372 AN AMERICAN HUNTER 



at any bear that might come across it. I was following 

 Harley Metcalf, with John Mcllhenny and Dr. Rixey 

 behind on the way to their posts, when we heard in the 

 far-off distance two of the younger hounds, evidently on 

 the trail of a deer. Almost immediately afterward a 

 crash in the bushes at our right hand and behind us made 

 me turn around, and I saw a deer running across the few 

 feet of open space; and as I leaped from my horse it dis- 

 appeared in the cane. I am a rather deliberate shot, and 

 under any circumstances a rifle is not the best weapon 

 for snap shooting, while there is no kind of shooting more 

 difficult than on running game in a canebrake. Luck 

 favored me in this instance, however, for there was a spot 

 a little ahead of where the deer entered in which the cane 

 was thinner, and I kept my rifle on its indistinct, shadowy 

 outline until it reached this spot; it then ran quartering 

 away from me, which made my shot much easier, although 

 I could only catch its general outline through the cane. 

 But the 45-70 which I was using is a powerful gun and 

 shoots right through cane or bushes; and as soon as I 

 pulled trigger the deer, with a bleat, turned a tremen- 

 dous somersault and was dead when we reached it. I 

 was not a little pleased that my bullet should have 

 sped so true when I was making my first shot in com- 

 pany with my hard-riding, straight-shooting planter 

 friends. 



But no bears were to be found. We waited long hours 

 on likely stands. We rode around the canebrakes 

 through the swampy jungle, or threaded our way across 

 them on trails cut by the heavy wood-knives of my com- 



