570 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[April 15, 1911. 
Moreover, I imagined the buck putting miles 
between us, escaping into the forest to perish 
miserably in some remote place, and gradually 
my patience wore away. 
“I suppose we might as well,” said Rube in 
answer to my question. "We'll hev ter go awful 
careful, for I don’t believe he’s gone very far." 
This sounded good. A second time we took 
our way up the shore of the pond and reach¬ 
ing the end crossed the inlet—a narrow stream 
of cold, clear water—and struck into the woods 
on the other side. 
Instead of picking up the trail from the spot 
where the buck had stood when shot at, Rube 
went in diagonally, meaning to take it up on 
whatever runway the animal followed. And this 
he did. It was as pretty a piece of hunting 
craft as I have ever seen, for the woods just 
there were literally chopped into a network of 
deer paths, yet he had gone only a short dis¬ 
tance when he halted, stooped down, examined 
the ground closely, then straightened up with 
a quiet smile. Cut clean and fresh in the soft 
soil of a runway were the buck s tracks, and 
here and there on the green moss a telltale spot 
of red. 
The trail led forward up a steep spruce-ciad 
hill. Half way to the top we saw where the 
buck had turned off at right angles and clam¬ 
bered along the side of the slope. When a 
wounded animal leaves a runway thus, it usually 
means that he is hit very hard and will only 
go a short distance further, so we advanced with 
greater caution than ever. 
Just ahead a giant spruce had been tumbled 
down the hillside, its roots, matted with dirt 
and boulders, flung upright like a barrier across 
the trail. When we came within a few feet of 
it, Rube stopped, craned his neck, took a step 
forward, and slapping the gun to his shoulder, 
fired. Then he heaved a profound “Ah!” and 
threw the shell out of the chamber. Behind the 
upturned roots lay the buck, a swift bu.let hav¬ 
ing put an end to further suffering. 
“I just see the tip of his horn,” he explained. 
"I kinder had an idea he’d be layin’ behind that 
stub, but when I first see the motion I thought 
it was a squirrel flickerin’ round. Then I step¬ 
ped up closer and seen it wasn’t. Well, he’s a 
nice deer, ain’t he?” 
“Where’s he hit?” I asked, remembering the 
morning’s fusillade. 
"Ye held fer his shoulder, didn't ye?” 
“Yes,” I said, grimly. 
“Well, I can't find no mark.” Then in a mild 
tone: “I guess ye hit him in the hind leg.” 
Further questions I did not ask. As a matter 
of fact the best thing to do if you make a 
fluke shot, when without doubt you shou d have 
made a good one, is to retire discreetly into the 
profundities of silence, and blame the condi¬ 
tions—blame anything so long as it eases your 
conscience. Rube, however, was kind, and after 
talking it over we came to the decision that the 
moving fog had been the cause at least in part 
of such poor marksmanship. 
“Ye got the deer, anyway,” was his final com¬ 
ment. “That’s the main thing.” 
From the canvas pack Rube now brought forth 
rope and pulley block. These he secured to a 
stout balsam log which he stood in a half slant¬ 
ing, half upright position against the old spruce 
stub, and here the buck was swung high, be¬ 
yond the reach of foxes or other marauding 
night prowlers. Twenty minutes later the head 
was skinned and packed and ready for trans¬ 
portation to camp. The horns were slender and 
symmetrical, lacking the massive beauty of a 
heavier deer's, but making nevertheless a prettv 
trophy to recall, in the grime of civilized paths, 
memories of the wilderness. 
We sat late that evening around the camp¬ 
fire. The night was mild and dark with a smell 
of coming rain in the air. When the dishes had 
been washed and the blankets spread, we 
stretched ourselves luxuriantly and someone 
called for a bear story. 
"Let’s build up the fire if you're going to tell 
any bear stories,” said the Naiad. 
So Rube.stirred the glowing bed of coals with 
a beechwood poker, laid on two or three fresh 
logs and returned to his seat. The embers, 
catching the yellow curly birchbark, flared 
brightly while the circle of light warmed and 
A SKI JUMPER. 
widened, chasing backward the inky shadows 
of the forest. 
“You never got that one you chased for two 
weeks last fall, did you, Rube?” I inquired by 
way of a beginning. 
He twirled his thumbs meditatively and stared 
into the flames. 
“No, I hed hard luck with thet feller," he 
said at length; “ought ter hev got him. too.’ 
“Ever see him again after the first time you 
shot at him?” 
“I seen him once,” he said slowly. “I’d been 
chasin’ him fer a week in the snow, findin a 
little spot of blood here and there, pickin’ up 
his trail fresh from day ter day. Well, this 
time his tracks went up a mounting, and when 
I'd got about two-thirds of the way up I seen 
a small spruce jist ahead thet looked queer. 
Sure enough it was the bear lyin’ curled up 
under it, only a piece of him showin’ about as 
big as yer hat. I let go fer the piece thet was 
stickin’ out and the next minute a black streak 
went scootin’ down the hill. Thet was the last 
I ever seen of him.” 
“He was wounded badly, wasn’t he?” 
-The bullet went square through his shoulders, 
’cause he bled both sides, but it hit him too 
high up. I fol.ered him fer another week, then 
it snowed one night and I lost the trail.’ 
He paused and we listened to the snapping 
and crackling of the fire. Off in the woods a 
tree toad whistled plaintively. Still further 
away an owl gave vent to prolonged hootings. 
Presently Rube's voice broke upon the hush. 
"Ye run outer bears sometimes in queer ways, ’ 
he began. "I heerd of a young feller down ter 
Long Lake who came mighty near gettin’ mauled 
in jist such a way. He was huntin rabbits one 
day in November, and round noon set down to 
eat his lunch near an old log road. There was 
a big pile of brush off to one side partly cov¬ 
ered with snow. The sun was right on it, 
makin’ a nice warm place, so he dim’ up and 
made himself comfortable. Pretty soon when 
he was eatin’ his lunch he heered a little scratch- 
in' underneath him in the brush pile. It sounded 
jist like a rabbit, so he picked up his gun and 
peaked down through the twigs, tryin’ ter see 
what it was. Then all of a sudden the whole 
brush pile heaved up under him, dumped him 
over backward, and a great big bear went rush- 
in’ out the other side and away up the log 
road. Weil, sir, I guess his hair must hev stood 
on end till he got out of sight. It’s jist at 
times like this when a bear's scared thet he 11 
pounce on a man. I don t believe thet feller 
took much stock in rabbit huntin’ fer a good 
while afterward,” he ended with a chuckle, and 
I vowed inwardly to be wary in the future of 
large comfortable looking brush piles. 
“There was a minister livin’ down there about 
the same time who hed jist such another squeak, 
Rube went on. “Trailed a big bear in the snow 
up ter a ledge of rocks and found where he'd 
gone in a cave. I guess he must hev been kinder 
green on huntin’, fer he stood right in front of 
the cave, peerin’ in and tryin’ to see the bear. 
It must hev made the old feller restless bein 
looked at like thet by a dominy, and out he 
come lickety cut. His head struck the preacher 
square in the stomach and sent him flyin over 
a ledge into a snowbank.” 
Here Rube doubled up in a spasm of mirth. 
It was some minutes before he got breath enough 
to finish the narrative. 
“I’ve always wondered w r ho run the fastest^ 
the bear or the man. I’ll bet a dollar thet 
dominy never stopped ter look fer his gun, but 
jist picked hisself up and dug fer home. It 
was lucky fer him thet bear didn’t change his 
mind and come back. He must hev been skeered 
of gettin’ called up fer a revival meetin’.” 
Rube stopped speaking, shifted his hat back 
and forth on his head until it rested in the 
right place, and commenced idly to pluck the 
needles from a balsam twig. The shadows 
seemed to draw closer; the circle of firelight to 
wane and narrow. Contrasted with the out¬ 
lying world of blackness the interior of the 
tepee glowed with a warm and homely atmos¬ 
phere. A faint aromatic perfume came from 
the thick bed of balsam fans; a lone candle 
burning at the back and ingeniously fastened to 
an upright birch stick, cast wavering fantastic 
figures on the w'alls of yellow spruce bark. Al¬ 
ways the smell of rain 'grew stronger, the dark¬ 
ness of the night more impenetrable. Perhaps 
it w r as only a threat; perhaps next morning we 
