le.
It was his first deer. He waited, twitching and quivering with "buck
fever."

Part of the fore quarters of the animal became visible to his excited
gaze through a small gap in the screening bushes. The muzzle of his
rifle wobbled all around the mark. Unable to steady it, he caught the
sights as they wavered into line, and pulled the trigger.

The report of the shot was followed by a loud _bawl_ and a violent
crashing in the thicket. There could be no doubt that the animal had
been hit and was seeking to escape. It was running across the top of
the ridge towards the canyon. The hunter sprang around the head of his
pony and threw up his rifle, which had automatically reloaded itself.
As it came to his shoulder, the wounded animal burst out of cover. It
was a yearling calf.

But the sportsman knew that he had shot a deer, and a deer was all he
saw. He was now fairly shaking with the "fever." His finger crooked
convulsively on the automatic firing lever. Instantly a stream of
bullets began to pour from the wildly wavering muzzle, and empty
shells whirred up from the ejector like hornets.

Before the hunter could realize what was happening, his magazine was
exhausted, the last cartridge fired, and the shell flipped out. But he
paid no heed to this. His eyes were on the fleeing calf. His
cartridges were smokeless. Through the slight haze above his rifle
muzzle he saw the animal pitch forward and fall heavily upon the round
of the ridge. It did not move.

Tugging at the bridle to quicken his horse's pace, he hastened forward
to examine his game. He was still so excited that he was almost upon
the outstretched carcass before he noticed the odd scar on its side.
He bent down and saw that the mark was a cattle brand seared on the
hide with a hot iron.

His first impulse was to jump on his pony and ride off. He was about
to set his foot in the stirrup when the apprehensive glance with which
he was peering around shifted down to the canyon. His gaze traveled
back from the near edge of the chasm, up the two hundred yards of
slope, and rested on the yearling as though estimating its weight.

It was a fat, thoroughbred Hereford. He could not lift it on his pony,
and he had no rope to use as a drag-line. He shook his head. But the
pause had given him time to recover from his panic. He shrugged his
shoulders, drew a silver-handled hunting knife, and awkwardly set
about dressing his kill.

CHAPTER II

A YEARLING SO