SERGEANT WILLIAM PATTERSON. 30 7 



and I slipped behind a tree. Great bounds he took, and 

 up the hill on my side he came, panting with the effort. 

 Gaining the ridge, he stopped, turned to look back, and 

 presented a full broadside view to me at not over one 

 hundred feet. As I fired he leaped into the brush, but 

 the great spurt of blood on the snow told the tale. I 

 gave a whoop, and got an answer, then called, "Come 

 over here!" and sat down on a log. It seemed hours 

 before Bill made the journey across the valley that the 

 buck had made in a very few minutes, if he really con- 

 sumed any time at all. We took the track, and down 

 by the river we found the deer, dead. Bill's bullet, shot 

 on the jump, had grazed the breast just back of the shoul- 

 der, cutting the hair and marking the skin an excellent 

 shot at a jumping deer, for no doubt it jumped before Bill 

 saw it. 



The buck was a fair-sized four-pronged one. We 

 dressed it, and then went to a spring, washed, and ate 

 our luncheon, for it was far past the noon hour. As we 

 lighted our pipes Bill remarked: "We'll divide that deer 

 when we get up, and it's about all we will want to carry 

 home. Under the rule that the first bullet hole takes the 

 hide it's mine, but you can have the head if you want 

 it." 



"All right, Bill; show up the hole and take the hide; 

 that's the rule." 



"Didn't I make a hole in his belly just behind the 

 shoulder? Do you mean to say I didn't hit him?" 



"There's a scratch there that a jury might decide was 

 made by your bullet, or might have been made by a pine 

 knot when the deer stepped over a log. I don't want the 

 hide; Charley Mallett wouldn't give over $i for it, any- 

 way. I am sure your bullet made the mark, for there 

 was fresh blood there, and the cut was across the breast, 



