The greatest bowman in the Northern wilderness crouched in the thicket,
and reaching his right hand over his left shoulder, withdrew an arrow,
which he promptly fitted to the string. It was a perfect arrow, made by
the young chief himself, and the two feathers were curved in the right
manner to secure the utmost degree of speed and accuracy. He fitted it
to the string and drew the bow far back, almost to the head of the
shaft. Now he was the hunter only and the spirit of hunting ancestors
for many generations was poured into him. His eye followed the line of
coming flight and he chose the exact spot on the sleek body beneath
which the great heart lay.

The stag, with his head upraised, still pulled at the tender top of a
bush, and the deceitful wind, which blew from him toward Tayoga, brought
no warning. Nor did the squirrel chattering in the tree or the bird
singing on the bough just over his head tell him that the hunter was
near. Tayoga looked again down the arrow at the chosen place on the
gleaming body of the deer, and with a sudden and powerful contraction of
the muscles, bending the bow a little further, loosed the shaft.

The arrow flew singing through the air as swift and deadly as a steel
dart and was buried in the heart of the stag, which, leaping upward,
fell, writhed convulsively a moment or two, and died. The young Onondaga
regarded his work a moment with satisfaction, and then walked forward,
followed by his white comrade.

"One arrow was enough, Tayoga," said Robert, "and I knew before you
shot that another would not be needed."

"The distance was not great," said Tayoga modestly. "I should have been