On the evening of the second day after the incidents narrated in the previous chapter, we encamped on the banks of the San Pedro, with wood, water, and grass in abundance; in fact, using the words of Hal: “Everything to make us comfortable, but fresh meat; and meat we must have. Let’s go out and get some. We shall be sure to find a deer or antelope in this beautiful bottom.”

“What say you, Jerry, shall we try it?” inquired I.

“I reckon so. We’ve got plenty of time before night, and I ’spect I may as well go and show you how ter hunt ’em; ’cause yer won’t git none unless I go ’long with yer, that’s sartin.”

“Well, we’ll see what we get if you do go along,” responded Hal; “so come on.”

Mounting our horses, Jerry, Hal, Ned, and myself set out in pursuit of antelope, whose tracks could be seen in all directions about us.

We had ridden two or three miles without starting game of any kind, when Jerry, who was a short distance in advance of us, suddenly dismounted, and began studying the ground attentively.

“Hilloa!” exclaimed Ned, “Jerry’s struck something.”

As we rode up to him, he said,

“Wal, boys, here’s game, sartin sure.”

“What is it, Jerry?” inquired Hal.

“What is it? Why, a fresh Comanche trail; and ’tain’t no war party, neither, for they’ve got their lodges with ’em.”

“How do you know that?” inquired Ned.”

“How do you know you’re settin’ on that horse?” asked Jerry. “Why, I know one just ez well ez you know t’other. Can’t you see whar the ends of the poles dragged in the dirt behind ’em. Anybody could see that, I should think.”

“How old is the trail, Jerry?” inquired I.

“That trail waz made afore eight o’clock this mornin’,” was the answer.

“Before eight o’clock,” sneered Hal. “Why don’t you say that the Comanches passed this spot at precisely seventeen minutes past six o’clock this morning? You might just as well be particular, Jerry.”

“Come, Jerry, tell us how you know when the Indians passed?” said I.

“Sartin I will,” he good-humoredly replied. “Yer see we hed a purty hevy dew last night, but the sun waz up so high that the grass waz all dry at eight o’clock. Wall, now, if you’ll look you’ll see, that where the grass was pressed down by the horses’ feet into the earth, a little of the sand stuck to it, (coz it waz damp), that has dried on since. Now if the trail bed been made after eight o’clock, when the grass was dry, why, it wouldn’t stick eny more than it does now.”

“A very satisfactory explanation,” said I.

“Now what I propose is,” continued Jerry, “thet we just foller the trail, and we’ll strike something afore many hours, ez sure’s my name’s Jerry Vance.”

“But we may get into trouble,” urged I.

“Ther ain’t no danger. It’s a party of squaws and pappooses, I reckon, coz yer see ther ain’t more’n four horses with ’em.”

“I’m agreed,” said I, and away we galloped over the beautiful green prairie; but, before we had gone a mile, a fine large herd of antelope appeared, quietly grazing upon a knoll at a little distance, who, when they saw us, stood for an instant curiously regarding us, and then trotted leisurely away.

“They’re kinder wild, I reckon,” said Jerry. “These Injuns must hev bin huntin’ ’em, and we might chase ’em all day without gittin’ a shot. So we’ll just tie our horses in thet chaparral down there, out of sight, and then we’ll call ’em up.”

We dismounted, and securing our horses, followed Jerry. He removed the ramrod from his rifle, and tied to one end of it an old-fashioned, red bandana handkerchief. This done, he planted the other end firmly in the ground, leaving the flag to flutter in the breeze.

“Now, boys, you just lie down here, in the tall grass, so thet the critters won’t see yer, and wait awhile.”

Following Jerry’s instructions, we placed ourselves in the tall grass, and lying still awaited the result of the experiment.

“Yer see,” continued he, talking in a low tone of voice, “antelope’s the most curious critters in the world, ‘ceptin’ women. Jist ez soon ez they see thet red flag, they’ll want to know what it means, and they won’t rest easy till they find out, either.”

And, sure enough, in a few moments we saw the graceful creatures, one after another, turn and attentively look at the signal. Then they slowly walked towards it. Then came a pause and a nibble of grass, and again, as though they could not resist the desire to ascertain what this singular thing fluttering in the breeze was, they hesitatingly came still nearer, as though they feared some hidden danger. In this way they soon approached within easy range, and we shot five with our revolvers.

“There,” said Jerry, as the remainder of the herd finally galloped away over the plain, “you boys see what curiosity does. Yer kin allers fetch ‘em with a red hankercher, and gin’rally by jist layin’ down on yer back, and holdin’ up yer feet. They’re awful curious critters, them antelopes is. I reckon we’d better quit this trail, and git them air carcasses inter camp. What d’yer say, youngsters?”

“I declare, I forgot to fire at all!” exclaimed Ned. “I never once thought of my pistol.”

“Ha! ha! ha!” roared Jerry. “You’ve got the ‘buck-fever’ my boy. I might a knowed you wouldn’t a fired; no, nor you, neither,” continued he, turning towards Hal.

“But I did fire twice, though,” said Hal.

“Le’me see yer pistol, youngster,” said Jerry; after examining it, he again burst into a loud laugh.

“Jest as I ’spected! Every barr’l loaded. Yer see you was so ’cited that yer forgot all about firin’. You thought yer did, I s’pose; but don’t be too sartin next time, ’cause the fever allers takes what little sense a feller’s got, when it strikes him.”

The antelope were soon dressed; but Hal’s chagrin was so great at the thought of being so cleverly detected by Jerry’s shrewdness, that I attempted to comfort him by promising to relate my own misfortunes upon experiencing my first attack. After supper, and while we were smoking our pipes, the boys claimed the fulfilment of my promise.

I only hope that the narrative may prove as interesting to my young readers, as it did to Hal and Ned, who heard the story with roars of laughter at my blunders.

Well, boys, I was once passing through the Sacramento range of mountains in New Mexico, in company with an old trapper and hunter, named Nat Beal.

Nat was a jovial, pleasant companion; and, in truth one of the best shots I ever saw.

While riding through one of the numerous little valleys with which that range abounds, we saw at a little distance, a magnificent specimen of a black-tailed deer.

Now I had always wanted to kill a black-tailed deer, and this was the first time I had ever seen one, so I begged Nat to let me shoot it.

He said, with a laugh, “Shoot away!” and I took deliberate aim and fired.

“Ha! ha! ha!” roared he, as the fellow bounded away unharmed, “it’s as clear a case of ‘buck-fever’ as ever I saw.”

“Not at all. I aimed too high; that was the only trouble.”

“Jest so,” replied Nat; “a man with the ‘fever’ always aims too high.”

“I’ll bet I won’t miss the next one,” said I, angry at the imputation.

“I’ll bet you will, two to one on it,” said Nat. “But it’s too late to get another shot to-night, so we’ll wait until to-morrow evening; and, in the mean time, I’ll give you a few idées ’bout deer.”

“As soon as the sun had sunk to his rest the next evening, I borrowed Nat’s ‘call’ and started out.”

“What’s a ’call’?” inquired Ned.

“A ‘call’ is a whistle, made from an eagle’s bone. It is generally fancifully carved, and, when sounded, makes a noise that perfectly resembles that made by a young one in calling its mother. So perfect is the imitation of the bleating of a fawn, that, when properly sounded, you will sometimes see half a dozen does, running to see if their young are in danger.”

“But don’t they stay with their little ones?” asked Hal.

“No: they hide them in the tall grass at night. You see a fawn gives out no scent until after it’s a month old, and can run well; but the old one does, and knowing this she goes off to sleep alone, so that the wolves and panthers won’t be attracted by her scent to the fawn. This she continues doing until the fawn is able to protect itself by running. In the fall of the year, therefore, if you select a spot near the foot of a mountain where the grass is tall and free from bushes, and, between sundown and dark, conceal yourself in it and sound your call, you are very apt to get a choice between four or five good fat doe’s.”

Well, I was determined to get a deer; so I borrowed the ‘call,’ and started out. After walking a mile or two, I came to a beautiful stretch of open prairie, where the tall grass served admirably for concealment.

I lay down upon my belly, and commenced crawling towards a grove of young cedars, near the base of the mountain.

I very soon discovered that propelling myself along, Indian fashion, with my elbows, was of itself no small job, especially when obliged to carry a rifle and keep my head below the level of the grass about me.

I persevered however, and after working like a beaver for nearly an hour, began to wonder why I did not see any deer, when all at once it occurred to me, that I hadn’t sounded the call; and that made me remember, that I had forgotton in which pocket I put it.

I endeavored for some time to get hold of it, but was finally obliged to roll over upon my back before I could fish it out of the depths of my pantaloons pocket. This was easy enough to do, but to resume my former position without betraying my presence ah! that was another thing. I eventually succeeded in doing it however, and placing the whistle between my lips, put forth my hand to recover my rifle, when, to my horror and dismay, I saw, within four feet of my face, a huge rattlesnake.

To say that I got up, don’t half express it, boys. I bounded as man never bounded before, startling deer, fawn, and everything else about me, but the snake. He didn’t seem to care a particle, but retained his position near the rifle, looking as angry as if he thought me to blame for jumping; and the worst of it was, there was neither stick nor stone within sight, that I could get hold of.

I said, “Shoo!” but the snake wouldn’t shoo worth a cent. I stamped on the ground, and said, “Get out!” but he wouldn’t move. There he was, within six inches of my rifle; his long, slender body partially coiled so that he could easily strike any object approaching; with form erect, and long forked tongue, darting in and out of his half-opened mouth, as his flat, ugly head slowly vibrated to and fro like the pendulum of a clock.

It was growing dark too, and I was a long distance from camp, and the country was full of Mescalero Apaches, and I hadn’t even a stick to reach him with. What could I do?

I bethought myself of my powder-flask, and taking good aim, hurled it with all the force I could muster. It struck him fairly on the body and with a rattle of defiance, he sprang towards me, and I well, I jumped.

I managed to get hold of my rifle, but the snake was gone: he was somewhere in the grass about me, and I didn’t know where; so I concluded to stand not on the order of my going, but go at once to camp, and go I did; but, before I was a hundred yards away I remembered that I had left my powder-flask behind. Nor could I find Nat’s whistle anywhere about me, or even remember what I had done with it. In the surprise occasioned by my discovery of the snake, I had dropped it.

It was too dark to think of returning to search for it that night; besides, there was a snake loose in the vicinity that I didn’t care to encounter.

I knew Nat would laugh at my returning without a deer, but I made up my mind to endure that, without getting angry; for I felt confident, camp was the place for me just then.

Nat asked no questions; but after a time, I voluntarily related to him the mishaps of the afternoon. He laughed heartily, and promised to go with me in the morning and give me a practical lesson in deer-stalking.

The next day we visited the scene of my discomfiture, which Nat pronounced a splendid place for stalking, showing me where several fawns had lain the previous night. We also found the ‘call,’ just where I dropped it when I made my jump, which Nat pronounced, equal to any ever made by a first-class circus-man: in fact, I felt rather proud of it myself; and when Nat slyly remarked that I was better at jumping than at hunting, I made up my mind that I would have a deer that night, come what would.

Sunset came; and telling Nat that I would not return to camp without the deer, I started for the scene of my former ill luck. I was delighted to find, that by following Nat’s instructions, I was able to move over the ground much easier than the night before. Still, it was pretty hard work. But I persevered; and upon reaching the proper place, sounded my call once, twice, thrice; and in a short time, saw a fine fat doe coming directly towards me, apparantly listening for a repetition of the sound. Once more I used the ‘call:’ the imitation was perfect. She approached a little nearer to me, and stopped.

I dropped my head, and once again sounded the ‘call,’ endeavoring to give it the quick, impatient tone of the young when in danger.

The effect was perfect. I fairly laughed to myself, to see the doe bound towards me until she stood within easy rifle range, when she suddenly stopped again, as though frightened at her own temerity.

I brought my rifle to my shoulder, and was in the act of pulling the trigger, when a slight rustling in the grass at my right attracted my attention. Thinking of that snake, I turned my eyes in the direction of the sound, and saw, to my horror and amazement, not the snake, but a large panther, not twenty yards away, and creeping stealthily towards me, with glaring eyes, gleaming white teeth, and ears well laid back upon his head. For an instant I was dumbfounded; then, recollecting myself, I turned the rifle and gave him its contents.

The creature made a convulsive leap into the air, and dropped to the ground dead; and I well, I believe I started for camp to tell Nat.

We packed the carcass into camp and while removing the skin, Nat took occasion to congratulate me, on being able to so perfectly imitate a fawn as to lure a panther from its lair; advising me however, to give up deer-stalking until I struck a better streak of luck.

“There boys, you see what the ‘buck-fever’ did for me. We are all liable to take it.”

“Yes; but you killed the panther,” said Hal.

“True; but it was only a piece of luck that might not happen again in a dozen times, and I didn’t kill the deer.”

The boys agreed that my story was both amusing and interesting; and as for old Jerry, he laughed most heartily at my experience, saying that it reminded him of his first adventure with a bear.

The boys, eager for another story, urged him to relate it then, but Jerry declined; promising them however, that they should have it the next night.

Early on the following morning, we once more started on the road; and for two days, met with no incident worthy of note.

We were now approaching the section of country bordering on the Rio Pecos, one of the most barren and desolate portions on our whole route.

This stream runs for hundreds of miles through the plains, its course being marked by the growth of no living green thing: in fact, you do not know of its presence, until you stand upon its banks.

It is narrow, deep, extremely crooked, and very rapid, while the water is both salt and bitter. The banks are very steep and there are but few places throughout its entire length where it can be crossed in safety.

But little grass grows near it, and neither man nor beast can drink the water with impunity.

Upon reaching the top of a long line of bluffs, towards which we had been travelling for the last two days, we came in sight of a large wagon-train encamped, apparantly upon the open plain.

Jerry at once declared it to be Magoffin’s; and the boys and myself volunteered to ride forward and ascertain the cause of their delay.

A brisk canter of a couple of hours brought us to the encampment, which sure enough, proved to be Magoffin’s train, delayed by the high water in the Pecos.

Right glad were we all, to fall in with our old companions once more; for, aside from the company their presence furnished, we felt infinitely safer than when travelling alone with our small party.

As soon as Jerry arrived with the wagons, a consultation was held; and it was decided to go into camp and wait for the water to subside.

“It’s high’n I ever see it afore,” said Jerry, standing on the brink and gazing at the turbid, swift current, that almost filled its banks; “and the mischief is, that when she once gits up, there’s no tellin’ when she’ll go down. We may hev to lay here two weeks, afore we kin cross.”

“Two weeks!” exclaimed I, why we’d better build a boat.”

“Ef we hed a lot of empty casks, we might float our wagons over and swim the mules; but we hain’t got ’em, that’s sartin.”

“I’ll tell you what we can do,” said Hal; “we can build a raft.”

“Yes; or better still, float the things over in one of the wagon-bodies,” suggested Ned.

“Well thought of,” exclaimed I: “we can at least make the attempt.”

We soon had one of the wagons unloaded and on the ground; beneath which we carefully stretched a couple of the sheets. One of the men was sent across the stream with a small cord, by which he drew over a rope, to which was attached a common block, after which the wagon-body was launched, and pulled across the river in safety. It was then returned and loaded, reaching the opposite bank without mishap, or leaking a drop.

The wagons were now taken apart; and piece by piece, carried across and put together; into them, the goods as fast as ferried over, were reloaded; and at the end of the second day we were ready to swim our mules. This was accomplished without loss; and thanks to Ned, the day following we were once more on the road.

I ventured to remind Jerry of his favorite saying regarding boys, but the old man had no reply to make, save that “Ned was a most ‘stonishin’ boy. He’d killed a Injin, and had a wonderful head on him, which was more’n he could say of t’other one.”

In consideration of Ned’s valuable services, old Jerry consented that evening, to relate for his especial benefit, the story of his first experience in bear hunting, which I shall give as nearly as possible in the old man’s words:

“Yer see boys, I was bringed up in Tennessee; leastways, I lived thar till I was nigh onter seventeen year old, when I struck out and come to Texas.

“Father hed a farm in Tennessee, and ez I was the only boy, I had a heap of work ter do on the cussid place. I didn’t like fannin’ much, and used ter tease the old folks ter let me go down ter Knoxville and go into a store, or enter inter some other ekelly ’spectable bizness. But the old folks allowed that I must stay with ’em till I was twenty-one, any how.

“One day when I was about sixteen year old, the old man said ter me, ’Jerry, I’ve got a lot of wood cut, up on the mountain-lot, that wants piling up. Yer’d better take yer dinner and an axe along, and go up and pile it. Do it nice now, ’cause I shall be up ’bout noon, ter see how you git ‘long.’

“I knowed what that meant, well enuff; it meant that, if I didn’t do it right, I’d git a gaddin’, ‘cause the old man was famous for gaddins’.

“Arter breakfast mother put me up a good dinner of bread and meat, and I shouldered my axe and started for the wood-lot, ’bout three miles up the mountain.

“I whistled along and didn’t think nothin’ ’bout ther walk; ’cause, yer see, I allus liked ther woods, and enjoyed bein’ thar. Arter I got to the lot, I found the wood, and went ter work to get it piled. ’Twarn’t much of a job, and I got it done afore noon and then sot down on a log and waited for the old man ter come. Wal, I sot and waited, and begun ter get mighty lonesome and ter think ’bout Injins, though I knowed there warn’t no Injins thar. I waited so long I got hungry, and concluded I’d take a bite of the bread and meat mother’d put up.

“I sot down on a log, and put my basket on the stump, and went ter eatin’. I never smelt anything so good as that dinner smelt, less ’twas a good venison steak on the coals, when you’re putty hungry.

“Wal, I sot there, eatin’ away, and, the fust thing I knowed, I kind ’er felt suthin’ tetch my shoulder. I turned my head, and thar was a big black bar, with his nose within a foot of mine. I’ve seen bars sence that time, and big ones too, but that bar looked bigger’n a ox ter me. I didn’t stop for nothin’, but jist lited out, and the bar arter me. Maybe yer think you’ve seen runnin’; but I tell yer honestly, boys, yer never see nothin’, like ther time I made gittin’ away from that bar.

“I looked over my shoulder once in a while, but ’twarn’t no use; thar was that bar right behind me, growin’ bigger and bigger every minute, it seemed ter me. The harder I run, the wus I was off. I didn’t gain a foot on ther critter. My heart riz rite inter my throte, and my bar riz up so I lost my cap, leastways I’ve allus ’spected that was the reason I lost it. I didn’t know what ter do. I kep’ on runnin’, but my wind was givin’ out, and I knew I couldn’t stan’ it much longer; so I made a break for a good sized white birch I see, and the way I shinned up thet tree, would a bin a credit to any major-gen’ral, I tell yer.

“When ther bar come to ther foot of ther tree he sot down on his haunches, ter kinder get breath a little, and then he begun ter climb it; and blast my picter boys, ef he couldn’t giv me three pints in the game of climbin’, and then beat me. It didn’t seem ter me he was more’n a second, gittin’ up. I kep’ climbin’ higher an’ higher, and the bar kep’ a-follerin’. By and by I got so high, that ther tree begun ter bend backwards and for’ards, but ther bar kep’ comin’ higher and higher.

“I saw ’twarn’t no use, so I made up my mind ter swing ther tree over ez far ez I could, and drop and try my legs onct more. So I clim’ a little higher, and when the tree begun ter bend, that bar sot thar and just laffed, if ever a bar laffed in this world. The tree kep’ swayin’ back’ards and for’ards jist like a cradle.

“I watched my chance, and, when ther top come putty nigh ther ground, I jist dropped, and, when I picked myself up, blast my eyes, ef thar warn’t ther bar, right side er me. Wal I started agin, but hadn’t run more’n fifty yards, afore I tripped and down I went. I knowed ’twas all up with me then, so I jist laid still. Why, I was so scart I couldn’t hev moved ef I’d tried; but I did look up jist once, to see the bar set clus by, watchin’ me, and lookin’ as mad as a wet hen.

“I never was so scart afore nor since. I ’spected every minute to feel his teeth and hear my bones a-crunchin’, but I didn’t.

“Putty soon I heered somebody down in the woods a-callin’. I ’spectcd it was dad, but I didn’t dare to holler or make any noise. I heered ’em callin’ agin and agin; putty soon I jist looked out’er ther corner of my eye, and see the bar was gone. At first I couldn’t believe it, and ‘spected he was playin’ ‘possum waitin’ ter see ef I moved, afore he went for me. Well, I kep’ putty still for a while, but not hearin’ anything from the bar, I finally looked up, and see that he’d gone for good, and then I got up and started for home in just about ez big a hurry, ez any feller ever went down a mountain.

“I hadn’t got more’n half a mile afore I see a feller rite ahead of me, a-leadin’ that identical bar, thet bed been chasin’ me all day.

“I never was so took down in my life boys, I wouldn’t a bin s’prised at anything, arter thet. I mustered up spunk enuff ter speak to the feller, and he told me ’twas a tame bar, thet belonged ter him, thet hed got loose thet day, and he’d bin up a-findin’ him.

“Well boys, I never felt so ashamed of myself afore nor since.

“You may bet, I never told no one ’bout it afore, and I shan’t agin. That’s all.”

We were very much amused at Jerry’s story, and the boys pronounced it decidedly the best they had yet heard, and as the hour was late, we all “turned in,” in search of a good night’s rest.