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PENDLETON HUNTING IN THE REMINISCENCES OF A NOTED HUNTER OF PENDLETON COUNTY
Who has not listened with delight to the tales of some old hunter as he recounted his experiences of the days when deer were plentiful as Ford cars are in this day? Who has not felt the thrill of pleasure as some exciting tale of the hunt or chase was related? Who is there that has not marked with regret the passing of these old hunters of the moccasin, hunting shirt and the muzzle-loading rifle --- these woodsmen of the days that are no more? It was recently the pleasure of the writer to listen to one of these, Mr. George W. Sponaugle, now eleven years past the Biblical allotted life of man in age. He was visited at the home of his son, G. J. Sponaugle, on Smith's Creek, and his story is best told in his own words, as near as may be. "Yes, I have killed a lot of game in my time. I began hunting as soon as I could carry a rifle, and have followed it more or less ever since. I have killed 437 deer all told; thirty to forty bear's, and one panther. Most of these were killed with my muzzle-loading rifle. I tell you, it's a good one. I have often killed as many as three deer in one day with this gun. Yes, I killed a panther once with it - shot him through the heart. I have this rifle yet, but it has gotten a little rusty. I was going on foot one day from George Bennett's on the Hunting Ground to my brother Adam's in the Sinks and was still-hunting on the way. What I mean by still-hunting is hunting without dogs or persons to drive for me. When I got out in what was called the Grady Burning, I got on the panther's track, and I followed his trail until I came insight of him and shot him. I did not know what fear was then. Yes, I have had some very exciting experiences in my time. Once I shot a large buck, and went up to him to cut his throat. When I took hold of him for this purpose, he at once revived. I had simply shot off one of his large horns or antlers, which stunned him. We were both strong and the struggle was very exciting. It was dangerous to hold on and still more dangerous to let go. It was hard for a time to tell how we were going to come out, but finally I got one of his fore legs up over his remaining horn. This made him sort of helpless, and I cut his throat with the hunting knife I always carried in a scabbard in my shot pouch. Once my father and I had a close call in a close up fight with a bear in the Sinks. At another time, my father, brother Perry and myself had a large bear in a hollow tree. After a while the bear tumbled down and landed almost on Perry. The dogs closed in on him, and bear, dogs and men were all tangled up. Perry had an old army revolver, and let the bear have one from it every chance he got. Yes, Perry was a great hunter, too. He died about a year ago at his home in Tygart's Valley, near Beverly. When my eyesight began to fail so I could not use a rifle so well, I got myself a Winchester repeating shotgun. I killed about 37 deer with it and a lot of turkeys. I cannot tell you how many turkeys I have killed in my time. I killed nine in one day once. The last deer I killed, a large buck was over here on Lankey Mountain. That was before my wife died, and she will have been dead twenty years in March. 0 Yes, I hunt some yet; small game. Last fall I killed seventy-three grey squirrels and fifteen fox squirrels. I killed these with my Winchester shot gun. My father, William Sponaugle, was a great hunter. He killed over 1800 deer and about 300 bears in his lifetime, he lived on the Hunting Ground until after the war, about 1867 I think, and then moved to the Sinks where the game was more plentiful. He later moved to Doddridge County, where he died. There were eleven children of us all large and strong. Our mother's maiden name was Minerva Fleisher, a cousin of the late Captain Solomon Fleisher. I guess we got our size from that side of the house. There were so many of us in the family, and as you may suppose, it took a lot to feed us all. Our father's muzzle-loading rifle was the most important piece of property we had. Often in the evening our mother would inform him that the supply of meat was running low, he would start early the next morning, before daylight, and was generally back with a deer in time to have a part of it for our breakfast. Our smoke house in the winter hung as full of cured venison and bear meat as the smoke house of today hangs full of bacon and beef. No, the game that was killed was not wasted. it went to feed the family. If we got tired of the wild meat we changed off to hog meat or something else. There was no sale for the venison until a later date. Then we could find a limited sale for the venison saddles first at Franklin and later at Circleville, as well as for the hides in their dry state. These were brought in on packhorses from the mountains, sometimes as many as five in number. The saddles of venison brought about 10 cents a pound and the hides sometimes sold as high as forty cents a pound in their dry state. They were tied up in bales and brought in to market. My father died in 1892, and my mother about three years later. My father never used any gun but the old muzzle-loading rifle. It had a large bore. A pound of lead only moulded about 20 bullets for it, but he seldom missed a shot. After the Winchester repeating rifle became common, I purchased one, 45-70 caliber. If I had owned one of these when the game was plentiful, there is no telling how many deer I might have had to my credit. As it was, I killed five deer in about two hours one day with the Winchester rifle. My brother Adam, the only other one of the eleven children living in the county, has killed over 300 deer, 67 bears and nearly 500 wild turkeys. The boys all seemed to have an instinct for hunting. There were plenty of deer around here. There was a field right where this house stands, and they often came into this field. I have also killed some up on Goshen Mountain. They are all gone now. And so the old hunter, with the circle of his life well-nigh completed, with the "snow that never melts" resting upon his head, goes back in his memory to those other days; recalls the incidents of the hunt and the chase with all their pleasures, hardships and dangers. In the corner of his room stand the mementos of the different periods. There is the muzzle-loading rifle of his boyhood and young manhood; the heavy calibred Winchester rifle of his maturer years, and the Winchester repeating shotgun of the failing eyesight of the evening time of his life. The collection lacks only the army musket he carried in those other days, to which his mind reverts equally as often. The days when he soldiered in Virginia, and "Fought with Stonewall Jackson They will speak of it as "the War." To these old veterans there has been no other war. They will admit that we had a little difficulty with Spain in 1898 and a "brush" with Germany 20 years later, but the one they fought in is still the war. And the minds of these old veterans revert to it often, and as often they relate the incidents that come to their minds. Do we listen to these oft' repeated stories with the interest and patience they deserve? Because there will come a day to us, when we, too, shall repeat our stories and will crave the toleration, interest and attention they now deserve. They are growing distressingly few in number, and the day will come very soon when we would be willing to give worlds, were they ours to give, to listen to those stories again, and we shall then wonder why we did not have the good sense and presence of mind to write them down. Yes, the old musket would make the collection complete. This article was graciously transcribed from the Pendleton Times by William Dana Drescher, great-grandson of George Washington Sponaugle. 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