"A GRAN' SHOT!" 61 



Before the drive was over night shut down, and as the car clawed 

 its slippery way into the higher hills the familiar rain greeted us. The 

 dash of the wet drops in my face was a caress. It was like the "Glad 

 to see you back again !" of one who has waited for and welcomes 

 your return. 



The next morning with Donald for my pilot, I started upon a long 

 trudge toward Corrie Vattie; the gillies and the ponies were ready, 

 but I left it to the men to ride if they would. As for me I preferred 

 to walk. We went along the now quite familiar trail, zig-zagged up 

 over Stone End, dipped down to the level of the plateau beyond and 

 then up and down to the upper reaches of the preserve. 



From spying points we saw deer, but nothing which appealed to 

 Donald. For between nine and ten miles we stuck to the path and 

 made good time, then we swung off to the right through rough ground, 

 and made a half circle to spy at land which was unseeable from the 

 trail. After a long swing we worked back into the path again. It had 

 been raining during the morning and the wind blew strongly upon our 

 left sides as we followed the path. 



About half-past one a granite monolith as large as a country cottage 

 offered welcome shelter from the storm in which to dispose of 

 luncheon. From this point, after a very short pipe following the food, 

 we made up into the higher ground where Donald had spied some 

 feeding animals. A good look through the glass, one which I verified 

 through my binoculars, showed a fine, dark gray stag in the midst of 

 half a hundred deer. 



The stalk to get within shooting distance of him was a rather ex- 

 ceptional one, in that it called for moving over successive ridges 

 which lay at right angles to the line of our advance. Never was a 

 stalker's skill displayed to more advantage than in this movement. 

 Donald made no mistakes. He always picked the dead ground. 



We passed each high point out of sight of the suspicious and ever- 

 watchful deer. For, mark you well, these Scotch deer are far more 

 shy than those I have found anywhere upon the American Con- 

 tinent. Perhaps the open country in which they live explains this in 

 part. As we drew near it became increasingly apparent that there 

 were a number of hinds, far more watchful than the stags, between us 

 and the object of our pursuit. 



