They saw me and, as they
went to jump side-wise, my rifle spoke to another one and the voice of it
forbade him going any farther. That was the second word my rifle had
spoken that morning.
The deer turned and ran in a semi-circle half round me in plain sight,
then off, out of sight, over the ridge where Doctor Snow's farmhouse now
stands, in the town of Taylor. In a few moments out came my comrade; I
asked him, what the report of my rifle said, as it burst through the
thicket by him and echoed over the Indian hill. He said he thought it
spoke of luck. We followed the old buck a little ways over the ridge and
came to where he had made his last jump. He was a beautiful fellow,
equally as fine as the first one.
Then we thought we had done well enough for one day, we had each of us
one. So we cut a wooden hook, put it into his under-jaw, both took hold
and drew him up where the other one hung. We put them together and
started slowly for home. We were following along an old trail and had
drawn both deer about half a mile together, when we came to where five or
six deer had just crossed. They were going south-east and we were going
north-east.
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