ail? The warrior was not to be
shaken off. With a speed which none of his race could equal, it was only
play for him to outrun the deer. Years before (as I have told in another
place), Deerfoot, for mere sport, pursued one of the fleetest of horses,
and kept it up hour after hour, until he ran down the steed. He was
doing the same to the buck. There was not a moment from the first when
he could not have launched an arrow that would have brought the game to
the ground; he was near enough to drive his tomahawk into the neck, but
he did nothing of that nature. Inasmuch as he was running the race, he
meant it should be a fair one, and neither should take any advantage
over the other.

What terrifying imaginings took possession of the buck when he awoke to
the fact that it was impossible to escape the dreadful being clinging
to his hips, cannot be understood by any of us, but that which followed,
incredible as it may seem, is an indisputable fact.

The singular race was kept up for slightly more than a mile, during
every fraction of which the fugitive put forth his highest possible
effort. Such a terrific strain cannot fail to tell upon the most highly
trained animal, and so, despite all he could do, the buck found himself
unable to keep up his prodigious tension. He was losing ground, and he
could not fail to know that escape was out of the question: he was as
much doomed as if surrounded and driven at bay by a dozen hunters and
their hounds. He was still running at his highest bent, when he suddenly
deviated to the right, and, with shocking violence, plunged squarely
against the trunk of a beech, and, falling over on his side, gave a few
convulsive struggles and died. Beyond question, the buck, when awake to
the fact that there was no hope for him, deliberately committed suicide
by breaking his neck.

The young Shawanoe paused, and looked down upon the quivering form with
feelings of pity.

"Why did he do that? Deerfoot felt too much sorrow to harm him; he only
sought to show him he could run the faster; but he will run no more, and
Deerfoot will eat."

The spot was suitable, and, within less time than would be supposed, the
warrior was seated on the ground, deliberately masticating a liberal
slice of broiled venison. Doubtless it would have been improved could he
have hung it in a cellar or tree for several days, but it wasn't
convenient to do so, and Deerfoot therefore ate it as he could obtain
it, and was satisfie