Hunting Wild Hogs On The Colorado River

Colonel Jack Rogers, who has hunted along the southern course of the Colorado river, is an enthusiast on the subject of wild hog hunting.

"There is no sport in the world," says he, "that is attended with as much risk or more excitement. Wild hogs will kill anything that walks. No grizzly will trifle with a drove. He knows it is sure death.

"The first time I went on a hunt after these southwestern hogs I was inclined to laugh at the warnings of my Yuma Indian guides," said the colonel the other day. "About noon we came on a drove. Tite, one of the Yuma guides, told me to get my rifle ready and take my stand near a thick spreading tree with some low hanging limbs. He and Paul, the second Indian, stepped off to the sides, each standing beside a sapling. Then we sent the dogs into the brush and awaited developments.

Image caption: The boar began rooting the tree.

"The developments came. The dogs broke out of the underbrush. They didn't pay any attention to us, but acted like dogs that had some important business at the other end of the county.

"Following the dogs and only a little way behind came a big boar. If ever I saw a truly demoniac picture of rage, it was that. The white foam was dripping from his great teeth; he was covered with the blood of a slaughtered dog, and he was certainly out on the kill. Tite fired and hit him square In the forehead. He gave a grunt of rage and wheeled.

"Tite had made the mistake of not selecting a large enough tree. It was only a sapling, but he swung up without losing time, dropping his gun. The boar came at the sapling full tilt, struck it fair with his forehead, and the blow shook the little tree so that Tite was nearly shaken off.

"After two or three more attempts to butt down the tree the boar began work about three feet from the foot of It, digging up the ground until he struck the root, then biting it with big sharp teeth. I judged It was up to me to take a hand in the game.

"I slung my rifle over my shoulder and scrambled up into my tree. I got a good range on the big hog and let him have it. If I expected that bullet to bring him down, I was a mightily mistaken hunter. He saw the smoke from my rifle, recognized that he had a new enemy to deal with and came for my tree without loss of time. He started in to try to dig up the roots. The tree was too big for him to succeed in this design, and, besides, I didn't give him a fair chance at it. I pumped bullets at him at short range until he keeled over, but it took seven shots.

"The rest of the drove, nineteen in all, had Paul, the other Indian, up a tree and had begun to undermine it. If Tite and I had not come to his rescue, they would have had him sure. We got up trees where we had a good range and pumped lead into them. It took fifty bullets to dispose of the drove."