By W. G. SCOTT
Let me say right here that we do not have guides and servants to make our "feather" beds, cook, cut wood, etc., as I consider them unnecessary luxuries. Each man does his duty in and about camp and for the feather beds we have two feet of fine balsam boughs and only those who have tramped the woods all day, know how they can sleep after a good hearty supper and pipe.
This particular paradise of ours lies about 100 miles above the Straits of Mackinac and not far from the largest of the Great Lakes. We usually plan on having about the last ten days of the season to hunt as the cold weather in
the north, hunters on each side of us, and together with the wolves drive the deer in great numbers to the territory in which we hunt. The hunt which I shall describe occurred in the fall of 1918.
The party I was to go with left some three days before I could get away. But in due time I arrived on the scene about dark with about four miles to walk with a grip, blankets and rifle, and also to a strange camp as the boys decided to go to a new stamping ground, but in time I found them, using no little ammunition to do so and the old tent sure did look good to me. I found that the boys had killed a nice spike buck for camp use and also had one hung up to take home. After a good night's sleep and pancakes, we started for the hunting grounds; two of us located ourselves on runways on a large marsh, where the deer, if driven, were almost sure to travel from one body of timber to the other. I was standing in a clump of tamarack brush, all eyes, when after waiting about fifteen minutes I heard my brother-in-law yell, "Watch out, he's coming!" and looking in that direction I saw a fine light colored buck leap out of the swamp onto the marsh and come trotting in my direction about half a mile away, finally stopping to walk and looking back every few steps. He ran to within about four rods of me when I stepped out and stopped him with a bullet in the neck. A beautiful thirteen point buck, weighing 186 pounds, dressed. My first big buck and I was certainly proud of him.
The next day one of the boys shot another eight point in about the same place.
That certainly put me wise to always know what kind of a gun I had when I went into the woods. I now use a 30-30 Winchester and, of course, I think it is never." So I raised my borrowed rifle to my shoulder and getting a fine bead on his forequarters I pulled the trigger, but click, no go. Well, some perhaps can imagine my thoughts, thinking I had not put in a shell I opened the gun to examine it, found it all right, so I said, I'll try once more. But as I pulled up again the deer started to run; thinking I might possibly hit him if the gun would go, I touched the trigger again and to my surprise bang went the gun, the bullet striking him in the opposite hind leg from me, turning him straight in my direction, I fired again and he fell. I had the head mounted and he certainly is a fine specimen to look at.
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