CHAPTER XXVII.

DEER HUNTING IN WISCONSIN.

Northern Wisconsin is one vast and almost unbroken deer range. It is penetrated by several railroads, along the immediate lines of which are a few small farms and some fair-sized towns and villages; but on going a few miles back from these roads, in almost any direction, one passes the confines of civilization and enters a wilderness that is broken only by the numerous logging camps, and these as a rule are occupied only in winter. Thousands of acres of these pine lands have been chopped over, and the old slashings, having grown up to brush, brambles, and briars of various kinds, furnish excellent cover and feeding grounds for _Cervus Virginianus_.

True, it is difficult to see the game at any great distance in these thickets, unless the hunter take his stand on a high stump or log and wait until the deer come in sight. This is a favorite and very successful method of hunting with many who know how to choose location and time of day. But adjacent to these slashings are usually large tracts of open woods, frequently hardwood ridges, through which the game passes at intervals while moving from one feeding ground to another. In such localities a deer may be seen at a considerable distance, and shots are often taken at 150 to 200 yards.

I remember one of my first trips to these hunting grounds, many years ago, before I knew how to sneak on the game, and before I had gained sufficient control of my nerves to be able to stop a deer while vaulting over a fallen tree trunk, turning suddenly from left to right and _vice versa_, as a wary old buck will frequently do when fleeing from a hunter. I stopped at a hotel in Merrill, on the Wisconsin Valley Division of the Chicago, Milwaukee & St. Paul Railway, and, having learned something of the nature of the surrounding country by a hasty tramp in the afternoon, I got up the next morning and started at four o'clock to what seemed to be a favorable piece of ground. By daylight I was on the margin of a large slash that, since being chopped off, had burned over and then grown up to brush and weeds. There were many blackened trunks of trees lying everywhere, and some still standing that had been scorched and roasted in the great conflagration that had swept over the country, but had not been entirely consumed. These latter, stripped of bark and limbs, looked like gloomy monuments placed there to mark the resting places of their hapless fellows, and the whole aspect of the landscape in the gray of dawn was weird and chilly in the extreme. There was scarcely a breath of air stirring, and by listening intently I could hear the rustling of dry leaves and the occasional snapping of twigs in various directions, that indicated the near presence of the game and set my blood tingling and my nerves twitching.

So soon as there was sufficient light to show the front sight of my rifle against a gray stump fifty yards away, I started to move, as cautiously as I knew how, toward a clump of wild-cherry bushes that I had seen moving and from which came slight but suspicious sounds. When within thirty yards of it I stepped on a stick that snapped, and simultaneously with the sound a monster buck leaped high in the air, and landing twenty feet away, uttered a shrill whistle and stopped, with his head thrown up, to try and locate the danger. I brought my rifle to my shoulder with a convulsive jerk, pointed it at him and fired without thinking of the sights, and of course scored an ignominious miss.

Well, I wish every friend I have on earth could have been there at that moment. That whole tract of country, as far as I could see, seemed alive with deer. Thrash! Crash! Bumpety-bump! Phew! Phew!

There was jumping, thrashing through the brush, whistling, flipping and flapping of white flags, and the air seemed full of glistening gray coats. The buck I had shot at sailed away, and was soon followed in his flight by a doe and two fawns. A doe and fawn went in another direction, three fawns in another, two does and a buck in another, and so on _ad infinitum_.

I stood there; like a mile-post by the roadside, until they had all vanished, forgetting that I had other cartridges in my belt. Finally I recovered consciousness and began to wonder where some of those deer would stop. If I could only get another chance such as I had on that buck, wouldn't I down him in fine style? I would plant a bullet in the center of his shoulder next time sure. No dime-novel scout was ever more unerring in his aim than I would be if I could only get another aim. I started on toward the top of a ridge, over which one of the large bucks had disappeared, and on reaching it I saw him, or some other one, just behind an oak grub on the opposite side-hill. I raised my rifle and took careful aim this time, but was so nervous that I could not hold the bead on him, and when I pulled he made another series of those daring leaps that soon carried him out of sight. I fired a second shot at him as he went, but with no better result than the first.

I now crossed over to the farther edge of the slash, and, seeing no more game, started through a body of large pines to an old burn that I had been told lay a mile to the east. I was walking hurriedly through this green timber, not expecting to see game, and stepped upon a large log, when a doe and two fawns, that had been lying down in the top of a fallen tree, jumped and ran across in front of me, offering an excellent opportunity for a good shot to have killed all three of them. I slung lead after them at a lively rate, firing five or six shots before they got out of sight, but did no further harm than to accidentally clip an ear off one of the fawns close down to its head.

After they were gone I went and picked up this trophy and stopped to meditate on my ill-luck, or want of skill. I then remembered that though I had striven to hold the front sight on one or the other of the deer at each shot after the first, I had entirely forgotten to look through the notch in the rear sight. Chagrined and mortified beyond all power to describe, I trudged along and finally reached the burn I was in search of. The sun was now high in the heavens and shining brightly, so that the game was no longer on foot, but had sought the seclusion of various bits of dense cover and lain down. My only chance for a shot was, therefore, in walking them up, which I proceeded to do. The brush was dense all over this burn, so that I could rarely see twenty yards in any direction, yet I hoped against hope for another chance. I was desperate over the disgraceful failures I had made, and yet I knew I could shoot. I had killed quantities of small game with the same rifle I was then using and had killed one deer years ago with an old muzzle loader. I could always depend upon making a good fair score at the target at 200 yards, or even longer ranges, and yet I had shot away a dozen cartridges this morning at deer, some of which were standing within a few yards of me, and had not stopped one of them. I was furious, and determined that the next shot should tell.

I walked down an old logging-road several hundred yards, hoping that some belated traveler might be found crossing or walking in it, but, failing in this, I turned out and walked along the crest of a ridge, looking down both sides of it. Struggling through briers and brush, making a good deal of noise, unavoidably, I still failed to jump a deer until I left the ridge and started toward a "draw" in which was a small meadow or slough. When half way down the hill I came to a large stump, about four feet high, from which a tree had been cut when the snow was deep. I climbed upon this to take a look at the surrounding country. As I did so, a large buck that had been been lying just below it, sprang from his bed and bounded away through the brush, showing here and there a flash of his white flag and a gleam of his majestic antlers, but not enough of his body to shoot at. I was perfectly cool now. My nervousness had all disappeared. In short, I was mad. I stood watching his course and awaiting developments with all the confidence and coolness of a veteran, instead of the novice I really was. He ran down the long hill, across the swale, and up the hill on the opposite side, and, on reaching the top of it and coming out upon open ground, turned broadside and stopped to look at me, doubtless deeming himself perfectly safe at that great distance. Standing erect on that high stump I was clear above the surrounding underbrush and had a fine view of the magnificent quarry. His head was thrown high up and well back; his ears erect, nostrils distended, and even at that distance I imagined I could see the defiant gleam of his jet black eye. His glossy coat glistened in the brilliant autumn sunlight, and his spreading antlers and powerful muscular development characterized him as a giant among his kind. As I raised my rifle slowly to my shoulder, I felt that at last I had perfect control of my nerves and that I was in some measure to redeem myself from the ignominy of past failures. I had elevated my rear sight for 250 yards, and as I looked through the delicate notch in it and saw the little golden front bead glimmer on the buck's shoulder, the muzzle of the rifle was as steady and immovable as if screwed in a vice. There was no tremor, no vibration now; and holding well up to the spine and showing the full size of the bead, to allow for the distance, I pressed the trigger.

At the report the deer bounded into the air as if a dynamite cartridge had exploded under him, and, lowering his head to a line with his body, started to run. There was none of those lofty, airy leaps now, no defiant waving to and fro of the white flag. That emblem was closely furled. His pride was broken and his sole object in life seemed to be to get out of the country as soon as possible. The course he had taken lay along the top of the ridge and I had a fine view of the run from start to finish. He at once began to waver in his course, turning slightly from left to right and from right to left. He stumbled and staggered like a blind horse. He ran crashing and smashing into the dead top of a fallen tree, breaking the dry limbs, some of them three or four inches in diameter, as if they had been rye straws. When he had gone as far into this labyrinth of branches as he could get, he sank to the ground as if exhausted, but suddenly rose again, extricated himself by a few desperate struggles to the right, and sped on. He ran squarely against a good-sized sapling with such force as to throw him prostrate upon his side. Still, his great vitality was not spent, and, struggling to his feet, he dashed on again. Next he ran against a log that lay up from the ground some three feet and was set back upon his haunches. He quickly recovered, took it in good shape, and now dashed into a clump of oak grubs that still held their dry leaves. Tearing and forcing his way through these, he forged ahead with all his remaining strength and plunged headlong into another fallen tree-top. In this he struggled, trying to force his way out until he sank upon the ground from sheer loss of blood and expired. From where he stood when I shot, to where he finally fell was about 300 yards.

I stepped the distance from where I stood to where the deer was when I fired and found it to be 267 yards. Taking up his trail, I found the ground copiously sprinkled with blood where he came down at the end of his first jump, and the leaves and brush were crimsoned with it from there to where he gave up the struggle. On coming up to him I found that my bullet had drifted slightly to the left, owing to the force of a strong wind which was blowing at the time, and cut his throat almost as neatly as I could have done it with my hunting-knife. The oesophagus was entirely severed and the thorax nearly so. His body was sadly bruised and lacerated by the terrible ordeal through which he had passed, and I concluded that he must have gone stone blind when the bullet struck him. In no other way can I account for his strange conduct. I saved his head and had it mounted as a memento of one of the most remarkable scratch shots I ever made.