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 



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