THE RED DEER 
The fifty upper hinds had moved up for shelter and were all crowded 
at “ gaze ” only thirty or forty yards away. The “ big stag ” was standing 
broadside on about 200 yards down the hill, whilst his other wives, some 
fifty yards below him, stood about in straggling groups. The wind, which 
came with the snow, was swirling, and at any moment those hinds so 
close to us might get a puff, so I decided to shoot at once, despite the fact 
that it was a long shot and the light bad. As I gingerly withdrew the rifle 
from the cover I saw the stag turn up hill, roar twice, and walk towards 
us. He advanced for fifty yards and then quite suddenly lay down in long 
grass. This was most disconcerting and unfortunate, just as I had 
counted on an easy shot. I got the rifle trained upon him and ready to fire 
immediately he rose to his feet in case the hinds should move in alarm. 
But not a hind stirred, and for half an hour the snow fell and we got 
colder and colder. 
Then my teeth began to chatter, and my body to shake; so the moment 
of action had arrived. It had to be now or never. 
“I’ll tell you what I am going to do, X.,” I said, “ I have a nice rest 
here, and I believe I can hit the neck. If I miss him he is sure to spring 
to his feet and stand. He is too far off to bolt with these hinds above him.” 
X. was entirely opposed to my plan, and counselled patience. Patience 
was not the least exhausted, but the possibility of keeping still for the 
shot was nearly gone; so I took my own way. It was a small and dim target 
I was firing at, but I knew my old Mannlicher, and had confidence in my 
ability to hit the object, so taking a full sight with the one hundred yards 
I pressed the trigger as if my life depended on the shot. The explosion 
echoed through the valley; “the big stag ” sprang to his feet, hesitated 
a moment, and then ran up hill straight towards us. Hastily I ejected the 
exploded cartridge and fired straight at his chest. This time there was 
the loud crack of lead meeting meat, and over went the stag with his feet 
in the air: “the big stag” was mine. My first shot had cut the wind- 
pipe. 
He was the best Scotch stag I have shot, weighing just over 20 stone, 
clean, with a head measurement of thirty -four and a half and thirty -four 
inches span, and eleven points. I confess the head, though good, somewhat 
disappointed me, for I had conjured up somewhat romantic measure- 
ments on my first view on a bright day, and errors of dimension are 
easy to make in Scottish forests where anything over thirty-two inches is 
a rarity nowadays. In Mr Macleay’s shop, where I afterwards saw the 
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