A Newfoundland Caribou Hunt 



At the crack he plunged forward and ran, 

 side on, down the beach. Pumping the lever, 

 I swung ahead of him, waited, saw his head 

 enter my sight, then his shoulder, and fired 

 again. Instantly he pitched headlong, and 

 lay motionless at the water's edge. 



A sound came over the lake the fall and 

 sweep of oars. The butchers were coming. 

 My part was done. 



I arose and started down the beach. I 

 think my contentment was perfect. I patted 

 my Winchester lovingly. 



" Those are nice cartridges," I said. 



William smiled most affably. 



"That's a good gun," he remarked. "You 

 didn't need your third shot." 



And, smiling amiably together, we con- 

 tinued our walk. 



At the spot where the bull had stood and 

 received my first and second salutes, we 

 halted. 



The sand was trampled and crushed into a 

 regular caribou camp. Evidently the old fel- 

 low had been living there many days, waiting, 

 no doubt, for his cows to swim across the lake 

 to him. 



We saw where my first shot had nipped the 

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