The Journal of a Sporting Nomad 
nothing happened. Again the whistle, after a 
second’s interval, which aroused him this time, 
and within forty yards of us a grand bull slowly 
arose, stretching himself, standing broadside on 
to me. Now was my opportunity! Covering 
the centre of his shoulder-blade with the sights, 
I pressed the trigger, and the soft-nosed bullet 
hit him exactly where I had intended. He 
crumpled up as though he had been shot through 
the brain. 
This was much better. We found him stone 
dead—a nice symmetrical pair of horns, but 
small. 
“You'll get better than this,” said Pat 
prophetically, his words, as the words of all 
prophets should, luckily coming true. 
We cut off the head, leaving plenty of skin on 
the neck, gralloching the beast, and taking the 
kidneys with us. We stuck a piece of paper in a 
cleft stick, to enable us to describe the spot to 
our Indian, whom I meant to send out here to 
bring the meat into camp. 
It was now twelve o’clock, and the fresh air 
and an early breakfast had made us ravenous. 
We had lunch, therefore—cold caribou meat and 
bread washed down with a drink of water from 
the gulch below us. 
After smoking the pipe of peace we started off 
on our way back to camp, Pat carrying the head 
of my beast on his back, the horns resting one 
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