So the interesting chase went on all day, skill against keener
cunning, instinct against finer instinct, through the white
wonder of the winter woods, till, late in the afternoon, it swung
back towards the starting point. The deer had undoubtedly
intended to begin their yard that day on the ridge I had
selected; for at noon I crossed the trail of the two from the
haystack, heading as if by mutual understanding in that
direction. But the big buck, feeling that he was followed,
cunningly led his charge away from the spot, so as to give no
hint of the proposed winter quarters to the enemy that was after
him. Just as the long shadows were stretching across all the
valleys from hill to hill, and the sun vanished into the last
gray bank of clouds on the horizon, my deer recrossed the old
road, leaping it, as in the morning, so as to leave no telltale
track, and climbed the hill to the dense thicket where they had
passed the previous night.

Here was my last chance, and I studied it deliberately. The deer
were there, safe within the evergreens, I had no doubt, using
their eyes for the open hillside in front and their noses for the
woods behind. It was useless to attempt stalking from any
direction, for the cover was so thick that a fox could hardly
creep through without alarming ears far less sensitive than a
deer's. Skill had failed; their cunning was too much for me. I
must now try an appeal to curiosity.

I crept up the hill flat on my face, keeping stump or scrub
spruce always between me and the thicket on the hilltop. The wind
was in my favor; I had only their eyes to consider. Somewhere,
just within the shadow, at least one pair were sweeping the back