254 HUNTING SPORTS OF THE WEST. 



mark him ! he takes the gun from his shoulder, has 

 already thrown aside the leathered cover of the lock, and 

 is wiping the edge of his flint with his tongue. Now he 

 stands like a monumental figure, perhaps measuring the 

 distance that lies between him and the game which he 

 has in view. His rifle is slowly raised, the report fol- 

 lows, and he runs. Let us run also. Shall I speak to 

 him, and ask him the result of his first essay ? Assur- 

 edly, reader, for I know him well. 



"Pray, friend, what have you killed?" for to say, 

 "What have you shot at?" might imply the possibility 

 of his having missed, and so might hurt his feelings. 

 " Nothing but a buck." ' " And where is it ?" " Oh, it 

 has taken a jump or so, but I settled it, and will soon be 

 with it. My ball struck, and must have gone through 

 his heart." We arrive at the spot where the animal 

 had laid itself down among the grass, in a thicket 

 of grape vines, sumachs, and spruce bushes, where it in- 

 tended to repose during the middle of the day. The 

 place is covered with blood, the hoofs of the deer have 

 left deep prints in the ground, as it bounced in the ago- 

 nies produced by its wound; but the blood that has 

 gushed from its side, discloses the course which it has 

 taken. We soon reach the spot. There lies the buck, 

 its tongue out, its eye dim, its breath exhausted : it is 

 dead. The hunter draws his knife, cuts the buck's 

 throat almost asunder, and prepares to skin it. For 

 this purpose he hangs it upon^ the branch of a tree. 

 When the skin is removed, he cuts off the hams, and 

 abandoning the rest of the carcass to the wolves and 

 vultures, reloads his gun, flings the venison, enclosed by 



