TRAIL OF THE SANDHILL STAG 



J 



ing* The Stag quickly quit the 

 hillock, not leaping or crashing 

 through the brush, he had years 

 ago got past that, but silent and 

 weasel-like threading the maze, he 

 disappeared* Yan crouched in the 

 willow thicket and strained his every 

 sense and tried to train his ears for 

 keener watching* A twig ticked in 

 the copse that he was in* Yan slowly 

 rose with nerve and sense at tightest 

 tense, the gun in line and as he 

 rose, there also rose, but fifteen feet 

 away, a wondrous pair of bronze 

 and ivory horns, a royal head, a 

 noble form behind it, and face to face 

 they stood, Yan and the Sandhill 

 Stag* At last at last, his life was 

 in Yan's hands* The Stag flinched 



86 



