162 BIG GAME OF NORTH AMERICA. 



fallen headlong and dead. It was a case of the heart again, 

 for that organ was mere clotted blood when I came to draw 

 her. It was again a fine animal, in perfect coat and condi- 

 tion; and again I was glad. It was hunting, it was shoot- 

 ing, it was meat; but, more than all, it was the fine work of 

 my beautiful dog. I had time to go to camp for old George, 

 to ride back for my Deer, to load it on and lead him to 

 camp, before it was time for supper. It was again a satis- 

 factory day; and I slept soundly over its success and its 

 review. 



I had occasion here to notice again and particularly 

 the stiff, thumping jumps peculiar to the Mule Deer, and 

 marking him from his congener, the Virginia Deer, with its 

 free, graceful, elastic lope. The old buck was of immense 

 size and weight, and carried horns that would have been a 

 trophy little short of those of a bull Elk. While the does 

 and young Deer were bounding around in easy springs 

 that soon took them outside, the lord of the band wheeled 

 backward with a few pounding jumps; then back again to 

 the same point; then, with the same stiffened and ungrace- 

 ful action, down the hill -side and out of sight. I could 

 have shot him repeatedly, but the great, swollen neck pro- 

 claimed him in the midst of his season. I must sleep with 

 myself at night, and could not do it in peace, thinking of 

 the carcass of a great and noble animal shot merely for 

 slaughter, and left, tainted already while living, to rot on 

 the face of the hill. 



There is one subject connected with hunting, and the 

 forest and mountain, the very thought of which makes the 

 blood boil, and one's whole better nature revolt in indig- 

 nation. It is the wanton slaughter of our nobler game. 

 For the paltriest pay, for no pay at all, in mere thirst for 

 blood, in mere love of killing, the inhuman work has gone 

 on, till Bison, Elk, Mountain Sheep, have gone down before 

 the fell demon of greed and blood, and can only now be 

 found in the loneliest, most inaccessible recesses of the 

 mountains. The editor of the present work, in his " Cruis- 

 ings in the Cascades," has given us a scene of this kind 



