LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
face, and I felt myself the cruel murderess that I was. I had no pride in that shot. I went home ashamed and in tears, haunted by those dying eyes. But I’ve saved the life of many a one since in atonement for that crime.”
“How, Di?”
“Very easily,—just by misdirecting their pursuers. You know there is a regular deer-run on our place, and many a time when I have been strolling through the fields or along the banks of the stream I’ve seen one of those poor frightened creatures come flying out of the woods with death at his heels, clear the brook at a bound, and, though ready to drop with exhaustion, not daring to pause even a second for a drop of pure water to cool its throat. The hunters are seldom far behind, and when they come crashing through the underbrush and see me, they naturally ask whether I have seen the deer and which way it ran. That’s my opportunity, and I rise to meet it.
“‘The deer? Yes, I saw it about three minutes ago. It jumped this stream where that alder stands and ran straight up the canyon.’ Or, ‘It ran across the meadow, leaped the fence and entered the opposite woods just between those two tall dead firs.’
“‘Oh, thank you, miss! thank you!’ they gasp excitedly, as they dash off—in the wrong direction. I suppose I ought to suffer remorse for the lie I have told, but I don’t; I know that I have saved the life of a hunted wild thing, and I feel glad to my finger-tips.”
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