The Journal of a Sporting Nomad 
crop a mouthful of lichen. I would not shoot, 
as he was directly facing me, so waited, patiently 
as I could, until he should turn _ broadside 
on. 
When about eighty yards off he gave me my 
chance, and I seized the opportunity, planting a 
bullet behind the shoulder—the thud of the hit 
was distinctly to be heard. The noticeable 
lameness disappeared as by magic. 
“You hit him all right,” shouted Pat, as we 
hurried to where the stag had vanished behind 
another knoll, up which we raced, to see him 
again standing facing us now, at about 160 yards 
distance. 
I fired again, and the big beast dropped his 
head with a spasmodic jerk. I was pumped 
with the run up the slope, and, in any case, it was 
a most difficult shot. Off went the caribou once 
more, going strong, showing no sign of being 
mortally wounded. 
A narrow strip of water faced him, a little 
lake some six feet wide by two hundred long, 
and he tried gallantly to negotiate the difficulty. 
It proved too much for his failing strength. He 
pecked badly on the far side, and suddenly 
rolled over stone dead. 
This head proved to be the best I obtained on 
the trip, and was quite an excellent one for the 
country. It was that of an old beast, with horns 
past their prime, in fact, they had been going 
26 
