IN THE LAND OF THE BORA. 



289 



the most artful old buck living. Except ou a 

 snowfield, they invariably seem to select loose 

 stones to tread on, and I have hardly ever been 

 out without my attention being attracted to some 

 of them in this manner. 



In the very first days of one's chamois-shooting, 

 one takes a running shot like this ; misses, of 

 course ; and the game goes on for a week. I 

 had already learnt better. During that first mad 

 rush I had dropped on my knee and cocked my 

 gun, and my finger was on the upper leaf of the 

 backsight in case it should be prolonged. But 

 it was not ; on a peak about a hundred yards off 

 he stopped and looked back. He must have 

 stopped longer than usual, too, for I remember 

 that, having cocked my favourite left barrel, I 

 pressed the right trigger and took the weapon 

 down to see what was up. Probably my doubled- 

 up aiming position puzzled him; perhaps it was 

 because he had never seen a man in a kilt before. 

 Very little time, however, was lost before the 

 report rang out and he was down ; down, never- 

 theless, to be up in a second, long before I had 

 reloaded. But I judged that the first downward 

 leap ended in another fall. Directly afterwards 

 he dashed down on to the long snow-slope, but 

 scarcely had he struck it when his wounded 

 shoulder gave, and he rolled anyhow down the 

 next hundred yards, staining the snow with blood. 



u 



