XIX. 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 everything in readiness before calling on me, he had gone to the kitchen and lit a 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, nohow—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 yards, “and I’ll show you how to shine the 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!—confound you! 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. Dod drot you, you’ve split 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 howdacious 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 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 inclosure, 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 inclosure, 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 the struggles of the mule to free himself from the 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 ain’t 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 faggots 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 sappling, 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 bushes. You see, the way we does to shine 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, short 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 buck-shot 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 over his repentant heart. He uttered not a word 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 ain’t 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 ain’t 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 ain’t no manner of use for us to try to find the way, 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 buzz of the countless hosts of mosquitoes 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 mosquitoe that was biting me:

“I think this will be my last fire-hunt, Mr. Sikes.”

“The fact is,” replied Sam, “this ’ere ain’t 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 of buck-shot and bullets, but not a bit of powder in 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 morning, Mr. Sikes. I am very sorry for your loss, and hope you will have better luck in future.”

“Oh, Major,” said he, “it ain’t 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 ain’t the way with her—she don’t believe in accidents, nohow; and then she’s so howdacious unreasonable when she’s raised. But, she better not,” he continued, with a stern look as he spoke—“she better not come a cavortin’ ’bout me with any of her rantankerous carryin’s on this mornin’, for I ain’t 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.