THE GUN AT HOME AND ABROAD 
moved off. Firing at the big one, I saw the moss fly up between his forelegs, 
and my second shot Kristian thought had hit him, as he plunged to one 
side. Then ensued some of the most extraordinary tactics I have ever 
seen evinced by wild animals, except perhaps by the white -tailed gnu who, 
under similar circumstances, goes on like a thing demented. Both the 
elk commenced running slowly in circles, then for a moment they would 
trot three or four paces in one direction and as suddenly turn off in another. 
Once or twice they stopped dead — both of them — turned round, and then 
took a pace or two to the rear again. Certainly no other deer, that I have 
ever seen, behaved so strangely in the face of danger. It was evidently done 
for the purpose of disconcerting the hunter’s aim, these seemingly stupid 
old elk having somehow grasped the fact that between the flash of the rifle 
and the striking of the bullet there was an interval during which they could 
alter the line of their movements and so avoid being struck. These curious 
evolutions were carried on until the creatures were approaching the sky 
line about 700 yards away, when any further attempt to arrest their pro- 
gress would have been useless. Three times I was within an ace of hitting 
the big fellow, but at the critical moment he altered his direction, and the 
shot was a miss. What is the best course to pursue when an animal behaves 
like this is more than I can say. One never knows what he will do next, 
and the most careful allowances to meet the exigencies of pace, direction, 
and windage are thrown out of gear. Kristian told me that he had often seen 
old elk run about in this fashion, and that they almost invariably did so 
when startled in perfectly open ground at some distance from the hunter. 
When frightened in timber, they run straight away, avoiding altogether 
these zigzag tactics. 
We followed on the track of the two bulls for several miles right over 
the top of the highest mountain and even on the snow itself, the mere chance 
of a stray bullet having hit the magnificent fellow being more tempting 
than the pursuit of fresh tracks. Ye Gods! what a head he had as he crossed 
the sky-line. “ There are few like him in Norway,” sadly murmured 
Kristian, as we finally gave up the pursuit in despair. 
Having thoroughly worked all the ground that could be covered in a day’s 
march from the Grondalen Farm, I returned to Lassimoen on September 19 
and started next day on another expedition, with consequences thus re- 
corded in my diary. 
September 20. Another glorious day, the Namsen like a mirror. Frosts 
now occur every night and all the leaves are falling from the birches in 
280 
