spring after hisplanting is done he also runs coyotes with dogs and makes a good incomeon bounties. 

We found Murphy a quiet-spoken, intelligent man of forty-five years, married, and having two daughters. I was surprised to see such aredoubtable bear-slayer so modest and kindly. We liked him immediately. It is an interesting observation that all the notable hunters that haveguided us on our trips have been rather shy, soft-spoken men whoneither smoked nor drank. 

Arthur Young and I constituted the archery brigade. We brought with usin the line of artillery two bows and some two dozen arrows apiece. Wealso brought our musical instruments. Not only do we shoot, but in campwe sit by the fire at night and play sweet harmonies till bedtime. Young is a finished violinist, and he has an instrument so cut down andabbreviated that with a short violin bow he can pack it in his bedroll. Its sound is very much like that of a violin played with a mute. 

My own instrument was an Italian mandolin with its body reduced to abox less than three inches square. It also is carried in a blanket rolland is known as the camp mosquito. 

Young is a master at improvising second parts, double stopping, andobbligato accompaniments. So together we call all the sweet melodiesout of the past and play on indefinitely by ear. In the glow of thecamp-fire, out in the woods, this music has a peculiar plaintive appealdear to our hearts. 

With these charms we soon won the Murphy family and Tom was eager tosee us shoot. He had heard that we shot deer, but he was ratherskeptical that our arrows could do much damage to bear. So one of thefirst things he did after our arrival was to drag out an old dried hideand hang it on a fence in the corral and asked me to shoot an arrowthrough it. It was surely a test, for the old bear had been a toughcustomer and his hide was half an inch thick and as hard as soleleather. 

But I drew up at thirty yards and let drive at the neck, the thickestportion. My arrow went through half its length and transfixed a pawthat dangled behind. Tom opened his eyes and smiled. "That will do, " hesaid, "if you can get into them that far, that's all you need. I'lltake you out tomorrow morning, but I'll pack the old Winchester riflejust for the sake of the dogs. "

The dogs were Tom's real asset, and his hobby. There were five of them. The two best, Baldy and Button, were Kentucky coon hounds in theirprime, probably being descendants of the English fox hound with theadmixture of harrier and bloodhound strains. Their breed has been inthe family for thirty years. Tom took great pride in his pack, trainedthem to run nothing but bear and mountain lions, and never let anybodyelse touch them. When not hunting they are kept fastened by a slidingleash to a long heavy wire. Their diet was boiled cracked wheat andcracklings, raw apples, and bear meat. They never tasted deer meat orbeef. I never saw more intelligent nor better conditioned hounds. 

With the same stock he has hunted ever since he was a boy, and theirlineage is more important than that of the Murphys. He has taken fromten to twenty bears every winter with these dogs for the past thirtyyears. 

We were to stay right in Tom's house, and go by horseback to the beargrounds next morning. We had a supper which included bear steaks from aprevious hunt, and doughnuts fried in bear grease, which they say isthe best possible material for this culinary process, and later wegreased our bows with bear grease, and our shoes with a mixture of bearfat and rosin. So we felt ready for bear. 

Then we spent a delightful evening with the family before the bigfireplace, played our soft music, and all turned in for an early startin the morning. 

At four o'clock Tom began stirring around, building the fire andfeeding the horses. An hour later we breakfasted and were ready tostart. Light snow had fallen in the hills and the air was chill; themoon was sinking in the valley mist. These early morning hours in thecountry are strange to us who live so far from nature. 

We mount and are off. As we go the horses see the trail that we cannotdiscern, vague forms slip past, a skunk steals off before us, an owlflaps noiselessly past, overhanging brush sweeps our faces, the dogsleashed in couples trot ahead of us like spectres in procession. 

Thus we journey for nearly ten miles in the darkness, going up out ofthe valley, on to the foothills, through Windy Gap, past Sheep Corral, over the divide, heading toward the Little Van Duzen River. 

[Illustration: TOM MURPHY WITH HIS TWO BEST DOGS, BUTTON AND BALDY, INDISPENSABLE IN GETTING BEARS]

All the while the dogs amble along, sniffing here and there at obscurescents, now loitering to investigate a moment, now standing and lookingoff into the dark. Tom knows by their actions what they think. "That'sa coyote's trail, " he says, "they've just crossed a deer scent, butthey won't pay much attention to that. " Their demeanor isself-possessed and un-excited. 

At last, just before dawn, we arrive on a pine-covered hillside and thedogs become more eager. This is the bear country. They cross the canyonhere to get to the forest of young oak trees, beyond where the autumncrop of acorns lies ready to fatten them for their long winter sleep. 

Here is a bear tree, a small pine or fir, stripped of limbs and bark, against which countless bears have scratched themselves. 

Tom looses the dogs and sends them ranging to pick up a scent. Theytake to it with eagerness, and soon we hear the boom of the hounds on acold track. Tom gets interested, but shakes his head. Last night'ssnowfall and later drizzle have spoiled the ground for good tracking. We dismount, tie our horses and follow the general direction of thepack. They must be kept within earshot so that when they strike a hottrack we can keep up with them. If there is much wind and the forestnoises are loud, Tom will not run his dogs for fear of losing them. Once on the trail of a bear, they never quit, but will leave thecountry rather than give him up. 

Expectation, stimulated by the distant baying of the running hounds, the cold gray shadows of the woods, and the knowledge that any moment abear may come crashing through the undergrowth right where we stand, tends to hold one in a state of exquisite suspense--not fear, justchilly suspense. In fact, I was rather glad to see the sun rise. 

But nothing came of this hunt. We worked over the creek bottom below, rode over adjacent hills and canyons, struck cold trails here and thereto assure us that bear really existed, then at about ten o'clock Murphydecided that weather conditions of the night before, combined with thedissipating effect of sunshine and the lateness of the hour, alldictated that we had best give up the game for that day. 

So back we rode, the dogs a trifle footsore, for they had covered manya mile in their ranging. Tom had shoes for them to wear when they arevery lame at the first of the season. Later on, their feet become toughand need no protection. So we arrived back at the ranch empty-handed. 

Next day we rested, and rain fell. 

The day following we again tried a hunt and again failed to strike ahot track. Tom was perplexed, for it was a rare thing for him to returnhome without a bear. He rather suspected that the bows were a "jinx"and brought bad luck. So again we rested the dogs and waited for achange of fortune. 

The time between hunts Young and I spent shooting rabbits. Once whendown on the stream bank looking for trout, Young saw a female duckdiving beneath the surface of the water. As it rose he shot it with anarrow and nocking a second shaft, he prepared to deliver a finishingblow if necessary, when up the stream he heard the whirring wings of aflying duck; instantly he drew his bow, glanced to the left, and shotat the rapidly approaching male. Pinioned through the wings, it droppednear the first victim and he gathered the two as a tidbit for supper. 

These things do happen between our larger adventures, and delight usgreatly. 

The evenings we spent before the fire, played music, and I performedsleights of hand, much to the wonderment of the rural audience thatgathered to see the strangers who expected to kill bears with bows andarrows. After numerous coin tricks, card passes, mysteriousdisappearances, productions of wearing apparel and cabbages from a hat, and many other incredible feats of prestidigitation, they were almostready to believe we might slay bears with our bows. 

Tom's dogs having recovered from our previous unsuccessful trips, westarted again one crisp frosty morning with the stars all aglitteroverhead. This time we were sure of good luck. Mrs. Murphy was positivewe would bring home a bear; she felt it in her bones. 

It is cold riding this time in the morning, but it is beautiful. Thesnow-laden limbs of the firs drop their loads upon us as we pass, thetwigs are whip-like in their recoil as they strike our legs; the horsespick their way with surefooted precision, and we wonder what adventureswait for us in the silent gloom. 

This time we rode far. If bears were to be had any place, they could befound in Panther Canyon, below Mt. Lassie. 

By sunrise we reached the ridge back of the desired spot where we tiedour horses preparatory to climbing up the gulch. The dogs were madeready; there were only three of them this time: Button, Baldy, and oldBuck, the shepherd dog. Immediately they struck a cold trail and dancedaround in a circle, baying with long deep bell tones, pleading to bereleased. My breath quivers at the memory of them. Murphy unclasped thechains that linked them together and they scampered up the precipitousravine before us. As they passed, Tom pointed out bear tracks, thefirst we had seen. 

In less than ten minutes the full-throated bay of the hounds told usthat they had struck a hot track and routed the bear from his temporaryden. 

That was the signal for speed, and we began a desperate race up theside of the mountain. Nothing but perfect physical health can standsuch a strain. One who is not in athletic training will either failcompletely in the test or do his heart irreparable damage. 

But we were fit; we had trained for the part. Stripped for action, wewere dressed in hunting breeches, light high-topped shoes spiked on thesoles, in light cotton shirts, and carried only our bows, quivers ofarrows, and hunting knives. Tom was a seasoned mountain climber, bornon the crags, and had knees like a goat. So we ran. Up the side andover the crest we sped. The bay of the hounds pealed out with everybound ahead of us. As we crossed the ridge, we heard them down thecanyon below us, the crashing of the bear and the cry of the dogsthrilled us with a very old and a very strong flood of emotions. Panting and flushed with effort we rushed onward; legs, legs, and moreair, 'twas all we wanted. Tom is tough and used to altitudes, Young isstronger and more youthful than I am, and besides a flapping quiver, anunwieldy bow, my camera banged me unmercifully on the back. Still Ikept up very well, and my early sprinting on the cinder track came tomy aid. We stuck together, but just as I had about decided that runningwas a physical impossibility, Tom shouted, "He is treed. " That was awelcome word. We slackened our pace, knowing that the dogs would holdhim till we arrived, and we needed our breath for the next act. So on atrot we came over a rise of ground and saw, away up on the limb of atall straight fir tree, a bear that looked very formidable and large. The golden rays of the rising sun were shining through his fur. 

That was the first bear I had ever seen in the open, first wild bear, first bear with no iron bars between him and me. I felt peculiar. 

The dogs were gathered beneath the tree keeping up a chorus of yelpsand assaulting its base as if to tear it to pieces. The bear apparentlyhad no intention of coming down. 

Tom had instructed us fully what to do; so we now helped him catch hisdogs and tie them with a rope which he held. He did this because heknew that if we wounded the bear and he descended there was going to bea fight, and he didn't want to lose his valuable dogs in an experiment. He had his gun to take care of himself, and Young and I were supposedto stand our share of the adventure as best we could. 

Keen with anticipation of unexpected surprises; wondering, yet willingto take a chance, we prepared to shoot our first bear. We stationedourselves some thirty yards from the base of the tree. The bear wasabout seventy-five feet up in the air, facing us, looking down andexposing his chest. 

We drew our arrows together and a second later released as one man. Away flew the two shafts, side by side, and struck the beast in thebreast, not six inches apart. Like a flash, they melted into his bodyand disappeared forever. He whirled, turned backward, and began slidingdown the tree. 

Ripping and tearing the trunk, he descended almost as if falling, ashower of bark preceding him like a cartload of shingles. Tom shouted, "You missed him, run up close and shoot him again!" From his side ofthe tree he couldn't see that our arrows had hit and gone through, alsohe was used to seeing bear drop when he hit them with a bullet. 

But we were a little diffident about running up close to a woundedbear, for Tom had told us it would fight when it got down. Nevertheless, we nocked an arrow again, and just as he reached theground we were close by to receive him. We delivered two glancing blowson his rapidly falling body. When he landed, however, he selected thelower side of the tree, away from us, and bounded off down the canyon. We protested that we had hit him and begged Tom to turn his dogs loose. After a moment's deliberation, Tom let old Buck go and off he tore inhot pursuit. The shepherd was a wily old cattle dog and would keep outof harm. 

Soon we heard him barking and Murphy exclaimed incredulously, "He'streed again!" Button and Baldy were unleashed and once more we startedour cross-country running. Through maple thickets, over rocky sides, down the wooded canyon we galloped. Much sooner than we expected, wecame to our bear. Hard pressed, he had climbed a small oak and crouchedout on a swaying limb. We could see that he was heaving badly, and wasa very sick animal. His gaze was fixed on the howling dogs. Young and Iran in close and shot boldly at his swaying body. Our arrows slippedthrough him like magic. One was arrested in its course as it burieditself in his shoulder. Savagely he snapped it in two with his teeth, when another driven by Young with terrific force struck him above theeye. He weakened his hold, slipped backward, dropped from the bendinglimb and rolled over and over down the ravine. The dogs were on him ina rush, and wooled him with a vengeance. But he was dead by the time hereached the creek bottom. We clambered down, looked him over with awe, then Young and I shook hands across the body of our first bear. We tookhis picture. 

Tom opened up the chest and abdominal cavity, explored the wounds andwas full of exclamations of surprise at the damage done by our arrows. He agreed that our animal was mortally wounded with our first twoshots, and had we let him alone there would have been no necessity formore arrows. But this being our very first bear, we had overdone thekilling. 

So he gave the liver and lungs to the waiting hounds as a reward fortheir efforts, and cleaned the carcass for carrying. We found thestomach full of acorn mush, just as clean and sweet as a mess ofcornmeal. 

Murphy left us to pack the bear up on the pine flat above, while hewent around three or four miles to get the horses. After a strenuoushalf hour, we got our bear up the steep bank and rested on the flat. Here we ate our pocket lunch. 

As we sat there quietly eating, we heard a rustle in the woods belowus, and looking up, saw another good-sized black bear about forty yardsoff. I had one arrow left in my quiver, Young only two broken shafts, the rest we had lost in our final scramble. So we passed no insultingremarks to the bear below, who suddenly finding our presence, vanishedin the forest. We had had enough bear for one day, anyhow. 

Tom came with the horses, and loaded our trophy on one. Ordinarily ahorse is greatly frightened at bears, and difficult to manage, butthese were long ago accustomed to the business. It interested us to seethe method of tying the carcass securely on a common saddle. By placinga clove hitch on the wrists and ankles and cinching these beneath thehorse's belly with a sling rope through the bear's crotch and aroundits neck, the body was held suspended across the saddle and rode easilywithout shifting until we reached home. 

Adult black bear range in weight from one hundred to five hundredpounds. Ours, although he had looked very formidable up the tree, wasreally not a very large animal and not fully grown. After cleaning, ittipped the scales at a little below two hundred pounds. But it waslarge enough for our purposes, and we couldn't wait for it to grow anyheavier. It was no fault of ours that it was only some three or fouryears old. We felt that even had it been one of those huge old boys, wewould have conquered him just the same. In fact, we had begun to countourselves among the intrepid bear slayers of the world. So we returnedto the ranch in triumph. 

[Illustration: YOUNG AND I ARE VERY PROUD OF OUR MAIDEN BEAR]

Next day we took our departure from Blocksburg and bade the Murphys anaffectionate farewell. The bear we carried with us wrapped in canvas todistribute in luscious steaks to our friends in the city. The beautifulsilky pelt now rests on the parlor floor of Young's home with aferocious wide open mouth waiting to scare little children, or trip upthe unwary visitor. 

Since this, our maiden bear, we have had various other encounters withbruin. Once while hunting mountain lions, we came upon the body of anangora goat recently killed by a bear. The ground was covered with hisungainly footprints. We set the dogs on the scent and off they went, booming in hot pursuit. Running like wild Indians, Young and I followedby ear, bows ready strung and quivers held tightly to our sides. Inless than ten minutes, we burst into a little open glade in the forestand saw up in a large madrone tree, a good-sized cinnamon bearfretfully eyeing the dogs below. 

We had lost our apprehension concerning the outcome of an encounterwith bears, so we coolly prepared to settle his fate. In fact, we evendiscussed the problem whether or not we should kill him. We were notafter bears, but lions. This fellow, however, was a rogue, a killer ofsheep and goats. He had repeatedly thrown our dogs off the track withhis pungent scent and we were strictly within our hunting rights if wewanted him. We therefore drew our broadheads to the barb and drove twowicked shafts deep into his front. As if knocked backwards, the bearreared and threw himself down the slanting tree trunk. As he reachedthe ground, one of our dogs seized him by the hind leg and the two wentflying past us within a couple of yards, the dog hanging on like grimdeath. Furiously, the other dogs followed and we leaped to the chase. 

This time the course of the bear was marked by a swath of broken brush. It dashed headlong through the forest regardless of obstruction. Smalltrees in his way meant nothing to him; he ran over them, or if old andbrittle, smashed them down. Into the densest portion of the woods hemade his way. Not more than three hundred yards from the spot hestarted, he treed again. In an almost impenetrable thicket of smallcedars, the dogs sent up their chorus of barks. I dashed in, fightingmy way free from restraining limbs, the bow and quiver holding me againand again. Young got stuck and fell behind, so that I came alone uponour bear at bay. He had mounted but a short distance up a mighty oakand hung by his claws to the bark. I had run beneath him before seeinghis position. Instantly I recognized the danger of the situation andbacked off, away from the tree, at the same time nocking an arrow onthe string. I glanced about for Young, but he was detained, so I drewthe head and discharged my arrow right into the heart region of ourbeast, where it buried its point. Loosening his hold, the bear fellbackward from the tree and landed on the nape of his neck. He was weakwith mortal wounds, and even had he wanted to charge me, the combatcould not have progressed far. But instantly the dogs were on him. Seizing him by the front and back legs, they dragged him around a smalltree, holding him firmly in spite of his struggles, while he bawledlike a lost calf. The din was terrific; snarling, snapping dogs, thecrashing underbrush, and the bellowing of bear made the world hideous. It seemed that the pain of our arrows was nothing to him compared tohis fear of the dogs, and when he felt himself helpless in their power, his morale was completely shattered. 

It was soon over; hardly a minute elapsed before his resistless formlay still, and even the dogs knew he was dead. Poor Young arrived atthis moment, having just extricated himself from the brush. 

We skinned the pelt to make quivers, took his claws for decorations, and cut some sweet bear steaks from his hams; the rest we gave to thepack. 

It seems a very proper thing that the service of the dogs should alwaysbe recognized promptly, that they be given their share of the spoilsand that they be praised for their courage and fidelity. This makesthem better hunters. Stupid men who drive off their dogs from thequarry, defer their rewards, and grudge them praise, kill the spirit ofthe chase within them and spoil them for work. 

Hounds have the finest hunting spirit of any animal. The team work ofthe wolf and their intelligent use of strategy is one of the moststriking evidences of community interests in animal life. 

The fellowship between us and our dogs is a most satisfactory relation. Since prehistoric times, the hunter has taken advantage of thecomradeship and on it rests the mutual dependence and trust of the two. 

Altogether, bringing bears to bay is among the most thrillingexperiences of life. It is a primitive sport and as such it stirs up inthe human breast the primordial emotions of men. The sense of danger, the bodily exhaustion, the ancestral blood lust, the harkening bay ofthe hounds, the awe of deep-shadowed forests, and the return to analmost hand-to-claw contest with the beast, call upon a latent manhoodthat is fast disappearing in the process of civilization. 

I hope there always will be bears to hunt and youthful adventurers tochase them. 

XIII

MOUNTAIN LIONS

The cougar, panther, or mountain lion is our largest representative ofthe cat family. Early settlers in the Eastern States record theexistence of this treacherous beast in their conquest of the forests. The cry of the "painter, " as he was called, rang through the dark woodsand caused many hearts to quaver and little children to run to mother'sside. Once in a while stories came of human beings having met theirdoom at the swift stealthy leap of this dreaded beast. He was bolderthen than now. Today he is not less courageous, but more cautious. Hehas learned the increased power of man's weapons. 

Our Indians knew that he would strike, as they struck, without warningand at an advantage. It is a matter of tradition among frontiersmenthat he has upon rare occasions attacked and killed bears. Even todayhe will attack man if provoked by hunger, and can do so with someassurance of success, the statements of certain naturalists to thecontrary notwithstanding. 

John Capen Adams, in his adventures, [1][Footnote 1: _The Adventures of James Capen Adams of California_, byTheodore H. Hittell. ]describes such an episode. The lion in this instance sprang upon acompanion, seized him by the back of the neck, and bore him to theground. He was only saved from death by a thick buckskin collar to hiscoat and the ready assistance of Adams who heard the cry for help. 

I know of an instance where a California lion leaped upon some bathingchildren and attempted to kill them, but was driven off by the heroicefforts of a young woman school teacher, who in turn died of herwounds. 

Those of us who have roamed the wilds of the western country have hadvarying experiences with this animal, while others have lived theirlives in districts undoubtedly infested with cougars and have neverseen one, although nearly every mountain rancher has heard thathair-raising, almost human scream echo down the canyon. It is like thewail of a woman in pain. Penetrating and quavering, it rings out on thenight gloom, and brings to the human what it must, in a similar way, bring to the lesser animals a sense of impending attack, a deathwarning. It is part of the system of the predatory beast that he usesfear to weaken the powers of his prey before he assaults it. Animalpsychology is essentially utilitarian. Cowering, trembling, muscularlyrelaxed, on the verge of emotional shock, we are easier to overcome. 

The cougar lives principally on deer. His kill averages more than one aweek, and often we may find evidence that this murderer has wantonlyslain two or three deer in a single night's expedition. 

It is not his habit to lie in wait on the limb of a tree, though heoften sleeps there; but he makes a stealthy approach on theunsuspecting victim, then, with a series of stupendous bounds, hethrows himself upon the deer, and by his momentum bears it to theground. Here, while he holds on with teeth and forelegs, he rips openthe flank with his hind claws and immediately plunges his head into theopen abdomen, where he tears the great blood vessels with his teeth anddrinks its life blood. 

These are facts learned from lion hunters whose observations areaccurate and reliable. A lion can jump a distance greater thantwenty-four feet, and has been seen to ascend at a single leap a cliffof rock eighteen feet high. 

Their weight runs from one hundred to two hundred pounds, and thelength from six to nine feet. The skin will stretch farther than this, but we count only the carcass from the tip of the nose to the tip ofthe extended tail. The speed of a lion for a short distance is greaterthan that of a greyhound, less than five seconds to the hundred yards. 

Some observers contend that the lion never gives that blood-curdlingcry assigned to him. They say he is silent, and that this classicscream is made by a lynx in the mating period. However, popularexperience to the contrary seems to be too strong and counterbalancesthis iconoclastic opinion. 

For many years, off and on, we have hunted lions, but sad to say, wehave done more hunting than finding. They are a very wary creature. Practically, one never sees them unless hunting with dogs; they may bein the brush within thirty yards, but the human eye will fail todiscern them. 

Our camps have been robbed by lions, our horses killed by them, cattleand sheep ruthlessly murdered; lion tracks have been all about, and yetunless trapped or treed by dogs, we have never met. 

Camping at the base of Pico Blanco, in Monterey County, several yearsago, a lion was seen to bound across the road and follow a small bandof deer. At this very spot a few seasons before one leaped upon an oldmare with foal and broke her neck as she crashed through the fence androlled down the hill. Three years later I rode the young horse. As wepassed the tree from which it is thought the lion sprang, where thebroken fence was still unmended, my colt jumped and reared, the memoryof his fright was still vivid in his mind. Up the trail a half milebeyond we saw other fresh lion tracks. At night we camped on the ridgewith our dogs in hope that our feline friend would come again. 

It was too late to hunt that evening, so we turned in. Nothing happenedsave that in the middle of the night I was roused by the whine of ourdogs, and looking up in the face of the pale moon, I saw two deer gobounding past, silhouetted like graceful phantoms across the silveredsky. They swept across the lunar disc and melted into blackness overthe dark horizon. 

No sound followed them, and having appeased the fretful hounds, wereturned to sleep. In the morning, up the trail, there were his tracks;too wise to cross the human scent, and knowing that there are more deerin the brush, he had turned upon his course and let his quarry slip. 

Because of the heat and the inferior tracking capacity of our dogs, wenever got this panther. A lion dog is a specialist and must be sotrained that no other track will divert him from his quest. These dogswere willing, but erratic. 

The best dogs for this work are mongrels. By far the finest lion dog Iever saw was a cross between a shepherd and an airedale. He had theintelligence of the former and the courage of the latter. The airedalehimself is not a good trailer, he is too temperamental. He will starton a lion track, jump off and chase a deer and wind up by digging out aground squirrel. After a good hound finds a lion, the airedale willtackle him. 

We once started an airedale on a lion track, followed him at a fiendishpace, dashed down the side of a mountain, and found that he had anangora goat up a tree. 

This cougar on Pico Blanco still roams the forests, so far as I know, and many with him. Once we saw him across a canyon. He appeared as atawny slow-moving body as large as a deer but low to the earth andtrailing a listless tail, while his head slowly swung from side toside. He seemed to be looking for something on the ground. For thespace of a hundred yards we watched him traverse an open side hill, deep in ferns and brakes. Seeing him thus was little satisfaction tous, for we had lost our dogs. Ferguson and I were returning from one ofour unsuccessful expeditions. 

We started with two saddle horses, a pack animal, and five good liondogs. On the trail to the Ventana Mountains we came across lion tracksand followed them for a day, then lost them; but we knew that a largemale and young female were ranging over the country. Their circuitextended over a radius of ten miles; they are great travelers. 

The track of a lion is characteristic. The general contour is round, from three to four inches in diameter. There are four toe printsarranged in a semicircle which show no claw marks. But the ball of thefoot is the unmistakable feature. It consists of three distincteminences or pads which lie parallel, antero-posteriorly, and appear inthe track as if you had pressed the terminal phalanges of your fingersside by side in the dust. These marks are nearly equal in length andabsolutely identify the big cat. 

On the morning of the second day of our trailing this lion, our packwas working down in the thick brush below the crest of RattlesnakeRidge, when suddenly they raised a chorus of yelps. There was a rush ofbodies in the chamise brush, and the chase was on at a furious pace. Werode up to an observation point and saw the dogs speeding down thecanyon side, close on the heels of a yellow leaping demon. Theyswitched from side to side, as cat and dog races have been carried onsince time immemorial. 

The undergrowth was so dense we could not follow, so we sat our horsesand waited for them to tree. But further and further they descended. They crossed the bottom, mounted a cliff on the opposite side, camescrambling down from this and plunged into the bed of the stream, wheretheir voices were lost to hearing. 

We rode around to a spur of the hill that dipped into the brush andoverhung the canyon. From this we heard occasional barks away down atleast a mile below us. It was a difficult situation. Nothing but abluejay could possibly get down to the creek below. I never saw such ajungle! So we waited for the indications that the lion was treed, butall became silent. 

Evening approached, we ate our supper and then sat on the hill above, sounding our horns. Their vibrant echoes rang from mountain to mountainand returned to us clear and sweet. 

Way down below us, where a purple haze hung over the deep ravine, wefaintly heard the answering hounds. In their voices we caught the dog'sresponse to his master and friend. It said, "We have him. Come! Come!"We blew the horns again. The elf-land notes returned again and again, and with them came the call of the faithful hound, "We are here. Come!Come!"

Now, there was a pitiful plight. No sane man would venture down such achasm, impenetrable with thorns, and night descending. So we built abeacon fire and waited for dawn. All during the long dark hours weheard the distant appeal of the hounds, and we slept little. 

At the first rays of dawn we took a hasty meal, fed our horses, andstripping ourselves of every unnecessary accoutrement, we prepared todescend the canyon. Our bows and quivers we left behind because itwould have been impossible to drag them through the jungle. Fergusoncarried only his Colt pistol; I took my hunting knife. 

Having surveyed the topography carefully, we attacked the problem atits most available angle and slid from view. We literally dived beneaththe brush. For more than two hours we wormed our way down the face ofthe mountain, crawling like moles at the base of the overhangingthickets of poison oak, wild lilac, chamise, sage, manzanita, hazel andbuckthorn. At last we reached the depth of the canyon and, finding alittle water, we bathed our sweat-grimed faces and cooled off. 

No sound of the dogs was heard, but pressing forward we followed theboulder-strewn bottom of the creek for a mile or more, almostdespairing of ever finding them, when suddenly we came upon a strangesight. There was the pack in a circle about a big reclining oak. Theywere voiceless and utterly exhausted, but sat watching a huge lioncrouched on a great overhanging limb of the tree. The moment weappeared they raised a feeble, hoarse yelp of delight. The pantherturned his head, saw us, sprang from the tree with a prodigious bound, landed on the side hill, tore down the canyon, and leaped over aprecipice below. 

The dogs, heartened by our presence, with instant accord charged afterthe lion. When they came to the precipitous drop in the bed of thestream, they whined a second, ran back and forth, then mounted thelateral wall, circled sidewise and, by a detour, gained the groundbelow. We ran and looked over. The drop was at least thirty feet. Thecat had taken it without hesitation, but we were absolutely stalled. Even if we had cared to take the risk of the descent, we saw so manysimilar drops beyond that the situation was hopeless. The dogs havinglost their voices, we were at a great disadvantage. So we returned tothe tree to rest and meditate. 

There we saw the evidence of the long vigil of the night. All about itsbase were little nests, where the tired dogs had bedded down and kepttheir weary watch. Their incessant barking had served to keep thecougar treed, but it cost them a temporary loss of voice. Poor devils, they had our admiration and sympathy. 

At noon, hearing nothing from the hounds, we decided to return to camp. If coming down was hard, going up was herculean. We crawled on handsand knees, dragged ourselves by projecting roots, panted, rested, andworked again. After a three-hours' struggle we came out upon a roughledge of granite, a mile below the spot at which we aimed, but nearenough to the top to permit us, after a little more brush fighting, togain our camp and lie down, too fatigued to eat. 

For another day we remained at this place, hoping that the dogs wouldreturn, but in vain. At last we decided to pack up and go around aten-mile detour and work up the outlet of the canyon. We left a mess offood in several piles for the dogs should they return, and knew theycould follow our horses' tracks if they came to camp. 

But our detour was futile. We lost all signs of our pack and returnedto our headquarters to await results. 

It was on this homeward journey that we saw the lion of Pico Blanco, and had to let him slip. 

Ten days later, two weak, emaciated hounds came into camp, an oldveteran and a young dog that trailed after him as if tied with a rope. He had followed him to save his life, and for days after he could notbe separated without whining with fear. 

We fed them carefully and nursed them back to health. But these wereall of the five to appear. Old Belle, the greatest fighter of them all, was gone. She must have met her death at the claws of the cougar, fornothing else could keep her. This ended that particular lion hunt. 

In our travels over California in search for cougars, we have picked upmore tales than trails of the big cats. 

Just before one of my visits to Gorda, on the Monterey Coast, a panthervisited the Mansfield ranch in broad daylight. Jasper being up on themountainside after deer, his wife, left at home with the two littlechildren, noticed a very large lion out in the pasture back of thehouse. It wandered among the cattle in a most unconcerned manner anddid not even cause a stir. While it did not approach any of the cowsvery closely, they seemed to be not in the least alarmed. For half anhour or more it stayed in the neighborhood of the house, where Mrs. Mansfield locked herself in and waited for her husband's return. It wasnot until evening, and too late to track the beast, that Jasper camehome. So no capture was made. 

Some time before this, one of the hired hands on the ranch was going tohis cabin in the dusk; and swinging his hand idly to catch the tops oftall grass by the side of the path, he suddenly touched something warmand soft. Instantly he grasped a handful of the substance. At the samemoment some sort of an animal bounded off in the dark. Holding fast tothe material in his hand, he ran back to the farmhouse and found hisfist full of lion hair. To say that he was startled, puts it verymildly. Apparently one of these beasts had been crouched on a log bythe side of his path, waiting for something to turn up. The hired mantook a lantern home with him after that. 

At another ranch on the Big Sur River, one of the little boys called tohis mother that there was a funny sort of a "big dog" out in thepasture. His mother paid no attention to it, but a diminutive pet blackand tan started an assault on the animal in question. The lion and thedog disappeared in the brush. Presently the canine barking ceased andthe small boy wondered what had become of his valiant companion. In afew minutes he heard a plaintive whine up in a near-by tree, andrunning to its base he found that the panther had seized his pet by thenape of the neck and climbed a tall fir with him. The boy ran for hisfather, working in the fields, who, bringing his rifle, dispatched thepanther. As it fell from the tree, the little dog clung to the upperlimbs, and stayed at the top. Nothing they could do would coax himdown. The fir was one difficult to climb, so to save time the man tookan ax and felled the tree, which, falling gently against another, precipitated the canine hero to the ground without harm. Later I hadthe pleasure of shaking his paw and congratulating him on his bravery. 

After many futile attempts, at last our opportunity to get a _FelisConcolor_ arrived. We received word from a certain ranger station inTuolumne County that a mountain lion was killing sheep and deer in theimmediate vicinity, and having the promise of a well trained pack, Arthur Young and I gathered our archery tackle and started from SanFrancisco at night in an automobile. We traveled until the small hoursof the morning, then lay down on the side of the road to take a shortsleep; and rising at the first gray of dawn, sped on our way. 

We reached the Sierras by sun-up and began to climb. At noon we met ourguide above Italian Bar, and prepared for an evening hunt. This, however, was as unsatisfactory as evening hunts usually are. 

A morning expedition the next day only brought out the fact that ourlion had left the country. News of his activities twelve miles furtherup the mountains having been obtained, we gathered our bows, arrows, and dogs and departed for this region. Here we found a bloody record ofhis work. More than two hundred goats had been killed by the big cat inthe past year. In fact, the rancher thought that several panthers wereat work. Goats were taken from beneath the shepherd's nose, and as heturned in one direction, another goat would be killed behind him. Itseemed impossible to apprehend the villain; their dogs were useless. 

Equipped for rough camping, we soon planned our morning excursion andbedded down for rest. 

At 3 o'clock we waked, ate a meager breakfast, and hit the trail up themountain. We knew the general range of our cougar. It is necessary inall his tracking to get in the field while the dew is on the ground andbefore the sun dissipates it, also before the goats obliterate thetracks. 

Arrived at the crest of the ridge, we struck a well-defined goat trail, and soon the fresh tracks of a lion were discovered. Our dogs took upthe scent at once and we began to travel at a rapid pace. 

Here again, one must have a good pair of legs. If automobiles, elevators, and general laziness have not ruined your powers oflocomotion, you may follow the dogs; otherwise, you had best stay athome. 

At first we walk, then we trot, and when with a leap the hounds startin full cry, we race. Regardless of five thousand feet of altitude, regardless of brush, rocks, and dizzy cliffs, we follow at a breakneckpace. I don't know where our breath comes from in these trials. We justhave to run; in fact, we have planned to run on our hands when our legsplay out. With pounding hearts we surge ahead. "Keep the dogs withinhearing!" "It can't last long!" But this time we come to a sudden halton a rocky slide. We've lost the scent. The dogs circle and backtrackand work with feverish haste. The sun has risen, and up the mountainside comes a band of goats led by a single shepherd dog--no man insight. We shout to the dog to steer his rabble away, but on they come, and obliterate our trail with a thousand hoofprints and a cloud ofdust. 

The sun then comes out, and our day is done. No felis this time. 

So we scout the country for information to be used later, and return tocamp to drown our sorrow in food. 

This was my first knowledge that a dog could be placed in charge of aflock of sheep or goats. It seems that these little sheep dogs, noteven collies, but some shaggy little plebeians, are given full chargeof the band. They lead them out to pasture, guard them, and keep themtogether during the day and bring them home at night. They will, whenproperly instructed, take a band of goats out for a week on a longroute, and bring them all safely home again. At least, they used to dothis until the lion appeared on the scene. 

That evening we asked the rancher to lock his goats in the corral tillnoon. 

Next morning we rose again in time to see the morning star glitter withundimmed glory. Up the trail we mounted, the dogs eager for the chase. An old owl in a hollow tree asked us again and again who we were; allelse was silent in the woods. 

Saving our strength, we arrived quietly on the upper ridges and waitedfor the dawn. Way down below us in the canyon we could smell the faintincense of our camp-fire. The morning breeze was just beginning tobreathe in the trees. The birds awoke with little whisperedconfidences, small twitterings and chirps. A faint lavender tint meltedthe stars in the eastern sky. Shadows crept beneath the trees, and weknew it was time to start. 

Just as the light defined the margins of the trail, we picked up in thegrayness the track of a lion. Strange to say, the dogs had not smelledit, but when we pointed to the footprint in the dust, which wasapparently none too fresh, they took up the work of tracking. It isastonishing to see how a dog can tell which way a track leads. If indoubt, he runs quickly back and forth on the scent, and thus gauges theway the animal has progressed. A mediocre dog cannot do this, but wehad dogs with college educations. 

Traveling carefully and at a moderate pace, we came to an open knoll inthe forest. Here in the ferns our pack circled about us as if the cathad been doing a circus stunt, and they seemed confused. Later on wefound that our feline friend had been experimenting with a porcupineand learned another lesson in natural history. 

Suddenly the leader sniffed at a fallen tree where, doubtless, the cathad perched, then with a ringing bay, the hound clamped his tail closeto his rump and left in a streak of yellow light. The rest of the packleaped into full cry. 

We were off on a hot track. Oh, for the wings of a bird! Trained asYoung and I were to desperate running, this game taxed us to theutmost. First we climbed the knoll, deep in ferns and mountain misery, then we dashed over the crest, tore through manzanita brush, thicketsof young cedar and buckthorn, over ledges of lava rock, down deepdeclivities, among giant oaks, cedars, and pines. As we ran we graspedour ready strung bows in one hand and the flapping quivers in theother. 

You would not think that at this time we could take note of thefragrant shrubs and pine needles beneath our feet, but I smelled themas we passed in flight, and they revived me to renewed energy. On werushed, only to lose the sound of the dogs. Then we listened and caughtit down the hill below us. Again we hurdled barriers of brush, tooklong sliding leaps down the treacherous shale and ran breathless to theshade of a great oak. 

There above our heads was the lion. Oh, the beauty of that beast!

Heaving and giddy with exertion, we saw a wonderful sight, a greattawny, buff-colored body crouched on a limb, grace and power in everyoutline. A huge, soft cylindrical tail swung slowly back and forth. 

Luminous eyes gazed at us in utmost calm, a cold calculating calm. Hewatched and waited our next move, waited with his great muscles tensefor action. 

We retreated, not only to get out of his reach, but to gain a bettershooting position. As we did this, he gave a lithe leap to a higherlimb and shielded himself as best he could behind the boughs of thetree. 

From our position, his chest and throat were visible through atriangular space in the branches, not more than a foot across. We mustshoot through this. His attitude was so huddled that his head hung overhis shoulder. 

Young and I caught our breath, drew our arrows from their quivers, nocked them, and set ourselves in the archer's "stable stand. " We drewtogether and, at a mutual thought, shot together. Because of ourunsteady condition the arrows flew a trifle wild. Mine buried itself inthe lion's shoulder. Young's hit him in the nose. 

He reared and struck at this latter shaft, then, not dislodging it, began swaying back and forth while with both front paws he fought thearrow. 

While he thrashed about thus in the tree top, we nocked two more arrowsand shot. We both missed the brute. Young's flew off into the nextstate, and if you ever go up into Tuolumne County, you will find mineburied deep in the heart of an oak. 

Just as we nocked a third arrow, he freed himself from the offendingshaft in his muzzle, raised his fore-paws upon a limb and prepared toleap. In that movement he bared the white hair of his throat and chest, and like a flash, two keen arrows were driven through his heart area. 

[Illustration: ARTHUR YOUNG AND HIS COUGAR]

[Illustration: OUR FIRST MOUNTAIN LION]

[Illustration: WE PACK THE PANTHER TO CAMP]

As they struck and disappeared from sight, he leaped. Like a flyingsquirrel, he soared over our heads. Full seventy-five feet he clearedin one mighty outward, downward bound. I saw his body glint across therising sun, swoop in a wonderful curve and land in a sheltering bush. 

The dogs threw themselves upon him. There was a medley of sounds, afierce, but brief fight, and all was over. We grabbed him by the tailand dragged him forth--dead. The ringleader of our pack, trembling withexcitement, effort, and fighting frenzy, drove all the other dogs awayand took possession of the body. No one but a man, his master, mighttouch it. 

Our lion was a young male, six feet eight inches from tip to tip, andweighing a little over one hundred and twenty pounds. Later, as weskinned him, we found his paws full of porcupine quills, speakingloudly of his recent experience. The stomach was empty; the chest wasfull of blood from our arrows. 

He was as easy to kill as a deer. We packed him back to camp and addedhis photograph to our rogues' gallery. 

There was no further goat killing on that Sierra ranch. 

This was our first lion, and for me so far, my only one. Arthur Young, however, has been fortunate enough to land two cougars by himself onanother hunting trip. 

Captain C. H. Styles, a recent addition to the ranks of field archers, while on an expedition to cut yew staves in Humboldt County, California, started a mountain lion, ran him to bay with hounds, andkilled him with one arrow in the chest. We shall undoubtedly hear moreof the captain later on. 

But so long as we can draw a bowstring and our legs hold out, and thereis an intelligent dog to be had, it will not be the last lion on ourlist. Wherever there are deer, there will be found panthers, and it isour business to help reduce their number in the game fields to maintainthe balance of power. 

XIV

GRIZZLY BEAR

The very idea of shooting grizzly bears with the bow and arrow strikesmost people as so absurd that they laugh at the mention of it. Themental picture of the puny little archery implements of their childhoodopposed to that of the largest and most fearsome beast of the Westernworld, produces merriment and incredulity. 

Because it seemed so impossible, I presume, this added to our desire toaccomplish it. 

Ever since we began hunting with the bow, we had talked of shootinggrizzlies. We thought of an Alaskan trip as a remotely attainableadventure, and planned murderous arrows of various ingenious springdevices to increase their cutting qualities. We estimated the power offormidable bows necessary to pierce the hides of these monsters. Infact, it was the acme of our hunting desires. 

We read the biography of John Capen Adams and his adventures with theCalifornia grizzlies, and Roosevelt's admirable descriptions of theseanimals. They filled out our dreams with detail. And after killingblack bears we needed only the opportunity to make our wish become anexploit. 

The opportunity to do this arrived unexpectedly, as many opportunitiesseem to, when the want and the preparedness coincide. 

The California Academy of Sciences has in its museum in Golden GatePark, San Francisco, a collection of very fine animal habitat groups, among which are deer, antelope, mountain sheep, cougars, and brownbear. While an elk group was being installed, it happened that thetaxidermist, Mr. Paul Fair, said to me that the next and final settingwould be one of grizzly bears. In surprise, I asked him if it were nota fact that the California grizzly was extinct. He said this was true, but the silver-tip bear of Wyoming was a grizzly and its range extendedwestward to the Sierra Nevada Mountains; so it could properly beclassified as a Pacific Coast variety. He cited Professor Merriam'smonograph on the classification of grizzlies to prove his statements. He also informed me that permit might be obtained from Washington tosecure these specimens in Yellowstone National Park. 

Immediately I perceived an opportunity and interviewed Dr. BartonEverman, curator of the museum, concerning the feasibility of offeringour services in taking these bears at no expense to the academy. Incidentally, we proposed to shoot them with the bow and arrow, andthereby answer a moot question in anthropology. The propositionappealed to him, and he wrote to Washington for a permit to securespecimens in this National Park, stating that the bow and arrow wouldbe used. I insisted upon this latter stipulation, so that there shouldbe no misunderstanding if, in the future, any objection was raised tothis method of hunting. 

In a very short time permit was given to the academy, and we startedour preparations for the expedition. This was late in the fall of 1919, and bear were at their best in the spring, just after hibernation; sowe had ample time. 

It was planned that Mr. Compton, Mr. Young, and I should be thehunters, and such other assistance would be obtained as seemednecessary. We began reviewing our experience and formulating theprinciples of the campaign. 

Our weapons we now considered adequate in the light of our contact withblack bears. We had found that our bows were as strong as we couldhandle, and ample to drive a good arrow through a horse, a fact whichwe had demonstrated upon the carcasses of recently dead animals. 

But we decided to add to the length of our arrowheads, and use temperedinstead of soft steel as heretofore. We took particular pains to havethem perfect in every detail. 

Then we undertook the study of the anatomy of bears and the locationand size of their vital organs. In the work of William Wright on thegrizzly, we found valuable data concerning the habits and nature ofthese animals. 

In spite of the reputation of this bear for ferocity and tenacity oflife, we felt that, after all, he was only made of flesh and blood, andour arrows were capable of solving the problem. 

We also began preparing ourselves for the contest. Although habituallyin good physical condition, we undertook special training for the bigevent. By running, the use of dumbbells and other gymnastic practices, we strengthened our muscles and increased our endurance. Our fieldshooting was also directed toward rapid delivery and the quick judgmentof distances on level, uphill, and falling ground. In fact, we plannedto leave no factor for success untried. 

My brother, G. D. Pope, of Detroit, being a hunter of big game with thegun, was invited to join the party, and his advice was asked concerninga reliable guide. He gladly consented to come with us and share theexpenses. At the same time he suggested Ned Frost, of Cody, Wyoming, asthe most experienced hunter of grizzly bears in America. 

About this time one of my professional friends visited the SmithsonianInstitute at Washington, where he met a member of the staff, whoinquired if he knew Doctor Pope, of San Francisco, a man that wascontemplating shooting grizzlies with the bow and arrow. The doctorreplied that he did, whereat the sage laughed and said that the featwas impossible, most dangerous and foolhardy; it could not be done. Wefully appreciated the danger involved--therein lay some of the zest. But we also knew that even should we succeed in killing them inYellowstone Park, the glory would be sullied by the popular belief thatall park bears are hotel pets, live upon garbage, and that it was acruel shame to torment them with arrows. 

So in my early correspondence with Frost, I assured him that we did notwant to shoot any tame bears and that we would not consider the trip atall if this were necessary. He assured us that this was not necessary, and reminded us that Yellowstone Park was fifty miles wide by sixtymiles long, and that some of the highest portions of the RockyMountains lay in it. The animals in this preserve, he said, were farfrom tame and the bears were divided into two distinct groups, onemostly composed of black and brown with a few inferior specimens ofgrizzlies that frequent the dumps back of the camps and hotels, andanother group of bears that never came near civilization, but livedentirely up in the rugged mountains and were as dangerous and wary asthose in Alaska or any other wild country. These bear wander outsidethe park and furnish hunting material throughout the neighboring State. He promised to put us in communication with grizzlies that were asunspoiled and unafraid as those first seen by Lewis and Clarke in theirearly explorations. 

After explaining the purposes of our trip and the use of the bow, NedFrost agreed that it was a real sporting proposition and took up theplan with enthusiasm. I sent him a sample arrow we used in hunting, andhis letter in reply I take the liberty of printing. It is typical ofthe frontier spirit and comes, not only from the foremost grizzlyhunter of all times, but discloses the man's bigness of heart:

 "My dear Doctor:

 "Your letter of the 18th was received a day or so ago, and last night I received 'Good Medicine' [a hunting arrow] on the evening train, and I feel better away down deep about this hunt after a good examination of this little Grizzly Tickler than I have at any time before. I have, by mistake, let it simmer out in a quiet way that I was going to see what a grizzly would really do if he had a few sticks stuck in his innerds, and my friends have been giving the Mrs. And me a regular line of farewell parties. Really, I think it has been a splendid paying thing to do; pork chops are high, you know, and I really feel I am off to the good about nine dollars and six bits worth of bacon and flour right now on this deal. Maybe I'll be in debt to you before green-grass if I don't look out. 

 "Well, anyway, here is hoping we will all live through it and have a dandy time. Don't worry about coming to blows with the bear; I have noticed from long experience that it is not the times that you think a bear is going to give you trouble that it happens, but always when least expected. I have trailed wounded grizzlies time and time again, and was more or less worried all the while, but never had one turn on me yet. Then, too, I have had about three experiences with them that made my hair stand straight up, and when it finally settled, it had more FROST in it than ever before; and let me add right here, that one of the worst places I ever got into was when I had sixteen of the best bear dogs that were ever gotten together I believe, after an old she-grizzly, and I was like you, thought they would hold the bear's attention. BUT, don't let any notion like this get you into trouble. Now, I am not running down dogs as a means of getting bear; I love them and would now have a good pack if it was possible to run them in the game fields of this State, but you don't want to think that they can handle a grizzly like they do a black bear. In fact, I would place no value on them whatsoever as a safeguard in case a grizzly got on the pack, and I am speaking from experience, mind you. No, a good little shepherd would do more than a dozen regular bear dogs, but there is only about one little shepherd like I speak of in a lifetime. 

 "If you can use the bow from horseback, here is a safe proposition, and I believe a practical one, too. But I don't feel that there is really so much danger in the game after all, as it is only once in a great while that any bear will go up against the human animal, and then is most likely to be when you are not expecting it at all. Don't worry about it. What I am thinking about most is to get the opportunity to get the first arrow into some good big worthy old boy that will be a credit to the expedition. 

 "There are lots of grizzlies in the park all right, and some of them are not very wild, but if you get out away from the hotels a few miles, they are not going to come up and present their broadsides to you at thirty yards. So, as I say, I am thinking mostly about the chances of getting the opportunities. I don't know, of course, just how close you can place your arrows at thirty yards, and it is getting the first hole into them that I am most interested in now. I feel that we ought to get some good chances, as I have seen so many bear in the park; but, of course, have never hunted them and don't know just how keen they will be when it comes right down to getting their hides. There are some scattered all over the park that will rob a camp at night, and some of them will even put up a fight for it, but most of them will beat it as soon as one gets after them. 

 "It would be impossible, I believe, to keep dogs still while watching a bait, as they would get the scent of any approaching bear, and then you would not be able to keep them quiet, and they would most likely scare the bear out of the country. I can rustle a few dogs to take along if you want them, and pretty good dogs, too; but I am not strong for them myself only in this way, to put them on the trail of a bear and take a good horse apiece, so that we could get up to the chase and have a chance to land on him. This might be a good thing to try if all others failed. 

 "I know how you feel about killing clean with the bow and not having any shooting, and I can assure you that I would let 'em get just as close as you want them, and not feel any concern about their getting the best of anybody, and you would have a chance to use the bow well in this case; but I am more prone to think they will beat it off with a lot of your perfectly good arrows than anything else. 

 "Yours truly, "NED FROST. "

 It was apparent from the first that dogs were of little use in takinggrizzly. It would be necessary to shoot from blinds set convenientlynear bait. Frost assured us that bears of this variety, when just outof hibernation and lean, would run out of the country if chased by apack of dogs, and incidentally kill all that they could catch. In thefall of the year, when the bears are fat, they refuse to run, but wadethrough the pack, which is unable to keep him from attacking thehunter. 

As an example of this, he related an instance where he started agrizzly with eight or ten Russian bear hounds, and chased the beastabout thirty miles. As he followed on horseback, he found one after theother of his dogs torn to pieces, disemboweled, and dismembered. Atlast, he came upon the bear at bay in deep snow, against a high cliff. Only two of his hounds were left, and one of these had a broken leg. Mad with vengeance, Frost shot the grizzly. It charged him at fortyyards. In quick succession he fired five bullets in the oncoming bear, seemingly with no effect. Up to his waist in the snow, he was unable toavoid its rush. It came on and fell dead on his chest, with thefaithful hound hanging to it in a desperate effort to save his master. 

This is one of the three or four maulings that Ned has received in hishunting experiences, which, he says, "have added frost to my goldenlocks. " The dog became a cherished pet in the family for many years. 

Frost killed his first bear when fourteen years of age, and has addednearly five hundred to this number since that time. 

It is characteristic of the grizzly that he will charge upon theslightest provocation, and that nothing will turn him aside from hispurpose. Later we found this particularly true where the female withcubs is concerned. 

Instances of this are too well known to recount, but one coming underour own experience was related to me by Tom Murphy, the bear hunter ofCalifornia. 

In early days in Humboldt County, there lived an old settler named PeteBluford, who was a squaw man. He shot a female grizzly with cubs withina quarter of a mile of what are now the town limits of Blocksburg. Thebeast charged and struck him to the ground. At the same time she rippedopen the man's abdomen. Bluford dropped under a fallen tree, where thebear repeatedly assaulted him, tearing at his body. By rolling back andforth as the grizzly leaped over the log to reach him from the otherside, he escaped further injury. Worried by the hunter's dog, shefinally ceased her efforts and wandered off. The man was able to reachhome in spite of a large open wound in his abdomen, with protrudingintestines. This was roughly sewed together by his friend, BeanyPowell. He recovered from the experience and lived many years with theIndians of that locality. As an example of Western humor, it is relatedthat Beany Powell, when sewing up the wound with twine and a sackneedle, found a large lump of fat protruding from the incision, ofwhich he was unable to dispose; so he cut it off, tried out the greasein the frying-pan and used it to grease his boots. 

Old Bluford became a character in the country. He was, in fact, what iscolloquially known as "an old poison oaker. " This is an individual whosinks so low in the scale of civilization that he lives out in thebackwoods or poison oak brush and becomes animal in type. His hair grewto his shoulders, his beard was unkempt, his finger nails were as longas claws and filthy with dirt. Rags of unknown antiquity partiallycovered his limbs, vermin infested his body and he stayed with the mostdegraded remnants of the Indians. 

One cold winter they found him dead in his dilapidated cabin. He lay onthe dirt floor, his ragged coat over his face, his hands beneath hishead, and two house cats lay frozen, one beneath each arm. These oldpioneers were strange people and died strange deaths. 

In our plans to capture grizzlies we took into consideration theproclivity of this beast to attack. We knew his speed was tremendous. He is able to catch a horse or a dog on the run. Therefore, it isuseless for a man to try to run away from him. There is no such thingas being able to climb a tree if the animal is at close quarters. Adamshas shown that it is a mistake to attempt it. One only stretcheshimself out inviting evisceration in the effort. 

We decided if cornered either to dodge or to lie flat and feign death. So we practiced dodging, our running being more for the purpose ofgaining endurance and to follow the bear if necessary. 

Ishi, the Yana Indian, said that grizzlies were to be overcome witharrows and if they charged, they were to be met with the spear andfire. So we constructed spears having well-tempered blades more than afoot in length set upon heavy iron tubing and riveted to strong ashhandles six feet in length. Back of the blade we fashioned quicklighting torches of cotton waste saturated with turpentine. These couldbe ignited by jerking a lanyard fastened to a spring faced withsandpaper. The spring rested on the ends of several matches. It was aningenious and reliable device. 

The Esquimaux used a long spear in hunting the polar bear. It was tenor twelve feet in length. After being shot with an arrow, if the bearcharged, they rested the butt of the spear on the ground, lowered thepoint and let the bear impale himself on it. 

When the time came to use our weapons, Ned Frost dissuaded us from theattempt. He said that he once owned a pet grizzly and kept it fast witha long chain in the back yard. This bear was so quick that it could liein its kennel, apparently asleep, and if a chicken passed within properdistance, with incredible quickness she reached out a paw and seizedthe chicken without the slightest semblance of effort. And when atplay, the boys tried to stick the bear with a pitchfork, she wouldparry the thrusts and protect herself like a boxer. It was impossibleto touch her. 

The fire, Frost thought, might serve at night, but in the daylight itwould lose its effect. So he insisted that he would carry a gun to beused in case of attack. On our part, we stipulated that he was toresort to it only to prevent disaster and protested that such anexigency must be looked upon by us as a complete failure of our plans. We knew we could not stop the mad rush of a bear with our arrows, butwe hoped to kill at least one by this means and compromise on the restif necessary. 

Indians, besides employing the spear, poisoned arrows, and fire, alsoused protected positions, or shot from horseback. We scorned to shootfrom a tree and were told that few horses could be ridden close enough, or fast enough, to get within bowshot of a grizzly. 

Inquiry among those qualified to know, led to the estimate of thenumber of all bears in the Park to be between five hundred and onethousand. Considering that there are some three thousand square milesof land, that there were nearly sixty thousand elk, besides hundreds ofbison, antelope, mountain sheep, and similar animals, this does notseem improbable. I am aware that recent statements are to the effectthat there were only forty grizzlies there. This is palpably anunderestimate, and probably takes into account only those that frequentthe dumps. Frost believes that there are several hundred grizzlies inthe Park, many of which range out in the adjacent country. So we feltno fear of decimating their ranks, and had every hope of seeing many. In fact, their number has so increased in recent years that they havebecome a menace and require killing off. 

During the past five years four persons have either been mauled orkilled by grizzlies in Yellowstone. One of these was a teamster by thename of Jack Walsh. He was sleeping under his wagon at Cold Springswhen a large bear seized him by the arm, dragged him forth and rippedopen his abdomen. Walsh died of blood poison and peritonitis a few dayslater. Frost himself was attacked. He was conducting a party oftourists through the preserve and had just been explaining to themaround the camp-fire that there was no danger of bears. He slept in thetent with a horse wrangler by the name of Phonograph Jones. In themiddle of the night a huge grizzly entered his tent and stepped on thehead of Jones, peeling the skin off his face by the rough pressure ofhis paw. The man waked with a yell, whereupon the bear clawed out hislower ribs. The cry roused Frost, who having no firearms, hurled hispillow at the bear. 

With a roar, the grizzly leaped upon Ned, who dived into his sleepingbag. The animal grasped him by the thighs, and dragged him from thetent out into the forest, sleeping bag and all. As he carried off hisvictim, he shook him from side to side as a dog shakes a rat. Frostfelt the great teeth settle down on his thigh bones and expectedmomentarily to have them crushed in the powerful jaws. In a thicket ofjack pines over a hundred yards from camp, the bear shook him soviolently that the muscles of the man's thighs tore out and he washurled free from the bag. He landed half-naked in the undergrowthseveral yards away. 

While the frenzied bear still worried the bedding, Frost draggedhimself to a near-by pine and pulled himself up in its branches by thestrength of his arms. 

The camp was in an uproar; a huge fire was kindled; tin pans werebeaten; one of the helpers mounted a horse and by circling around thebear, succeeded in driving him away. 

After first aid measures were administered, Frost was successfullynursed back to health and usefulness by his wife. But since that timehe has an inveterate hatred of grizzlies, hunting them with grimpersistency. 

It is said that nearly forty obnoxious grizzlies were shot by the Parkrangers after this episode and Frost was given a permit to carry aweapon. We found later that he always went to sleep with a Coltautomatic pistol strapped to his wrist. 

We planned to enter the Park in two parties. One, comprised of Frost, the cook, horse wrangler, my brother, and his friend, Judge HenryHulbert, of Detroit, was to proceed from Cody and come with a packtrain across Sylvan Pass. Our party consisted of Arthur Young andmyself; Mr. Compton was unexpectedly prevented from joining us bysickness in his family. We were to journey by rail to Ashton. This wasthe nearest point to Yellowstone Station on the boundary of thereservation that could be reached by railroad in winter. 

We arrived at this point near the last of May 1920. The roads beyondwere blocked with snow, but by good fortune, we were taken in by one ofthe first work trains entering the region through the personal interestand courtesy of the superintendent of the Pocatello division. 

We had shipped ahead of us a quantity of provisions and came outfittedonly with sleeping bags, extra clothing, and our archery equipment. This latter consisted of two bows apiece and a carrying case containingone hundred and forty-four broad-heads, the finest assembly of bows andarrows since the battle of Crecy. 

Young had one newly made bow weighing eighty-five pounds and hiswell-tried companion of many hunts, Old Grizzly, weighing seventy-fivepounds. 

He later found the heavier weapon too strong for him in the coldweather of the mountains, where a man's muscles stiffen and lose theirpower, while his bow grows stronger. 

My own bows were seventy-five pounds apiece--"Old Horrible, " myfavorite, a hard hitter and sweet to shoot, and "Bear Slayer, " thefine-grained, crooked-limbed stave with which I helped to kill ourfirst bear. Our arrows were the usual three-eighths birch shafts, carefully selected, straight and true. Their heads were tempered steel, as sharp as daggers. We had, of course, a few blunts and eagle arrowsin the lot. 

In the Park we found snow deep on the ground and the roads but recentlycleared with snow plows and caterpillar tractors. We traveled by autoto Mammoth Hot Springs and paid our respects to SuperintendentAlbright, and ultimately settled in a vacant ranger's cabin near theCanyon. Here we awaited the coming of the second party. 

Our entrance into the Park was well known to the rangers, who wereinstructed to give us all the assistance possible. This cabin soonbecame a rendezvous for them and our evenings were spent verypleasantly with stories and fireside music. 

After several days, word was sent by telephone that Frost and hiscaravan were unable to cross Sylvan Pass because of fifty feet of snowin the defile, and that he had returned to Cody where he would take anauto truck and come around to the northern entrance to the Park, through Gardner, Montana. 

At the expiration of three days he drove up to our cabin in a flurry ofsnow. This was about the last day in May. 

Frost himself is one of the finest of Western types; born and raised inthe sage brush country, a hunter of big game ever since he was largeenough to hold a gun. He was in the prime of life, a man of infiniteresource, courage, and fortitude. We admired him immensely. 

With him he had a full camp outfit, selected after years of experience, and suited to any kind of weather. 

The party consisted of Art Cunningham, the cook; G. D. Pope, and JudgeHenry Hulbert. Art came equipped with a vast amount of camp craft andcookery wisdom. My brother came to see the fun, the Judge to takepictures and add dignity to the occasion. All were seasoned woodsmenand hunters. 

We moved to more commodious quarters, a log cabin in the vicinity, madeourselves comfortable, and let the wind-driven snow pile deep driftsabout our warm shelter while we planned a campaign against thegrizzlies. 

So far, we had met few bears, and these were of the tourist variety. They had stolen bacon from the elevated meat safe, and one we found inthe woods sitting on his haunches calmly eating the contents of a boxof soda crackers. These were the hotel pets and were nothing more thanof passing interest to us. 

Contrary to the usual condition, no grizzlies were to be seen. The onlyanimals in evidence were a few half-starved elk that had wintered inthe Park, marmots, and the Canadian jay birds. 

We began our hunts on foot, exploring Hayden Valley, the Sour Creekregion, Mt. Washburn, and the headwaters of Cascade Creek. 

The ground was very wet in places and heavy with snow in the woods. Itwas necessary, therefore, to wear rubber pacs, a type of shoe wellsuited to this sort of travel. 

Our party divided into two groups, usually my brother and the Judgeexploring in one direction while Young and I kept close at the heels ofFrost. We climbed all the high ridges and swept the country with ourbinocular glasses. Prom eight to fourteen hours a day we walked andcombed the country for bear signs. 

Our original plan was to bring in several decrepit old horses with thepack train and sacrifice them for bait. But because of the failure ofthis part of our program, we were forced to find dead elk for thispurpose. We came across a number of old carcasses, but no signs thatbear had visited them recently. Our first encounter with grizzly cameon the fourth day. We were scouting over the country near SulphurMountain, when Frost saw a grizzly a mile off, feeding in a littlevalley. The snow had melted here and he was calmly digging roots in thesoft ground. We signalled to our party and all drew together as weadvanced on our first bear, keeping out of sight as we did so. 

We planned to go rapidly down a little cut in the hills and intercepthim as he came around the turn. Progressing at a rapid pace, Indianfile, we five hunters went down the draw, when suddenly our bear, whohad taken an unexpected cut-off, came walking up the ravine. At a signfrom Ned, we dropped to our knees and awaited developments. The bearhad not seen us and the faint breeze blew from him to us. He was abouttwo hundred yards off. We were all in a direct line, Frost ahead, Inext, Young behind me, and the others in the rear. Our bows were bracedand arrows nocked. 

Slowly the bear came feeding toward us. He dug the roots of whiteviolets, he sniffed, he meandered back and forth, wholly unconscious ofour presence. We hardly breathed. He was not a good specimen, rather ascrawny, long-nosed, male adolescent, but a real grizzly and would doas a starter. 

At last he came within fifty yards, stopped, pawed a patch of snow, andstill we did not shoot. We could not without changing our positionbecause we were all in one line. So we waited for his next move, hopingthat he would advance laterally and possibly give us a broadsideexposure. 

But he came onward, directly for us, and at thirty yards stopped toroot in the ground again. I thought, "Now we must shoot or he will walkover us!" Just then he lifted his head and seemed to take an eyeful ofYoung's blue shirt. For one second he half reared and stared. I drew mybow and as the arrow left the string, he bounded up the hill. Theflying shaft just grazed his shoulder, parting the fur in its course. Quick as a bouncing rubber ball, he leaped over the ground and asYoung's belated arrow whizzed past him, he disappeared over the hillcrest. 

We rose with a deep breath and shouted with laughter. Ned said that ifit had not been for that blue shirt, the bear would have bumped intous. Well, we were glad we missed him, because after all, he was not theone we were looking for. It is a hard thing to pick grizzlies to order. You can't go up and inspect them ahead of time. 

This fiasco was just an encouragement to us, and we continued to riseby candle light and hunt till dark. The weather turned warmer, and thesnow began to melt. 

At the end of the first week we saw five grizzlies way off in thedistance at the head of Hayden Valley. They were three or four milesfrom us and evening was approaching, so we postponed an attack on them. Next morning, bright and early, we were on the ground again, hoping tosee them. Sure enough, there they were! Ned, Art and I were together;my brother and the Judge were off scouting on the other side of theridge. It was about half past eight in the morning. The bears, four innumber this time, were feeding in the grassy marshland, about threemiles up the valley. Ned's motto has always been: "When you see 'em, goand get 'em. "

We decided to attack immediately. Down the river bank, through thedraws, up into the timber we circled at a trot. It was hard going, butwe were pressed for time. At last we came out on a wooded point aquarter of a mile above the bears, and rested. We knew they were aboutto finish their morning feeding and go up into the forest to lay up forthe day. So we watched them in seclusion. 

We waxed our bowstrings and put the finishing touches on ourarrow-heads with a file. 

Slowly the bears mounted the foothills, heading for a large patch ofsnow, where Frost thought they would lie down to cool before enteringthe woods. It seems that their winter coat makes them very susceptibleto heat, and though the sun had come out pleasantly for us, it was toohot for them. There was an old female and three half-grown cubs intheir third year, all looking big enough for any museum group. 

At last they settled down and began to nuzzle the snow. The time hadcome for action. We proposed to slip down the little ravine at the edgeof the timber, cross the stream, ascend the hill on the opposite side, and come up on our quarry over the crest. We should thus be withinshooting distance. The wind was right for this maneuver, so we startedat once. 

Now as I write my muscles quiver, my heart thumps and I flush with astrange feeling, thinking of that moment. Like a soldier before abattle, we waded into an uncharted experience. What does a man think ofas he is about to enter his first grizzly encounter? I remember wellwhat passed through my head: "Can we get there without alarming thebrutes?" "How close will they be?" "Can we hit them?" "What will happenthen?"

Ned Frost, Young and I were to sneak up on four healthy grizzlies inthe open, and pit our nerve against their savage reaction. Ned had hisrifle, but this was to be used only as a last resort, and that mighteasily fail at such short range. 

As we walked rapidly, stepping with utmost caution, I answered all thequestions of my subconscious fears. "Hit them? Why, we will soak themin the gizzard; wreck them!" "Charge? Let them come on and may the bestman win!" "Die? There never was a fairer, brighter, better day to dieon. " In fact, "Lead on!" I felt absolutely gay. A little profanity or alittle intellectual detachment at these times is of material help inthe process of auto-suggestion. 

As for Young, he was silent, and possibly was thinking of campflapjacks. 

Half way up the hill, on the opposite side of which lay our grizzlies, we stopped, braced our bows, took three arrows apiece from our quivers, and proceeded in a more stealthy approach. 

Young and I arranged ourselves on each side of Frost, abreast with him. Near the top Ned took out a green silk handkerchief and floated it inthe gentle breeze to see if the wind had changed. If it had, we mightfind the bears coming over the top to meet us. Everything was perfect, so far! Now, stooping low we crept to the very ridge itself, to a spotdirectly above which we believed the bears to be. Laying our hats onthe grass and sticking our extra arrows in the ground before us, werose up, bows half drawn, ready to shoot. 

There on the snow, not over twenty-five yards off, lay four grizzlybears, just like so many hearth rugs. 

Instantly, I selected the farthest bear for my mark and at a signal ofthe eye we drew our great bows to their uttermost and loosed two deadlyarrows. 

We struck! There was a roar, they rose, but instead of charging us, they rushed together and began such a fight as few men have seen. Mybear, pinioned with an arrow in the shoulder, threw himself on hismother, biting her with savage fury. She in turn bit him in the bloodyshoulder and snapped my arrow off short. Then all the cubs attackedher. The growls and bellowing were terrific. 

Quickly I nocked another arrow. The beasts were milling aroundtogether, pawing, biting, mad with rage. I shot at my bear and missedhim. I nocked again. The old she-bear reared on her haunches, stoodhigh above the circling bunch, cuffing and roaring, the blood runningfrom her mouth and nostrils in frothy streams. Young's arrow was deepin her chest. I drove a feathered shaft below her foreleg. 

The confusion and bellowing increased, and, as I drew a fourth arrowfrom my quiver, I glanced up just in time to see the old female's hairrise on the back of her neck. She steadied herself in her wild hurtlingand looked directly at us with red glaring eyes. She saw us for thefirst time! Instinctively I knew she would charge, and she did. 

Quick as thought, she bounded toward us. Two great leaps and she was onus. A gun went off at my ear. The bear was literally knocked head overheels, and fell in backward somersaults down the steep snowbank. Atsome fifty yards she checked her course, gathered herself, andattempted to charge again, but her right foreleg failed her. She roseon her haunches in an effort to advance, when, like a flash, two arrowsflew at her and disappeared through her heaving sides. She faltered, wilted, and as we drew to shoot again, she sprawled out on the ground, a convulsed, quivering mass of fur and muscle--she was dead. 

The half grown cubs had disappeared at the boom of the gun. We saw onemaking off at a gallop, three hundred yards away. The glitteringsnowbank before us was vacant. 

The air seemed strangely still; the silence was oppressive. Our nervoustension exploded in a wave of laughter and exclamations of wonderment. Frost declared he had never seen such a spectacle in all his life; fourgrizzly bears in deadly combat; the din of battle; the wild bellowing;and two bowmen shooting arrow after arrow into this jumble ofstruggling beasts. 

[Illustration: OUR CAMP AT SQUAW LAKE, WYOMING]

[Illustration: THE RESULT OF OUR FIRST ENCOUNTER WITH A CHARGINGGRIZZLY BEAR]

[Illustration: BRINGING HOME THE TROPHIES]

The snow was trampled and soaked with blood as though there had been anIndian massacre. We paced off the distance at which the charging femalehad been stopped. It was exactly eight yards. A mighty handy shot!

We went down to view the remains. Young had three arrows in the oldbear, one deep in her neck, its point emerging back of the shoulder. Heshot that as she came at us. His first arrow struck anterior to hershoulder, entered her chest, and cut her left lung from top to bottom. His third arrow pierced her thorax, through and through, and lay on theground beside her with only its feathers in the wound. 

My first arrow cut below the diaphragm, penetrated the stomach andliver, severed the gall ducts and portal vein. My second arrow passedcompletely through her abdomen and lay on the ground several yardsbeyond her. It had cut the intestines in a dozen places and openedlarge branches of the mesenteric artery. 

The bullet from Frost's gun had entered at the right shoulder, fractured the humerus, blown a hole an inch in diameter in the chestwall, opened up a jagged hole in the trachea, and dissipated its energyin the left lung. No wound of exit was found, the soft nosecopper-jacketed bullet apparently having gone to pieces after strikingthe bone. 

Anatomically speaking, it was an effective shot, knocked the bear downand crippled her, but was not an immediately fatal wound. We had herkilled with arrows, but she did not know it. She undoubtedly would havebeen right on us in another second. The outcome of this hypotheticalencounter I leave to those with vivid imaginations. 

We hereby express our gratitude to Ned Frost. 

Now one of us had to rush off and get the rest of the party. JudgeHulbert and my brother were in another valley in quest of bear. So Nedset off at a rapid tramp across the bogs, streams, and hills to findthem. Within an hour they returned together to view the wreckage. Photographs were taken, the skinning and autopsy were performed. Thenwe looked around for the wounded cub. Frost trailed him by almostinvisible blood stains and tracks, and found him less than a quarter ofa mile away, huddled up as if asleep on the hillside, my arrow nestledto his breast. The broken shaft with its blade deep in the thorax hadcompletely severed the head of his humerus, cut two ribs, and killedhim by hemorrhage from the pulmonary arteries. Half-grown as he was, hewould have made an ugly antagonist for any man. 

His mother, a fine mature lady of the old school, showed by her teethand other lineaments her age and respectability. In autumn she wouldhave weighed four or five hundred pounds. We weighed her ininstallments with our spring scales; she registered three hundred andfive pounds. She was in poor condition and her pelt was not suitablefor museum purposes. But these features could not be determined readilybeforehand. The juvenile Ursus weighed one hundred and thirty-fivepounds. We measured them, gathered their bones for the museum, shouldered their hides, and turned back to camp. 

That night Ned Frost said, "Boys, when you proposed shooting grizzlybears with the bow and arrow, I thought it a fine sporting proposition, but I had my doubts about its success. Now I know that you can shootthrough and kill the biggest grizzly in Wyoming!"

Our instructions on leaving California were to secure a large male_Ursus Horribilis Imperator_, a good representative female, and two orthree cubs. The female we had shot filled the requirements fairly well, but the two-year-old cub was at the high school age and hardly cuteenough to be admired. Moreover, no sooner had we sent the news of ourfirst success to the Museum than we were informed that this size cubwas not wanted and that we must secure little ones. 

So we set out to get some of this year's vintage in small bears. Ordinarily, there is no difficulty in coming in contact with bears inYellowstone; in fact, it is more common to try to keep some of thehotel variety from eating at the same table with you. But not a singlebear, black, brown, or silver-tipped, now called upon us. We traveledall over that beautiful Park, from Mammoth Hot Springs to the Lake. Wehunted over every well-known bear district. Tower Falls, SpecimenRidge, Buffalo Corrals, Mt. Washburn, Dunraven Pass (under twenty-fivefeet of snow), Antelope Creek, Pelican Meadows, Cub Creek, SteamboatPoint, and kept the rangers busy on the lookout for bear. From eight tofifteen hours a day we hunted. We walked over endless miles ofmountains, climbed over countless logs, plowed through snow and slush, and raked the valleys with our field glasses. 

But bears were as scarce as hen's teeth. We saw a few tracks butnothing compared to those seen in other years. 

We began to have a sneaking idea that the bear had all been killed off. We knew they had been a pest to campers and were becoming a menace tohuman life. We suspected the Park authorities of quiet extermination. Several of the rangers admitted that a selective killing was carriedout yearly to rid the preserve of the more dangerous individuals. 

Then the elk began to pour back into the Park; singly, in couples, andin droves they returned, lean and scraggly. A few began to drop theircalves. Then we began to see bear signs. The grizzly follow the elk, and after they come out of hibernation and get their fill of greengrass, they naturally take to elk calves. Occasionally they include themother in the menu. 

We also began to follow the elk. We watched at bait. We sat up nightsand days at a time, seeing only a few unfavorable specimens and thesewere as wild and as wary as deer. We found the mosquitoes more deadlythan the bear. We tracked big worthy old boys around in circles and hadvarious frustrated encounters with she-bears and cubs. 

Upon one occasion we were tracking a prospective specimen through thewoods, proceeding with great caution, when evidently the beast heardus. Suddenly, he turned on his tracks and came on a dead run for us. Iwas in advance and instantly drew my bow, holding it for the rightmoment to shoot. The bear came directly in our front, not more thantwenty yards away and being startled by the sight of us, threw hislocomotive mechanism into reverse and skidded towards us in a cloud ofsnow and forest leaves. In the fraction of a second, I perceived thathe was afraid and not a proper specimen for our use. I held my arrowand the bear with an indignant and disgusted look, made a precipitousretreat. It was an unexpected surprise on both sides. 

They say that the Indians avoided the Yellowstone region, thinking it aland of evil spirits. In our wanderings, however, we picked up onSteamboat Point a beautiful red chert arrow-head, undoubtedly shot byan Indian at elk years before Columbus burst in upon these good people. In Hayden Valley we found an obsidian spear head, another sign that theIndian knew good hunting grounds. 

But no Indian was ever so anxious to meet grizzly as we were. We huntedcontinually, but found none that suited us; we had to have the best. Frost assured us that we had made a mistake in ever trying to getgrizzlies in the Park--and that in the time we spent there we couldhave secured all our required specimens in the game fields of Wyomingor Montana. 

A month passed; the bears were beginning to lose their winter coats;our party began to disintegrate. My brother and the Judge werecompelled to return to Detroit. A week or so later Ned Frost and thecook were scheduled to take out another party of hunters from Cody andprepared to leave us. Young and I were determined to stick it out untilthe last chance was exhausted. We just had to get those specimens. 

Before Frost left us, however, he packed us up to the head of CascadeCreek with our bows and arrows, bed rolls, a tarpaulin, and a couple ofboxes of provisions. 

We had received word from a ranger that a big old grizzly had been seenat Soda Butte and we prepared to go after him. At the last momentbefore departure, a second word came that probably this same bear hadmoved down to Tower Falls and was ranging between this point and theCanyon, killing elk around Dunraven Pass. 

Young and I scouted over this area and found diggings and his tracks. 

A good-sized bear will have a nine-inch track. This monster's waseleven inches long. We saw where he made his kills and used certainfixed trails going up and down the canyons. 

Frost gave us some parting advice and his blessing, consigned us to ourfate, and went home. 

Left to ourselves, we two archers inspected our tackle and puteverything in prime condition. Our bows had stood the many wettingswell, but we oiled them again. New strings were put on and thoroughlywaxed. Our arrows were straightened, their feathers dried and preenedin the sun. The broad-heads were set on straight and sharpened to thelast degree, and so prepared we determined to do our utmost. We wereready for the big fellow. 

In our reconnaissance we found that he was a real killer. His trail wasmarked by many bloody episodes. It seemed quite probable that he wasthe bear that two years before burst in upon a party of surveyors inthe mountains and kept them treed all night. It is not unlikely that hewas the same bear that caused the death of Jack Walsh. He seemed tooexpert in planning murder. We saw by his tracks how he lay in ambushwatching a herd of elk, how he sneaked up on a mother elk and herrecently born calf on the outskirts of the band, and with a great leapthrew himself upon the two and killed them. 

In several places we saw the skins of these little wapiti licked cleanand empty of bodily structure. No other male grizzly was permitted toenter his domain. He was, in fact, the monarch of the mountain, thegreat bear of Dunraven Pass. 

We pitched our little tent in a secluded wood some three miles from thelake at the head of Cascade Creek, and began to lay our plan of attack. We were by this time inured to fatigue and disappointment. Wearinessand loss of sleep had produced a dogged determination that knew norelaxation. And yet we were cheerful. Young has that fine quality soessential to a hunting companion, imperturbable good nature, nevercomplaining, no matter how heavy the load, how long the trail, how lateor how early the hour, how cold, how hot, how little, or how poor thefood. 

We were there to win and nothing else mattered. If it rained and wemust wait, we took out our musical instruments, built up the fire andsoothed our troubled souls with harmony. This is better than tobacco orwhiskey for the purpose. In fact, Young is so abstemious that even teaor coffee seem a bit intemperate to him, and are only to be used undergreat physical strain; and as for profanity, why, I had to do all theswearing for the two of us. 

We were trained down to rawhide and sinew, keyed to alertness and readyfor any emergency. 

Often in our wanderings at night we ran unexpectedly upon wild beastsin the dark. Some of these were bears. Our pocket flashlights were usedas defensive weapons. A snort, a crashing retreat through the brushtold us that our visitant had departed in haste, unable to stand theglaring light of modern science. 

We soon found that our big fellow was a night rover also, and visitedhis various kills under the cloak of darkness. In one particularlysteep and rugged canyon, he crossed a little creek at a set place. Upon the side of this canyon he mounted to the plateau above by one ofthree possible trails. At the top within forty yards of one of thesewas a small promontory of rock upon which we decided to form a blindand await his coming. We fashioned a shelter of young jack pines, constructed like a miniature corral, less than three by six feet inarea, but very natural in appearance. Between us and the trail was aquantity of down timber which we hoped would act as an impediment to anonrushing bear. And the perpendicular face of our outcropping elevatedus some twelve or thirteen feet above the steep hillside. A small treestood near our position and offered a possibility in case of attack. But we had long ago decided that no man can clamber up a tree in timeto escape a grizzly charging at a distance less than fifty yards. Wecould be approached from the rear, but altogether it was an idealambush. 

The wind blew steadily up the canyon all night long and carried ourscent away from the trail. Above us on the plateau was a recentlykilled elk which acted as a perpetual invitation to bears and otherprowlers of the night. 

So we started watching in this blind, coming soon after dusk andremaining until sunrise. The nights were cold, the ground pitiless, andthe moon, nearly at its full, crept low through a maze of mist. 

Dressed in our warmest clothing and permitting ourselves one blanketand a small piece of canvas, we huddled together in a cramped postureand kept vigil through the long hours. Neither of us smoked anyway, andof course, this was absolutely taboo; we hardly whispered, and evenshifted our positions with utmost caution. Before us lay our bows readystrung, and arrows, both in the quiver belted upright to the screen andstanding free close at hand. 

The first evening we saw an old she-bear and her two-year-old cubs comeup the path. They passed us with that soft shuffling gait so uncanny tohear in the dark. We were delighted that they showed no sign of havingdetected us. But they were not suited to our purpose and we let themgo. The female was homely, fretful and nervous. The cubs were yellowand ungainly. We looked for better things. 

Bears have personality, as obvious as humans. Some are lazy, somealert, surly, or timid. Nearly all the females we saw showed thatirritability and irascible disposition that go with the cares ofmaternity. This family was decidedly commonplace. 

They disappeared in the gloom, and we waited and waited for the bigfellow that some time must appear. 

But morning came first; we stole from our blind, chilled and stiffened, and wandered back to camp to breakfast and sleep. The former was afairly successful event, but the latter was made almost impossible bythe swarms of mosquitoes that beset us. A smudge fire and canvas head-coverings gave us only a partial immunity. By sundown we were on ourway again to the blind, but another cold dreary night passed withoutadventure. 

On our way to camp in the dim light of early dawn, a land fog hung lowin the valley. As we came up a rough path there suddenly appeared outof the obscurity three little bear cubs, not thirty-five yards away. They winded us, squeaked and stood on their hind legs, peering in ourdirection. We dropped like stones in our tracks, scarcely breathing, figuratively frozen to the ground, for instantly the fiercest-lookinggrizzly we ever saw bounded over the cubs and straddled them betweenher forelegs. Nothing could stop her if she came on. A little brushintervened and she could not locate us plainly for we could see hereyes wander in search of us; but her trembling muscles, the viciouschamping of her jaws, and the guttural growls, all spoke of immediateattack. We were petrified. She wavered in her intent, turned, cuffedher cubs down the hill, snorted and finally departed with her family. 

We heaved a deep sigh of relief. But she was wonderful, she was themost beautiful bear we had ever seen; large, well proportioned, withdark brown hair having just a touch of silver. She was a patrician, thearistocrat of the species. We marked her well. 

Next day, just at sunset, we got our first view of the great bear ofDunraven Pass. He was coming down a distant canyon trail. He lookedlike a giant in the twilight. With long swinging strides he threwhimself impetuously down the mountainside. Great power was in everymovement. He was magnificent! He seemed as large as a horse, and hadthat grand supple strength given to no other predatory animal

Though we were used to bears, a strange misgiving came over me. Weproposed to slay this monster with the bow and arrow. It seemedpreposterous!

In the blind another long cold night passed. The moon drifted slowlyacross the heavens and sank in a haze of clouds at daybreak. Just atthe hush of dawn, the homely female and her tow-headed progeny cameshuffling by. We were desperate for specimens, and one of these wouldmatch that which we already had. I drew up my bow and let fly a broad-head at one of the cubs. It struck him in the ribs. Precipitately, thewhole band took flight. My quarry fell against an obstructing log anddied. His mother stopped, came back several times, gazed at himpensively, then disappeared. We got out, carried him to a distant spotand skinned him. He weighed one hundred and twenty pounds. My arrow hadshaved a piece off his heart. Death was instantaneous. 

We packed home the hind quarters and made a fine grizzly stew. Beforethis we had found that the old bears were tough and rancid, but thelittle ones were as sweet and tender as suckling pigs. This stew wasparticularly good, well seasoned with canned tomatoes and the last ofour potatoes and onions. Sad to relate the better part of this savorypot next day was eaten by a wandering vagabond of the _Ursus_ family. Not content with our stew, he devoured all our sugar, bacon, and otherfoodstuffs not in cans, and wound up his debauch by wiping his feet onour beds and generally messing up the camp. Probably he was a regularcamp thief. 

That night, early in the watch, we heard the worthy old boy come downthe canyon, hot in pursuit of a large brown bear. As he ran, the greatanimal made quite a noise. His claws clattered on the rocks, and theground seemed to shake beneath us. We shifted our bows ready foraction, and felt the keen edge of our arrows. Way off in the forest weheard him tree the cowardly intruder with such growls and ripping ofbark that one would imagine he was about to tear the tree down. 

After a long time he desisted and, grunting and wheezing, came slowlyup the canyon. With the night glasses we could see him. He seemed to beconsiderably heated with his exercise and scratched himself against ayoung fir tree. As he stood on his hind legs with his back to the trunkand rubbed himself to and fro, the tree swayed like a reed; and as helifted his nose I observed that it just touched one of the lowerbranches. In the morning, after he had gone and we were on our way tocamp, we passed this very fir and stretching up on my tip toes, I couldjust touch the limb with my fingers. Having been a pole vaulter in myyouth, I knew by experience that this measurement was over seven feetsix inches. He was a real he-bear! We wanted him more than ever. 

The following day it rained--in fact, it rained nearly every day nearthe end of our stay; but this was a drenching that stopped at sunset, leaving all the world sweet and fragrant. The moon came out full andbeautiful, everything seemed propitious. 

We went to the blind about an hour before midnight, feeling that surelythis evening the big fellow would come. After two hours of frigidityand immobility, we heard the velvet footfalls of bear coming up thecanyon. There came our patrician and her royal family. The littlefellows pattered up the trail before their mother. They came withinrange. I signalled Young and we shot together at the cubs. We struck. There was a squeak, a roar, a jumble of shadowy figures and the entireflock of bears came tumbling in our direction. 

At that very moment the big grizzly appeared on the scene. There werefive bears in sight. Turning her head from side to side, trying to findher enemy, the she-bear came towards us. I whispered to Young, "Shootthe big fellow. " At the same time, I drew an arrow to the head, anddrove it at the oncoming female. It struck her full in the chest. Shereared; threw herself sidewise, bellowed with rage, staggered and fellto the ground. She rose again, weakened, stumbled forward, and withgreat gasps she died. In less than half a minute it was all over. Thelittle ones ran up the hill past us, one later returned and sat up atits mother's head, then disappeared in the dark forever. 

While all this transpired, the monster grizzly was romping back andforth in the shaded forest not more than sixty-five yards away. Withdeep booming growls like distant thunder, he voiced his anger andintent to kill. As he flitted between the shadows of the trees, themoonlight glinted on his massive body; he was enormous. 

Young discharged three arrows at him. I shot two. We should havelanded, he was so large. But he galloped off and I saw my last arrow atthe point blank range of seventy-five yards, fall between his legs. Hewas gone. We thought we had missed the beast and grief descended heavyupon us. The thought of all the weary days and nights of hunting andwaiting, and now to have lost him, was very painful. 

After our palpitating hearts were quiet and the world seemed peaceful, we got out of our blind and skinned the female by flashlight. She was amagnificent specimen, just right in color and size for the Museum, notfat, but weighing a trifle over five hundred pounds. My arrow hadsevered a rib and buried its head in her heart. We measured her andsaved her skull and long bones for the taxidermist. 

At daybreak we searched for the cubs and found one dead under a logwith an arrow through his brain. The others had disappeared. 

We had no idea that we hit the great bear, but just to gather up ourshafts, we went over the ground where he had been. 

One of Young's arrows was missing!

That gave us a thrill; perhaps we had hit him after all! We wentfurther in the direction he had gone; there was a trace of blood. 

We trailed him. We knew it was dangerous business. Through clumps ofjack pines we cautiously followed, peering under every pile of brushand fallen tree. Deep into the forest we tracked him, where his bloodysmear was left upon fallen logs. Soon we found where he had rested. Then we discovered the fore part of Young's arrow. It had gone throughhim. There was a pool of blood. Then we found the feathered butt whichhe had drawn out with his teeth. 

Four times he wallowed down in the mud or soft earth to rest and coolhis wound. Then beneath a great fir he had made a bed in the soft loamand left it. Past this we could not track him. We hunted high and low, but no trace of him could we find. Apparently he had ceased bleedingand his footprints were not recorded on the stony ground about. We madewide circles, hoping to pick up his trail. We searched up and down thecreek. We cross-cut every forest path and runway, but no vestigeremained. 

[Illustration: LOOKING FOR GRIZZLIES ON CUB CREEK]

[Illustration: THE TREE THAT NED FROST CLIMBED TO ESCAPE DEATH]

[Illustration: MY FEMALE GRIZZLY AND THE ARROW THAT KILLED HER]

[Illustration: ARTHUR YOUNG SLAYS THE MONARCH OF THE MOUNTAINS]

He was gone. We even looked up in the tree and down in the ground wherehe had wallowed. For five hours we searched in vain, and at last, wornwith disappointment and fatigue, we lay down and slept on the very spotwhere he last stopped. 

Near sundown we awoke, ate a little food, and started all over again tofind the great bear. We retraced our steps and followed the fadingevidence till it brought us again to the pit beneath the fir tree. Hemust be near. It was absolutely impossible for any animal to have lostso much blood and travel more than a few hundred yards past this spot. We had explored the creek bottom and the cliffs above from below, andwe now determined to traverse every foot of the rim of the canyon fromabove. As we climbed over the face of the rock we saw a clot of driedblood. We let ourselves down the sheer descent, came upon a narrowlittle ledge, and there below us lay the huge monster on his back, against a boulder, cold and stiff, as dead as Cesar. Our hearts nearlyburst with happiness. 

There lay the largest grizzly bear in Wyoming, dead at our feet. Hisrugged coat was matted with blood. Well back in his chest the arrowwound showed clear. I measured him; twenty-six inches of bear had beenpierced through and through. One arrow killed him. He was tremendous. His great wide head; his worn, glistening teeth; his massive arms; hisvast, ponderous feet and long curved claws; all were there. He was awonderful beast. It seemed incredible. I thumped Young on the shoulder:"My, that was a marvelous shot!"

We started to skin our quarry. It was a stupendous job, as he weighednearly one thousand pounds, and lay on the steep canyon side ready toroll on and crush us. But with ropes we lashed him by the neck to atree and split him up the back, later box-skinning the legs accordingto the method required by the museum. 

By flashlight, acetylene lamp, candle light, fire light and moonlight, we labored. We used up all our knives, and having neglected to bringour whet-stones, sharpened our blades on the volcanic boulders, aboutus. By assiduous industry for nine straight hours, we finished himafter a fashion. His skin was thick and like scar tissue. His meat wasall tendons and gristle. The hide was as tight as if glued on. 

In the middle of the night we stopped long enough to broil some grizzlycub steaks and brew a pot of tea; then we went at it again. 

As we dismembered him we weighed the parts. The veins were absolutelydry of blood, and without this substance, which represents a loss ofnearly 10 per cent of his weight, he was nine hundred and sixteenpounds. There was hardly an inch of fat on his back. At the end of theautumn this adipose layer would be nearly six inches thick. He wouldthen have weighed over fourteen hundred pounds. He stood nearly fourfeet high at the shoulders, while his skull measured eighteen and ahalf inches long; his entire body length was seven feet four inches. 

As we cleaned his bones we hurled great slabs of muscle down thecanyon, knowing from experience that this would be a sign for all otherbears to leave the vicinity. Only the wolves and jays will eat grizzlymeat. 

At last we finished him, as the sun rose over the mountain ridges andgilded all the canyon with glory. We cleaned and salted the pelts, packed them on our backs, and, dripping with salt brine and beargrease, staggered to the nearest wagon trail. The hide of the big bear, with unskinned paws and skull, weighed nearly one hundred and fiftypounds. 

We cached our trophies, tramped the weary miles back to camp, cleanedup, packed and wandered to the nearest station, from which we ordered amachine. When this arrived we gathered our belongings, turned ourvarious specimens over to a park ranger, to be given the finaltreatments, and started on our homeward trip. 

We were so exhausted from loss of sleep, exertion and excitement, thatwe sank into a stupor that lasted almost the entire way home. 

The California Academy of Sciences now has a handsome representativegroup of _Ursus Horribilis Imperator_. We have the extremelysatisfactory feeling that we killed five of the finest grizzly bear inWyoming. The sport was fair and clean, and we did it all with the bowand arrow. 

XV

ALASKAN ADVENTURES

It seems as if Fate had chosen my hunting companion, Arthur Young, toadd to the honor and the legends of the bow. At any rate it fell to hislot to make two trips to Alaska between the years 1922 and 1925. 

He and his friend, Jack Robertson, were financed in a project tocollect moving-picture scenes of the Northland. 

They were instructed to show the country in all its seasonal phases, todepict the rivers, forests, glaciers and mountains, particularly torecord the summer beauties of Alaska. The animal life was to befeatured in full:--fish, birds, small game, caribou, mountain sheep, moose and bear, all were to be captured on the celluloid film, and withall this a certain amount of hunting with the bow was to be includedand the whole woven into a little story of adventure. 

Equipped with cameras, camp outfit and archery tackle, they sailed forSeward. From here they ventured into the wilderness as circumstancesdirected. Sometimes they went by boat to Kadiac Island, sometimes tothe Kenai Peninsula, or they journeyed by dog sleds and packs inland. They spent the better part of two years in this hard, exacting work, often carrying as much as a hundred pounds on their backs for manymiles. Great credit must be given to Art's partner Jack Robertson, forhis energy, bravery and fortitude. His work with the camera will makehistory, but for the time being we shall focus our attention on the manwith the bow. Only a small portion of Young's time was devoted tohunting, the exigencies incidental to travel and gathering animalpictures were such that archery was of secondary importance. 

He hunted and shot ptarmigan, some on the wing; he added grouse andrabbit meat to the scant larder of their "go light" outfit. He shotgraylings and salmon in the streams. He could easily have killedcaribou because they operated close to vast herds of these foolishbeasts. However, at the time it seemed that there was no hurry aboutthe matter; they had meat in camp, and pictures were of greaterinterest just then. They expected to see plenty of these animals. Strangely enough the herd suddenly left the country and no furtheropportunity presented itself for shooting them. This was no greatdisappointment because the sport was too easy. What did seem worthwhile was the killing of the great Alaskan moose. These beasts are thelargest game animal on this continent, with the exception of the almostextinct bison. 

Young had his first chance at moose while on the Kenai Peninsula. Herethe boys were camped and having finished his camera work Art took a dayoff to hunt. 

In the afternoon he discovered a large old bull lying down in aburnt-over area, where approach by stealth was possible, so he beganhis stalk with utmost caution, paying particular attention to scent andsound. By crawling on his hands and knees he came within a hundred andfifty yards, when his progress was stopped by a fallen tree. To goaround it, would expose him to vision; to climb over, would alarm theanimal by snapping twigs; so Young decided to dig under. He worked withhis hunting knife and hands for one hour to accomplish this operation. When he had passed this obstacle he continued his crawling till hereached a distance of sixty yards. At this stage Art called the oldbull with a birch bark horn, then the moose heard him and stood up. Thebrush was so thick that he could not shoot immediately, but waited asthe old bull circled to catch his wind and answered the challenge. Whenhe presented a fair target at seventy yards or so, Art drove an arrowat him. It struck deep in the flank, up to the feather ranging forward. The bull was only startled a trifle and trotted off a hundred yards. Here he stopped to look and listen. Young drew his bow again, andovershooting his mark, his arrow struck one of the broad thick palms ofthe antlers. The point pierced the two inches of bone and wedged tight, making a sharp report as it hit. This started the animal off at a fasttrot. Young followed slowly at some distance and soon had thesatisfaction of seeing the moose waver in his course and lie down. After a reasonable wait the hunter advanced to his quarry and found himdead. The triumph of such an episode is more or less mixed with misery. The pleasure undoubtedly would have been greater had some other lustybow man been with him, but as it was he had to feast his eyes alone, moreover he had to make his way back to camp, which was some eightmiles off, and night rapidly coming on. 

[Illustration: BULL MOOSE BAGGED ON THE KENAI PENINSULA]

This part of the story was just as thrilling to Art, because he muststumble through the rough land of "little sticks" in the dark with theconstant apprehension of meeting some unwelcome Alaska brown bear, which were thick there, and also the extremely unpleasant experience ofrunning into dead trees, tripping over fallen limbs and dropping intogullies. He reached camp ultimately, I believe. Next day he returnedwith his companion for meat, his antler trophy and the picture, whichwe present. 

This bull weighed approximately sixteen hundred pounds and had a spreadof sixty inches across its antlers. 

Upon the second expedition a year later, Young bagged another moose. Here the arrow penetrated both sides of the chest and caused almostinstant death, showing that size is not a hindrance to a quick exodus. 

It is surprising even to us to see the extreme facility with which anarrow can interrupt the essential physiological processes of life anddestroy it. We have come to the belief that no beast is too tough ortoo large to be slain by an arrow. With especially constructed headssharpened to the utmost nicety, I have shot through a double thicknessof elephant hide, two inches of cardboard, a bag of shaving and goneinto an inch of wood. We feel sure that having penetrated the hide of apachyderm his ribs can easily be severed and the heart or pulmonarycavity entered. Any considerable incision of either of these vitalareas must soon cause death. And this is a field experiment which wepropose to try in the near future. 

There is a legitimate excuse for shooting animals such as moose, wherefood is a problem and the bow bears an honorable part in the episode. We feel moreover that by using the bow on this large game we areplaying ultimately for game preservation. For by shaming the "mightyhunter" and his unfair methods in the use of powerful destructiveagents, we feel that we help to develop better sporting ethics. 

It was partly on this account, and partly to answer the dare of thosewho have said, "You may hunt the tame bears of California and Wyoming, but you cannot fool with the big Kadiac bears of Alaska with yourlittle bow and arrow, " that Young determined to go after these monstersand see if they were as fierce and invulnerable as claimed. At thepresent writing we who shoot the bow have slain more than a dozen bearswith our shafts, but the mighty Kadiac brown grizzly has laughed at usfrom his frozen lair--as the literary nature fakir might say--we havebeen told that all that is necessary if you wish to meet a brownie, isto give him your address in Alaska and he will look you up. Also wehave been told that once insulted he will tear a house down to "geteven with you, "--so I shook Art's hand good-bye, when he started onthis Kadiac escapade, and told him to "give 'em hell. "

After a long time he came back to San Francisco, and this is the storyhe told me--and Art has no guile in his system but is as straight as abowstring. 

"We made a false start in going after our bears. We took a boat fromSeward and sailed to Seldie, then to Kenai Peninsula. Here we huntedfor two solid weeks and found practically no signs of brownies. 

"I decided at the end of this period to waste no more time, but to pullout of the country and sail back to Seward. We had but a short time tocomplete our picture before the last boat left the Arctic waters, buthearing of good bear signs on Kadiac Island we hit out for this placeand landed in Uganik Bay. Here in the Long Arm, we found a country withmany streams flowing down from the mountains which constitute thisIsland, and much small timber in combination with open grassy glades. Atype of country that is particularly suited for photographic work andbow hunting. 

"After several days' exploring we discovered that the bears werecatching salmon in the streams and we were successful in photographingas many as seven grizzlies at once. We took pictures of the bearswading in the water looking for fish. Usually the bear slaps the salmonout of the stream, then goes up on the bank and eats it. The "humpies"were so plentiful here, however, that they were tossed out on the bank, but not eaten, the bear preferring to capture one while in the waterthen wade about on his hind legs while he held the fish in his arms anddevoured it. 

"We got all this and many comic antics of young bears climbing treesand playing about by using a telephoto lens. After the camera man wassatisfied I proposed that we 'pull off' a 'stunt' with the bow. 

"By good fortune we saw four bears coming down the mountain side tofish. They were making their way slowly through an open valley. Thecamera was stationed at a commanding point and I ran up a dry washthickly grown with willow and alder to head off the bears. I was ableto get within a hundred yards by use of the willow cover, then thebrush became too thin to hide me, so I walked boldly out into the opento meet the bears. I practically invited them to charge since they werereputed to be so easily insulted. At first they paid little attentionto me, then the two in advance sat up on their haunches in astonishmentand curiosity. I approached to a distance of fifty yards, then thelargest brownie began champing his jaws and growling; then he 'pinnedback his ears' preparing to come at me. Just as he was about to lungeforward I shot him in the chest. The arrow went deep and stuck out afoot beyond his shoulder. He dropped on all fours and before he couldmake up his mind what hit him, I shot him again in the flank. Thisturned him and feeling himself badly wounded he wheeled about and ran. While this was going on an old female also stood in a menacingattitude, but as the wounded bear galloped past her, she came to theground and ran diagonally from us. All of them followed suit, and asthey swept out of the field of vision the wounded bear weakened andfell less than a hundred yards from the camera. 

"True to his standards the camera man continued to grind out the filmto the very last, so the whole picture is complete. You will see itsome day for yourself and it will answer all doubts about theinvulnerable status of the Kadiac bears. "

Young himself was not particularly elated over this conquest. He knewlong ago that the Kadiac bear was no more formidable than the grizzlieswe had slain and he only undertook this adventure for show purposes. Moreover though he used his heavy osage orange bow and usualbroad-heads, he declares that he believes he can kill the largest bearin Alaska with a fifty pound weapon and proportionately adjustedarrows. Both Young and I are convinced of the necessity of very sharpbroad-heads, and trust more to a keen blade and a quick flight than topower. 

[Illustration: THE GREAT KADIAK BEAR BROUGHT LOW]

During his Alaskan travels Art preferred his Osage bows to the yew. They stood being dragged over rocks and falling down mountain sidesbetter than the softer yew wood. His three bows were under five feetsix inches in length, short for convenience and each pulled overeighty-five pounds. The country in which he worked was so rocky that itwas most disastrous on arrows, and every shot that missed meant ashattered shaft. 

Possibly his roughest trip was one taken to picture mountain goats. Here a funny incident occurred. Jack and Art were stalking a herd ofthese wary creatures with the camera when suddenly around a point ofrock the whole band of goats appeared. Art was ahead and had only justtime enough to duck down on his hands and knees and hide his face closeto the ground. He stayed so still that the entire flock passed close byhim almost touching his body, while the camera man did his work from aconcealed ledge higher up. Though Young counts it little to his credit, he shot one of these male goats, which was poised on so precipitous apoint that it fell over and over down the mountain side and was lost asa trophy and as camp meat. Humiliating as such an episode may be, itserves, however, to add a coup to the archer's count. And there we letthe matter rest. 

But what is of greater interest is his outwitting a Rocky Mountain BigHorn. This animal is considered the greatest game trophy in America. Itis an extremely alert sheep, all eyes and wisdom. If you exposeyourself but a second, though you be a mile away from the ram, probablyyou will be seen. And though the sheep may not move while you look athim, he is gone when you have completed your toilsome climb and peerover the last ledge of rock preparatory to shooting. Ned Frost used tosay that when he hunted Big Horns he paid no attention to hearing orsmell, but he was so careful about sight, that when he raised his headcautiously over a ridge to observe the sheep, he always lifted a stoneand peered underneath it, or picked up a bunch of grass and gazedthrough it. 

Most hunters are content to stalk this game within three or fourhundred yards, then aim at it with telescopic sights. It is the lastword in good hunting. 

Stewart Edward White, the author and big game hunter, has said that thefollowing experience is one of the finest demonstrations of stalkingand understanding of animal psychology he knows. 

Up near the head of Wood River, Young and his party came on a number ofBig Horn Sheep and first devoted several days to film work. Then Youngdecided to try for a trophy with the bow. After hunting all morning hediscovered with his glasses a ram a long way off. 

The country was open and had no cover. The ram was resting on a ledgeof rock elevated above the level of the valley. Even at a distance ofhalf a mile it was evident to Art that the ram had seen him, so Youngstudied the sheep and the country carefully before deciding what planto pursue. 

From the lay of the land it was plain that no concealment was possibleand no detour or ambush could be employed. The glasses showed that theram was a fairly old specimen and had a very sophisticated look. Infact, to Art he looked conceited and had an expression that said:"There is a man, but I am a pretty wise old sheep; I know all aboutmen; that fellow hasn't seen me yet and when he does, there is plentyof open country back of me; my best plan is to lie still and let thistenderfoot pass. " So he went on ruminating and blinking at the sun. 

Taking this mental attitude into consideration, Young decided that thebest method of outwitting this particular sheep was to take him at hisown valuation and proceed as a tenderfoot down the valley. So he walkedunconcernedly along at an oblique angle to the sheep and never oncetaking a direct look at him. He went gaily along whistling, kickingpebbles and swinging his bow. When he had reached a distance of two orthree hundred yards the old sheep lifted up his head to see what wasgoing on. Young paid no attention to him, though he observed him out ofthe corner of his eyes. So the wise old boy settled back content withhis diagnosis. 

Art walked along as innocently as ever. When he was a hundred and fiftyyards off, the ram raised his head again and took a longer observation. He seemed to be changing his mind. Young said to himself, "He will takeone more look, then he will go. Now is the time to act. " So nocking anarrow on the string he ran at full speed directly at the sheep, andwhen half way he saw the tip of his horns rise above the ledge and knewit was time to stop. He came to his shooting pose and waited, the arrowhalf drawn. Sure enough! Out walked the old fellow to the very edge ofthe parapet and gazed over. Off flew the arrow and in the twilight itwas lost to vision, but he heard it strike and saw the ram wheel inflight. As it disappeared over the ridge Art followed at a run;reaching the top he peered cautiously about and saw the sheep at nogreat distance standing still with its legs spread wide apart. He knewby the posture that it was done for. So he went back to the valley andbecause of the distance from camp and the oncoming darkness he made afire and "Siwashed it" or camped out in the open all night withoutblankets. In the morning he went after his trophy and found it near thespot last seen. It was a fine specimen. The arrow had pierced it fromfront to rear completely through and was lost; a center shot at eightyyards; a most remarkable bit of archery and hunting stratagem. Thishead now decorates the dining room of the Young home in San Francisco. Unfortunately the moose antlers were cached near a river in Alaska andan unprecedented flood carried them out to sea. 

While speaking of Alaskan rivers there recurs to my mind a mostremarkable incident related by Young. In one picture required for theirfilm it was necessary to show a canoe in the course of construction, the subsequent use of this vessel and an upset in the turbulent watersof the river. To represent his bow in its canvas case, and still tospare that weapon a wetting, Young went down the river bank to pick outa stick about the same size to put in his bow case. Taking the firstpiece that came to hand he started to place it in the case, when struckby its smoothness he looked at it and found he had a weatherbeaten oldIndian bow in his hand. It seemed like a sign, a good omen, --for weplayfully indulge in omens in these romantic adventures with the bow. 

[Illustration: ARTHUR YOUNG OUTWITS THE ALASKA BIGHORN]

Studying this implement later I found it apparently to be a birch Urockbow, some five feet long, having nocks and a place for the usualperpendicular piece of wood bound on at the handle to check the string. It would have pulled about sixty pounds, good enough for caribouhunting. 

And so in brief are the adventures of Art Young in Alaska. 

But who can speak of the adventures in the heart of our archer? Here isno common hunter, no insensate slayer of animals. Here we have the poetafoot, --the archaic adventurer in modern game fields; the champion offair play and clean sport; all that is strong and manly. 

I take off my hat to Arthur Young. 

A CHAPTER OF ENCOURAGEMENT

BY

STEWART EDWARD WHITE

No one can read Dr. Pope's book without an appreciation of the romanceand charm of the long bow and the broad-head arrow. And no one candoubt that the little group of which he writes has proved that thething can be done. Its members have brought to bag quantities of smallgame, unnumbered deer, mountain goat, big horn sheep, moose, caribou, thirteen black bears, six grizzlies, and one monster Kadiak bear. Thatpoint it proved beyond doubt. But, each will ask; how about it for me?These men are experts. It all looks very fascinating; but what chancehave I?

That, I believe, is the first reaction of the average man after he hassavored the real literary charm of this book and begins to consider thepractical side of the question. It was my own reaction. Fortunately, Ilive within commuting distance of Dr. Pope, so I have been able toresolve my doubts--slowly. My purpose is here to summarize what I foundout. 

In the first place, the utter beginner has in his hands a weapon thatis adequate and humane. A bad rifle shot or a bad shotgun shot can anddoes "slobber" his game by hitting it in the wrong places or with theouter fringe of his pattern. But if an arrow can be landed anywhere inthe body it is certain and prompt death. This is not only true of thechest cavity, but of the belly; and every rifleman knows that a bulletin the latter is ineffective and cruel, and a beast so wounded iscapable of long distances before it dies. The arrow's deadlinessdepends not on its shocking power, which of course is low, but uponinternal hemorrhage and the very peculiar fact that the admission ofair in quantity into any part of the body cavity collapses the lungs. Furthermore, again unlike the bullet, the broad arrow seems to be aseffective at the limit of its longest flight as at the nearer ranges. So the amateur bowman, suitably armed, may lay this much of comfort tohis soul: if by the grace of Robin Hood and the little capricious godsof luck he does manage to stray a shaft into a beast, it is going to dothe trick for him. And of course if he keeps on shooting arrows in thegeneral direction of game, the doctrine of chances will land him sooneror later!

In the meantime--and here is the second point--he is going to have anenormous amount of enjoyment from his "close misses. " With firearms amiss is a miss, and catastrophic. You have failed, and that is allthere is to it; and you have no earthly means of knowing whether yourmiss was by the scant quarter inch that fairly ruffled the beast'screst, or by the disgraceful yards of buck ague or the jerkingforefinger or the blinking dodging eye. But the beautiful clean flightof the arrow can be followed. And when it passes between the neck andthe bend of wing of wild goose; or it buries its head in the damp earthonly just below the body line of the unstartled deer, the bowmanexperiences quite as keen a thrill of satisfaction as follows a goodcenter with gun or rifle, --even though the game is as scathless asthough he had missed it by miles. In this type of hunting a miss isemphatically _not_ as good as a mile! And the chances are he can tryagain, and yet again, provided nothing else has occurred to affrighthis quarry. To most animals the flight of an arrow is little more thanthe winging past of some strange swift bird. 

Thus the joy is not primarily in the size of the bag, nor even in thecertainty of the bag, but in the woodcraft and the outguessing, and theworld of little things one must notice to get near enough for his shot, and the birds and the breezes and the small matters along the way;which is as it should be: and the satisfaction is not wholly centeredin merely a shot well placed and a trophy quickly come by. Indeed, thelatter is become almost an incidental; a very welcome and inspiritingincidental; a wonderful culmination; but a culmination that isnecessary only occasionally as a guerdon of emprise rather than aninvariably indispensability, lacking which the whole expedition must beclassed as a failure. 

At first the seasoned marksman will doubt this. I can only recommend afair trial. One of the most successful experiences of my sporting lifewas one of these "close misses. " A very noble buck, broadside on, wastrotting head up across my front and down a mountain slope nearly ahundred and fifty yards away, --out of reasonable range as archers countdistances. I made my calculations as well as I could and loosed ashaft, more in honor of his wide branching antlers than in any surehope. While the arrow was in the air the deer stopped short and lookedat me. The shaft swept down its long curve and shattered its pointagainst a rock at just the right height and about six feet in front ofthe beast. If he had continued his trot, it would have pierced hisheart. Nothing was the worse for that adventure except the broad-head, which was gladly offered to the kindly gods who had so gratifyinglywatched for me its straight true flight. And I had just as muchsatisfaction from the episode as though I had actually slain thedeer, --and had had to cut it up and carry it into camp. This would nothave been true with a rifle. At any range of the bullet's effectivenessI should have expected of myself a hit, and a miss would have hugelydisappointed me with myself and ruined temporarily my otherwise sweetdisposition. 

But even acknowledging all this, the fact indubitably remains that onemust occasionally get results, one must occasionally _expect_ to getresults, in order to retain interest. Even though one goes forth boldlyto slay the bounding roebuck and brings back but the lowly jackrabbit, he must once in a blue moon be assured of the jackrabbit. And he mustget the jackrabbit, not merely through the personal interposition ofthe little gods who preside at roulette tables, but because his bow armheld true and his release sweet and the shaft true sped. 

All this is perfectly possible. Any man can within a reasonable timebecome a reasonably good shot if he has the persistence to practice, and the patience to live through the first discouragements, and theability to get some fun along the way. The game in its essentials seemsto me a good deal like golf. It has a definite technique of a number ofdefinite elements which must coordinate. When that technique is workingsmoothly results are certain. Like golf a man knows just what he is todo; only he cannot make himself do it! As the idea gets grooved in hisbrain, the swing--or the release and the hold, --become more and moreautomatic. But always there will be "on" days when he will shoot a par:and "off" days when both ball and shaft fly on the wings ofcontrariness. 

Of all the qualities above mentioned, I think for the beginner the mostimportant is to cherish confident hope through the earlydiscouragements. For a long time there seems to be no improvementwhatever. And there is not improvement as far as score-results go. Butthe man who studies to perfect the elements of his technique, and isnot merely shooting arrows promiscuously, is actually improving for allthat. He must strive to remember that not only is each and every pointimportant in itself, but that all must coordinate, must be working welltogether. No matter how crisp the release, it avails not an [sic]the bow arm falter or the back muscles relax. Again like golf, one dayone thing will be working well, and another day another; but it is onlywhen they are _all_ working well that the ball screams down the fairwayor the arrow consistently finds its mark. Thus the beginner, practiseas thoughtfully as he may, will for a time, perhaps a month or so, findlittle or no encouragement in the accuracy of his shaft's flight. Thisis the period when most men, who have started out enthusiasticallyenough, give up in disgust. Then all at once the persistent ones willbegin to pick up. It is a good deal like dropping stones in a pool. Onecan drop in a great many stones without altering the surface of thewater; but there comes a time when the addition of a single pebbleshows results. 

In his chapter on Shooting the Bow, Dr. Pope has most adequatelyoutlined the technique. If the beginner will do what the doctor theretells him to do, he will shoot correctly. Nevertheless he will find itnecessary to find out for himself just _how_ he is going to do thesethings. It is largely a matter of getting the proper mental picture, and finding out how one feels when he is doing the right thing. Eachprobably gets an entirely individual mental image. Nevertheless a fewhints from the beginner's standpoint may come gracefully from one whoonly yesterday was a beginner, and who today has struggled but littlebeyond the first marker post of progress. 

The target game and the hunting game differ somewhat, but the actualtechnique of releasing the arrow is the same in both. I strongly advisethe use of a regulation target at regulation distances for at leasthalf of one's practice. There is an inexorable quality about thepainted rings. One cannot jolly oneself into a belief of a "pretty goodone!" as one does when the roving arrow comes close to the little bush. Those rings are spaced in very definite inches! Even when one hasgraduated into a fairly hopeful hunting field, one returns every oncein a while to the target to check himself up, to find out what he isdoing wrong. And in the target, too, one can find the interest alongthat valley of preliminary discouragement. One should keep all one'sscores, no matter how bad they may be. Even if a lowly seventy is thebest one has been able to accomplish, there is a certain satisfactionin going after a not-so-slowly seventy-one. Every ten scores or soaverage up, and see what you have. Thus one can chart a sort of glacialmovement upwards otherwise imperceptible to one's sardonic estimate ofhimself as the World's Champion Dub. 

Begin with a light bow; but work up into the heavier weights as rapidlyas possible. The first bow I used at target weighed forty pounds. Thefirst hunting bow, made for me by Dr. Pope, weighs sixty-five. I coulddraw it to the full, but only with difficulty; and it was not in anyproper control. I seriously begged the doctor to reduce it for me, alleging that never would I be able to handle it. He very properlylaughed at me. Within the year I had worked up to the point whereseventy-five pounds seemed about right; and at the present writing Ihave one of eighty-two pounds that handles for me much easier than Dr. Pope's gift did at first. So begin light, but work up as fast aspossible. Do not linger with a weak bow simply because it is easier todraw and because you can with it, and a light target, make a bettertarget score. 

Beware of shooting too much just at first. If you strain the muscles ofyour drawing fingers you will have to lay off just when you are mosteager. They strengthen very rapidly if you give them a chance. Oncethey are hardened to the work you will have no more trouble and can, asfar as they are concerned, pop away as long as your bow arm holds out;but if once you get them tender and sore you will be forced to quituntil they recover. It's as bad as a sprain. 

Start at forty yards. Stand upright, feet about a foot apart, facing apoint at right angles to the target. Turn the head sharply to the leftand look at the bull's-eye. _Do not thereafter move it by the fractionof an inch. _ Bring your right arm across your chest. Pause andvisualize the shot, collecting your powers. Now promptly raise your bowin direct line with the target. Draw the arrow to the head as it comesup. All your muscles are, up to this point, alert but tensed only tothe extent necessary to draw the shaft. At the exact moment of release, however, they stiffen to the utmost. It is like a little spurt ofenergy released to speed the arrow on its way. That, I think, is whatDr. Pope means when he says one should "put his heart in the bow. " Ithelps to imagine yourself trying to drive the arrow right through thetarget. Pay especial attention to the muscles of the small of the back. The least relaxation there means an ill-sped shaft. The bow arm must beon the point of aim, and _held_ there. The release must be sharplybackward, and vigorous. Personally I find that my mental image is ofcontracting the latissimus dorsi--the muscles of the broad of the backby the shoulder blades--and thereby expanding the shoulders, forcingthe hands apart, but still in direct line with the bull's-eye. Andafter the arrow has left the bow, _hold the pose!_ Carry through!Imagine yourself as a statue of an archer, and stay just in thatposition until you hear the arrow strike. 

Just in the beginning, at forty yards, with thirty arrows, you may besatisfied if you hit the target between sixteen and twenty-one timesout of the thirty shots and make a score of from sixty to eightypoints. Your ambition will be, as in golf, to "break" a hundred. By thetime you have done that your muscles will be in shape and you can beginon the American Round. At first you will probably make a total of abouttwo hundred for the three distances. Progress will show in youraverages. They will creep up a few points at a time. It will be a proudday when you "break" three hundred. Eventually you will shootconsistently in the four hundreds; and that is about as far as you willgo unless you devote yourself to the target game, and confine yourselfto its lighter tackle and the super refinements of its delicatetechnique. 

The bow you will finally use for practice at the target will not be ahunting bow. It will be longer and more whip-ended and not so sturdy. But if you are to get the best results for the hunting field, I believeit should approximate in weight the hunting weapon. It should not bequite as heavy, for one shoots it more continuously. The one I useweighs sixty pounds. With a lighter bow one would probably make asomewhat better score; but that is a different game. Do not get theidea, however, that mere weight is the whole thing. Nothing is worsethan to be over-bowed; and many a deer has been slain with a fifty orfifty-five pound weapon. Only, there is a weight that is adapted to youat your best; that "holds you together"; that keeps you on the mark;that calls your concentration; and that is like to be on the heavierrather than the lighter side as judged by beginner's experience. 

In conclusion, let me urge you eventually to make your own tackle. Personally, I am not dexterous when it comes to matters of finerhandicraft; and when I became interested in this game I made up my mindthat the construction of a bow or the building of a decent arrow wasoutside my line, and that I would not attempt it. After a while Popepersuaded me I ought to try arrows, at least. Under protest I attemptedthe job. The Doctor says it takes about an hour to make a good arrow. Ican add that it takes about four hours to make a bad one. Still, whencompleted it did look surprisingly like an arrow, and it flew pointfirst. Pope looked it all over and handed it back with the singlecomment that I certainly had got the shaft straight. But that arrow wasvery valuable. It proved to me that I could at least follow out theprocess and produce _some_ result. It also convinced me that AshanVitu--who was a heathen god of archers--possessed a magic that couldmake one drop of glue on the shaft become at least one quart on thefingers; and that turkeys are obsessed with small contrary devils whopass at the bird's death into the first six feathers of its wings andthere lurk to the confusion of amateur archers. But I wanted to makeanother arrow; and I did; and it was a better arrow and took less time. I have that first arrow yet. It is a good idea to number the output;and to preserve a sample out of every three dozen or so, just to shownot only your progress but also the advance of your ideas as to whatconstitutes a good arrow. And some you will probably find valuable forespecial emergencies. Number Three of my own product is just such aone. It starts straight enough for the point at which it was aimed. When about thirty yards out it begins to entertain its first distrustof its master, and to proceed according to its own ideas. It makes upits mind that it has been held too high, and immediately goes into anose dive to rectify the fault. Instantly it realizes that it hasoverdone the matter, and makes a desperate effort to straighten back onits course. A partial success darts it to the right. Number Threebecomes ashamed and flustered. Its course from there on is a series oferratic dives and swoops. I should be very sorry to lose Number Three, for I am quite confident that I could never make another such. When mymost painstaking shooting has resulted in a series of misses, I launchNumber Three. There is no particular good in aiming it, though it canbe done if found amusing. But it is surprising how often it will at thelast moment pull off one of its erratic swoops--right into the mark!As a compensating device for rotten shooting it is unexcelled. It is apity to laugh at it as much as we do; for I am convinced it is aconscientious arrow doing its best under natural handicap; like a primadonna with a cleft palate, for instance. 

In a manner not dissimilar to my beginning of the fletching art, I tookup bow making. It can be done. The only thing is to go at it withoutany particular hope. Then you will be surprised and pleased that youhave achieved any result at all, and will at once see where you coulddo better again. To make a very fine bow is a real art and requiresmuch experience and many trials. But to make a serviceable bow thatwill shoot and will hold up for a time is not very difficult. And it isgreat fun! The first occasion on which you go afield with bow, bowstring, arrow, quiver, bracer, and finger tips all of your owncomposition, and loose the shaft and the thing not only flies well butstraight and far, you will taste a wonder and a satisfaction new toyour experience. It will probably take you some time to convinceyourself that somehow the whole outfit is not a base imitation. 

From that moment you are a true archer, and you will actually look withtolerance on anything so stiff and metallic and mechanical as a gun. Your wife will accustom herself to shavings and scraps of feathers onthe rugs. Inspirations will come to you anent better methods, which youwill urge enthusiastically on the old timers; and the old timers willsmile upon you sweetly and sadly. They had those same inspirationsthemselves in their green and salad days. Then no longer will you needa Chapter of Encouragement. [1][Footnote 1: Stewart Edward White, the author and big game hunter, hasso entered into the spirit of archery, that he has become an expertshot with the bow after a year's practice. The use of fire-arms nolonger appeals to him because it is a foregone conclusion just whatwill happen when he aims at an animal. He was considered by Col. Roosevelt to be the best shot that ever entered the African game fieldwith a gun. 

In the use of the bow he has revived his interest in hunting, andadmits that it is a more sporting proposition. At this present writingStewart Edward White, Arthur Young, and I, are on our way to TanganyikaColony, Africa, to carry the legends of the English long bow into thetropics. What is written on the scroll of Fate is not visible; but witha sturdy bow, a true shaft, and a stout heart, we journey forth insearch of adventure. 

S. P. ]

THE UPSHOT

In ancient times when archery was practiced in open fields and shootingat butts or clouts, men walked between their distances much as golfersdo today, and having completed their course, it was often customary toshoot a return round over the same field. This was called the upshot, and has descended into common parlance, just as many other phrases havewhich had their origin in the use of the bow and arrow. 

So we have come to the end of our story and prepare to say good-bye. 

Although we have said much, and probably too much of ourselves, we havenot spoken the last word in archery. There are a few things that wehave learned of the art; others know more. And though we would praiseour pastime beyond measure, protesting that it is healthful, admirableand full of romance, yet we cannot claim that it accomplishes allthings and is the only sport a man should pursue. 

Its devotees will find ample room for differences of opinion. The shapeof a feather and the contour of a bow have been subjects for argumentsince time immemorial. Nor is our art suited to all men. Few indeedseem fitted for archery or care for it. But that rare soul who finds inits appeal something that satisfies his desire for fair play, historicsentiment, and the call of the open world, will be happy. 

People will scoff at him for his "medieval crotchet, " will think of himas the Don Quixote of Sherwood Forest, but in their hearts they willhave a wistful envy of him; for all men feel the nobility and honorablepast of our sport. It carries with it dim memory pictures of springdays, the green woods and the joy of youth. 

It is also futile to prophesy the future of the bow and arrow. As animplement of the chase, to us it seems to hold a place unique forfairness. And in the further development of the wild game problem, where apparently large game preserves and refuges will be the order ofthe day, the bow is a more fitting weapon with which to slay a beastthan a gun or any more powerful agent that may be invented. 

Of course, there are those who say that all hunting should cease, andthat photography and nature study alone should be directed toward wildlife. That sweet day may come, but at least no man can consistentlydecry hunting who eats meat, wears furs or leather, or uses any vestigeof animal tissue; for he is party to the crime of animal murder, andmurder more brutal and ignoble than that of the chase. 

And those who think the bullet is more certain and humane than thearrow have no accurate knowledge on which to base their comparison. Ourexperience has proved the contrary to be the case. 

Yet these are not the reasons why we shoot the bow: we do it because welove it, and this is no reason; it is an emotion difficult to explain. 

Nor should I close this chapter without reference to that noble companyof archers, the members of the National Archery Association--men andwomen who can shoot as pretty a shaft as any who ever drew a bowstring. The names of Will Thompson, Louis Maxson, George P. Bryant, HarryRichardson, Dr. Robert P. Elmer, Homer Taylor, Mrs. Howell, and CynthiaWesson are emblazoned on the annals of archery history for all time. Tothem and the many other worthy bowmen who have fostered the art inAmerica, we are eternally grateful. The self-imposed discipline oftarget shooting is much harder work than the carefree effort ofhunting. The rewards, however, are less spectacular. 

To you who would follow us into the land of Robin Hood, let me say thatwhat you need most is a great longing to come, and perseverance; for ifI should try to explain how we have accomplished even that little wehave in hunting, I would protest that it is because we have held to anidea and been persistent. In my own mind the credit is ascribed to thefact that I have surrounded myself with good companions and tried againand again in spite of failure. 

All that we have done is perfectly possible to any adventurous youth, no matter what his age. 

Nor is that which is written here the finis, for even as I scribble weare on our journey to another hunt, and bowmen seem ever to beincreasing in numbers. 

May the gods grant us all space to carry a sturdy bow and wanderthrough the forest glades to seek the bounding deer; to lie in the deepmeadow grasses; to watch the flight of birds; to smell the fragrance ofburning leaves; to cast an upward glance at the unobserved beauty ofthe moon. May they give us strength to draw the string to the cheek, the arrow to the barb and loose the flying shaft, so long as life maylast. 

Farewell and shoot well!

[Illustration: (Signature of) Saxton Pope]