Bang! and the buck went lightly
bounding out of sight.
Poor Rolf; how disgusted he felt; positively sick with
self-contempt. Thirty yards, standing, broadside on, full
daylight, a big buck, a clean miss. Yes, there was the bullet
hole in a tree, five feet above the deer's head. "I'm no good;
I'll never be a hunter," he groaned, then turned and slowly
tramped back to camp. Quonab looked inquiringly, for, of course,
he heard the shot. He saw a glum and sorry-looking youth, who in
response to his inquiring look gave merely a head-shake, and hung
up the gun with a vicious bang.
Quonab took down the gun, wiped it out, reloaded it, then turning
to the boy said: "Nibowaka, you feel pretty sick. Ugh! You know
why? You got a good chance, but you got buck fever. It is
always so, every one the first time. You go again to-morrow and
you get your deer."
Rolf made no reply. So Quonab ventured, "You want me to go?"
That settled it for Rolf; his pride was touched.
"No; I'll go again in the morning."
In the dew time he was away once more on the hunting trail.
There was no wind, but the southwest was the likeliest to spring
up.
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