qual to the occasion. The broken nature of
the dune country admitted of stealthy approach, and its nearness to the
upper camp recommended it as an inviting hunting ground. The
disappointment of the first effort, due to moderated weather, was in
finding the quarry far afield. A dozen bands were sighted from the
protection of the sand hills, a mile out on the flat plain, but without
shelter to screen a hunter. Sargent was equal to the occasion, and
selecting a quarry, the two horses were unsaddled, the bridle reins
lengthened by adding ropes, and crouching low, their mounts afforded the
necessary screen as they grazed or were driven forward. By tacking right
and left in a zigzag course they gained the wind, and a stealthy
approach on the band was begun. The stabled horses grazed ravenously,
sometimes together, then apart, affording a perfect screen for stalking.

After a seeming age to Dell, the required rifle range was reached, when
the cronies flattened themselves in the short grass and allowed the
horses to graze to their rope's end. Sargent indicated a sentinel buck,
presenting the best shot; and using his elbow for a rest, the rifle was
laid in the hollow of Dell's upraised hand and drawn firmly to his
shoulder, and a prompt report followed. The shot went wild, throwing up
a flash of dust before the band, which instantly whirled. The horses
merely threw up their heads in surprise, attracting the startled quarry,
which ran up within fifty yards of the repeating rifle. In the
excitement of the moment instantly following the first shot, Dell had
arisen to his knee, unmindful of the necessity of throwing another
cartridge into the rifle barrel. "Shoot! Shoot!" whispered Sargent, as
the band excitedly halted within pistol range. Dell fingered the trigger
in vain. "Throw in a cartridge!" breathlessly suggested Sargent. The
lever clicked, followed by a shot, which tore up the sod within a few
feet of the muzzle of the rifle!

The antelope were away in a flash. Sargent rolled on the grass, laughing
until the tears trickled down his cheeks, while Dell's chagrin left him
standing like a simpleton.

"I don't believe this gun shoots true," he ventured at last, too
mortified to realize the weakness of his excuse. "Besides, it's too easy
on the trigger."

"No rifle shoots true during buck ague season," answered Sargent, not
daring to raise his eyes. "When the grass comes next spring, those scars
in the sod will grow over. Luck