A BATTLE IN MID-AIR. By T. R. Porter.

Swinging like a pendulum at the end of a two-hundred-and-fifty-foot rope against the side of a five-hundred-foot cliff, with jagged rocks far below, and nothing but one bare hand with which to fight off the fierce onslaught of an immense eagle, whose nest he was attempting to rob—this was the awful predicament in which Arthur Williams, a young man of Riverton, Wyoming, found himself one day early in June last year. With the welfare of her nestlings at stake, the great bird attacked the despoiler of her home with inconceivable fury, and only to a lucky chance does Williams owe his life.

Riverton is a new town on that portion of the Cheyenne and Arapahoe Indian reservation which was opened to settlement last year, and in the country thereabouts mountain lions, timber wolves, coyotes, eagles, bears, etc., are still to be found. The principal industry is sheep-raising, and continual warfare exists between the flockmasters and the wild things, especially the eagles, which annually kill and carry off hundreds of young lambs. Because of this heavy drain on their flocks, every shepherd and owner of sheep in Wyoming takes great pains to kill the birds and to destroy their nests whenever they are discovered.

Before the Indian reservation was formally opened to the whites for settlement, the flockmasters were permitted to graze their sheep over the country, and it gradually became known among the sheepmen that over in Lost Well Canyon there were a pair of eagles who made a speciality of devouring young lambs. Try as they might, however, the shepherds were unable to get a shot at either of these great birds, and for several years they were the terrors of the district.

It was discovered that the old birds made their nest in a cleft in the face of a five hundred-foot perpendicular wall, which formed one side of the canyon. Here they safely raised brood after brood of young ones, which were turned loose in due course to prey on the community.

Hunters, with their Winchester rifles, often lay in wait for the big birds, hoping to get a shot at them, but, with the proverbial keen eyesight of such creatures, the eagles detected the Nimrods and never came within gun-shot when the nest was being watched.

During the spring of 1908 the two old eagles were more successful than ever in raiding the flocks of the sheepmen, and accordingly a special effort was made to exterminate them. To that effort Arthur Williams owes the appalling adventure which befell him.

Williams and two friends made a trip out to Lost Well Canyon to investigate the chances of trapping the eagles in their nest. A ride of eight miles, over rough mountain trails, brought them to the canyon, half-way up the perpendicular side of which they saw the horizontal cleft in which the wise old birds had built their nest. At the foot of the cliff, directly under the cleft, was a pile of bones—the remains of lambs, thrown out of the nest by the eagles after they had been picked clean.

“We ain’t any nearer that nest down here than when we were at home,” remarked Williams to his comrades. “Nothing but a balloon or an airship can help us from down here. Let us go up to the top of the cliff and see what we can do from there.”

For two hours the three young men struggled to reach the top of the mountains. A wide détour was necessary, but at last this was accomplished and they stood on the brink of the cliff, half-way down which the eagles’ nest had been built.

“There’s nothing to be done from here, either,” said one of the men, despondently. “We might just as well go back home; we shall never reach that nest.”

While the men stood and talked, from far down below them there arose the shrill piping call of young birds.

“Young ones!” said Williams. “I wish we could get them alive; they would be worth money to us.”

“No use to bother; you’ll have to take it out in wishing,” said the third member of the party. “Come on; let’s go home.”

MR. A. E. WILLIAMS, WHO FOUGHT THE EAGLE IN MID-AIR. From a Photograph.

“All right. I’ll go home now, but I’m coming back to-morrow after those birds,” said Williams.

The next day found the three young men back at the cliff. They had mapped out a scheme whereby they hoped to get the young birds, and had brought with them seven hundred and fifty feet of stout rope, far more than enough to reach from the top of the cliff down to the bottom of the canyon. To make quite sure of this, however, they first lowered the rope, weighted with a stone, down the face of the rock, and saw that, while there yet remained a big coil at their feet, the weighted end of the rope rested on the floor of the canyon.

Then the rope was hauled back and a tight loop made in one end. This was paid out over the edge of the cliff until it hung directly in front of the eagles’ nest. The other end of the rope was hitched round a convenient tree.

During all this time the men kept close watch for the old eagles, but saw nothing of them.

“Off hunting lambs, I suppose,” said one of the young fellows.

Then Williams stepped forward, laid hold of the rope, and quickly disappeared over the side, sliding slowly downward, using one leg, around which the line was wrapped, as a brake to keep himself from going too fast.

Across his shoulders was slung a stout bag, in which he intended placing the little eagles when he secured them. In one hand he carried a stout stick for use in an emergency: the other hand grasped the rope.

Down, down he went until just in front of the eyrie. Then he slipped one leg through the loop at the end of the cord and turned to look into the dark hole, where he could hear the eaglets “talking.”

Slowly he swung round, bracing his foot against the rocky wall, until he faced the cleft and could give his attention to the nest.

Suddenly, screaming wildly with rage and fright, out from the dark cleft came the old mother-bird. Like a stone from a catapult she flung herself at Williams’s face.

Dismayed by the suddenness of the attack, Williams recoiled; his foot slipped from the wall, and his body spun round and out of reach as the huge bird went past him. He did not escape altogether scathless, for one claw, like a knife blade, cut across his cheek, and in an instant the blood was flowing from a cut half an inch deep.

Only a few yards did the old eagle fly; then she wheeled and, with the speed of an arrow, shot once more at the man hanging at the end of the rope before her nest.

This time Williams braced himself and, with his stout stick ready in his right hand, awaited the onslaught of the big bird. His left hand grasped the rope.

The eagle struck Williams on the head with her wing, and at the same moment Williams lashed at the bird with his stick. Such was the fury and strength of the creature, however, that the stick flew from Williams’s hand and went whirling through space to the bottom of the canyon, far below.

Again the eagle turned sharply and swooped down on the man, now left defenceless, with only a single bare hand to fight against the infuriated mother-bird’s sharp claws, powerful beak, and mighty wings.

Pecking, clawing, and striking stunning blows with her terrible wings, the big bird beat the air in front of Williams’s face, holding her position and tearing savagely at the head and face of the would be despoiler of her home. Her screams were incessant.

Meanwhile, on top of the cliff, there was utter consternation. The attention of one man was necessarily taken up with the rope, and a slip on his part meant instant death to Williams in the way of a fall to the rocks at the foot of the precipice. With a rifle in his hand the other man watched that nightmare fight in mid air, far below him. He could not shoot without endangering Williams even more than the eagle.

Just then things were going very badly with the nest-robber. Blood was flowing from a dozen cuts on his head and face, his hand was lacerated, the clothing about his shoulders was cut into ribbons. Moreover, he was half stunned, and but for the loop in the end of the rope would have fallen to his death. He had no time to give directions to his comrades, and simply had to fight the battle out alone.

MR. WILLIAMS AFTER HIS ENCOUNTER WITH THE EAGLE. From a Photograph.

Presently the old bird darted away, preparing for another swoop at the defenceless man. When she was ten feet distant a rifle-shot rang out from the top of the cliff, and Williams knew his friends were doing what they could. But the old bird did not falter for a second, although a couple of feathers from her terrible right wing floated away on the wind. In his haste to send a second bullet downward the man with the rifle managed to “jam” the weapon, and with a despairing cry threw the now useless weapon to the ground.

The eagle returned to the attack with even greater fury, and for a few minutes Williams thought his last moments had arrived. But still he fought on, pulling great handfuls of feathers from the bird and beating at her desperately with his bare fist, receiving in return many cuts and slashes, as well as stunning blows from the madly-flapping wings. He was almost ready to loose his hold on the rope and go crashing down to the bottom of the canyon when the eagle suddenly wheeled away for another attack.

As she came back again, screaming and beating the air, something the size of Williams’s head struck her on the back, and down she went like a stone, whirling over and over. Williams’s friend above had hurled a small rock at the bird, and, luckily for Williams, the boulder had struck her fairly on the back, between the immense wings.

“Hold on tight and we’ll let you down to the bottom,” sang out the man at the top of the cliff, leaning far over. Then Williams showed the sterling stuff of which he was made. Though bleeding from a dozen wounds, breathless and exhausted, he was still determined to fulfil his errand.

“Hold me here until I get these little birds,” he shouted, feebly. “I came after them, and I’m going to have them.”

With that the plucky fellow crawled back into the niche, put the two little eaglets in his bag, thrust his leg through the loop, grasped the rope with both hands, and was safely lowered to the floor of the canyon.

Within a few feet of where he landed lay the old mother-eagle. Williams staggered over to her and gave her a kick. To his amazement she moved, stood up on her feet, and flew away!

One of Williams’s companions came sliding down the rope, and reached him just as the injured man fainted from loss of blood and excitement. The punishment he had received was terrible, but fortunately his eyes had escaped injury.

After casting off the rope the third man made his way down the mountain to where Williams and his friend were. They managed to stop the flow of blood, and between them got the wounded man on his horse and brought him to Riverton. Williams spent several days in bed and was covered with bandages for two weeks, but received no lasting injuries.

As souvenirs of his terrible fight, he has two little eagles and a dozen or more big scars to show his friends.