A Newfoundland Caribou Hunt 



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and delight, there he lay in his tracks, stone 

 dead. My bullet had passed directly through 

 the left brow plow, cutting a clean hole three 

 inches long, and smashed into his brain, killing 

 him instantly." 



My last kill was made the following day, the 

 last in camp. It was pouring rain and very 

 foggy, but I set forth with Tom, Fred and 

 Elias, and arrived upon the barrens about 

 noon. What a bleak prospect it was! The 

 steady rains of the past week had flooded the 

 entire plain with icy water, above which the 

 wiry grasses waved mournfully. The fine rain 

 drove almost level before a fierce north wind, 

 and a thin gray fog obscured clear vision. 

 But we determined not to give up, and, leav- 

 ing Fred and Elias to skin out the kill of the 

 night previous, Tom and I set forth, splashing 

 across the plain. We had gone perhaps a 

 half mile, and had just breasted the brow of 

 a swell, when simultaneously we both ducked 

 low, and hurriedly ran down the hill again. 



We had discovered a band of thirty or 

 more caribou feeding a mile beyond us. Our 

 glasses showed three bulls, two of them very 

 large, and we held a war consultation. 



To begin with, the wind was wrong. Then 



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