The Best Hunting Stories Ever Told

by Jay Cassell

  Well had the two man-eaters earned all this fame; they had devoured between them no less than twenty-eight Indian coolies, in addition to scores of unfortunate African natives of whom no official record was kept.

  Tige’s Lion

  ZANE GREY

  Sportsmen who have hunted mountain lions are familiar with the details. The rockribbed ravines and spear-pointed pines, the patches of snow on the slopes, and the dry stone dust under the yellow cliffs with its pungent animal odor—these characterize the home of the big cat. The baying of the hounds, the cautious pursuit on foot or the long thrilling chase on horseback, ending before a dark cave or under a pine, and the “stand and deliver” with a heavy rifle—these are the features.

  I have a story to tell of a hunt that was different.

  The time was in May. With Buffalo Jones, the old plainsman, and his cowboys, I was camped on the northern rim of the Grand Canyon of Arizona, in what the Indians once named the Siwash. This heavily timbered plateau, bounded on three sides by the desert and on the fourth side by that strange delusive cleft called the canyon, is as wild and lonely, and as beautiful a place as was ever visited by man. Buckskin Mountain surmounts the plateau, and its innumerable breaks or ravines slope gently into the canyon. Here range thousands of deer and wild mustangs, and mountain lions live fat and unmolested.

  On the morning of May 12, when Jones routed us out at five o’clock, as was his custom, a white frost, as deep as a light snow, clothed the forest. The air was nipping. An eager, crackling welcome came from the blazing campfire. Jim raked the hot coals over the lid of his oven. Frank and Lawson trooped in with the horses. Jones, as usual, had trouble with his hounds, particularly the ever-belligerent Tige.

  Hounds in that remote section of Arizona retain a majority of their primitive instincts. Most of the time the meat they get they “rustle” for. So, taking the hard life into consideration, Jones’ dogs were fairly well-behaved. Tige, a large-framed yellow bloodhound, was young, intractable, and as fierce as a tiger—whence his name. According to the cowboys, Tige was a cross between a locoed coyote and a maverick; in Jones’ idea he had all the points of a great lion dog, only he needed his spirit curbed. Tige chased many a lion; he got tongue lashings and lashings of other kind, and even charge of fine shot; but his spirit remained untamed.

  We had a captive lion in camp—one Jones had lassoed and brought in a few days before—and Tige had taken the matter as a direct insult to himself. Fight he would, and there was no use to club him. And on this morning when Jones slipped his chain he made for the lion again. After sundry knocks and scratches we dragged Tige to the campfire while we ate breakfast. Even then, with Jones’ powerful grasp on his collar, he vented his displeasure and growled. The lion crouched close behind the pine and watched the hound with somber fiery eyes.

  “Hurry, boys!” called Jones, in his sharp voice. “We’ll tie up a lion this morning, sure as you’re born. Jim, you and Lawson stick with us to-day. Yesterday, if we hadn’t split, and lost each other, we’d have got one of those lions. If we get separated, keep yelling our signal.”

  Then he turned to me and shook his big finger: “Listen. I want you to hold in that black demon of a horse you’re riding. He’ll kill you if you are not careful. He hasn’t been broke long. A year ago he was leading a band of wild mustangs over the mountain. Pull him in; hold him tight!”

  “Which way?” asked Frank, as he swung into his saddle.

  “I reckon it doesn’t much matter,” replied Jones, with his dry, grim chuckle. “We run across lion sign everywhere, don’t we? Let’s circle through the woods while the frost stays on.”

  We rode out under the stately silvered pines, down the long white aisles, with the rising sun tingeing the forest a delicate pink. The impatient hounds, sniffing and whining, trotted after Jones. They crossed fresh deer tracks with never a sign. Here and there deer, a species of mule deer almost as large as elk, bounded up the slopes. A mile or more from camp we ran over a lion trail headed for the mountain.

  Sounder, the keenest hound we had, opened up first and was off like a shot. Tige gave tongue and leaped after him; then old Mose, with his short bark, led the rest of the pack. Our horses burst into action like a string of racers at the post. With Frank on his white mustang setting the pace, we drove through the forest glades swift as the wind.

  “A hot trail, boys! Hi! Hi! Hi!” yelled Jones.

  No need was there to inspire us. The music of the hounds did that. We split the cold air till it sang in our ears; we could scarcely get our breath, and no longer smelt the pine. The fresh and willing horses stretched lower and lower. The hounds passed out of sight into the forest, but their yelps and bays, now low, now clear, floated back to us. Either I forgot Jones’ admonition or disregarded it, for I gave my horse, Satan, free rein and, without my realizing it at the time, he moved out ahead of the bunch. Compared to the riders in my rear I was a poor horseman, but as long as I could stick on, what did I care for that? Riding Satan was like sailing on a feather in a storm. Something wild in my blood leaped. My greatest danger lay in the snags and branches of the pines. Half the time I hugged Satan’s neck to miss them. Many a knock and a brush I got. Looking backward once I saw I was leaving my companions, and grimly recalling former chases, in the finish of which I had not shown, I called to Satan.

  “On! On! On, old fellow! This is our day!”

  Then it seemed he had not been running at all. How he responded! His light, long powerful stride was a beautiful thing. The cold, sweet pine air, cutting between my teeth, left a taste in my mouth, and it had the exhilaration of old wine. I rejoiced in the wildness of movement and the indescribable blurred black and white around me; in sheer madness of sensorial perception I let out ringing yells. It was as if I were alone in the woods; it was all mine, and there was joy of chase, of action and of life.

  The trail began to circle to the southwest, and in the next mile turned in the direction from which it had come. This meant the lion had probably been close at hand when we struck his trail, and hearing the hounds he had made for the canyon. Down the long, slightly swelling slope Satan thundered, and the pines resembled fence-pickets from a coasting sled. Often I saw gray, bounding flashes against the white background, and knew I had jumped deer. I wondered if any of the hounds were at fault, for sometimes they became confused at the crossing of a fresher scent. Satan kept a steady gait for five miles down the forest slope, and then raced out of the pines into a growth of scrubby oak. I knew I was not now far from the rim of the canyon, and despaired of coming up with the lion. Suddenly I realized I was not following a trail, as the frost had disappeared in the open. Neither did I hear the baying of the hounds. I hauled Satan up and, listening, heard no sound.

  “Waa-hoo! Waa-hoo!” I yelled our signal cry. No answer came: only the haunting echo. While I was vainly trying to decide what to do, the dead silence was sharply broken by the deep bay of a hound. It was Tige’s voice. In another second I had Satan plunging through the thicket of short oaks. Soon we were among the piñons near the rim of the canyon. Again I reined Satan to a standstill. From this point I could see out into the canyon, and as always, even under the most exciting circumstances, I drew a sharp breath at the wonder, the mystery, the sublimity of the scene. The tips of yellow crags and gray mesas and red turrets rose out of the blue haze of distance. The awful chasm, eighteen miles wide and more than a mile deep, stretched away clear and vividly outlined in the rare atmosphere for a hundred miles. The canyon seemed still wrapped in slumber and a strange, vast silence that was the silence of ages, hung over the many-hued escarpments and sculptured domes.

  Tige’s bay, sounding close at hand, startled me and made Satan jump. I slid to the ground, and pulling my little Remington from the saddle, began hunting in the piñons for the hound.

  Presently I sighted him, standing with his front paws against a big piñon. Tige saw me, wagged his tail, howled and looked up. Perhaps twenty feet from the ground a full-grown li
on stood on branches that were swaying with his weight. He glared down at Tige and waved his long tail. He had a mean face, snarling, vicious. His fat sides heaved and I gathered he was not used to running, and had been driven to his limit.

  “Tige, old boy, you’re the real thing!” I yelled. “Keep him there!” For an instant I fingered the safety catch on my automatic. I did not much fancy being alone with that old fellow. I had already seen a grim, snarling face and outstretched claws in the air before my eyes—and once was enough! Still I did not want to kill him. Finally I walked cautiously to within fifty feet of him, and when he showed resentment in a slowly crouching movement I hastily snapped a picture of him. Hardly had I turned the film round when he leaped from the tree and bounded away. Knowing he would make for the rim and thus escape I dropped my camera and grabbed up the rifle. But I could not cut loose on him, because Tige kept nipping him, and I feared I might shoot the hound. Tige knew as well as I the intention of the lion and—brave fellow!—he ran between the beast and the canyon and turned him towards the woods. At this great work on the part of Tige I yelled frantically and dashed for my horse. Though the lion had passed close, Satan had not moved from his tracks.

  “Hi! Hi! Hi! Take him, Tige!” I screamed, as the black launched out like an arrow.

  On the open flat I spied Tige and his quarry, resembling yellow flashes in the scrub oak; and twice the hound jumped the lion. I swore in my teeth. The brave and crazy dog was going to his death. Satan fairly crashed through the thicket and we gained. I saw we were running along a cut-in from the main rim wall, and I thought the lion was making for a break where he could get down. Suddenly I saw him leap high into a pine on the edge of the forest. When I came up Tige was trying to climb the tree.

  “Tige, old boy, I guess Jones had you sized up right,” I cried, as I dismounted. “If that brute jumps again it will be his last.”

  At this moment I heard a yell, and I sent out three “Waa-hoos,” which meant “Come quickly!” In a few moments Sounder burst out of the forest, then Don, then Mose. How they did yelp! I heard the pounding of hoofs, more yells, and soon Frank dashed into the open, followed by the others. The big tawny lion was in plain sight, and as each hunter saw him a wild yell pealed out.

  “Hi! Hi! There he is! Tige, you’re the stuff!” cried Jones, whirling off his horse. “You didn’t split on deer trails, like the rest of these blasted long-eared canines. You stuck to him, old dog! Well, he’s your lion. Boys, spread out now and surround the tree. This is a good tree and I hope we can hold him here. If he jumps he’ll get over the rim, sure. Make all the racket you can, and get ready for work when I rope him.”

  Sounder, Mose, Ranger and Don went wild while Jones began climbing the tree, and as for Tige, he went through antics never before seen in a dog. Jones climbed slowly, laboriously, with his lasso trailing behind him, his brawny arms bare. How grim and cool he looked! I felt sorry for the lion.

  “Look out!” called Jim. “Shore thet lion means biz.”

  “Jones, he’s an old cuss, an’ won’t stand no foolin’,” said Frank.

  The old buffalo hunter climbed just the same, calmly and deliberately, as if he were unaware of danger.

  Lawson, who was afraid of nothing on earth except lions, edged farther and farther from under the pine. The lion walked back up the limb he had gone down, and he hissed and growled. When Jones reached the first fork, the lion spat. His eyes emitted flames; his sharp claws dug into the bark of the limb; he began to show restlessness and fear. All at once he made a quick start, apparently to descend and meet Jones. We yelled like a crew of demons, and he slipped back a bit.

  “Far enough!” yelled Frank, and his voice rang.

  “Cut me a pole,” called Jones.

  In a twinkling Frank procured a long sapling and handed it up. Jones hung the noose of his lasso on it, and slowly extended it toward the lion. I snapped a picture here, and was about to take another when Jim yelled to me.

  “Here, you with the rifle! Be ready. Shore we’ll have hell in a minute.”

  Hell there was, in less time. With the dexterity of a conjuror Jones slipped the noose over the head of the lion and tightened it. Spitting furiously the lion bit, tore and clawed at the rope.

  “Pull him off, boys! Now! Hurry, while the rope is over that short limb. Then we’ll hang him in the air for a minute while I come down and lasso his paws. Pull! Pull!”

  The boys pulled with all their might but the lion never budged.

  “Pull him off, dang it! Pull!” impatiently yelled Jones, punching the lion with the pole.

  But the powerful beast would not be dislodged. His long body lengthened on the limb and his great muscles stood out in ridges. There was something grand in his defiance and his resistance. Suddenly Jones grasped the lasso and slid down it, hand over hand.

  I groaned in my spirit. What a picture to miss! There I was with a rifle, the only one in the party, and I had to stand ready to protect life if possible—and I had to watch a rare opportunity, one in a lifetime, pass without even a try. It made me sick.

  The men strained on the lasso, and shouted; the hounds whined, quivered and leaped into the air; the lion hugged the branch with his brawny paws.

  “Throw your weight on the rope,” ordered Jones.

  For an instant the lion actually held the men off the ground; then with a scratching and tearing of bark he tumbled. But Jones had not calculated on the strength of the snag over which he expected to hang the lion. The snag was rotten; it broke. The lion whirled in the air. Crash! He had barely missed Lawson.

  In a flash the scene changed from one of half-comic excitement to one of terrible danger and probably tragedy. There was a chorus of exclamation, and snarls and yelps, all coming from a cloud of dust. Then I saw a yellow revolving body in the midst of furry black whirling objects. I dared not shoot for fear of hitting my friends. Out of this snarling melee the lion sprang towards freedom. Jones pounced on the whipping lasso, Frank and Jim were not an instant behind him, and the dogs kept at the heels of the lion. He turned on them like an exploding torpedo; then, giving a tremendous bound, straightened the lasso and threw the three men flat on their faces. But they held on.

  Suddenly checked, the lion took a side jump bringing the tight lasso in connection with Lawson’s flying feet. The frightened fellow had been trying to get out of the way. The lasso tripped him, giving him a hard fall. I tried to bring my rifle to bear just as the lion savagely turned on Lawson. But the brute was so quick, the action of the struggling men so confused and fast that it was impossible. I heard Jones bawl out some unintelligible command; I heard Lawson scream; I saw the flaming-eyed brute, all instinct with savage life, reach out with both huge paws.

  It was at this critical instant that Tige bowled pell-mell into the very jaws of the lion. They began a terrific wrestling combat. The lasso flew out of the hands of Frank and Jim, but the burly Jones, like his great dog, held on. Tige and the lion, fighting tooth and claw, began to roll down the incline. Jones was pulled to his feet, thrown flat again and dragged.

  “Grab the rope!” he roared.

  But no one could move. Jones rose to his knees, then fell, and lost the lasso.

  Hound and lion in a savage clutch of death whirled down, nearer and nearer to the rim wall of the canyon. As they rolled I heard to rend and tear of hide. I knew Tige would never let go, even if he could, and I opened up with the automatic.

  I heard the spats of the bullets, and saw fur, blood and gravel fly. On the very verge of the precipice the lion stretched out convulsively. Tige clung to his neck with a grim hold. Then they slipped over the wall.

  Silence for a long second—then crash! There came up the rattle of stones, silence for a palpitating second—then crash! It was heavier, farther down and followed by a roar of sliding stones. Silence for a long, long moment. Finally a faint faraway sound which died instantly. The lion king lay at the foot of this throne and Tige lay with him.

  “Tige’s Lion
” copyright © 1908 by Field & Stream Magazine. Copyright © renewed 1936 by Zane Grey. Reprinted by arrangement with Golden West Literary Agency. All rights reserved.

  De Shootinest Gent’man

  NASH BUCKINGHAM

  Supper was a delicious memory. In the matter of a certain goose stew, Aunt Molly had fairly outdone herself. And we, in turn, had jolly well done her out of practically all the goose. It may not come amiss to explain frankly and aboveboard the entire transaction with reference to said goose. Its breast had been deftly detached, lightly grilled and sliced into ordinary “mouth-size” portions. The remainder of the dismembered bird, back, limbs and all parts of the first part thereunto pertaining were put into an iron pot. Keeping company with the martyred fowl, in due proportion of culinary wizardry, were sundry bell peppers, two cans of mock turtle soup, diced roast pork, scrambled ham rinds, peas, potatoes, some corn and dried garden okra, shredded onions and pretty much anything and everything that wasn’t tied down or that Molly had lying loose around her kitchen. This stew, served right royally, and attended by outriders of “cracklin’ bread,” was flanked by a man-at-arms in the form of a saucily flavored brown gravy. I recall a dish of broiled teal and some country puddin’ with ginger pour-over, but merely mention these in passing.