18 MY SPORTING HOLIDAYS 



death. He was scarce 30 yards from the muzzle of 

 my rifle, and I could hear his trotting footsteps on the 

 heather. The light was fading, but I saw all I wanted 

 on the fore-sight of my rifle as I pressed. The stag 

 rushed madly up the hill, and 60 yards away fell with 

 a crash, stone-dead. ' Through the heart,' said Sandy. 

 The frightened hinds galloped off to their accustomed 

 haunts under the dark sides of Ben Loyal. So the 

 tale of twelve stags was completed, and we tramped 

 home ten miles to the lodge by the sea, light- 

 heartedly, cheerily, with programme carried out and 

 desire attained. 



The foregoing are samples of some successful 

 stalking incidents that have fallen to my lot. Failures 

 and mischances are common enough in sport, and I 

 have had my full share of them, when at times nothing 

 seemed to go right. Wind will shift, bullets go astray, 

 or game, perchance, prove undiscoverable or unap- 

 proachable. But successful episodes are pleasanter 

 to remember and to recount, and so, while on the 

 subject, I may as well finish up this chapter by relating 

 how I once shot a cock capercaillie, a stag, and a white- 

 tailed eagle with three consecutive shots of a single 

 Henry express rifle, all within the space of ten minutes 

 or less. 



It was blowing a gale of wind on the island of Hit- 

 ter en, and I was out on the far side of Strom with 

 Eric, our chief stalker. We had traversed a long belt 

 of wood without sight or sign of game. The evening 

 was drawing on, and I had begun to look upon it as a 

 blank day, when towards the end of our beat I caught 

 sight of a fine old cock 'caillie on the ground some 

 60 yards away. The noise of the gale had enabled us 

 to approach unheard. The temptation was not to be 



