John Cheney, the Adirondac hunter, and some of his exploits.

John Cheney’s Cabin. June.

John Cheney was born in New Hampshire, but spent his boyhood on the shores of Lake Champlain, and has resided in the Adirondac wilderness about thirteen years. He has a wife and one child, and lives in a comfortable cabin in the wild village of McIntyre. His profession is that of a hunter, and he is in the habit of spending about one half of his time in the woods. He is a remarkably amiable and intelligent man, and as unlike the idea I had formed of him, as possible. I expected, from all that I had heard, to see a huge, powerful and hairy Nimrod; but instead of such, I found him small in stature, and bearing more the appearance of a modest and thoughtful student.

The walls of his cosy little house, containing one principal room, are ornamented with a large printed sheet of the Declaration of Independence, and two engraved portraits of Washington and Jackson. Of guns and pistols he has an abundant supply, and also a good stock of all the conveniences for camping among the mountains. He keeps one cow, which supplies his family with all the milk they need; but his favourite animals are a couple of hunting dogs named Buck and Tiger.

As summer is not the time to accomplish much in the way of hunting, my adventures with John Cheney have not been distinguished by any stirring events; we have, however, enjoyed some rare sport in the way of fishing, and obtained many glorious views from the mountain peaks of this region. But the conversation of this famous Nimrod has interested me exceedingly, and wherever we might be, under his own roof, or by the side of our mountain watch-fires, I have kept him busy in recounting his former adventures. I copied into my note-book nearly everything he said, and now present my readers with a few extracts relating to his hunting exploits. I shall use his own words as nearly as I can remember them.

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“I was always fond of hunting, and the first animal I killed was a fox; I was then ten years of age. Even from childhood I was so in love with the woods that I not only neglected school but was constantly borrowing a gun, or stealing the one belonging to my father, with which to follow my favourite amusement. He finally found it a useless business to make a decent boy of me, and in a fit of desperation he one day presented me with a common fowling piece. I was the youngest of thirteen children, and was always called the black sheep of the family. I have always enjoyed good health, and am forty-seven years of age; but I have now passed my prime, and don’t care about exposing myself to any useless dangers.

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“You ask me if I ever hunt on Sunday: no, Sir, I do not; I have always been able to kill enough on week days to give me a comfortable living. Since I came to live among the Adirondacs, I have killed six hundred deer, four hundred sable, nineteen moose, twenty-eight bears, six wolves, seven wild cats, thirty otter, one panther and one beaver.

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“As to that beaver, I was speaking about, it took me three years to capture him, for he was an old fellow, and remarkably cunning. He was the last, from all that I can learn, that was ever taken in the State. One of the Long Lake Indians often attempted to trap him, but without success; he usually found his trap sprung, but could never get a morsel of the beaver’s tail; and so it was with me, too; but I finally fixed a trap under the water, near the entrance to his dam, and it so happened that he one day stepped into it and was drowned.

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“I was going to tell you something about my dogs—Buck and Tiger. I’ve raised some fifty of this animal in my day, but I never owned such a tormented smart one as that fellow Buck. I believe there’s a good deal of the English mastiff in him; but a keener eye than he carries in his head I never saw. Only look at that breast of his, did you ever see a thicker or more solid one? He’s handsomely spotted, as you may see; but some of the devilish Lake Pleasant Indians cut off his ears and tail about a year ago, and he now looks rather odd. You may not believe it, but I have seen a good many men, who were not half as sensible as that very dog. Whenever the fellow’s hungry, he always seats himself at my feet and gives three short barks, which is his way of telling me that he would like some bread and meat. If the folks happen to be away from home, and he feels a little sharp, he pays a regular visit to all the houses in the village, and after playing with the children, barks for a dry crust, which he always receives, and then comes back to his own home. He’s a great favourite among the children, and I’ve witnessed more than one fight among the boys, because some wicked little scamp had thrown a stone at him. When I speak to him, he understands me just as well as you do. I can wake him out of a sound sleep, and by my saying, ‘Buck, go up and kiss the baby,’ he will march directly to the cradle and lick the baby’s face. And the way he watches that baby, when it’s asleep, is perfectly curious; he’d tear you to pieces in three minutes, if you were to try to take it away.

“Buck is now four years old, and though he’s helped me to kill several hundred deer, he never lost one for me yet. Whenever I go a-hunting, and don’t want him along, I have only to say, ‘Buck, you must not go,’ and he remains quiet. There’s no use in chaining him, I tell you, for he understands his business. This dog never starts after a deer until I tell him to go, even if the deer is in sight. Why, ’twas only the other day that Tiger brought in a doe to Lake Colden, where the two had a desperate fight within a hundred yards of the spot where Buck and myself were seated. I wanted to try the metal of Tiger, and told Buck he must not stir, though I went up to the deer to see what the result would be between the fighters. Buck didn’t move out of his tracks; but the way he howled for a little taste of blood was perfectly awful. I almost thought the fellow would die in his agony. Buck is of great use to me when I am off hunting, in more ways than one. If I happen to be lost in a snow-storm, which is sometimes the case, I only have to tell him to go home, and if I follow his track I am sure to come out in safety; and when sleeping in the woods at night, I never have any other pillow than Buck’s body.

“As to my black dog Tiger, he isn’t quite two years old yet, but he’s going to make a great hunter. I am trying hard, now-a-days, to break him of a very foolish habit of killing porcupines. Not only does he attack every one he sees, but he goes out to hunt them, and often comes home, all covered with their quills. It was only the other day, that he came home with about twenty quills working their way into his snout. It so happened, however, that they did not kill him, because he let me pull them all out with a pair of pincers, and that, too, without budging an inch. About the story people tell, that the porcupine throws its quills, I can tell you it’s no such thing; it’s only when the quills touch the dog, that they come out and work their way through his body.”

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“As to deer hunting, I can tell you more stories in that line than you’d care about hearing. They have several ways of killing ’em in this quarter, and some of these ways are so infernal mean, I’m surprised that there should be any deer left in the country. In the first place, there’s the ‘still hunting’ fashion, where you lay in ambush near a salt lick and shoot the poor creatures, when they’re not thinking of you. And there’s the beastly manner of blinding them with a ‘torch light’ when they come into the lakes to cool themselves, and get away from the flies, during the warm nights of summer. Now I say, that no decent man will take this advantage of wild game, unless he is in a starving condition. The only manly way to kill deer is by ‘driving’ them, as I do, with a couple of hounds.

“There isn’t a creature in this whole wilderness that I think so much of as the deer. They are so beautiful, with their bright eyes, graceful necks, and sinewy legs. And they are so swift, and make such splendid leaps when hard pressed; why, I’ve seen a buck jump from a cliff that was forty feet high, and that, too, without injuring a hair. I wish I could get my living without killing this beautiful animal! but I must live, and I suppose they were made to die. The cry of the deer, when in the agonies of death, is the awfullest sound I ever heard; I’d a good deal rather hear the scream of the panther, provided I have a ball in my pistol, and the pistol is in my hand. I wish they would never speak so.

“The time for taking deer is in the fall and winter. It’s a curious fact, that when a deer is at all frightened, he cannot stand upon smooth ice, while, at the same time, when not afraid of being caught, he will not only walk, but actually trot across a lake, as smooth as glass. It’s a glorious sight to see them running down the mountains, with the dogs howling behind; but I don’t think I ever saw a more beautiful race than I once did on Lake Henderson, between a buck deer, and my dog Buck, when the lake was covered with a light fall of snow. I had put Buck upon a fresh track, and was waiting for him on the lake shore; presently, a splendid deer bounded out of the woods upon the ice, and as the dog was only a few paces off, he led the race directly across the lake. Away they ran, as if a hurricane was after them, crossed the lake, then back again, they then made another wheel, and having run to the extreme southern point of the Lake, again returned, when the deer’s wind gave out, and the dog caught and threw the creature, into whose throat I soon plunged my knife, and the race was ended.

“I never was so badly hurt in hunting any animal as I have been in hunting deer. It was while chasing a buck on Cheney’s Lake, (which was named after me, by Mr. Henderson, in commemoration of my escape), that I once shot myself in a very bad way. I was in a canoe, and had laid my pistol down by my side, when, as I was pressing hard upon the animal, my pistol slipped under me in some queer way, and went off, sending a ball into my leg just above the ankle, which came out just below the knee. I knew something terrible had happened, and though I thought that I might die, I was determined that the deer should die first; and I did succeed in killing him before he reached the shore. But soon as the excitement was over, the pain I had felt before was increased a thousand fold, and I felt as if all the devils in h—ll were dragging at my leg, the weight and the agony were so great. I had never suffered so before, and I thought it strange. You may not believe it, but when that accident happened I was fourteen miles from home, and yet, even with that used-up leg, I succeeded in reaching my home, where I was confined to my bed from October until April. That was a great winter for hunting which I missed, but my leg got entirely well, and is now as good as ever.

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“The most savage animal that I hunt for among these mountains is the moose, or caraboo, as I’ve heard some people call them. They’re quite plenty in the region of Long Lake and Lake Pleasant; and if the hunter don’t understand their ways, he’ll be likely to get killed before he thinks of his danger. The moose is the largest animal of the deer kind, or, in fact, of any kind that we find in this part of the country. His horns are very large, and usually look like a pair of crab-apple trees. He has a long head, long legs, and makes a great noise when he travels; his flesh is considered first rate, for he feeds upon grass, and the tender buds of the moose maple; he is a rapid traveller, and hard to tire out. In winter they run in herds; and when the snow is deep, they generally live in one particular place in the woods, which we call a ‘yard.’ The crack time for killing them is in the winter, when we can travel on the snow with our braided snow-shoes.

“I once killed two moose before nine o’clock in the morning. I had been out a-hunting for two days, in the winter, and when night came, I had to camp out near the foot of Old Tahawas. When I got up in the morning, and was about to start for home, I discovered a yard, where lay a couple of bull moose. I don’t know what they were thinking about, but just as soon as they saw me, they jumped up and made directly towards the place where I was standing. I couldn’t get clear of their ugly feet without running; so I put for a large dead tree that had blown over, and walking to the butt of it, which was some ten feet high, looked down in safety upon the devils. They seemed to be very mad about something, and did everything they could to get at me by running around; and I remember they ran together, as if they had been yoked. I waited for a good chance to shoot, and when I got it, I fired a ball clean through one of the animals into the shoulder of the second. The first one dropt dead as a door-nail, but the other took to his heels, and after going about fifty rods, concluded to lie down. I then came up to him, keeping my dogs back, for the purpose of sticking him, when he jumped up again, and put after me like lightning. I ran to a big stump, and after I had fairly fixed myself, I loaded again, and again fired, when the fellow tumbled in the snow quite dead. He was eight feet high, and a perfect roarer.

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“Another animal that we sometimes find pretty plenty in these woods, is the big grey wolf; they are savage fellows, and dangerous to meet when angry. On getting up early one winter morning, I noticed in the back part of my garden, what I thought to be a wolf-track. I got my gun, called for my dog, and started on the hunt. I found the fellow in his den among the mountains. I kindled a fire and smoked him out. I then chased him for about two miles, when he came to bay. He was a big fellow, and my dogs were afraid to clinch in; dogs hate a wolf worse than any other animal. I found I had a fair chance, so I fired at the creature, but my gun missed fire. The wolf then attacked me, and in striking him with my gun, I broke it all to pieces. I was in a bad fix, I tell you, but I immediately threw myself on my back with my snow-shoes above me, when the wolf jumped right on to my body, and probably would have killed me had it not been for my dog Buck, who worried the wolf so boldly that the devil left me to fight the dog. While they were fighting with all their might, I jumped up, took the barrel of my gun and settled it right into the brain of the savage animal. That was the largest wolf ever killed in this wilderness.

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“One of the hardest fights I ever had in these woods, was with a black bear. I was coming from a winter hunt: the snow was very deep, and I had on my snow-shoes. It so happened, as I was coming down a certain mountain, the snow suddenly gave way under me, and I fell into the hole, or winter-quarters of one of the blackest and largest bears I ever saw. The fellow was just about as much frightened as I was, and he scampered out of the den in a great hurry. I was very tired, and had only one dog with me at the time, but I put after him. I had three smart battles with him, and in one of them he struck my hand with such force, as to send my gun at least twenty or thirty feet from where we stood. I finally managed to kill the rascal, however; but not until he had almost destroyed the life of my dog. That was a noble dog, but in that battle the poor fellow received his death-wound. He couldn’t walk at the time; and though I was nine miles from home, I took him up in my arms and brought him; but with all my nursing, I could not get him up again, for he died at the end of a few weeks. That dog was one of the best friends I ever had.

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“But the most dangerous animal in this country, is the yellow panther, or painter. They are not very plentiful, and so tormented cunning, that it’s very seldom you can kill one. They are very ugly, but don’t often attack a man unless cornered or wounded. They look and act very much like a cat, only that they are very large. I never killed but one, and his body was five feet long, and his tail between three and four. At night, their eyes look like balls of fire; and when they are after game, they make a hissing noise, which is very dreadful to hear. Their scream is also very terrible; and I never saw the man who was anxious to hear it more than once. They are seldom hunted as a matter of business, but usually killed by accident.

“The panther I once killed, I came across in this manner. I was out on Lake Henderson with two men, catching fish through the ice, when we saw two wolves come on to the ice in great haste, looking and acting as if they had been pursued. I proposed to the men that we should all go and kill them, if we could. They wanted to fish, or were a little afraid, so I took my gun and started after the game. I followed them some distance, when, as they were scaling a ledge, they were attacked by a big panther, and a bloody fight took place. From the appearance of the animals, I supposed that they had met before, which was the cause why the wolves came upon the lake. During the scuffle between the animals, it is a singular fact, that they all three tumbled off the precipice, and fell through the air, about one hundred feet. The wolves jumped up and ran away, while the panther started in another direction. I followed his track, and after travelling a number of hours overtook him, and managed to shoot him through the shoulder. He then got into a tree, and as he was lashing his tail, and getting ready to pounce upon me, I gave him another ball, and he fell to the earth with a crash, and was quite dead. I then went to the Lake, and got the men to help me home with my booty.”