THE RED DEER 
the “ laird himser ” shall fire the fatal shot, but something always happens 
either in finding the deer, in the stalk being muddled, or, worst of all, 
in the errors of human eyes and nerves. So the “ big stag ” slowly vanishes 
and does not always return. If he does do so he is missed again, or is killed 
by the least important of the guests, or perhaps the lessee’s grandson, 
who has gone out with a pea rifie to stalk a blue hare. 
Yet we all love to hear of the “ big stag,” and hope that some day we 
may meet and kill him, and that our host will be an angel and give us the 
head. Before that happy day occurs to the reader, however, there will be 
many contretemps for the chances of attaining the desired end are small — 
there is so much against the stalker who is a mere guest. 
In the first place he goes to a forest for a short week or, if he is lucky, 
for a fortnight, whereas his host, who is himself here to slay the mighty 
one, is there all the season, and the stalkers are sure to favour their master, 
as they have every right to do. Secondly the ” great one ” is not a fool, 
and will scarcely expose his royal person much before October 5, up to 
which time he is either hidden away in some crannie above the clouds, 
safely buried in the sanctuary, or reposing on mossy couches in the heart 
of some dense wood, from which he will only emerge at sunset or in the 
night itself. If he is seen or known to frequent a certain hill, glasses are on 
the look out for him, and the favoured one is given the shot. In proportion 
to his size and the number of his points is the estimation in which he is 
held, and the greater these merits the less chance has the casual guest 
even to see him. Still we may all see him some day^ which gives us hope, 
for he has a kindly knack of doing the unexpected, and appearing at times 
when he is thought to be far away. 
Until I went to Dalness in 1897 I had met two of those great stags, and 
on both occasions luck had been entirely against me, for had conditions 
prevailed, as they do in real big-game hunting, I should most probably 
have killed them both. The first misfortune occurred in a large forest 
in the west of Scotland, where stags were both good and numerous, but 
fine heads very rare. The day was of the usual west coast type, though 
somewhat better than usual. In fact, it was pouring in torrents. The 
stalker and I had seen a good stag with some hinds grazing in a corrie 
below, and after a rise to the mist edge, we descended somewhat abruptly 
to come in on our stag. As we did so I saw a single stag lying facing us 
on the hill opposite, and was aware, even without the aid of a glass, that 
we were in the presence of something remarkable. D., the stalker, seeing 
113 
Q 
