t over eighty yards, I let
her have the best I had; the bullet struck--the old doe jumped, by way
of an extra, about five by thirty feet, and didn't even stop to ask
permission at that. A sportsman undergoes no little excitement in
peppering a few paltry pigeons, a duck or a squirrel, but when an
amateur hunter gets his Ebenezer set on a real deer, bear, or flock of
wild turkeys, you may safely premise it would take some capital to buy
him off.

I forgot all about time and space, Mat, "Old Traps," greasers and
Injins--my whole capital was invested in the old _doe_, and I was after
_her_. She was badly wounded; I thought she'd "gin eout" pretty soon,
and I followed clear across the prairie. Time flew, and finally, feeling
considerably fagged, and getting no further view of my deer, and being
no longer able to trace the red drops she sprinkled along, I sat down,
wiped the salt water from my parboiled countenance, and began to----
think I'd gone far enough for old venison. In fact, I'd gone a little
too far, for the sun was setting down to his home in the Pacific, the
black shades of night began to gather around the timber, and I hurried
out into the prairie, to get an observation. But it was no go. I had
entirely reversed the order of things, in my mind; I had lost my
bearings. The evening was cloudy, with a first rate prospect of a wet
night, and neither moon nor stars were to be seen.

Taking, at a hazard, the supposed back track, across the broad prairie,
upon which flourished a stiff, tall grass, I plodded along, quite
chilly, and my thin garments, wet from perspiration, were cold as cakes
of ice to my flesh. I began to feel mad, swore some, hoped I was on the
right track back to Mat and his deer, but felt satisfied there was some
doubt about that. Mat had the flint and steel for raising a fire, and
the _meat_ and what bread was left at our last repast. Night came right
down in the midst of my cares and tribulations. A slight drizzling rain
began to fall. The stillness of a prairie is a damper to the best of
spirits--the entire suspension of all noises and sounds, not even the
tick of an insect to break the black, dull, dark monotony, is a wet
blanket to cheerfulness. I really think the stillness of a large prairie
is one of the most painful sensations of loneliness, a man ever
encountered. The sombre and dreary monotony of a dungeon, is scarcely a
comparison; in fact, language fails to describe the essentially
doub