Jist huntin'; tales of the forest, field and stream

Dedication

The big outdoors, in all its ramifications, is an inexorable taskmaker. Those who are willing to put up with its rigors soon learn its hidden treats and intrinsic beauties. To no others does it reveal itself as it is — alluring, a magician perpetually enthralling its favored audience with mysteries that it explains only to those who stand the test.

To the outdoors must be accorded the quickest means of learning a companion as he is; not as he wishes you to know him, but the actual man. The tests of the trail, the long canoe routes, the sedge and ragweed fields, and mist-laden streams disclose everything. There is nothing in the make-up of man that can be concealed in the wild places, above all friends and friendships. In such localities alone do we discover whether they are worth while or the kind that must endure.

The sifting process of Dame Nature ultimately decides for us, whether we wish or no, those whose sterling worth and varied experiences entitle them to the name of sportsmen. So while thinking over the days spent in undomesticated places, there stands one who has passed all the tests of friendship as an angler, hunter, and trail mate, I dedicated this work to Dixie Carroll.

Introduction

I HAD everything doped up for a regular highclass introduction for "Jist Huntin'," but the notes have flown, disappeared into the yawning mouth of my filing cabinet, probably lost forever. Although this cabinet is a thoroughly modern afi^air, it seems to take fiendish delight in helping me to keep my old-time record of "a place for everything and nothing in its place." How notes filed under the letter "A" can turn up later under "Q," or not at all, is a mystery too deep for me to solve.

Ozark Ripley is a man's man, a regular he-man who loves the out-o'-doors, the far reaches of the outlands, the quiet places of the hinterlands. He is one of the best pals I have ever had the pleasure of knowing, and when a fellow can say that of another lad, there is little more to say.

Ozark loves dogs, he knows more about hunting dogs and their training than any other man I know, and every dog I have ever known loved Ozark. A man who loves dogs and is loved by dogs always rings true. He is a friend always, one that you can count on to the last shot.

From twenty years living continuously in the

INTRODUCTION

wilds of the outlands, Ozark has had experiences with rod and gun that fall to the lot of few men, and these years have been spent in study of nature and her children. Few men know the real out-o'-doors like Ozark — not the out-o'-doors of the featherbed resorts, but the good old mother earth out-o'-doors with a frying pan, a pack o' flour, a piece of bacon, and a blanket. The out-o'-doors of the rushing, tumbling stream, the wind-kissed lake waters, the woodland trail and portage, the sweet flower-scented swamp-lands, God's greatest gifts to us his earth children. Ozark, if you send the call, whether it comes from the swamp-lands of the South, the granite tipped mountains of the Rockies, the cold far reaches of the northlands, the wooded hill country of the land you love, the Ozarks, I'll pack the duffle and come a-running to spend a day, a week or months with you beside the old camp-fire, the trails and "sich," living over the days a-gone and the new ones ahead, for the joys o' trailing with you are what makes life worth living in these days of the canyon-walled cities

builded by man.

Dixie Carroll.

Foreword

That irresistible urge, reminiscence, influenced the writing of this collection of outdoor tales. They are the experiences of a sportsman, naturalist and wanderer, who spent a quarter of a century in the big outdoors. The impulse to jot them down took hold, but he refrained until the habit of visualizing days in the forests, fields and on the streams could be denied no longer.

The simple, objective path was followed as a help to beginners. Close adherence to topography and the habits of wild life was pursued consistently to remind old timers of similar days and that their assistance is needed to help perpetuate the present supply of undomesticated creatures.

Ozark Ripley.

Contents

CHAPTER PAGE

I In the Days of My Youth - _ - _ 1 1

II Setter Against Pointer ----- i8

II

If ever Mac admitted that his setter, Jocko, had an equal, I am sure it was never done in my presence. There was nothing of beauty about his big setter, but he adored him from his black nose to his long bushy tail. Jocko weighed close to seventy-five pounds, a remarkable weight for the setter breed. But Mac never classed this as either a handicap or defect, and once lost his best farmer friend because he became indignant when that unfortunate individual, attracted by the immense size of the dog, asked if he rode him out shooting.

On other subjects Mac could stand humorous reference, but when they took in Jocko, never.

"Got a young dog you'd like to have learn something about quails?" queried Mac, regarding Jocko with supreme contentment. "If you have, let's hunt the hill lands tomorrow — he'll sure get experience."

This was Mac's annual way of broaching the subject of the opening of the quail season; and, knowing that I had sent off for a young dog, he thought it would be a good opportunity for Jocko to show him off. Before answering I stood still and surveyed Jocko with amusement.

"Alright, Mac," I agreed. "I got a youngster

i8 coming in tonight. Perhaps he will make that old, shaky setter of yours hustle some — never saw him — though."

Mac interrupted further speech by laughing at my allusion to Jocko. In other eyes than his, the big fellow was no beauty. His coat was a dirty tri-color blend of black, white and tan. And, as a few years back he had suffered from an incurable attack of chorea, he still shook constantly, very much resembling the combined ills of a chill and an acute seizure of delirium tremens, working in perfect harmony.

"That's quite a good looking dog for a pointer, said Mac next morning while bestowing a condescending look on a handsome, racy-built black and white pointer as we walked toward the shooting grounds. "And if there was ever such a thing as a pointer having a chance with a setter, which is impossible, that would be about the proper specimen."

This was another persistent fancy on the part of my shooting chum; no pointer could ever hope to perform as well as a setter. With him it was an impossibility. His favoritism toward the long-haired breed was so strongly prejudiced as his obstinate predilection for his incorrigible Jocko.

"Let's work out the Johnson field," I suggested, the moment both dogs were free from their leads. Then I interjected, "it will test out the two dogs."

"Yes, and right here is where that pointer of yours is going to be run off his legs, and before a half hour elapses, too," prophesied Mac. "Why, he won't find one tenth the birds Jocko does!"

As usual Jocko cast wide. While the big setter trembled, like well-functioned castanets, he had fair speed, good range, but at no time in his shooting career had he shown to be under control of his stocky, little, red-faced master. But the pointer also swung out wide, high-headed, beating for the wind, showing the mastery of the high class bird dog's art, for he handled every wind shift and set a pace hopelessly beyond the powers of the old setter.

The pointer, seemingly increasing speed as he came to a draw, flashed into a perfect upstanding point.

"He's got 'em!" I announced.

"False point," sneered Mac. "If birds were there Jocko would have had them long ago. Anyway, we will walk up and see."

When almost within shooting distance of the dog's point Jocko appeared, saw Rip, the pointer, and without exhibiting the slighest inclination to back the proper respect for another dog's point — galloped to his side, drew up for a second, then jumped into the quails, Mac all the while shouting at the top of his voice, "Steady, Jocko! Steady, Jocko!"

But the old setter did the damage, though one bird flew by Mac, which he stopped neatly.

"Did you see where the flock went. Jack?" Mac called out. "Where did Jocko go. ^ I'll just have to have him find this dead bird!"

"Jocko," I laughed aloud, "last I saw of him he was in those tall rag weeds, in a dead run to beat those quails to the timber."

"That's just what a fellow gets for working Jocko with a green dog!" exclaimed Mac in a serious tone. "If it had not been for that fool young pointer flushing those birds, the old fellow never would have become excited."

"Fool young pointer!" I remarked to myself, for Mac's face had a purple tint. "By the way, Mac, that fool young pointer's still on point."

With affected unbelief that there could still be a bird remaining, Mac followed me to the dog's heel. A single quail burst in flight. Mac killed it, the bird dropping within a few feet of the first.

Rip retrieved both. Mac accepted them in rather an ungracious manner, though when Mac was shooting in good form usually he was kindly disposed toward man and beast. But the shaft of Jocko's shortcomings had sunk deeply; and the shortcomings were difficult to overlook notwithstanding Mac's pretense that they were nonexistent.

Apparently for a while Jocko had erased himself from the landscape. To this I called the quail hunter's attention.

"We'll find the old reliable somewhere on point," he predicted. "Never in his life has he been gone this long except when struck on birds."

W^e searched all over the farm, but no Jocko resulted. The pointer simply ate up distance and unerringly worked to the timber, where instantly he froze on one of the scattered birds. This was my chance for a shot. Much to Mac's delight I missed with both barrels, and he performed the friendly office of wiping my eye by killing the birds. One after the other the young pointer snapped birds up in point, with all the precision of an experienced field dog above ordinary ability.

After the shooting Jocko hove in sight, immediately pointed a single and remained steady on it.

"How's that for an intense point, Jack?" Mac said, as his big setter stood jerking as though every part of his anatomy was about to fly away.

Almost at the same moment Rip drew up to back but, feeling the wind, worked right on ahead.

Mac's wrath descended on the pointer: "That pointer's got no more nose than a land turtle!"

I could not wait to hear more, for one of those tiny field sparrows, locally called stink birds, flew out of the grass. It was too difficult an efi^ort to restrain my desire to laugh. So, without looking at Mac, I strode in another direction, where the black and white had made a cast.

From that time Jocko appeared under control. Some little scene must have been enacted between him and my bosom shooting companion. Mac had not followed me. From a distance came profane sounds and an occasional yelp of a dog as though in pain.

The setter fancier was soon with me, however, and we proceeded over a rise where the pointer stood marble-like on birds. Evidently Mac's attention to Jocko was resultful. The old dog backed nicely and was steady to shot as we executed kills; Mac's being an extremely tantalizing double, and because I complimented him over the feat, the incident of the setter's omissions passed out of mind.

Though up until noon Jocko worked up to his toppiest form, the class of the pointer unmistakably showed superiority. In speed, range, staunchness and bottom — for there was no let-up in his going — he was indellibly stamped a classy bird dog. With another dog perhaps Jocko might have shone, but in contrast with the pointer his work was unmistakably ordinary.

As Mac's shooting had been good, when we sat down by a spring for lunch he committed himself so far as to pet the black and white's head with some display of admiration, until at last my inability to keep back a secret forced me to say for comfort, if nothing else:

"Mac, I am seriously considering buying a pointer. This fellow appeals to me. In fact, I believe pointers are better than setters."

"Why, the idea!" my stocky shooting chum exclaimed, flushing scarlet. "Of course there are a few pointers, but altogether they can never compare with setters. Everything is positively in favor of the setter!"

It was certainly amusing to hear that quail hunter's discourse on his long-haired friends, as he cited Jocko for example. So bound up in the old dog had he been for the last seven years, there was not the slightest possibility of bringing forth anything in favor of pointers, no matter how I strove to effect it. He went so far after I spoke of buying a pointer that his attitude of friendliness toward Rip changed to one of offense. He could not see a thing good in him. His loyalty to the old dog and the breed he represented were unswerving.

But the afternoon with its abundance of birds only exhibited more the marvelous ability of the pointer. Once in a while Jocko found a covey, not through inability, but the surpassing class of the youngster left no other opportunities. Seemingly there was no let up to his speed. High-headed, frictionless in action, his pace accelerated as the day wore on. Never in all our hunts did we kill so many birds, nor in that time had we seen such a remarkable performer.

Jocko did his best at least. Age and disease had sapped some of his vitality, but at his best he never approached the class displayed by the young dog. And still that pointer continued at the same clip — perhaps even faster — for the rest of the day. Try as he would. Jocko could do no more than lag at a distance. The big fellow was succumbing to the hot pace set on both coveys and singles. But the pointer persisted, always flashing into spectacular points when the fields promised most to be barren of birds.

When the sun left a red glow over the western hardwoods we turned our faces toward home. Mac was silent. Jocko, sore-footed, dragged behind his master.

For a while I waited for Mac to say something, and at last he did, as he regarded my many glances of admiration at the still hustling pointer.

"Pretty good young dog, Jack," Mac commented, not daring to look Jocko in the eye. He spoke as though with difficulty. "Even if he is not a setter, I'll admit that. Of course I don't want you to follow my advice, but, were I you and didn't mind it being a pointer so much, I'd buy that dog if I could get him cheap enough."

"Cheap enough, Mac!" I laughed uproariously, twining my arms around him to keep him from doing me damage in case of a sudden access of anger. "Why, Mac, I haven't enough money to buy the tip of his tail! I borrowed that dog to give that shaky setter of yours a good trimming. That's Captain Harrison's sensational field trial winner, Jingo Rip!"

Ill

Mac's message coming twenty miles over the rural phone, announcing that the snipe were in, proved as always the influence the call of the wild had on me. Though I treated all of his announcements of the presence of game with verbal doubts, invariably I responded. I could never take Mac seriously, like he did himself. No one ever takes a fat man seriously, least of all when he is his closest friend and constant shooting companion.

The spring rains had come. Even in the hills where I resided I was aware that the jacksnipe were enroute north. Only a moment before Mac's call while standing on the front porch I felt sure I heard a bleating "Scaip!" from a distance in the meadow. Some fatigued long-billed gentleman had dropped in for a few hours rest. This had always been regarded by me as advance notice of their arrival in tremendous numbers over in the Black River swamps, where my serious little fat friend resided and guided the destinies of a large hardwood mill and its two thousand black employees.

"Don't look like much of a day for snipe!" pessimistically I remarked to Mac as early in the morning we walked to the snipe grounds. During the night the weather had turned cold, freezing the top soil slightly. Occasionally thin ice was visible where there was water. "Too cold; any jacks that came in lately must have hit the trail back for the South."

"Don't fret," Mac grumbled between chattering teeth, while trying to conceal his annoyance at the change in the weather conditions. "They are here somewhere, and soon our sixteens will be getting hot from overwork!"

"If they do, I'll be the most surprised man in the world!" I retorted, for I knew to differ with Mac was just what he most liked.

Mac's nature was one that never cared for a friend that agreed with him. I had learned this long ago. "Well, I'll show you; before we get to those woods east of us we will kick up a dozen or more," Mac vouchsafed rather earnestly.

We took the first wet meadow, pursuing a course due east. The underfooting was exceedingly miry, as during the incessant rains cattle had pastured there. They left deep, small holes wherever their hoofs had rested. On occasions they would be frozen sufficiently to bear our weight, then the next step our boots sank past ankle-deep in the mud. Mac separated from me, as was our customary manner of hunting jacks, forty yards to my right.

Though we hunted carefully over eighty acres of meadow, we were unable to flush a single bird. We entered another enclosure. Near a cattle feeding trough where the ground was soft Mac put up a jack at about thirty-five yards distance. This bird was in full racing trim, for he was off at a tremendous clip, zigzagging in flight so deceptively that Mac wasted two shells.

"No use snipe getting up near you," I flouted Mac with his miss, then softened the remark. "I guess those eyes of yours are going badly back on you. That snipe was seventy-five yards off when you shot at it. What's the matter with your eyes, anyway?"

"For several days my eyes have been troubling me," he exclaimed. "I am sure I will soon have to wear glasses."

By attributing any of Mac's shooting shortcomings to his eyes, I could always get on the best side of him. His most conspicuous hunting frailty was that every miss he blamed on his innocent eyes. Such a thing as imperfect alignment happening on his part he never considered possible. Naturally when he had an attack of gooseggs, he did not blame himself, always those eyes. But none had ever heard Mac utter the slightest complaint when he was shooting in form.

Before our arrival at the woods east of us Mac missed another of those long-billed birds for which he had a consuming passion. It was an easy straightaway, and I was again on the point of referring to his failing sight when a negro's voice called from the road.

"Mistah Mac, am you atter dem snipes?" a small, aged black inquired politely, dofiing his tattered felt hat.

"Do you knov/ where they are, Ike?" Mac queried in reply. "All that were here yesterday seem to have left."

"Haint none of 'em left," declared Ike. "Reckon you all don't know whar they iz. Las' night when the stohm cum from de nawth I heered them a drappin' into the elbow bresh 'cross the railroad tracks. They sho' is a-gwine to stay in dar 'till the sun wahms up sum!"

"Bully for you, Ike!" I exclaimed. "Let's strike for over there, Mac."

Where the old negro directed us for miles a wet slash divided the flat through the fields of corn, cotton and grass. There was always water there; and in parts for at least a half mile it was well grown up with a riot of elbow brush. Frequently we had seen snipe pitch in it, but on account of the number of open fields we seldom followed.

By the time we came to the elbow brush thicket the sun had gained eminence, and already the frozen fields had thawed under its ardent rays. The very first step in the brush showed that all the snipe in the neighborhood had congregated there during the night for the shelter of the tall swamp grasses. This was the first time in my life I had ever seen such an assembly of gallignago delicata. Their numbers were unbelievable. Our first advance flushed birds far out of range and, as is the case on rare occasions of this kind, a single bird's note flushed thousands and thousands, and notwithstanding the greatness of their numbers not one was within shooting range.

Scaip! Scaip! Scaip! we heard in every direction until the birds became mere pin specks against the sky.

But this promised later shooting, for the birds did not return to the elbow brush but scattered throughout the vast meadows and low-lying fields in singles and pairs. And so long as we looked, we could see them pitching into the fields until we lost estimate of the number of birds or their location.

For a time I heard nothing more of Mac's eyes. He shot splendidly. Almost every twenty feet we put up some of the artful dodgers, but I was not quite in such shooting form as my companion. I began by missing a few, then more as Mac bestowed advice on me which did not improve my skill.

Some old timers encourage novices with instructions on snipe shooting, which includes the advice to hunt against wind as then the birds invariably afford an easy crossing shot. The birds I shot at had never been educated along these lines. They would not perform according to putative rules established by experts. They got up any way they felt; against wind, down wind, to the sides, depicting gyrating dives, spiral flights, impossible angles, and the utmost speed. When I made three straight, which was seldom, Mac only sneered and continued making good runs.

Soon, however, I improved my shooting as I took to snap shooting, but Mac's steady pace was almost too much to overcome. I reflected, if I could do something to get on his nerves, perhaps there would be a chance to equal him. A sudden inspiration took hold of me. I would try it, though it threatened to disrupt our friendship for some time to come.

"By the way, Mac," I remarked, "your eyes never do hurt you when you are killing a bird every shot!"

"Why, of course not!" he said, turning a flushed face my way. "Why?"

"There never was nor will be anything the matter with your eyes," I commented as he finished a run of ten straight, regardless of his reception of my statement. "That's only an excuse when you miss!"

"Why — what — do — you — " Mac started to retort hotly. "You don't think for a moment I would offer an excuse when I know — "

But Mac never finished. A single fat jack flushed at his feet from a small bunch of sedge grass. It was the biggest yet the most sluggish snipe I ever saw.

"Kill that cripple, Mac!" I exclaimed.

Mac fired at it twice, missing with both shots. He never looked at me, but I could descry the purplered coming in his face. The snipe dropped back in the marsh about sixty yards ahead.

"Come, watch me, Mac!" I cried, determined to kill that jack. Like he performed for Mac, he rose in flight lazily, but sure as I was, I missed him with both barrels.

As if eluding both of our guns was not sufiicient that jack suddenly turned, beat back toward Mac and dropped in a wet swale a few yards away from him. Mac was positive the snipe's last flight was to begin. He walked up to the bird with an air of disdain for any opinion I held on the subject of his shooting. But that tantalizing longbill permitted his approach to fifteen yards, then flew, affording an easy side shot. Again, much to my amusement Mac missed twice.

"Your eyes hurting you?" I yelled gleefully as the jack scaiped near me, an easy overhead shot wliich I missed cleanly.

"No!" shouted Mac at me, "but yours are!"

What could we do but both laugh and forget the subject of his eyes. Afterward we agreed that jack bore a charmed life. We repeated our missing several times. After each flight the bird circled but dropped back in the same field. A spirit of competition to get that jack ensued. First I missed, then Mac performed in like manner. At last we drew a small fluttering feather, otherwise the bird appeared unharmed for he flew a little further than formerly before alighting.

"Come, Mac, forget what I said. Let's get together and kill that defiant rascal," I said.

"Alright," the fat hunter agreed, smiling. "Let's walk up to him and shoot together the instant he gets up."

When within twenty yards of the longbill, the bird shot up from the grass. We emptied the contents of both of our gun barrels. Not a feather dropped as reward. Toward the north the bird flew swiftly, towering and towering until, like some of his startled mates, he was only a pin speck. But he continued circling until almost overhead, then he dropped like a plummet into a meadow not many yards away.

"We will get him this time!" vehemently I predicted.

"Sure we will," Mac echoed, "for we will both hold carefully this time. No more fooling."

Cautiously we stepped over the low fence into the adjoining field. The bird did not flush. We walked around and around, but that queer bird refused to fly.

Presently something attracted my eyes, , something white contrasting strangely with the young green herbage. I grasped Mac's hand and shook it heartily, as I viewed the tricky jack lying dead on its back, its white breast turned to the sky.