Listening to the hounds till certain
of their course, a thorough knowledge of the country at once tells the
huntsman of their destination, and away he goes.
He tightens his belt by a hole, and steadily he starts at a long,
swinging trot, having made up his mind for a day of it. Over hills and
valleys, through tangled and pathless forests, but all well known to
him, steady he goes at the same pace on the level, easy through the bogs
and up the hills, extra steam down hill, and stopping for a moment to
listen for the hounds on every elevated spot. At length he hears them!
No, it was a bird. Again he fancies that he hears a distant sound--was
it the wind? No; there it is--it is old Smut's voice--he is at bay!
Yoick to him! he shouts till his lungs are well-nigh cracked, and
through thorns and jungles, bogs and ravines, he rushes towards the
welcome sound. Thick-tangled bushes armed with a thousand hooked thorns
suddenly arrest his course; it is the dense fringe of underwood that
borders every forest; the open plain is within a few yards of him. The
hounds in a mad chorus are at bay, and the woods ring again with the
cheering sound. Nothing can stop him now--thorns, or clothes, or flesh
must go--something must give way as he bursts through them and stands
upon the plain.
There they are in that deep pool formed by the river as it sweeps round
the rock. A buck! a noble fellow! Now he charges at the hounds, and
strikes the foremost beneath the water with his fore-feet; up they come
again to the surface--they hear their master's well-known shout--they
look round and see his welcome figure on the steep bank. Another moment,
a tremendous splash, and he is among his hounds, and all are swimming
towards their noble game. At them he comes with a fierce rush. Avoid him
as you best can, ye hunters, man and hounds!
Down the river the buck now swims, sometimes galloping over the
shallows, sometimes wading shoulder-deep, sometimes swimming through the
deep pools. Now he dashes down the fierce rapids and leaps the opposing
rocks, between which, the torrent rushes at a frightful pace. The hounds
are after him; the roaring of the water joins in their wild chorus; the
loud holloa of the huntsman is heard above every sound as he cheers the
pack on. He runs along the bank of the river, and again the enraged buck
turns to bay. He has this time taken a strong position: he stands in a
swift rapid about two feet deep; his thin legs cleave the stream as it
rushes past, and every hound is swept away as he attempts to stem the
current. He is a perfect picture: his nostrils are distended, his mane
is bristled up, his eyes flash, and he adds his loud bark of defiance to
the din around him. The hounds cannot touch him. Now for the huntsman's
part; he calls the stanchest seizers to his side, gives them a cheer on,
and steps into the torrent, knife in hand. Quick as lightning the buck
springs to the attack; but he has exposed himself, and at that moment
the tall lurchers are upon his ears; the huntsman leaps upon one side
and plunges the knife behind his shoulder. A tremendous struggle takes
place--the whole pack is upon him; still his dying efforts almost free
him from their hold: a mass of spray envelopes the whole scene. Suddenly
he falls--he dies--it is all over. The hounds are called off, and are
carefully examined for wounds.
The huntsman is now perhaps some miles from home, he, therefore, cuts a
long pole, and tying a large bunch of grass to one end, he sticks the
other end into the ground close to the river's edge where the elk is
lying. This marks the spot. He calls his hounds together and returns
homeward, and afterwards sends men to cut the buck up and bring the
flesh. Elk venison is very good, but is at all times more like beef than
English venison.
The foregoing may be considered a general description of elk-hunting,
although the incidents of the sport necessarily vary considerably.
The boar is our dangerous adversary, and he is easily known by the
character of the run. The hounds seldom open with such a burst upon the
scent as they do with an elk. The run is much slower; he runs down this
ravine and up that, never going straight away, and he generally comes to
bay after a run of ten minutes' duration.
A boar always chooses the very thickest part of the jungle as his
position for a bay, and from this he makes continual rushes at the
hounds.
The huntsman approaches the scene of the combat, breaking his way with
difficulty through the tangled jungle, until within about twenty yards
of the bay. He now cheers the hounds on to the attack, and if they are
worthy of their name, they instantly rush in to the boar regardless of
wounds. The huntsman is aware of the seizure by the grunting of the boar
and the tremendous confusion in the thick jungle; he immediately rushes
to the assistance of the pack, knife in hand.
A scene of real warfare meets his view--gaping wounds upon his best
hounds, the boar rushing through the jungle covered with dogs, and he
himself becomes the immediate object of his fury when observed.
