THE VIRGINIA DEER. 199 



quarters. How she had managed to run so far was a 

 mystery. Si cut her throat, and soon the quarters were 

 dangling from the saddle-horns, as we galloped northward. 

 Later in the day, another band was found, and several more 

 were killed, loaded up, and then the homeward trail was 

 struck. But the sport of the day was not over. When 

 within two miles of the cabin a magnificent buck started 

 from a sheltering arroyo, and before he passed over the hill 

 a ball whistled over him, which considerably accelerated his 

 speed. We considered the chances as ten to one that we 

 would never see him again; but he could not run a bluff 

 with impunity, so we cached the Antelope-meat and started 

 in pursuit. After a hot ride of an hour, we started him 

 from another canon. This time he doubled on his trail, #nd 

 dashed for the point where he was first found. We had no 

 idea that he would stop this time, and our horses were so 

 tired that we leisurely retraced our way, content with the 

 prospect for supper. How long we had struggled over rocks 

 and through sage-brush I can not tell. Suddenly, Si almost 

 fell from his horse, and lay flat on the ground. I followed 

 suit. There, just ahead, on an elevation, we could see a 

 pair of branching antlers, showing that the stag was wary. 

 Si rested his Winchester on a rock, and I was to crawl 

 nearer if possible. I had gone perhaps thirty yards through 

 the sage-brush, when I heard a shot; a ball whistled over 

 me, and I raised in time to see the monarch of the glen 

 plunge headlong into a canon. When we reached the spot 

 he rose on his fore legs and shook his horns defiantly, but 

 his backbone was broken, and a grace-shot through the head 

 made him our game. 



Then homeward with our load, in the early gloaming. 

 For supper we had the juciest and most tender Antelope 

 and the toughest venison I have ever tasted, and after a 

 pipeful of "Lone Jack" I lay down to dream of another 

 Christmas in the semi-tropical forest of Orizaba. 



W r e all have stored away, somewhere in the archives of 

 memory, records of these red-letter days. They may have 



