As the folk culture of duck hunting burgeoned in late nineteenth century, hunting accidents proliferated. Many shotguns still had hammers, which were sources of accidental mischief. Also, ammunition became less expensive in the late 1870s as manufacturers replaced brass with paper for shotshell casings. The increase, or at least the apparent increase, in duck hunting accidents was not confined to the prairies. Newspapers all over the country loved to report on deadly or disabling shooting misadventures. Thus this report from LaMoure the fall of 1886: “George Homidew . . . accidentally shot himself while duck hunting. The wound will probably prove fatal.”
Not far away, the same fall: “Judge Hamilton and C. L. Judd were duck hunting south of Windsor yesterday. The former accidentally shot his fine bird dog.”
Neither man nor his best friend was safe from the double-guns of autumn, it seems. Worse, we read of a spring hunt in 1890, when “Hon. R. N. Stevens, Lisbon, Ransom county, shot and killed his wife, Tuesday of this week, while out duck hunting.” I am fairly sure the editor meant to indicate an inadvertent shooting.
Children? Also at risk, as boys packed shotguns at early age. In 1892 two pre-teens were hunting ducks in Stark County when the hammer of the younger’s shotgun caught on a branch and discharged the gun, killing his brother.
Hunters disregarded the perils of the physical elements at their own risk. In 1892 some fellows were hunting in McLean County, on Turtle Lake, and ventured out on thin ice in pursuit of a large flock of ducks sitting thereon. Peter Miller broke through and spent two hours in the icy water before his comrades managed to extricate him, still carrying the ducks he was retrieving.
Soil types in North Dakota wetlands, too, could be dangerous—as you know if you’ve ever sunk into the gumbo while trying to collect your decoys. In 1894 Charles Howell was crawling up on some ducks in Burleigh County across what appeared to be dry ground, but proved to be merely crusty gumbo. In he went waist deep in the muck, sinking, unable to extricate himself, until two mates threw him a line.
Careless firing at low-flying fowl often dealt serious, if not fatal, consequences. Adolph Thompson was hunting in Griggs County in 1894 when his companion, across the pond, sprayed him with birdshot, one lodging in his eye.
In 1898 Doctors Brimi and Kerr performed surgery on the gangrenous arm of William Gamble, removing leaden missiles dealt by a careless shooter. He recovered soon enough for the local editor to kid him about the just desserts of duck hunting on a Sunday. He was more fortunate than Guy Gannie of Sanborn, who in 1899 had to have his arm amputated at the elbow.
And so on through a litany of duck hunting accident reports, but one in 1893 stands out: a train wreck. A train derailed from the Northern Pacific Railway two miles south of New Rockford. The derailment upended a car, a coach chartered by a group of duck hunters, all of whom sustained injuries, several being borne away to the Davis hotel on stretchers.
These were not your usual local nimrods. For this was the Gilded Age, when the ostentations of wealth penetrated even to the duck marshes of North Dakota. There is another, grandiose hunting story yet to tell.
