The Savannah morning news., 1904-08-20
you as the light grows brighter and

you as the light grows brighter and
! brighter.
Clear and mellow as the note of
| bugle comes the cry of a hound. Your
heart gives a leap, sending your blood
/ 10 your very eXtremities, and spring
/ ing to your feet. with cooked rifle you
stand with every nerve on the alert.
| It is some five minutes before you
hear il again, and from its diminish
ed volume it is evident that the dogs
are working in the bottom of the
canon. In a few moments it floats
! across TO you from the opposite ridge.
Only one dog has given tongue. and
YOU know that they have not yet
jumped the game. Five, ten minutes
pass. when suddenly the sharp quick
cry of Cuba is head, followed by the
full chorus of the other two. It is
echoed from cliff to cliff one Of the
most melodious sounds that one can
listen TO. You carefully scan the OPP
posite hillside through your glass, and
finally you can detect about 500 yards
ahead Of the hounds, a s they occasion
ally come into view through the brush.
a fine buck He is slowly trotting
along, occasionally stopping to look
back over his trail Working along
! the crest you try to keep opposite him,
and you can watch his twistings and
pursuers off his trail.
After mixing up his tracks as much
as possible he cuts a figure 3, which
brings him up above and behind the
dogs as they speed by. AS soon as they
| have passed he doubles backward, and
| drops down into the canon Now is the
| time that you must watch. for while
| the dogs are unraVeling the trail, he is
| liable to cross any one Of the sad
dies" on your ridge. You listen with
every nerve strained to its highest ten
| sion, and suddenly right below you
you can hear his short bounds as he
comes straight toward you. With your
| cooked rife to your shoulder. you
stand like statue. listening to his
| painting but the thick brush conceals
! him from view.
Then silence follows. and you real
| lie that he has winded you, and is
stealing off through the underbrush.
| and you have missed your shot. In a
| few moments the dogs sweep by under
| the hill in full cry, down toward the
mouth of the canon, and back up the
| opposite ridge. You must head him
| now, where that ridge crosses the one
you are on. You tear along the crest
at full speed, the buckthorn and man
zanita ripping your clothing into
| shreds. The fine twiRs fill your eyes,
ears and nostrils, and, getting under
your shirt, stick to your moist skin.
You plunge ahead and when you hear
the whirr-r-r of a rattlesnake it sim
ply stimulates you to higher and long
er leaps Reaching the point you
aimed for you stop to listen Your
heart is throbbing like a trip hammer
and your knees are shaking from the
terrific exertion. The chase is sweep
ing right toward you, and you try to
steady your nerve waiting for your
| buck to break into view.
In a moment, however. the music of
the hounds is almost lost as they fol-
low the trail into the canon furthest
away from you. Uttering an anathe-
ma unfit for publication, you struggle
up to a high point of vantage. BY
the time you have attained position
where you can command the canon the
dogs are heard crossing the next par
allel and you sit down to get your
breath, have a smoke and await de-
velopments Twenty minutes pass,
and having finished your pipe, you are
about starting back for camp. when
loud and clear you hear the short
sharp of Cuba as she sweeps over the
| second ridge from where you are
| standing with the buck but 100 yards
in front of her. It is $50 yards away
| but the ridge is long and bare. You
| throw the 5000" to your shoulder and
pull the trigger. The little cloud of
| dust behind and below the buck show
that you have not the proper eleva-
| ton.
Your next bullet strikes away above
| and you follow with another still more
| to the bad. IT is time to drop your
gun for a second and gain control of
| your nerves. When you next glance
over the sights your hands are as
steady as steel, and getting a bead on
the game, you swing ahead and let 60
The telltale dust shows you are lit
tie too far in front and high. Pulling
the trigger again, the deer is brought
to a sudden stop, and you realize you
have winged him. Cuba is right on his
heels. however, and he must move on.
The stop has beer fatal. for, in that
brief moment. you have covered him
behind the shoulder, and pulled the
trigger. You can hear the faint "sput"
OF the bullet as he bounds into the air,
and you veil with delight. and enjoy
what is so dear to the heart of the
Anglo-Saxon. the consciousness of hav-
ing struggled and won.