February, 1919 
FOREST AND S T R E A ]\1 
55 
Andrew had the glass, when suddenly 
he said: “I can see the top of his horn. 
Sir.” I tried to find the horn and at 
last I found it and the tip of the other 
antler as well. We marked the spot by 
a tuft on the bog and then we 
held council. The more we ex- 
amined the ground the more 
difficult our object appeared. In 
fact its accomplishment seemed 
quite impossible. There was 
not even a scrap of cover any- 
where. However, there was no 
use in sitting there, doing noth- 
ing and as the ground fell away 
somewhat on our right, I crept 
down about another 50 yards. 
There I found another little 
hump in the bog and crept up 
it and spied for the stag 
again. At last I saw him! 
wonderful eyes! For me, it was one 
of those moments of rapture that only 
the hunter knows. The uncertainty of 
it! The excitement of it! Admiration 
of this thing of beauty! Desire for its 
posses- 
sion ! Pride \ 
in a diffi- 
cult ach- 
ievement all but accom- 
plished! And yet uncer- ^ 
tain of accomplishment! 
There is no analyzing our 
feelings in these indescrib- 
able moments. To have 
lived them is enough ! The 
wonderful eyes saw noth- 
ing. Down sank the ant- 
T HERE were his antlers right enough, 
about 500 yards away, and no 
I cover between us! So I tried what 
I have found successful with caribou 
1 more than once: I started straight for 
I the stag, glass in hand, warning Mc- 
I Andrew to follow and to do just as I 
j did. I had covered about 100 yards, 
j when the antlers moved. I threw my- 
! self down flat. McAndrew behind me 
1 did the same. Up came the antlers! We 
flattened ourselves on the wet bog. Up 
came the antlers! I could see their 
I splendid curve, like a lyre against the 
i sky. They turned sideways; then full 
again, and again sideways. The Black 
I Stag was searching the moor with his 
The Black Stag 
I 
lers in peace. I rose to my knees. There 
were the antlers, but no part of his body 
was visible. McAndrew had crept up to 
me by this. 
“How far do you make him?” I whis- 
pered. “150 to 200 yards. Sir,” he whis- 
pered back. I set my sight at 150; got 
to my feet, bent myself double, and made 
straight for the antlers. Up sprang the 
Stag! Bang! went my rifle! Away he 
dashed! Bang! went my rifle again. 
The Stag pitched on his head. 
“Glory be!” exclaimed McAndrew. But 
the Black Stag was not done yet! Up 
he struggled to his feet and dashed off 
to the left, down a slight incline. I 
pressed the trigger again. Miss-fire! 
The Stag disappeared. I threw out the 
bad cartridge; jammed home another; 
turned over the safety-bolt of my car- 
bine and ran for all I was worth to 
where the Stag had vanished. It was 
the opening of a little corrie, and as t 
ran along its edge I saw the Stag below 
me, about 80 yards off and evidently in 
difficulties; but making gamely for the 
hills. I shot at him again and ran along: 
the near bank, but could not see him for 
a moment. When he next came in view 
he was moving slowly. The noble beast 
was evidently spent. Another shot and 
down he came. A memorable stalk was 
over. Presently we started for the cot- 
tage; I with the skin, McAndrew with 
the great head. It took a full hour’s 
steady tramping to reach home. We 
were tired, but triumphant. The Black 
Stag had four bullets through him. 
Our Irish red deer die hard. 
THE RETURN FROM THE HUNT 
IT SOMETIMES HAPPENS THAT THE HUNTER EXPERIENCES THE HARDEST WORK AND 
HAS THE MOST EXCITING ADVENTURES WHILE COMING ,OUT OF THE WILDERNESS 
By JOHN P. HOLMAN 
M any have been the stories told of 
the delights of the hunter in the 
I seeking of game — of the joys of 
, the chase and the struggles he undergoes 
in getting into the game country. This 
is a story of the return from a hunt, as 
; it so happened that on this particular 
1 trip we experienced the hardest work 
and had the most exciting adventures 
while coming out of the wilderness. 
I We had been hunting Ovis Dalli — the 
1 white sheep of the North — in the moun- 
tains at the head of Killey River, Kenai 
j Peninsula, Alaska, had secured our quota 
j and were making an early morning start 
j for the bottomland. Our party consisted 
1 of Malcolm S. Mackay — my companion 
on many adventures — two guides, Ben 
] Sweasey and Andy Simons, two packers, 
I Walter Lodge and Tom Finnigan, and 
1 myself. 
I Ben had been my particular guide on 
[ the sheep hunt and in view of the fact 
I that this was fated to be his last hunt in 
the land he loved so well — he was 
; drowned shortly after our return in ful- 
i filling a dangerous duty for the sheriff 
of Seward — I like to dwell upon the traits 
of character that endeared him to ul all. 
He had been twenty years in Alaska 
: leading the rough, hard life of the wil- 
HOSE of our readers who re- 
member Mr. Holman’s story 
“Among the White Sheep of the 
North,” in last June’s issue of For- 
est AND Stream tvill welcome this 
narrative of the return from that 
I hunt. It will be published in two 
parts and though continuing the \ 
theme of Mr. Holman’s former tale, j 
it is complete in itself and of uru- •! 
j usual interest to the lover of far- 
\ away places. [EDITORS.] 
derness as dog-musher, trapper and 
guide. Ben was calm in temperament 
and very resourceful; he looked on life 
with the true philosophical mind and 
took a quiet enjoyment in his surround- 
ings. His droll chuckle over some amus- 
ing incident along the way bespoke a 
depth of dry and genuine humor. He 
was wonderfully alert in all his actions 
and possessed a patience that was truly 
marvelous. He loved the wild creatures 
and the environment in which they lived 
— his greatest joy was to wander away 
from camp during the long northern 
evenings and search the mountain slopes 
for bear; the big Brownies ever held his 
attention and he always seemed to be 
able to locate one of those immense brutes 
feeding in some far away draw or slide. 
Andy, who had led Mackay many a long 
and interesting chase in quest of the wily 
sheep, was also steeped in the ways of 
the open; he knew all the experiences of 
the rugged life of the Alaskan and was 
full of humor and the joy of living. 
Walter was quiet in temperament and 
strongly imbued with the spirit of indo- 
mitable courage — could carry his own 
weight if necessary uncomplainingly for 
miles — was resourceful to a degree and a 
wonderful hand at the cooking of food. 
Tom Finnigan was the giant of our party 
and the youngest in years, witty as his 
name implied and bubbling over with 
youth and exuberance of spirits. A truly 
congenial and happy time we had had to- 
gether; and now we were strung out 
along a steep trail — picking our way 
through the long grass wet with the 
heavy dew of early fall. 
M any days of relentless toil were 
behind us — the fever of the hunt 
had spent itself and the contempla- 
tion of a leisurely journey back to civili- 
zation stimulated our senses with delight. 
