A Very Narrow Shave

One winter's day in San Francisco, my friend Halley, an enthusiastic hunter who had killed bears in India, came to me and said, "Let's go south. I'm tired of cities. Let's go south and have some real top-notch shooting."

In those days, thirty years ago, California offered very different sport from what it does today. Then, the sagebrush of the foothills teemed with quail, and swans, geese, and ducks—canvasback, mallard, teal, widgeon, and many other varieties—literally filled the lagoons and reed beds, giving magnificent shooting as they flew in countless strings back and forth between the sea and the fresh water. Farther inland, snipe were so plentiful in the swamps that one could almost have them for the asking. On the plains, there were antelope; in the hills and in the Sierra Nevadas, there were deer and bears, both cinnamon and grizzly. Truly a sportsman's paradise!

The next day found us aboard the little steamer _Arizona_, bound for San Pedro, a forty-hour trip down the coast. We took only our shotguns, planning to try for nothing but small game. At San Pedro, the port for Los Angeles, we landed, and after a few days of camping near some lagoons by the sea, where we shot more ducks than we could easily dispose of, we made our way to that little old Spanish settlement. There we hired a horse and buggy to take us inland.

Our first stop was at a sheep ranch about fifty miles from Los Angeles. It was a beautiful property, well grassed and watered, consisting chiefly of great plains through which flowed a crystal-clear river, and surrounded on every side by the most picturesque hills, from a thousand to fifteen hundred feet high.

The ranch was owned by a Scotsman, and his weatherboard house was new and comfortable. But we found ourselves at the mercy of the most conservative of Chinese cooks, whom no coaxing could persuade to serve us any of the ducks or snipe we shot. He stubbornly stuck to boiled pork and beans, morning, noon, and night, sometimes hot, sometimes cold, but always boiled pork and beans. At its best, it was not a diet to dream about—though I found that a good deal of dreaming could be done while eating it. After a few days, we decided that any appeal it had originally held had faded, so we resolved to push on elsewhere.

The following night we reached a tiny place at the foot of the higher mountains called Temescal, which consisted of just one small house. The surroundings, however, were very beautiful, and the presence of a hot sulphur spring bubbling up in the scrub not a hundred yards from the house made a most inviting natural bath. Coupled with the favorable reports of game of all kinds, these attractions induced us to stay. Life was very pleasant there in the crisp, dry air: the quail shooting was good, the scenery and weather perfect—everything fresh and green, newly washed by a two days' rain—and the food well cooked. Every night after our day's shooting, we rolled into the sulphur spring and luxuriated in the hot water.

But Halley's soul began to yearn for higher game than quail and ducks. "Look here," he said to me one day, "this is all very well, but why shouldn't we go after the deer in the hills? We've got some cartridges loaded with buckshot. And, my word! We might get a grizzly."

"All right," I said, "I'm in as far as deer are concerned, but hang your grizzlies. I'm not going to tackle _them_ with a shotgun."

So we arranged that the next morning, before daylight, we would go with a boy as guide up one of the numerous canyons in the mountains, to a place where we were told deer came down to drink.

It was a cold, clear, frosty morning when we started, the stars throbbing and winking as they only seem to do during a frost. We toiled, not particularly cheerfully, up the bed of a creek, stumbling in the darkness and barking our shins on more boulders and big stones than one would have believed existed in all creation. Just before dawn, when the grey light was beginning to show us more clearly where we were going, we saw in the sand of the creek fresh tracks of a large bear, the water only then beginning to ooze into the prints left by his great feet. I can hardly say that I gazed on them with the enthusiasm that Halley professed to feel.

But bear was not in our plan, and we hurried on another half-mile or so, for we were already late if we meant to catch the deer as they came to drink. Presently, we came to a likely spot where the canyon forked. Halley said, "This looks good enough. I'll stop here and send the boy back. You can go up the fork about half a mile and try there."

And on I went, finally squatting down to wait behind a clump of manzanita scrub, close to a small pool where the creek widened.

It was as gloomy and impressive a spot as one could find outside a painting by Doré. The sombre pines crowded in on the little stream, elbowing and whispering, leaving overhead only a gap of clear sky. On either hand, the rugged sides of the canyon sloped steeply up amongst the timber and thick undergrowth, and never a bird's note broke a silence that was emphasized only by the faint sigh of the wind in the treetops. Minute dragged into minute, yet no deer came stealing down to drink, and the stillness and heart-chilling gloom got on my nerves. Then, far up the steep side of the canyon opposite to me, there came a faint sound, and a small stone trickled hurriedly down into the water.

"At last!" I thought. "At last!" With a thumping heart and eager eye, I crouched forward, ready to fire, yet feeling somewhat of a sneak and a coward at the thought that the poor beast had no chance to escape. Lower and nearer came the sound of something still invisible, but the sound, slight though it was, somehow gave the impression of bulk, and the strange, subdued, half-grunting snuffle puzzled my senses, which were alert for deer.

Lower and nearer, and then—out into the open by the shallow water he strolled—no deer, but a great grizzly.

My first instinct was to fire and take a chance, but then discretion stepped in—or perhaps fear—and I remembered that at fifteen or twenty yards, buckshot would only wound and enrage such an animal as a grizzly, which, perhaps of all wild beasts, is the most tenacious of life. I also recalled tales told by Californians of deaths or ghastly wounds inflicted by grizzlies.

My finger left the trigger, and I sat down—discreetly and with no unnecessary noise. The bear was not in a hurry, but rooted about sedately among the undergrowth, now and then throwing up his muzzle and sniffing the air in a way that made me thankful that the faint breeze blew from him to me and not in the opposite direction.

After what seemed an age—with a false start or two—he finally went off up the stream. I wisely concluded that this particular spot was, for the present, unlikely to yield any deer, so I followed his example and rejoined Halley, who was patiently waiting where we had parted.

"I've just seen a grizzly, Halley," I said.

"_Have_ you?" he almost yelled in his excitement. "Come on! We'll get him."

"I don't think I want any more of him," I said with becoming modesty. "I'm going to see if I can't stalk a deer in the hills. They're more in my line, I think."

Halley looked at me—pity, a rather galling pity, in his eye—and, turning, went off alone after the bear, muttering to himself. I kept on my course downstream, over the boulders, certain in my own mind that no more would be seen of that bear, and keeping a sharp lookout on the surrounding country in case any deer should show themselves.

I had gone barely half a mile when, on the spur of a hill, a long way off, I spotted a couple of deer browsing on the short grass. I was about to start what would have been a long and difficult but very pretty stalk when I heard a noise behind me.

Looking back, I saw Halley flying from boulder to boulder, running as if making time were the sole object of his life—running in a way that a man seldom does.

I waited until he was close to me, until his wild eyes and gasping mouth bred in me some of his panic, and then, after a hurried glance up the creek, I too turned and fled for my life.

For there, lumbering and rolling heavily along, came the bear, gaining at every stride, though evidently sorely hurt in one shoulder. But my flight ended almost as it began, for a boulder, more rugged than its fellows, caught my toe and sent me sprawling—gun, cartridge-bag, and self in an evil downfall.

I picked myself up and grabbed for my gun, and, even as I got to my feet, the racing Halley tripped and rolled over like a shot rabbit. It was too late for flight now, so I jumped for the nearest big boulder, scrambling up and facing round just in time to see the bear, fury in his eyes, raise his huge bulk and close with Halley, who was struggling to his feet. Before I could fire, the great paw came down, and poor Halley collapsed. His head, mercifully, was untouched, but the bone of his upper arm showed through the torn cloth, streaming blood.

I fired before the brute could harm him further; I fired my second barrel almost with the first, but with no apparent result except to rouse the animal to even greater fury. He turned, wild with rage, and came at me. My boulder seemed miserably insignificant then, and I vaguely and hopelessly wondered why I hadn't climbed a tree. But there was little time for speculation, as I hurriedly—with hands that seemed to be all thumbs—tried to slip in a couple of fresh cartridges.

As is often the case in a tight place, one of the old cases jammed and would not come out. They had been refilled and wet a few days before, and my hands were clumsy in my haste. Finally, I had to snap the breech shut on only one fresh cartridge, throw up the gun, and fire as the bear was within ten feet of me.

By good luck, I think, rather than skill, I fired down his great, red, gaping mouth and jumped for life as he crashed onto the rock where I had stood. He crashed and lay, furiously struggling, blood pouring from his mouth and throat, for the buckshot at such close quarters had inflicted a wound ten times more severe than a bullet would have caused.

[Illustration: I fired down his great, red, gaping mouth and jumped for life.]

It was quite evident that the bear was done for, but for safety's sake—it does not do to leave anything to chance with such an animal—I put two more shots into his head. He ceased to struggle, a great shudder passed over his enormous bulk, his muscles relaxed, and he lay dead.

Then I hurried to where Halley lay. Poor fellow! He was far gone and quite unconscious, and I was not doctor enough to know whether his wounds were likely to be fatal. My very ignorance made them seem the more terrible. I tore my shirt into bandages and did what I could for him, succeeding after a time in stopping the worst of the bleeding. But I could see very plainly that his left shoulder was terribly shattered, and I thought with a groan of the fifty weary miles we would have to send for a doctor.

Presently he began to come to, and I got him to swallow a little brandy from his flask, which revived him. Before long, after putting my coat beneath his head, I left him and started for help.

It was a nightmare run. Remorse tore me for having let him go after the bear alone, and I couldn't shake the dread that one of my amateur bandages might slip and restart the bleeding, and that I would return to find only the lifeless body of my friend. I also feared that in the terribly rough bed of the creek I might sprain my ankle and so fail to bring help in time. At times, my overstrung nerves were jarred by a sudden sound in the undergrowth, or a tree stump on a hillside would startle me by its exact likeness to a bear sitting up watching me, making me fear that another bear might find and maul Halley while he lay helpless and alone.

But if my nerves were shaken, my muscles and wind were in good order, and even the most morbid self-consciousness could not fault the time I made. I was also lucky in that, as I got onto the road—or rather, the track—about a mile from the inn, I met a man driving a buggy, headed for Los Angeles. We had made his acquaintance a few days earlier, and he had warned us with much colorful language against going after bear.

His remarks now were more forceful than soothing or complimentary when I explained the matter to him during the drive to the inn. He dropped me there and went on for the doctor, driving his two horses as fast as they could go.

It did not take us long to improvise a stretcher, and with the willing help of two men and the landlady, we had Halley in his room in about three hours. But it was a hideous walk down the canyon, every step wringing a groan from the poor fellow except when he fainted from pain.

The doctor did not arrive until the following morning, by which time the wounds were in a dreadful condition, and it was touch and go for his life. At first, the doctor had no hope of saving the arm. But youth, time, and a strong constitution pulled him through, and in a couple of weeks he was strong enough to describe to me how he had fallen in with the bear.

He had gone, it seemed, not to where I had seen the animal, but up a branch canyon. At no great distance up, he met the beast making its way leisurely across the creek, and in his excitement, he fired both barrels into the bear's shoulder. Then the same thing happened to him as had happened to me: the refilled cartridges jammed, and he had no choice but to run for his life. Luckily, he had badly lamed the animal, or his chances of escape would have been nil; as it was, in another two hundred yards the bear would have caught him.

A few days after the accident, on the first day I could leave Halley's bedside, I went out to see if I could get the bear's skin. But I found it badly torn—perhaps by coyotes—and all that could be saved as trophies were its claws.

There they are now, hanging over the pipe rack by the fireplace in my cozy room in dear old England.