Issue link: https://www.e-digitaleditions.com/i/116174
obody could have predicted the outcome of that bighorn hunt, and though I saw it with my own eyes, it's still hard to believe. It was amazing, sometimes shattering, and I have the memories and scars to prove it. I'd been in touch with Phimister Proctor, the famous sculptor, by letter during the early summer months of 1912 and discussed the possibility of a sheep hunt with him. He planned to come west on a trip primarily to get art material on the Plains Indians – a trip he hoped to conclude with a sheep hunt. But he didn't confirm his plans, and when October rolled around with no further word from him, I gave up the idea of guiding him into ram country. Toward the end of October I was in Pincher Creek, Alberta, buying up six months' supplies to keep my family over the winter at our ranch on Cottonwood Creek, 30 miles south of the railroad. The trip took two days by wagon, so I stayed in the hotel in town overnight. About six o'clock in the morning someone knocked on my door. "I'm Phimister Proctor," said the stranger. "I just got in on the train. When do we start the sheep hunt?" Trying to hide my surprise, I did some quick figuring and told him we could start the next day. "That'll leave us four days' hunting till the end of the sheep season," I said. We had breakfast together, then I went to load my supplies. Soon we were heading over the winding wagon road toward my ranch, with the sculptor's gear stowed on the load. He had only a bedroll a folding portfolio of art supplies and a cased rifle. I'll never forget that rifle. It was an 8mm Mannlicher-Schoenauer carbine with a 20-inch barrel stocked to the muzzle. The rifle was fully engraved by the best European craftsmen, with the owner's name in fine gold-inlaid scrollwork on the trigger guard and a hunting scene in gold on the magazine floorplate. For sights it had a folding peep dovetailed into the cocking piece, and an ivory bead at the muzzle. The outfit was brand new. As we traveled, he told me about it. Some years earlier, in the '90s, he'd finished work on an equestrian group done in bronze – a statue commemorating General Sherman – located in New York City. Proctor had been working with the famous Augustus Saint-Gaudens, who specialized in sculpting human figures. Phimister Proctor was the recognized authority on animal figures, so Saint-Gaudens contracted him to work on the horses. Saint-Gaudens was so pleased with Proctor's work that he presented him with this fine custom rifle as a gift. While Proctor took great pride in owning the rifle, he admitted he didn't know a thing about it and hadn't even fired it. He'd been raised in Colorado and had grown up with Winchester lever-action rifles. His favorite hunting arm was a venerable, much-used .35 Model 95 Winchester that he'd left at home. I assured him he'd have a chance to try out his new rifle on a target before we started the hunt. A fter breakfast the next morning I pasted a six-inch bulls-eye on the side of a five-gallon coal-oil can, and set it up on the slope behind the cabin. While I loaded our gear and grub on the packhorses, Proctor fired a few shots to check his rifle. I was pulling the last diamond hitch down snug when he came to the corral smiling. The rifle was shooting as well as he was able to hold it, he said, and the last three shots had grouped in the bull at 200 yards. So we swung into our saddles and rode through the rolling poplar bluffs, heading for the mountains. It was a clear, golden fall day with a S P O R T I N G C 33 L A SSICS