February, 1921 
FOREST AND STREAM 
55 
The best way to pack a deer in the South 
deer at forty yards, but, of course, there 
always remains the uncertainty of 
whether the shot will take effect in a 
vital place. The head, the neck, the 
spine, the heart, the paunch: these are 
the vital places. But buckshot in the 
muscular parts may be no better than 
a clean miss. Even a deer with a 
broken leg can sometimes get away, 
even from dogs. I followed one buck 
so crippled that ran three miles, and 
then plunged into a river. I am sure 
he would have escaped had not a big 
grapevine, hanging over the water in a 
convenient nook, so engaged his horns 
that he was held until I rode up. On 
another occasion some friends and I 
vainly followed a buck that had his 
right hindleg broken below the knee. 
But the next season, in the same drive, 
we killed a three-legged stag. The in- 
jured part had sloughed off very neatly, 
and the stag was in prime condition. 
Indeed, I doubt if there is another wild 
animal which can more completely and 
more quickly recover from severe 
wounds than the deer ; this is due, natu- 
rally, to that perfection of health which 
characterizes most creatures in a wild 
state. 
A FTER I had been posted, I moved 
forward a few paces; it is safe to 
do this when a shotgun is used, 
but hardly where a rifle is handled. 
Before me was a dense shelter of tan- 
gled jasmine vines. My advance 
brought me up to this, and no sooner 
had I touched the vines, then out rocked 
a doe and her yearling fawn. I did not 
fire: first, because while in most parts 
of the South does may under the law be 
killed, there is small sport in it; and 
secondly because a flashing white tail, 
then another, and the momentary glist- 
en of rounded haunches was all that 
was afforded me in the way of a chance 
for a shot. These deer had lain quietly 
near the trail until we passed; indeed, 
they would have kept their beds had I 
not almost kicked them out. This be- 
havior is characteristic of a deer, but 
more especially of a buck, who thinks 
no manceuver quite so wary as the prac- 
tice of lying so close that he will be 
passed over. I know a negro, Henry 
Washington by name, who was knocked 
down by a buck which literally jumped 
on him when springing out of his lair 
in a patch of gallberries. And the stag 
knew well enough that danger was 
near, for Henry had a pair of trailing 
dogs in leash, and they, to quote the ne- 
gro’s vivid description of the empasse, 
“done been in the bed with the buck.” 
The two deer which I had started had 
gone toward the driver, and I thought 
it likely that they might come back to 
us. Nor had we long to wait before we 
were informed that something was mak- 
ing for our roadway. Through the still 
forest, whose dreamy airs move in 
quiet, flutelike melodies among the tow- 
ering pines, there now sounded the mel- 
low “view holloo” of the driver. The 
hounds, that had until this moment been 
trailing in a desultory fashion, now 
broke forth into glad tidings. But from 
the way they circled and doubled, I 
knew the deer was just dodging. The 
whitetail will play in front of hounds 
precisely as a rabbit does, and he willj 
return at last to the neighborhood 
where he was started, just as is the 
bunny’s fashion in a race. In the kind 
of a place in which we were hunting, 
I knew that we might easily jump ten 
or fifteen deer in one drive, but that 
many of them would dodge so cleverly 
that they would never cross the road. 
At last one did; for away to my left a 
gun spoke the word. A few moments 
later two more barrels were heard. 
Suddenly the brush to my right crashed. 
But intense stillness followed. Then I 
distinctly heard “plunk! plunk!” A 
deer was hopping through a small pond. 
The dogs were far off to the left, and 
this deer thought himself clear. Sud- 
denly he showed himself. He was an 
old stag — a curious creature, with 
long, straight horns, — as they sometimes 
grow when a deer is past his prime. 1 
never saw so much concentrated wari- 
From the collection of M. S. Jones, Jr., 
Titusville, Florida 
ness in a wild creature. But he never 
made me out. A shot at thirty-five 
yards brought him down. As he fell, 
another gun blared out to the' right of 
me. But following this there was no 
more shooting. Some of the dogs came 
up. Harry Lofton appeared, and hav- 
ing wound his horn, he began to talk 
the drive over with me and with the 
other gathering hunters. When we 
were together again, we found that we 
had three deer,— -all bucks, thgugh one 
was only a yearling. As is usual, al- 
ways and everywhere, the finest stag 
in the drive got away. One of our 
party had twice shot at him. 
“I held on him,” he claimed as we be- 
gan to press him for an explanation of 
his conduct, “but just as I fired, he 
made a big jump. I think he jumped 
over the shot.” 
“Next time I’ll drive an old cow to 
you,” said Lofton. 
“If you do,” retorted another, “he’ll 
make a bull of it.” 
“How far away was he?” I asked. 
“No need to ask that, man,” said 
Lofton; “don’t you see that splotch of 
mud on his coat? The old buck kicked 
that up there. It’s a wonder,” he add- 
ed gravely, “that he wasn’t run over 
and trampled.” 
Such bantering kept up while we 
were sloshing back toward our horses. 
Lofton went back through the drive, 
while we carried the deer slung on 
poles. By the time we had traversed 
the three miles of swampy road, made 
worse by much inundated corduroy, we 
were a little blown. A planter’s house 
was near and as he was one of our 
party, we headed in that kindly direc- 
tion. 
On arriving we found that, probably 
for days, our coming to this dinner 
must have been expected. But I must 
forbear a description, for I sympathize 
deeply with the old negro who once said 
pathetically, when his master was going 
into the details of some famous drink: 
“Please, sah, you oughtn’t to mention 
dem things ’less you got some ’long wid 
you.” But I may say that when a man 
has brown cornbread and coffee, fried 
