92 The Wilderness Hunter 



Often I have killed prong-bucks while riding be- 

 tween the outlying line camps, which are usually 

 stationed a dozen miles or so back from the river, 

 where the Bad Lands melt into the prairie. In con- 

 tinually trying long shots, of course one occasional- 

 ly makes a remarkable hit. Once I remember while 

 riding down a broad, shallow coulie with two of 

 my cow-hands Seawell and Dow, both keen hunt- 

 ers and among the stanchest friends I have ever 

 had rousing a band of antelope which stood ir- 

 resolute at about a hundred yards until I killed one. 

 Then they dashed off, and I missed one shot, but 

 with my next, to my own utter astonishment, killed 

 the last of the band, a big buck, just as he topped 

 a rise four hundred yards away. To offset such 

 shots I have occasionally made an unaccountable 

 miss. Once I was hunting with the same two men, 

 on a rainy day, when we came on a bunch of ante- 

 lope some seventy yards off, lying down on the side 

 of a coulie, to escape the storm. They huddled to- 

 gether a moment to gaze, and, with stiffened fingers 

 I took a shot, my yellow oilskin slicker flapping 

 around me in the wind and rain. Down went one 

 buck, and away went the others. One of my men 

 walked up to the fallen beast, bent over it, and then 

 asked, "Where did you aim ?" Not reassured by the 

 question, I answered doubtfully, "Behind the shoul- 

 der;" whereat he remarked dryly, "Well, you hit 

 it in the eye!" I never did know whether I killed 



