Chronicles of Pineville embracing sketches of Georgia scenes, incidents, and characters |
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THE FIRE-HUNT. |
 | Chronicles of Pineville |  |
THE FIRE-HUNT.
Samuel Sikes was one of the most inveterate
hunters I ever knew. He delighted in no other
pursuit or pastime, and though he pretended to cultivate
a small spot of ground, yet so large a portion
of his time was spent in the pursuit of game, that
his agricultural interests suffered much for the want
of proper attention. He lived a few miles from
town, and as you passed his house, which stood a
short distance from the main road, a few acres of
corn and a small patch of potatoes might probably
attract your notice as standing greatly in need of the
hoe; but the most prominent objects about Sam's
domicile pertained to his favourite pursuit. A huge
pair of antlers—a trophy of one of his proudest
achievements—occupied a conspicuous place on
the gable end; some ten or a dozen tall fishing-poles,
though modestly stowed behind the chimney,
projected far above the roof of the little cabin, and
upon its unchinked walls many a 'coon and deer-skin
were undergoing the process of drying. If all
these did not convince you that the proprietor was
a sportsman, the varied and clamorous music of a
score of hungry-looking hounds, as they issued forth
in full cry at every passer-by, could not fail to force
the conviction.
Sam had early found a companion to share with
him his good or ill luck, and though he was yet on
the green side of thirty, he was obliged to provide
for some five or six little tallow-faced “responsibilities;”
so he not only followed the chase from choice,
but when his wife—who hated “fisherman's luck”
worse than Sam did a “miss” or a “nibble”—took
him to account for spending so many broken days,
Saturday afternoons, rainy days and odd hours, to
say nothing of whole nights, in the woods, without
bringing home so much as a cut-squirrel or horney-head,
his ready reply was, that he was “'bleeged”
to do the best he could to get meat for her and the
“childer.”
The Fire-Hunt was Sam's hobby, and though the
legislature had recently passed an act prohibiting
that mode of hunting, he continued to indulge, as
freely as ever, in his favourite sport, resolutely maintaining
that the law was “unconstitootional and agin
reason.” He had often urged me to accompany him,
just to see how “slick” he could shine a buck's
eyes; and such were the glowing accounts he had
from time to time given me of his achievements in
that way, that he had drawn from me a promise to
go with him “some of these times.”
I was sitting one evening, after tea, upon the steps
of the porch, enjoying the cool autumnal breeze, when
my friend Sam Sikes suddenly made his appearance.
He had come for me to go with him on a fire-hunt,
and was mounted on his mule Blaze, with his pan
upon one shoulder and his musket on the other.
Determined to have every thing in readiness before
few light-wood splinters, which were now blazing
in his pan, and which served the double purpose of
lighting him through the enclosure, and of demonstrating
to me the manner of hunting by night. As
he approached the house, his light discovered me
where I was sitting.
“Good evenin,' major,” said he, “I've come out
to see if you've a mind to take a little hunt, to-night.”
“I believe not, Mr. Sikes,” I replied, feeling entirely
too well satisfied with my pleasant seat in the
cool breeze, to desire to change it for a night-ramble
through the woods. “Not to-night, I thank you—
it looks like rain.”
“Oh, 'shaw, 'taint gwine to rain, no how—and
I'm all fixed—come, come along, major.”
As he spoke, he rode close to the porch, and his
mule made several efforts to crop the shrubbery
that grew by the door, which Sam very promptly
opposed.
“How far are you going, Mr. Sikes?” I inquired,
endeavouring to shake off the lazy fit which inclined
me to keep my seat.
“Only jest up the branch a little bit—not beyant
a mile from your fence, at the outside. Look at
him!” he exclaimed in a louder tone, as he gave
the reins a jerk. “Thar's deer a plenty up at the
forks, and we'll have r'al sport. Come, you better
go, and— Why, look at him!” giving the reins
another jerk at the same time that he sent a kick to
his mule's ribs that might have been heard an hundred
eyes of a buck.”
As he sat in his saddle persuading me to go, his
mule kept frisking and turning in such a manner as
to annoy him exceedingly. Upon his left shoulder
he bore his blazing pan, and upon his right he held
his musket, holding the reins also in his right hand;
so that any efforts on his part to restrain the refractory
movements of his animal was attended with
much difficulty. I had about made up my mind to
go, when the mule evinced a more resolute determination
to get at the shrubbery.
“Whoa! wha, now!—blast your heart—now,
look at him!”—then might be heard a few good
lusty kicks. “Come, major, git your gun, and
let's— will you hold up yer head, you 'bominable
fool?— and let's take a little round—it'll do you
good.”
“As I only go to satisfy my curiosity, I'll not take a
gun. You will be able to shoot all the deer we meet.”
“Well, any way you mind, major.”
We were about to start, when suddenly the mule
gave a loud bray, and when I turned to look, his
heels were high in the air, and Sam clinging to his
neck, while the fire flew in every direction. The
mule wheeled, reared and kicked, and still Sam
hung to his neck, shouting—“Look at him!—whoa!
—will you mind!—whoa!—whoa, now!”—but all
to no purpose, until at length the infuriated animal
backed to the low paling fence which enclosed a
small flower-garden, over which he tumbled—Sam,
pan, gun and all, together!
When Sam had disengaged himself, he discovered
that the saddle-blanket was on fire, which had been
the cause of the disaster.
“Cus the luck,” said he, “I thought I smelt
something burnin'.” Then addressing himself to
the mule in a louder tone, he continued—“That's
what comes o' jerkin' yer dratted head about that-a-way.
Blast your infernal heart, you've spilt all
my fixins—and here's my pan, jest as crooked as a
fish-hook!”—then there was a kick or two and a
blow with the frying-pan—“take that, you bowdacious
fool, and hold yer head still next time, will
you? And you've skinned my leg all to flinders,
dadfetch your everlastin' picter to dingnation!—take
that under your short ribs, now, will you—whoa!
I've a great mind to blow yer infernal brains out
this very night! And you've broke the major's
palins down, you unnatural cus. Whoa! step over
now, if you's satisfied.”
By this time Sam had got the mule out of the
enclosure, and had gathered up most of his “fixins.”
The whole scene, after the upsetting of the
pan, had transpired in the dark, but from the moment
I saw the mule's heels flying and Sam clinging
to his neck, it was with the utmost difficulty I
restrained my laughter. During his solo in the enclosure
I was absolutely compelled to stuff my handkerchief
in my mouth to prevent his hearing me.
“Did you ever see the likes o' that, major?” exclaimed
Sam, as I approached the spot where he
was engaged in readjusting his saddle and putting
other matters to rights that had been deranged by
burning blanket.
“I am very sorry it happened,” I replied, “as it
will prevent us from taking our hunt.”
“No, I'll be dadfetcht if it does, tho'—I aint to
be backed out that-a-way, major, not by no means.
You know `a bad beginnin' makes a good endin','
as the old woman said. He isn't done sich a monstrous
sight o' harm, nohow,—only bent the handle
of my pan a little, and raked some skin off one o'
my shins—but that's neither here nor thar. So if
you'll jest hold Blaze till I go and git a torch, we'll
have a shoot at a pair o' eyes yit, to-night.”
I took the bridle while Sam procured a torch,
and after he had gathered up the fagots which he
had brought to burn in his pan, we set off for the
branch—Sam upon his mule, with a torch in one
hand, while I walked by his side.
It was only necessary for us to go a short distance
before we were at the designated spot.
“Thar,” said Sam, as he dismounted, “here's
as good a place as any—so I'll jest hitch Blaze
here, and light our pan.”
Accordingly Blaze was made fast to a stout sapling,
and Sam proceeded to kindle a fire in his pan,
at the same time explaining to me, in a low voice,
the modus operandi of the Fire-Hunt, which he accompanied
with sundry precautionary hints and directions
for my own especial observance on the
present occasion.
“Now, major,” said he, “you must keep close
to me, and you mustn't make no racket in the
deer's eyes is this—we holds the pan so, on the left
shoulder, and carries the gun at a trail in the right
hand. Well, when I wants to look for eyes, I turns
round slow, and looks right at the edge of my
shadder, what's made by the light behind me in the
pan, and if ther's a deer in gun-shot of me, his
eyes 'll shine 'zactly like two balls of fire.”
This explanation was as clear as Sam could make
it, shot of a demonstration, for which purpose we
now moved on through the woods. After proceeding
a few hundred yards, Sam took a survey as described,
but saw no eyes.
“Never mind, major,” said he, “we'll find 'em
—you see.”
We moved on cautiously, and Sam made his observations
as before, but with no better success.
Thus we travelled on in silence, from place to place,
until I began to get weary of the sport.
“Well, Mr. Sikes,” I remarked, “I don't see
that your bad beginning to-night is likely to insure
any better ending.”
“Oh, don't git out of patience, major—you'll
see.”
We moved on again. I had become quite weary,
and fell some distance behind. Sam stopped, and
when I came up, he said in a low voice—“you
better keep pretty close up, major, 'case if I should happen to shine your eyes, you see, I moughtn't
know 'em from a deer, and old Betsey here toats
fifteen buckshot and a ball, and slings 'em to kill.”
I fell behind no more.
We had wandered about for several hours, and
the sky which had not been the clearest in the commencement,
now began to assume the appearance
of rain. I had more than once suggested the propriety
of going home—but Sam was eager to show
me how to shine the eyes of a buck, and no argument
or persuasion could win him from his purpose.
We searched on as before, for another half hour,
and I was about to express my determination to go
home, when Sam suddenly paused—
“Stop, stop,” said he, “thar's eyes, and whappers
they is too—now hold still, major.”
I raised on tiptoe with eager anticipation—I heard
the click of the lock—there was a moment of portentous
silence—then the old musket blazed forth
with a thundering report, and in the same instant
was heard a loud squeal, and a noise like the snapping
of bridle reins.
“Thunder and lightnin'!” exclaimed Sam, as he
dropped gun, pan and all, and stood fixed to the
spot—“I've shot old Blaze!”
So soon as he had recovered from the shock, we
hastened to the spot, and, sure enough, there lay
the luckless mule, still floundering in the agonies
of death. The aim had been but too good, and
poor Blaze was hurt “past all surgery.” Sam stood
over him in silent agony, and, notwithstanding the
bitter maledictions he had so recently heaped upon
him, now that he saw the poor animal stretched
upon the ground in death, and knew that his “infernal
picter” would greet him no more for ever, a
flood of tender recollections of past services poured
until after the last signs of life were extinct—then,
with a heavy sigh, he muttered—
“Pore old cretur!—well, well, I reckon I's done
the business now, sure enough. That's what I calls
a pretty night's work, anyhow!”
“A `bad beginning doesn't always make a good
ending,' Mr. Sikes,” I remarked.
“Cus the luck, it will run so, sometimes,” said
he in a sullen tone, as he commenced taking the
saddle off his deceased donkey. “I'm blamed if I
see how I got so turned round.”
By this time it had commenced to rain, and we
were anxious to get home; but Sam had dropped
his gun and pan, as the awful truth rushed upon
him, that he had killed the only mule he possessed
in the world, and we now found it difficult to recover
them. After searching about for near half an
hour in the drizzling rain, Sam chanced to come
upon the spot from which he had taken the hapless
aim, and having regained his gun and pan, we endeavoured
to strike a fire; all our efforts, however,
to produce a light, proved ineffectual, and we essayed
to grope our way amid the darkness.
“Hello, major, whar is you?”
“Here!”
“Whar you gwine?”
“Home.”
“Well, that aint the way.”
“Why, we came this way.”
“No, I reckon not.”
“I'm sure we didn't come that way.”
“Whar, in the devil's name, is the branch?”
petulantly inquired Sam. “If I could only see the
branch, I could soon find the way.”
“It must be down this way,” I replied.
“Somehow or other I'm tetotiatiously deluded,
to-night,” remarked Sam, as he came tearing through
the briers with his stirrup-irons dangling about him,
his gun in one hand and frying-pan in the other.
“If I hadn't a been completely dumfoozled, I'd
never a killed Blaze like I did.”
I volunteered to carry his gun, but he was in
no humour for the interchange of civilities—“still
harping” on his mule, he trudged on, grumbling to
himself—
“What,” he muttered, “will Polly say now—
I'll never hear the last of that critter the longest day
I live. That's worse than choppin' the coon-tree
across the sittin' hen's nest, and I liked never to
hearn the eend o' that.”
After groping through the brush and briers, which
seemed to grow thicker the farther we proceeded,
for some time, Sam stopped—
“I swar, major, this aint the way.”
“Well, then, lead the way, and I'll follow you,”
I replied, beginning, myself, to think I was wrong.
Changing our direction, we plodded on, occasionally
tumbling over logs and brush, until Sam
concluded that all our efforts to find the way were
useless.
“Oh, thunderation!” said he, as he tore away
from a thick jungle of briers in which he had been
rearing and pitching for more than a minute, “it
major—so let's look out a big tree, and stop under
it till morning.”
Seeing no alternative, I reluctantly acceded to
his proposal.
Accordingly, we nestled down under the shelter
of a large oak. For a time neither spoke, and all
was still, save the incessant buz of the countless
hosts of musketoes that now seemed intent upon
devouring us. At length I broke silence, by remarking—at
the same time that I gave myself a box upon
the ear, intended for the musketoe that was biting
me—
“I think this will be my last fire-hunt, Mr. Sikes.”
“The fact is,” replied Sam, “this 'ere aint very
incouragin' to new beginners, major, that's a fact—
but you musn't give it up so. I hope we'll have a
better showin' next time.”
“My curiosity is satisfied,” I remarked. “I
wouldn't pass such another night in the woods for
all the deer in Georgia.”
“'Shaw, I wouldn't care a tinker's cus,” said
Sam, “if I only jest hadn't a killed Blaze. That's
what sets me back, monstrous.”
“That was indeed an unlucky mistake. I should
think a few such exploits as that would cure you
of your fire-hunting propensity. But I expect you
never had such luck, before to-night.”
“No, not 'zactly—tho' I've had some monstrous
bad luck in my time, too. I reckon you never hearn
about the time I got among the panters.”
“No—how was that?”
“Why, it was 'bout this time last fall, I and Dudley
went out and 'camped on Sperit Creek. Well,
he tuck his pan and went out one way, and I went
another. I went shinin' along jest like you seed
me to-night, till I got a good bit from the camp,
and bimeby, shore enough, I sees eyes not more'n
forty yards off. I fotched old Betsey up to my face
and cut loose, and the deer drapped right in his
tracks, but somehow in my hurryment I drapt my
pan, jest like I did to-night when I heard old Blaze
squeel. While I was tryin' to kindle up a light,
what should I see but more eyes shinin' way down
in the holler. I drapt the fire and loaded up old
Betsey as quick as I could, to be ready for the varmint,
whatever it was. Well, the eyes kep comin'
closer and closer, and gettin' bigger and brighter,
and the fust thing I know'd ther was a whole grist
of 'em all follerin' right after the fust ones, and
dodgin' up and down in the dark like they was so
many dancin' devils. Well, I begun to feel sort o'
jubous of 'em, so I raised old Betsey and pulled at
the nearest eyes, but she snapped—I primed her
agin, and she flashed—and when I flashed, sich another
squallin' and yellin' you never did hear, and
up the trees they went all round me. Thinks I
them must be somethin' unnatural, bein' as my gun
wouldn't shoot at 'em—so I jest drapt old Betsey,
and put out for the camp as hard as I could split.
Well, we went back the next mornin', and what do
you think them infernal critters had done?—eat the
deer up slick and clean, all but the bones and horns,
and a little ways off lay old Betsey, with four fingers
her. Then I know'd they was panters.”
“Why, they might have eaten you too.”
“That's a fact. Dudley said he wondered they
didn't take hold of me.”
The drizzling shower which had already nearly
wet us to the skin, now turned to a drenching storm,
which continued for more than an hour without intermission.
When the storm abated, we discovered
the dawn approaching, and, shortly after, were enabled
to ascertain our whereabouts. We were not
more than five hundred yards from the clearing, and
probably had not been, during the night, at a greater
distance than a mile from the house which we had
left in the evening.
As we stepped from the wood into the open road,
I contemplated, for a moment, the ludicrous appearance
of my unfortunate companion. Poor Sam!—
daylight, and the prospect of home, brought no joy
to him—and as he stood before me, with the saddle
and bridle of the deceased Blaze girded about his
neck, his musket in one hand, and pan in the other,
drenched with rain, his clothes torn, and a countenance
that told of the painful conflict within, I could
not but regard him as an object of sympathy rather
than ridicule.
“Well,” said he, with a heavy sigh, and
without looking me in the face—“good mornin',
major.”
“Good morning,” I replied, touched with sympathy
for his misfortune, and reproaching myself for
the mirth I had enjoyed at his expense—“Good
and hope you will have better luck in future.”
“Oh, major,” said he, “it aint the vally of the
mule that I minds so much—though old Blaze was
a monstrous handy cretur on the place. But thar's
my wife—what 'll she say when she sees me comin'
home in this here fix? Howsomedever, what can't
be cured must be indured, as the feller said when
the monkey bit him.”
“That's the true philosophy,” I remarked, seeing
that he endeavoured to take courage from the train
of reasoning into which he had fallen; “and Mrs.
Sikes should bear in mind that accidents will happen,
and be thankful that it's no worse.”
“To be sure she ought,” replied Sam, “but that
aint the way with her—she don't believe in accidents,
nohow; and then she's so bowdacious unreasonable
when she's raised. But, she better not,”
he continued, with a stern look as he spoke—“she
better not come a caventin' 'bout me with any of
her rantankerous carryin's on this mornin', for I
aint in no humour nohow!” and he made a threatening
gesture with his head, as much as to say he'd
make the fur fly if she did.
We parted at the gate, Sam for his home, and I
for my bed—he sorely convinced that “a bad beginning”
does not always “make a good ending,”
and I fully resolved that it should be my first and
last FIRE-HUNT.
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