LETTER XIX. 225 



absolutely has not spoken all day, lays his finger 

 on his lips, and, crouching like a cat, creeps on. 

 For quite a quarter of an hour we steal silent as 

 shadows through the snow, and then he stops, 

 his e}^es ablaze with excitement, but his figure 

 rigid. Slowly he stretches out and passes me 

 the rifle, and signs to me to look across the gully. 

 Two hundred yards away in the big trees a great 

 brown form is moving slowly. I get glimpses of 

 his body, but cannot see his head. ' Shoot, shoot 

 that one,' whispers Jocko. ' Shoot, or they'll be 

 gone.' I only see one, and only a small patch of 

 him from time to time between the pine-stems. 

 However, I fire. ' No, no ; there, there he is 

 now,' whispers Jocko, and again I fire at what 

 looks like my beast, going at a trot through the 

 timber. The smoke hangs, and as Jocko clutches 

 my arm and points to a brown patch standing 

 still between two pines, I fire again, as he whispers 

 hoarsely, ' Steady, don't hurry ; he won't give 

 you another chance.' As I fire, Jocko snatches 

 the rifle from my hand and goes off at best pace 

 across the valley. Another miss, I suppose 

 (though why, as I am a fair shot at any rate, I 

 cannot guess), and with my blood up, fatigue 

 forgotten, follow at my Indian's flying heels. 



For half an hour, it seems to me, we run and 

 stumble on. What does the fool expect, I wonder. 



15 



