62 THE WILDERNESS HUNTER. 



an open plain for the rush at the beginning. 

 The first plunge might take the wheelers' fore- 

 feet over the cross-bars of the leaders, but he 

 never stopped for that; on went the team, 

 running, bounding, rearing, tumbling, while 

 the wagon leaped behind, until gradually 

 things straightened out of their own accord. 

 I soon found, however, that I could not allow 

 him to carry a rifle ; for he was an inveterate 

 game butcher. In the presence of game the 

 old fellow became fairly wild with excitement, 

 and forgot the years and rheumatism which 

 had crippled him. Once, after a long and 

 tiresome day's hunt, we were walking home 

 together; he was carrying his boots in his 

 hands, bemoaning the fact that his feet hurt 

 him. Suddenly a whitetail jumped up; down 

 dropped Old Tompkins' boots, and away he 

 went like a college sprinter, entirely heedless 

 of stones and cactus. By some indiscriminate 

 firing at long range we dropped the deer ; and 

 as Old Tompkins cooled down he realized that 

 his bare feet had paid full penalty for his dash. 

 One of these wagon trips I remember be- 

 cause I missed a fair running shot which I 

 much desired to hit ; and afterwards hit a 

 very much more difficult shot about which I 

 cared very little. Ferguson and I, with Syl- 

 vane and one or two others, had gone a day's 

 journey down the river for a hunt. We went 

 along the bottoms, crossing the stream every 

 mile or so, with an occasional struggle through 

 mud or quicksand, or up the steep, rotten 

 banks. An old buffalo hunter drove the 

 wagon, with a couple of shaggy, bandy-legged 

 ponies ; the rest of us jogged along in front 



