Anxious to lose no fine day they had worked steadily on the shanty, not
even going after the deer that were seen occasionally over the lake, so
that now they were out of fresh meat, and Rolf saw a chance he long had
looked for. “Quonab, I want to go out alone and get a deer, and I want
your gun.
“Ugh! you shall go. To-night is good.”
“To-night” meant evening, so Rolf set out alone as soon as the sun was
low, for during the heat of the day the deer are commonly lying in some
thicket. In general, he knew enough to travel up wind, and to go as
silently as possible. The southwest wind was blowing softly, and so he
quickened his steps southwesterly which meant along the lake. Tracks and
signs abounded; it was impossible to follow any one trail. His plan was
to keep on silently, trusting to luck, nor did he have long to wait.
Across a little opening of the woods to the west he saw a movement in
the bushes, but it ceased, and he was in doubt whether the creature,
presumably a deer, was standing there or had gone on. “Never quit till
you are sure,” was one of Quonab's wise adages. Rolf was bound to know
what it was that had moved. So he stood still and waited. A minute
passed; another; many; a long time; and still he waited, but got no
further sign of life from the bush. Then he began to think he was
mistaken; yet it was good huntercraft to find out what that was. He
tried the wind several times, first by wetting his finger, which test
said “southwest”; second, by tossing up some handfuls of dried grass,
which said “yes, southwest, but veering southerly in this glade.” So he
knew he might crawl silently to the north side of that bush. He looked
to the priming of his gun and began a slow and stealthy stalk, selecting
such openings as might be passed without effort or movement of bushes or
likelihood of sound. He worked his way step by step; each time his foot
was lifted he set it down again only after trying the footing. At each
step he paused to look and listen. It was only one hundred yards to the
interesting spot, but Rolf was fifteen minutes in covering the distance,
and more than once, he got a great start as a chicadee flew out or
a woodpecker tapped. His heart beat louder and louder, so it seemed
everything near must hear; but he kept on his careful stalk, and at last
had reached the thicket that had given him such thrills and hopes. Here
he stood and watched for a full minute. Again he tried the wind, and
proceeded to circle slowly to the west of the place.
After a long, tense crawl of twenty yards he came on the track and sign
of a big buck, perfectly fresh, and again his heart worked harder;
it seemed to be pumping his neck full of blood, so he was choking. He
judged it best to follow this hot trail for a time, and holding his gun
ready cocked he stepped softly onward. A bluejay cried out, “jay, jay!”
with startling loudness, and seemingly enjoyed his pent-up excitement. A
few steps forward at slow, careful stalk, and then behind him he heard
a loud whistling hiss. Instantly turning he found himself face to face
with a great, splendid buck in the short blue coat. There not thirty
yards away he stood, the creature he had been stalking so long, in plain
view now, broadside on. They gazed each at the other, perfectly still
for a few seconds, then Rolf without undue movement brought the gun
to bear, and still the buck stood gazing. The gun was up, but oh, how
disgustingly it wabbled and shook! and the steadier Rolf tried to bold
it, the more it trembled, until from that wretched gun the palsy spread
all over his body; his breath came tremulously, his legs and arms were
shaking, and at last, as the deer moved its head to get a better view
and raised its tail, the lad, making an effort at selfcontrol, pulled
the trigger. Bang! and the buck went lightly bounding out of sight.
Poor Rolf; how disgusted he felt; positively sick with self-contempt.
Thirty yards, standing, broadside on, full daylight, a big buck, a clean
miss. Yes, there was the bullet hole in a tree, five feet above the
deer's head. “I'm no good; I'll never be a hunter,” he groaned, then
turned and slowly tramped back to camp. Quonab looked inquiringly, for,
of course, he heard the shot. He saw a glum and sorry-looking youth, who
in response to his inquiring look gave merely a head-shake, and hung up
the gun with a vicious bang.
Quonab took down the gun, wiped it out, reloaded it, then turning to the
boy said: “Nibowaka, you feel pretty sick. Ugh! You know why? You got
a good chance, but you got buck fever. It is always so, every one the
first time. You go again to-morrow and you get your deer.”
Rolf made no reply. So Quonab ventured, “You want me to go?” That
settled it for Rolf; his pride was touched.
“No; I'll go again in the morning.”
In the dew time he was away once more on the hunting trail. There was
no wind, but the southwest was the likeliest to spring up. So he went
nearly over his last night's track. He found it much easier to go
silently now when all the world was dew wet, and travelled quickly. Past
the fateful glade he went, noted again the tree torn several feet too
high up, and on. Then the cry of a bluejay rang out; this is often a
notification of deer at hand. It always is warning of something doing,
and no wise hunter ignores it.
Rolf stood for a moment listening and peering. He thought he heard a
scraping sound; then again the bluejay, but the former ceased and the
jay-note died in the distance. He crept cautiously on again for a few
minutes; another opening appeared. He studied this from a hiding place;
then far across he saw a little flash near the ground. His heart gave
a jump; he studied the place, saw again the flash and then made out the
head of a deer, a doe that was lying in the long grass. The flash was
made by its ear shaking off a fly. Rolf looked to his priming, braced
himself, got fully ready, then gave a short, sharp whistle; instantly
the doe rose to her feet; then another appeared, a sinal one; then a
young buck; all stood gazing his way.
Up went the gun, but again its muzzle began to wabble. Rolf lowered it,
said grimly and savagely to himself, “I will not shake this time.” The
deer stretched themselves and began slowly walking toward the lake. All
had disappeared but the buck. Rolf gave another whistle that turned the
antler-bearer to a statue. Controlling himself with a strong “I
will,” he raised the gun, held it steadily, and fired. The buck gave
a gathering spasm, a bound, and disappeared. Rolf felt sick again with
disgust, but he reloaded, then hastily went forward.
There was the deep imprint showing where the buck had bounded at the
shot, but no blood. He followed, and a dozen feet away found the next
hoof marks and on them a bright-red stain; on and another splash; and
more and shortening bounds, till one hundred yards away--yes, there it
lay; the round, gray form, quite dead, shot through the heart.
Rolf gave a long, rolling war cry and got an answer from a point that
was startlingly near, and Quonab stepped from behind a tree.
“I got him,” shouted Rolf.
The Indian smiled. “I knew you would, so I followed; last night I knew
you must have your shakes, so let you go it alone.”
Very carefully that deer was skinned, and Rolf learned the reason for
many little modes of procedure.
After the hide was removed from the body (not the hand or legs), Quonab
carefully cut out the-broad sheath of tendon that cover the muscles,
beginning at the hip bones on the back and extending up to the
shoulders; this is the sewing sinew. Then he cut out the two long
fillets of meat that lie on each side of the spine outside (the loin)
and the two smaller ones inside (the tenderloin).
These, with the four quarters, the heart, and the kidneys, were put into
the hide. The entrails, head, neck, legs, feet, he left for the foxes,
but the hip bone or sacrum he hung in a tree with three little red
yarns from them, so that the Great Spirit would be pleased and send good
hunting. Then addressing the head he said: “Little brother, forgive
us. We are sorry to kill you. Behold! we give you the honour of red
streamers.” Then bearing the rest they tramped back to camp.
The meat wrapped in sacks to keep off the flies was hung in the shade,
but the hide he buried in the warm mud of a swamp hole, and three days
later, when the hair began to slip, he scraped it clean. A broad ash
wood hoop he had made ready and when the green rawhide was strained on
it again the Indian had an Indian drum.
It was not truly dry for two or three days and as it tightened on its
frame it gave forth little sounds of click and shrinkage that told of
the strain the tensioned rawhide made. Quonab tried it that night as he
sat by the fire softly singing:
“Ho da ho-he da he.”
But the next day before sunrise he climbed the hill and sitting on the
sun-up rock he hailed the Day God with the invocation, as he had not
sung it since the day they left the great rock above the Asalnuk, and
followed with the song:
“Father, we thank thee; We have found the good hunting. There is meat in
the wigwam.”