The average black bear, husky brute though he is, is mortally afraid of a hound’s baying. There’s something about it that seems to strike to the very heart of the biggest bruin, turning his blood to water, making him long for distant parts—or the protection of a tall tree.
There is another kind of blackie, though—the kind that Jes Burke and his pack of big-game hounds recently encountered.
I happened over to his ranch, near Alpine, Ariz., a couple of days after his brush with the bear. While he was telling me about it a young hound ambled up to the hunter, walking with her body at an angle, as if she’d recently been injured. Jes reached down, fondled her long ears tenderly, then turned her around. “The bear fought the pack off and got away,” he said. “And look what he did to Queen!”
When I saw the long, deep wound on the hound’s rump, I wondered that she could walk at all. “What did he do, slap her or bite her?” I asked.
“Bit her! And it’s a wonder she wasn’t killed.”
“You sure came close to losing a good bear dog,” I conceded.
“More’n likely I’ve already lost one,” grunted the hunter. “When a bear gets hold of a hound, it’ll seldom be much of a bear dog after that. And that’s strange, too; a lion can cut a hound up plenty and it’ll probably just make a better lion dog out of him!”
Knowing that Jes wouldn’t rest until he’d evened the score with the renegade bear, I asked, “When are you going after the critter again?”
The hunter’s face grew stern. “In the morning—better come along. I got to get that bear now, whether I like it or not; once a bear learns he can kill a dog with ease, he’ll waylay ’em and kill ’em every chance he gets!”
In the dull gray of dawn we saddled our ponies and hit out with the pack toward the near-by Mogollon Rim.
“That bear’s a rim runner,” Jes explained. “When the dogs jump him he hits for the rimrocks—where he can fight ’em off and make his get-away!”
Less than a mile from the house we came to a wire gate and dismounted to lead our horses through. Just as we were climbing back into our saddles, one of the younger dogs on the trail ahead burst forth in a gleeful cry.
“Probably only a cat,” Jes promptly grumbled. “No other animal would likely come this close to the house.”
Just then Trailer and Lonse, two of his best dogs, set the mountains to ringing and Jes exclaimed, “That’s something bigger’n a cat!”
After casting about for a few seconds, the hounds straightened out the trail and began burning the breeze, driving up a small, timber-dotted valley. Whether we were after the renegade bear or not, the chase was on in earnest!
“I’d Know His Track Anyplace”
And we were not far behind the fast-running pack. We’d gone but half a mile when Jes brought his mount to a skidding halt and leaped from the saddle. As I came pounding up he pointed to a track. “It’s a bear, all right. And if we’re lucky they’ll catch him before he reaches the rim.” Abruptly he dropped to one knee and peered at the soft earth, then looked up grinning. “It’s the renegade!” he exclaimed. “I’d know his track anyplace—looks like he’s lost all the toes on one foot!”
The hunter leaped into his saddle and, leaning low to dodge the whiplike branches, urged his mount forward at breakneck speed. By taking a terrific beating from the brush, I managed to keep fairly close behind.
Suddenly, a quarter mile ahead, a great wild clamor welled up in the wilderness. Howls, yowls, growls blended together, making a bedlam of noise. “They got him!” yelled Jes, pulling his rifle from the boot as he rode. “I hope he doesn’t kill the whole pack before we get there!”
Then, as quickly as it had begun, the hubbub died down. A couple of dogs began singing their treed cry, while the rest of the pack filled the woods with their happy trail song, driving on up the valley toward the near-by rim.
Jes reined up and I drew up alongside. The hunter was plainly puzzled. “I never heard anything like this in all my life!” he confessed.
Presently we spotted a dog—and its actions were unusual, to say the least. He was visiting first one tree, then another, barking treed all the while. “That’s Trailer!” exclaimed Jes. “If it wasn’t for the rest of the pack driving on up the mountain, I’d say a bear was treed here someplace and he hasn’t located him yet.”
Then Lonse showed up, going from tree to tree, her nose pointed skyward, crying treed in no uncertain terms.
“That settles it!” Jes declared. “There’s a bear in one of these trees—but why are the rest of the dogs running?”
As most of the other hounds were younger and less experienced than Lonse and Trailer, I wondered if they’d taken after a deer. Jes must have been thinking along the same lines, for he looked up the valley and scratched his head. “Could be we jumped two bears—and could be the pups lost their heads and high-tailed after a deer!”
Finally Lonse and Trailer found what they were looking for and sat back on their haunches and squalled gleefully. I hastened over and spotted a large black object clinging desperately to a gnarled, thick-trunked tree. It was a bear, and a big one!
“Here he is!” I yelled.
Jes came over and, as the bear seemed very docile, we sat on our horses, admiring the beast’s beautiful wavy coat. Finally I remembered my camera and dismounted. “You keep him covered,” I said, “while I climb up a ways and get some pictures.”
Just then a great uproar burst forth from farther up the slope. The younger dogs had brought some animal to bay!
“They couldn’t catch a deer that quick,” said Jes. Then his face lit up. “Why, they got the renegade cornered—I should have known there were two bears all along! You wait here while I go up and polish off that killer bear!”
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As I listened to the hunter slamming through the brush, heading toward the yowling hounds, I thought of shooting the bear that I was left to guard, so that I could see Jes settle the score with the renegade. But it would doubtless be over before I could get there and besides, that way I wouldn’t get any pictures of the docile-looking bear in the tree.
Soon I heard Jes shoot; and the noise subsided on the mountainside. “It didn’t take him long,” I told myself.
Suddenly as I stood beneath the tree, the beast overhead abruptly started down, rear first, peering over his shoulder at me as if to say, “Scram, small fry; give me room!”
Caught off guard though I was, I was not greatly perturbed; the dogs would quickly send the critter scurrying back up. Calmly I turned and called, “Sic him, Trailer; sic him, Lon—”
Then I realized that the dogs were no longer by my side and—to put it mildly—I was no longer calm. I looked wildly about. No dogs!
Just then I heard the two give tongue, a quarter of a mile up the slope, heading toward Jes. They must have started toward him when they heard his shot, and had opened when they struck the bear’s trail.
Trying to swallow my heart back where it belonged, I looked at the bear I’d been keeping treed, without knowing it, all soul alone. It was still edging slowly down, eyeing me as if it didn’t relish the idea of my being directly beneath his perch.
Realizing I’d have to move fast if I expected to get a picture of the bear, I dropped to one knee, put aside my rifle, and started to adjust the camera. Before I’d finished, I saw that the animal was uncomfortably close, so I decided to try a ruse that has sent many a blackie scurrying for the treetops. I cupped my hands to my mouth and squalled like a baying hound.
The bear jumped as if he’d sat on a spike, lost his hold—and came scooting to earth in a shower of twigs and bark!
That wasn’t the half of it, either; the instant he hit the ground, he bristled and gave forth with a displeased “Grrr-woof!”
Did you ever hunker down and look an alarmed bear right in the eye? Well, don’t try it—it’s hard on the heart!
Somehow I managed to bring my rifle up, point the muzzle toward the bear, and squeeze the trigger. The gun roared and the hulking animal wilted in his tracks. Quickly, I levered in another cartridge but it wasn’t needed; the slug had hit the brute in the neck, killing him instantly.
By the time my heart got down out of my ears Jes came into sight, leading his horse by the reins. Tied securely in the saddle was a fine, coal-black beast. “Well,” I called, “I see you got the renegade!”
A puzzled look came to the hunter’s face. “Why, no; you got the tough one. This critter was a regular scaredy-cat.”
“Do you mean—” That’s as far as I got. Speech failed me when I realized that I’d been up against the tough bear all along!
Just then Donald, one of the hands from Jes’s ranch, came riding up. “What’s all the shootin’ about?”
Jes must have seen confusion on my face, however, for he walked over to the wavy-coated bear. “Yep, you got him!” he announced, and lifted one of the bear’s paws. “Look at his foot—it sure fooled me at first!”
It fooled me plenty, too. The paw was drawn inward, and the bear had been forced to walk on the back of the curled-up foot!
Jes points to the back of the renegade’s deformed paw, where the hair has been worn off because he walked with the foot doubled under.
“That explains a lot of things,” said Jes. “He couldn’t climb a tree any too well and he couldn’t run fast. That’s why he fought the dogs so hard.”
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By now I realized the bad foot had caused the renegade to lose his hold and come scooting from the tree; and when I told Jes about trying to hold the bear by imitating a baying hound, he said, “As things stood, you probably couldn’t have done a worse thing. Seeing you hunkered down like that, the bear probably thought he was up against a single dog—it’s a wonder he didn’t jump right on you!”
I heaved a sigh that could be heard from a city block away. “I’ve been learning things,” I said. “For instance, what to do the next time I get near a stubborn bear.”
“What’s that?” asked both men.
“I’ll stand straight up so he won’t mistake me for a dog,” I said. “And keep my big mouth shut!”