I crept up behind a
little clump of bushes to about fifteen rods of where he stood on the
sandy beach, and sighting carefully at his head, let drive. My gun
hung fire a little, owin' to the night-dews, but that buck went down,
and after kickin' a moment, laid still, and I took it for granted he
was dead. So I laid down my rifle, and went up to where he
was, and with my huntin' knife in my hand, took hold of his
horn to raise his head so as to cut his throat. If that deer
was dead, he came to life mighty quick; for I had no sooner
touched him, than he sprang to his feet, and with every hair standin'
straight towards his head, came like a mad bull at me. In strugglin'
up he overshot me; and as he made his drive one prong went
through the calf of my leg. I plunged my knife into his body, and the
blood spirted all over me. But it wasn't no use. He smashed down upon
me again, and made that hole in my leg above the knee. I handled my
knife in a hurry, and made more than one hole in his skin, while he
stuck a prong through my arm. I hollered for Crop, who was watching
the shanty as his duty was. The old buck and I had it rough and
tumble; sometimes one a-top, and sometimes the other, and both growin'
weak from loss of blood. May be we didn't kick and tussle about, and
tear up the sand on the beach of the lake _some!_ The buck was game to
the backbone, and had no notion of givin' in, and I had to fight for
it, or die; so up and down, over and over, and all around, we went for
a long time, until Crop made up his mind that my callin' so earnestly
meant something, and round the point he came.
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