“His hind leg is broken,” said Sandy, as away went the stag and the rest of the deer. I instantly handed him the rifle, as I knew he was a first-class shot at running deer, and told him, if he could get the chance, to finish the stag off.
After a short interval I heard a shot, and then a second shot. Soon afterwards Sandy returned, and said, “You’ll never see him again, sir. I never touched him.”
It was almost dark, and we started on our homeward journey along the narrow foot-track through the forest. Sandy asked me to walk first so that I could go at my own pace. He followed me, and behind him came the gillie, there being only room to walk in single file. It is not easy to carry on a conversation with any one who is walking behind, nor did the fact that I felt very depressed at having left the wounded stag in suffering, perhaps to die a painful, lingering death, make it any easier. At first I made an occasional observation and then lapsed into silence. As I was walking along engrossed in my melancholy thoughts I noticed that the path was becoming more and more difficult to see, and indeed hardly visible in the growing darkness.
I said, “It’s getting awfully dark, and I can hardly see the path.” No answer. I turned round: neither of the men was to be seen. I stopped and shouted loudly, “Sandy!” Still no answer. This I repeated several times with the same result. I then began to think what I had better do. It was almost dark by this time. I was in the heart of one of the largest forests in the North of Scotland, miles from any human habitation, without a scrap of food, with an empty flask, and soaked to the skin up to my waist through wading and standing in the burn, which was in flood.
I decided to retrace my steps to the old ruins of the watcher’s cottage from which we had started. Taking great care not to lose the path, I began to do this, shouting now and then but hearing no reply. I tried to think out why the men should not have been following me on this path on which I was now returning, and which ran beside a broad burn which was in spate. I then remembered that the path which I had been following across the forest before I came to the burn was almost at right angles both to the burn and the path I was now on, and it occurred to me that possibly the path which I ought to have taken lay straight across the burn, and that the men might have crossed the burn and gone in that direction. I had, I knew, been walking, as I always do on these occasions, very fast, and this made me think it not unlikely, especially as it was so dark, that the men had assumed that I had crossed the burn in front of them. Being careful not to lose the narrow track I was on in the darkness, I discovered the point at which I had turned up the burn-side, and found that the other path leading up to the burn was a little wider, which encouraged me to hope that my supposed explanation might prove to be the true one. I then waded across the burn and found there was a path at right angles to it on the other side which looked more used than the track which I had just left. I therefore made up my mind to follow this path for a time, shouting every now and then in the hope that the men might hear me, and if I did not hear any reply I would then consider whether I would go on or retrace my steps to the old ruins and there spend the night—a cheerful prospect indeed.
After going some distance along the path I suddenly heard what I thought was the sound of shouting a long way off. I stopped and shouted more loudly than ever, and then heard the shouts coming nearer, and very soon after Sandy and the gillie appeared. It turned out that what I had supposed had happened, and that they had crossed the burn thinking that I was still in front of them.
I have never since then, on my return from stalking, walked in front of the stalker along a path which I do not know. This unpleasant incident made us later than ever, and I did not get back to the lodge until nearly 10 P.M.
The following season I was again stalking in the same forest, and on my first day was on the same beat where I had had the misfortune to wound the stag, as described above, and the same stalker was once more with me. I asked him whether he had heard anything of the wounded stag, and he replied, “Nothing whatever,” adding that although he was sure that the near hind leg was broken, he could not be sure in the darkness at what part exactly, but he thought it was low down.
We began by spying a corrie, which was about three miles from the place where I had wounded the stag in the previous season, and presently found five shootable stags which were together. After watching them for a time, Sandy said, “There are two much bigger than the others—one a dark beast; he’s a good stag, with only one horn.”
“All right!” I said. “Let’s shoot him; he’ll be interesting anyhow.”