Moo and the Hell's Hole Tom

PHOTOGRAPHS BY THE AUTHOR Laughton Champie straightened up from the saddle he was mending and looked out under the tack shed roof into the afternoon drizzle as the sound of horses' hoofs in mud grew louder. A slicker-clad rider reined in his dripping cowpony. Two steaming, uncomfortable looking hounds that had been following close behind stopped by the pony's heels looking sad and disgusted with the mire created by this Arizona early spring rain.

"Hi, George," Laughton greeted his brother, "this is a good day for repairing equipment inside. Why are you out riding?' George, not bothering to dismount, sat there with the relaxed look that comes only to a man seasoned by forty years in the saddle, the chill drizzle streaming off his slicker. "Came down off the mountain after my dogs." His voice was serious. "Got a little lion trackin' to do. Thought maybe you'd come along. Louis and Hugh are goin'. We might need your dogs and Louis', too. We're goin' after the Hell's Hole Tom and we're not comin' back this time till we get him. He took the calf crop right off the forest this spring. There's old kills all over the place and new ones, too. Lord knows how many deer he takes, but that cuss prefers veal."

With the heels of his hands, Laughton boosted his solid bulk up onto a feed barrel and a little whistle escaped through his teeth. "That bad, is it?" he asked. Then he continued, "Sure, I'll go, but we can't get a trail in this weather. Stay overnight and we'll pull out early."

George looked up at the sky. "Guess you're right," he said, "she'll maybe not clear off tonight or tomorrow, but it'll take us a day to get up there and any new trail after this rain will be red hot."

"But wait a minute, George," Laughton said. "What makes you think it's the one cat doing all that?"

"He doesn't act like any other cat. He's careless, doesn't cover his kills well at all and then to cinch it before he got my bluetick Anne last fall, that hound marked his left front pad good. There is no mistaking his track. He signs every kill right personal like."

"HEADING UP-COUNTRY" BY ALLEN C. REED. The lion hunters left the desert far below as they wound upland, through dense brush, heading for the high timber of the Bradshaw Mountains. Camera data: Crown Graphic, 4x5 Ektachrome, 1/25 sec. at f.8.

Laughton slid down from the barrel and started for the house. “Tend to your horse, George,” he said, “and then come on up. I’ll have the coffee on. You need drying out.” A pair of small cowboy boots appeared through an opening into the loft over the tack shed. Farther and farther they dangled until a little girl of eight hung by her finger-tips and groped around with her toes for the top of the same barrel Laughton Champie had just left. Making contact, she balanced there a moment and then hopped to the ground and ran all the way down the muddy road to the Champie Guest Lodge.

“Mother, mother,” she said, bursting indoors, “I’m going lion hunting.” “Cynthia,” her mother exclaimed. “Go back out and wipe that mud off your feet.” Then addressing the child by her nickname in a softer tone, she said, “Moo, dear, wait a minute, what was that you just said?” Moo started again, trying to catch her breath. “The ranchers, mother, are going after a big lion that kills calves and I want to go too.” Mrs. Kuser let out a little sigh. “Yes, yes, dear. I know those hard-riding ranchers want a little eastern girl of eight to accompany them on a lion hunt. Don’t forget, we’ll be going home in a few days, anyhow. Now, run along and get cleaned up. It’s nearly time for dinner.” “All right, mother,” Moo said, “but there is a book in the main lodge with pictures and stories about mountain lions. Please read from it to me after dinner.” Long after Moo heard a chapter on lions and had been tucked in bed, Mrs. Kuser read on and on to herself with growing fascination over habits of the American lion and the thrilling accounts of those who hunted them. Perhaps “ARIZONA LION COUNTRY” BY ALLEN C. REED. Deep canyons and rough areas are the stronghold of Arizona’s mountain lions. The agile cougar often scoots over cliffs where hounds and horses cannot follow, leaving the hunter with nothing but a beauti-ful view. Crown Graphic, 4x5 Ektachrome, 1/5 sec. f.22.

this was a softening process and a way of interesting her mother that Moo had in mind as a means of getting permission to at least ask Laughton to take them along. “After all,” her mother reasoned, “why not let her ask? Of course, he’ll say no and then it will a closed issue.” That was her frame of mind the following morning when she had told Moo she could go if Laughton said so.

Though the morning broke clear, there were ominous clouds building up over the mountains far to the north. Laughton Champie, George Champie, Hugh Clingman, and Louis Shields were busy about the ranch yard grooming the horses, loading gear, adjusting pack saddles and replacing loose or thrown shoes in preparation for the trip. In the midst of this burly, sun-tanned, range-hardened bunch of veteran stockbusters, the little girl, ever at Laughton’s heels, looked quite out of place. All morning she had been putting up her case and all morning he had been intermittently ex-plaining the rigors of such a hunt. Over and over he had emphasized the chance of a snowstorm on the mountain at that time of year and how once the dogs take the trail there is no stopping or turning back.“It’s mean work, Moo,” he said, “most of it at a full run, up mountains, over boulders, sliding and stumbling down almost sheer canyon walls and all the time limbs and brush beating at your clothes and hammering at your knees and face.” Perhaps it was the gentle kindness and understanding so often present deep beneath the strong rugged exterior of range-hardened outdoor men, or it may have have been be the hidden force behind that uncanny but often true phrase, “Never underestimate the power of a woman.” At any rate, when the hunting party took to the hills, with hounds, pack ani-mals and provisions for several days, it was accompanied by a little eight-year-old girl and her somewhat bewildered mother who was keeping a bargain she had unwittingly made.

The trail took them over miles of rolling desert, past great monuments of rock, through numerous canyons, al-ways working toward higher country. The sky was collect-ing overcast and the mountain they approached had poked its head out of sight into the heavy mist. Grass country soon gave way to acres of almost impenetrable brush which the horses forced their way through, and it tugged hard at Moo's borrowed chaps.

great monuments of rock, through numerous canyons, al-ways working toward higher country. The sky was collect-ing overcast and the mountain they approached had poked its head out of sight into the heavy mist. Grass country soon gave way to acres of almost impenetrable brush which the horses forced their way through, and it tugged hard at Moo's borrowed chaps.

When the first pine trees were reached the settling mist turned into a slushy drizzle and then into snow. Mile after mile the party pushed on. The forest had suddenly been transformed into a winter wonderland with fresh snow sticking to every bush and tree. Trickles of melting snow ran down Moo's neck and she stomped her wet boots in the stirrups and wiggled her toes to keep up circulation for they were beginning to pain terribly with the cold. All Laughton's words of warning came back to her one by one as her misery grew with every mile.

Frequently from the other dark forms on horseback, hunched down against the weather, came inquiries as to her welfare. In spite of her discomfort she answered with a cheerful, "Don't worry about me, I'm doing fine."

It was nearly dusk when Laughton Champie pulled his horse to a halt on the snowy carpet at a pine-pole corral and said, "This is Walt Bartol's mining claim. He has a cabin just through the trees. We can cook dinner and stay there to-night. These spring snows melt fast and it will save us from a lot of trouble following old sign. We might get a fresh track right off in the morning."

It was Hugh who noticed that Moo could hardly stand on her numb feet when she dismounted and it wasn't until after a half-hour's vigorous massage with snow that feeling painfully returned.

"Why didn't you holler, gal, when you were in trou-ble?" he said.

Moo stubbornly replied, "I'll be o.k. Laughton told me I could expect things like this."

That night in the cabin, Laughton cooked a real cow-boy stew on an old-fashioned wood stove and Moo lent a hand wherever she could. She couldn't help but feel quite small and insignificant as she sat at the oilcloth covered table with Laughton, Hugh and Louis, cleaning tiny rocks from the dried beans before they were put on in a big pot to cook and simmer for the following day.

The first rays of the morning sun shown in the window where Moo and her mother were sleeping. Already she could hear the heavy scraping of boots on the kitchen floor and the chink of spurs. The aroma of coffee, bacon and biscuits was seeping under the door and, best of all, the snow was nearly gone. There was a sparkling morning freshness outside, foretelling a wonderful day.

It didn't take long to wash, breakfast, saddle and put the horses and hounds to the trail. The air was clear and all the foliage gave off a fragrant after-the-rain scent. Lady, Dina, and Blue, three of the best trackers, were busy scouting every hill and gully for an important scent. The rest of the hounds were neck-chained in pairs to discourage wandering off on a bad trail.

As the riders reached lower country in the Hell's Hole vicinity they split into three groups, each taking a few dogs to try and cut a fresh track. The morning passed by with no success and the sun was just past noon when Laughton, Moo and her mother dismounted and sat down on a large rock overlooking Hell's Hole to rest and attempt to locate the other riders and dogs. In the haste to get started no one had bothered to take a lunch along and Moo was thinking of how hungry she felt, when suddenly the unmistakable trail bugle of a hound drifted up from the rocky brush-choked abyss far below.

Laughton held up his hand. "That's Lady and Dina." An eager hound in back of Moo made her start when he answered with a long eerie wail.

Laughton jumped up and unsnapped the necklinks of his remaining dogs. "This is it," he said. "Moo, you'd better stay here, that's no place for you down there. If you couldn't keep up with the dogs, I couldn't wait for you."

"You... you mean..." Moo stammered, "after coming clear up here I... I can't do what I came for?" Perhaps it was the uncontrollable tears Laughton could see starting to well up in her brown eyes that caused him to relent.

"Oh, shucks, all right then, come on as far as you can, then you and your mother can stop and wait for me. I'll come back and get you after we corner the cat." From three ridges of Hell's Hole riders and dogs descended the fierce ragged slopes at a run. Twisting, dodging, the seasoned cowponies, used to cutting range cattle out of the brush country, took the manzanita thickets, granite boulders and pine snags in stride. It was harder for the rider, though, protruding into a zone to which the cowpony gave little consideration when he chose to duck under a branch or dash between tight-fitting trees. It was necessary for Moo to try and look where she was reining her horse and duck low at the same time. To do both at once was impossible, but in spite of bruises, bumped knees and scratches, she kept her pony on the heel of Laughton's horse. Laughton being a big man, her one advantage was that in any thicket he and his horse smashed through, an ample passageway was opened for her. Her best bet was to stay close at all costs and that she did. Moo could hardly hear the hounds above the rattle and clatter of shod hoofs on the rocks and the crackling and scraping of brush, but each time their voices carried to her on the wind they were louder.

Then a new sound reached her ear. The long clear bugling turned to a more staccato barking. The book had said that meant treed. Moo's heart beat fast with the excitement, she gripped tightly to the saddle horn and clamped even more tightly her jaw. She didn't dare give up now. She couldn't, not after all she had gone through so far. The barking was a bedlam when Laughton halted his sweating horse in a draw where all the other riders seemed to be converging. He turned just in time to see Moo burst out of the trees into the gully behind him.

"Well, I'll be darned, little lady," he raised his voice above the clamor of the dogs. "I thought I had left you a couple of miles back there."

Moo smiled, weakly, "Where's the lion?"

"We'll go on foot now. He's in a big juniper on this ridge."

Moo stood quite close beneath the big cat to get a good look as he sprawled out on a limb glaring at the excited barking dogs below.

"He's a beautiful animal, Laughton," she finally said. "Do you have to kill him?"

Laughton looked down at Moo thoughtfully for several seconds before he answered. "He's killed a lot of our calves, honey, and he'd go right on if he had a chance; maybe thirty or forty a year and deer, too. He's our tom, all right, we saw the scar on his left front track. He's led us a merry chase for two years and he's a renegade even among his own kind. Seems like maybe he deserves shootin'.

It was nearly 4 o'clock on a New England fall evening in Moo's home town, as she let the kitchen door slam in back of her and hollered, "Hi, mother, I'm home from school."

Mrs. Kuser called in from the front room, "There's a package here for you, Moo, dear, from Arizona and a letter too."

Moo hurriedly tore the wrappings from a big box and out spilled a soft tanned fur robe, the hide of a great mountain lion. The fierce glass eyes gleamed at Moo from the head and white fangs were bared in a perpetual snarl. Sharp claws like knives protruded from each paw. Moo spread the robe on the floor, sat down upon it and said, "Let's read the letter, mother."

Mrs. Kuser unfolded the letter and started to read. It was short and to the point.

"Dear Moo; Here's a little token from four Arizona cowboys. We have just voted you as the lady we would most like to take on a lion hunt. Laughton, Hugh, Louis and George."

A tear rolled down Moo's cheek and splattered on a lion's paw she was fondling. A left front paw, with a deep scar in the pad.