It was the Moon of the Drying Grass. He moved up along the north fork of the creek, taking a few steps and listening. The gentle sound of the creek and the chattering of squirrels the only sounds falling on his ears. His fusil was cradled in his arms as he scanned in front of him for some movement. A well used game trail crossed the overgrown logging road and headed up the ridge.
He knew the trail well and started up it. Not far from the fork of the trail, the young, dense forest of pine, and hardwoods opened up into a meadow. Early in the summer, he was sure it was covered with blue flowers of quamash. This was a staple of the Yakamas and Klickitats in the days of old and still some kept the tradition alive because there was evidence of harvest as he skirted the meadow. A beautiful mule deer buck was grazing on the other side of the meadow, unaware that the young man watched him from the cover of a small stand of young spruce trees. The buck was safe for now because the hunter was after wapiti not deer.
He continued to climb, progressing slowly - taking a few steps, scanning and listening straining to hear or smell wapiti. The bugles of bull elk echoed from time to time up and down the drainage, and the sound stirred his blood. His destination was an heavily sheltered meadow over the ridge some ways away yet. As he topped the ridge he was greeted by the stirring sight of the snow covered mountains called Loowit and Klickitat - known today as Adams and St. Helens. He cut a well used elk trail that dropped into the valley below and decided to follow it. He was amazed by the amount of fresh sign along the trail. He followed a small seep that drained into the larger fork of the Ahtanum, heartened by the abundance of wallows, rubs and sign along the seep through the aspens, and black cottonwoods.
The area was closing in, dense underbrush and trees choked the drainage and he could not see far to the front or sides. He reached into his shot pouch and pulled ten buckshot from one of his small ball bags and poured them down the barrel on top of the patched round ball, on top of this he pushed some hornets nest to ensure the small balls did not roll out of the barrel. He felt that this would be the most efficient load for the dense forest that was closing around him.
The sign was getting fresher and he moved more cautiously with his gun at the ready. He saw movement up on the side of a hill, his eyes focused on this. It was a small herd of elk, moving down the hill towards the meadow below. He knew that the another small drainage split the meadow ahead and a dense stand of what his dad had called dog hair hemlock and he was determined to beat the herd to the meadow. He moved as quickly as he could trying to make little noise. He arrived at the meadow before the herd as they were unaware of his presence and grazing as they went.
He found a spot near a heavily used trail in the meadow and waited. The wind was favorable and he could smell the elk long before he saw them after they disappeared along the drainage.
He had guessed wrong and he watched helplessly as the herd kept a dense stand of timber between him and them. He could see their legs from time to time between the trees. He had committed to his course of action and knew he could not move from his spot without spooking the herd. He resigned himself to another unsucessful day hunting. Oh well, the Ahtanum was beautiful and he had lots of days of leave to go after returning from the war.
He watched as the herd moved off and into the deep canyon below. He was about to get up and head back to the trailhead, when he heard a thrashing and cracking of brush behind him. The deep bugle of a mature elk split his ears, perhaps 100 yards away. He cocked the hammer of his hunting gun and made himself as small against a dead fall as he possibly could.
He watched in eager anticipation as the bull stepped into view, it was a good sized three point bull. The hunter was almost afraid to breath as the bull made it's way slowly across the meadow and it hastened it's pace as another bull answered the challenge from the ridge above. The bull was moving right down the game trail, slowly inching closer to the waiting hunter. At twenty yards, the bull bugled again, the deafening sound sent chills running down the spine of the hunter. One, then two more steps the bull took, standing parrallel to the hunter and offering a beautiful broadside shot.
The hunter slowly raised his gun, the elk unaware of the hunter crouched fifteen yards away. He squeezed the trigger, the hammer fall was followed by the thundering boom of the fusil echoeing through the forest.
The bull stumbled, dropped to it's knees as the stout load of buckshot and ball slammed into his side propelled by 100 grains of blackpowder. The bull tried to run, his back legs willing but his front legs betraying him, he scooted 3 steps on this front legs before he succumbed to the shock and blood loss and rolled over kicking a few times before he expired. The hunter reloaded out of habit, even though it was obviously unnecessary.
The bull had taken the full brunt of the load - being hit by ten of the eleven balls. The big ball at transected completely through the bull tearing a hole through the heart and exiting the far side of the bull. The buck shot had hit the bull in the liver, lungs, shoulder, spine and neck. None of the little shot had exited.
It took 6 trips to pack out the meat, hide, and head. Over the course of the rest of the day, and into the night. The weight of the fresh meat was satisfying. He would eat well this winter and perhaps he would have enough leather from the hide for several pairs of the centerseam moccassins he was fond of.
He felt immense satisfaction in the efficiency and craftsmanship of his weapons and tools. His iron mounted fusil de chasse that he partially crafted. It was stocked in cherry, long and light. It had a 44 inch barrel that was 1 1/8 inches across the flats at the breech, tapered and swamped. His butcher knife crafted by Prairie Elk forge was well struck and held a keen edge it made the work of dressing and skinning the bull very quick. His small axe bounced on his hip crafted by a fine smith in South Dakota, it had cut through the bone and flesh of the elk like butter, making the quartering of the elk simple. His pack frame was old crafted by his Pa a long time ago and gifted to him when the older hunter was no longer able to get out much.
Another good one.
Another good one! dntn You sure have a knack for the short stories! Thank you.
Thanks guys. It is easy when the Creator gives you such a beautiful canvas to paint with words. I started hunting in 1975, and was fortunate to be taught by a great hunter - my dad was born in 1922 when hunting wasn't recreation but sometimes survival. He started taking me out as a young man - pictures of me as a 4 or 5 year old with him hunting. By the time I was 10 and had passed the hunters safety course, I was well versed in hunting. I killed my first deer in 1976 with my grandmothers 32 WCF. My first elk fell to my .270 Winchester (that I worked all summer at a dairy to buy) in 1979. Around 1980-81, I bought a TC Renegade in .54 cal. I hunted sage rats (small prairie dogs) squirrels and other stuff getting fully into blackpowder and rendevousing by the time I was in High School - Even have pics of me in garb at school in my high school year book. Makes me cringe about how farby I was then but I thought I looked great for a mountain man. I have killed lots of deer and elk with blackpowder guns, as well as birds and small game. My first flintlock was bought in 1985 (DGW Tennessee Mt rifle) and I have not owned a percussion gun since. I lost count of the game I killed - but I think it stands at 15 deer and 10 elk with blackpowder - owing to a huge break of 12 yrs when my 2nd and soon to be ex wife pressured me into selling the guns (we were newly married and struggling) at the time I had a Centermark Fusil De Chasse and a silver mounted late Lancaster (called a Grand Rifle), and I got out of it until 2007 when I acquired my fowler "Ole Never Doubt" and my newest acquistion - an early virginia rifle - I plan on hunting much more in the coming years. Owing mainly to my enjoyment of it but also because I have to get away from store bought meat and more into leaner wild game meat for my health.
Thanks for indulging my creativity and encouraging me to write the stories I get alot of enjoyment from it.
Dan'l
wtch Dont stop writen,they're great.
Another great one, keep um cummin, they just so relax me and take me away to quiet places. you are sumpin else Thanks again :applause: :applause: :-*
Your words stir memories of times long thought forgotten, Thank you Sir. thmbsup