g up the snow behind the animal.

The caribou's powerful limbs pushed out a mighty leap. Frenzied, Harold
shot again; but his nerve was broken and his self-control blown to the
four winds. The animal had gained the shelter of the thickets by now,
and Harold's third and fourth shots went wild. Then he lowered his
weapon with a curse.

It is part of the creed of a certain type of hunter to never admit a
clean miss. "My sights are off," Harold shouted. "They didn't shoot
within three feet of where I aimed. Damn such a gun--but I think I
wounded him the third shot. You'll find him dead if you follow him long
enough."

Bill answered nothing, but went to see. In the firing he hadn't even
raised his own gun to his shoulder. There is a certain code among
hunters in regard to shooting another's game: an unwritten law that,
except in a case of life and death, one hunter does not interfere with
another's shooting. It was through no desire to embarrass Harold that
he didn't assist him in putting down his trophy. He was simply giving
the man full play. Bill stared at the caribou tracks in the snow,
followed them a hundred feet, and then came mushing back.

"You didn't seem to have put one in," he reported simply.

"I didn't, eh?" Harold answered angrily. "How could you tell, so soon?
I suppose you're woodsman enough to know that a wounded animal doesn't
always show blood. I'd be ready to bet that if we followed him far
enough we'd find him dead."

"We'd have to follow him till he died naturally of old age," was the
good-humored reply. "We can't always hit, Lounsbury. He began to trot
when he got into the trees--a perfectly normal gait. I think we'd
better look for something else."

"Then I want you to carry my gun awhile, and let me take yours. The
sights are off a mile. It's all ready, and here's a handful of extra
shells. You ought to be willing to do that, at least."

Harold had forgotten that this man was not his personal guide, subject
to his every wish. He held out gun and shells; and, smiling, Bill
received them, giving his own weapon in exchange. They mushed on down
the trail.

But Harold's miss had not been his greater sin. To miss is human; no
true sportsman holds it against his fellow. The omission that followed,
however, was by all the codes of the hunting trails unpardonable. He
supposed that he had refilled his rifle magazine with shells before he
put it in Bill's hands. In his conf