SHOOTING A DEER. 67 



it, and if I had, should have considered it a mere 

 discoloration of the leaf, fac- similes of which occurred 

 at every step. The keen hawk eye of the Indian 

 hunter, however, could not be deceived, and he sim- 

 ply remarked, "He is hit deep or he would have bled 

 freer," and struck on the trail. But this baffled even 

 the Indian, for the marsh was covered with deer 

 tracks, and the bushes into which the wounded one 

 had sprung were a perfect matting of laurels and 

 low shrubs. There was no more blood to be found, 

 and we were perfectly at fault in our search. At 

 length, tired and disappointed, I returned to the boat 

 and stood waiting the return of Mitchell, when the 

 sharp crack of his rifle again rang through the forest, 

 followed soon after by a shrill whistle. I knew then 

 that a deer had fallen, and hastened to the spot. 

 There lay the beautiful creature stretched on the 

 moss, with the life-blood welling from her throat, and 

 over the body, watching, stood Mitchell leaning on 

 his rifle. Unable to find the trail, he had made a 

 shrewd guess as to the course the animal had taken, 

 and, making a circuit, finally came upon her, lain 

 down to die. At his approach, she sprang to her 

 feet, ran a few rods, fell again exhausted, when the 

 deadly aim of Mitchell planted a bullet directly back 

 of her ear, and her career was ended. 



Satisfied with our game, we gave up our fishing, 

 and, dragging the body to the boat, put back to our 

 camp. The rest of our company stood on the shore 

 waiting our return. They had heard the shots, and 

 were expecting the spoils. Some, no doubt, will 



