128 RECREATION 
for us they came, intending, evidently, to 
cross through the droke back to the big bog 
down which they were traveling when we first 
had seen them. 
“Funny about deer,’ reflected Billy. 
“Some parts of the season you can’t scare 
‘em. They cross the railroad track without 
a whimper, yet here to-day a whole flock 
stop short at the first smell of our trail.” 
‘“Must be something wrong with us,”’ 
said I, with a facetiousness I was far from 
feeling. I took the ‘‘safety”’ off, and resting 
the rifle with my elbows on my knees as I 
sat in the moss, sighted through the peep. 
The deer in the lead was now no more 
than eighty yards from us, when suddenly 
she changed her course and bore off to her 
right, broadside on, walking swiftly as 
before. This manceuver put her at right 
angles to the rest of the line and headed 
her north, the direction opposite to which 
they had originally traveled. 
‘“A plumb drawn circle,’ whispered 
Billy. ‘‘She was getting near our tracks 
again, so she shied off to the other drung 
they came across by before. She knows 
that’s clear anyhow.” 
The rest of the deer had now turned 
their brown flanks to us, imitating their 
leader’s action a second or so later than 
she, and wheeling on their own ground. 
Thus the stag in the rear of the file was now 
but 150 yards from us. He darkened up 
the peep-hole of the back sight with little room 
to spare. Finally I got the bead on the 
middle of the white patch on his fore 
shoulder. I filled my chest and pulled. 
At the report, instead of the stampede I 
expected, every beast halted short in its 
tracks and stood immovable as if stunned. 
The stag, untouched, held his head out 
and slightly down, and his horns stood 
straight up, high in air above his shoulders. 
“Away too high,” grunted Billy. “I 
seen the bullet plough up the moss three or 
four hundred yards past him.” 
I had forgotten to put down the sights 
from 600 yards, but I did not think it neces- 
sary to mention it. 
‘* Shoot! shoot!’ ” hissed Billy. ‘“‘Aim low 
and shoot again.” 
I had already fixed the ivory bead on 
the stag, and almost as he.spoke the gun 
roared out again. 
‘““You’ve got him,” remarked Billy, in a 
strangely natural voice after the long, 
tense huskiness. “Got him right in the 
middle of the shoulder.” 
He sprang to his feet, and at sight of him 
the herd took flight, heads back, white 
flags up. The stag alone stood his ground, 
his feet spread out and his great head 
lowered. 
“Shoot again,” 
again for luck.” 
‘‘No,” said I, ‘“‘he’s done.” 
As I spoke the poor brute sank, shoulder 
foremost in the moss. Strange how cold and 
repentant a man feels after the excitement 
is over. 
That night Old John and Sam didn’t 
get into camp till after dark. They were 
full of talk about the tracks they had seen 
and the adventures they had come through 
alive and unscathed. Billy and I said 
never a word. 
“Say,” cried Sam, ‘‘if we don’t get our 
limit of three heads apiece in this country 
we’re sucker shots. I’ve seen one hundred 
and fifteen thousand tracks if I’ve seen one 
—ain’t we, John?” 
“Just as you say, sir,” said Old John, 
cheerfully. 
‘“‘How many did you get?” said I. 
“How many what?” demanded Sam. 
‘“Pracks ?? 
‘‘Caribou, of course,’’ returned I. 
“How many did you ?” said Sam,counter - 
ing. 
‘“‘Just the one,”’ said I, and I pointed to 
the head in the shadow of the tent, and to the 
hide stretched on poles by the fire. 
“Holy Gingerarum. These fellows have 
a stag here!” 
“So Y see,” said John. 
yours, though, sir.” 
‘‘What! Did you get one, too?” cried I. 
“Two of them,’’ answered Sam, grinning 
like a boy. ‘‘Left the heads and hides 
at Scaffle Droke when it got dark. Got 
any tea, Billy?” 
‘Gallons of it,’ declared Billy. Then, 
urged Billy. “Shoot 
“Not so big as 
with a tone of proved conviction, he added, 
“T thought I heard shots to-day over handy 
to St. George’s.”’ 
Awful liar, that cook of ours, I. think. 
But camp cooks, bless them, generally 
are. 

