the shot, nor of where I am going—remember, Natty, as you love me.”
“Trust old Leather-Stocking,” returned the hunter significantly; “he
hasn’t lived fifty years in the wilderness, and not larnt from the
savages how to hold his tongue— trust to me, lad; and remember old
Indian John.”

“And, Natty,” said the youth eagerly, still holding the black by the
arm. “I will just get the shot extracted, and bring you up to-night a
quarter of the buck for the Christmas dinner.”

He was interrupted by the hunter, who held up his finger with an
expressive gesture for silence. He then moved softly along the margin
of the road, keeping his eyes steadfastly fixed on the branches of a
pine. When he had obtained such a position as he wished, he stopped,
and, cocking his rifle, threw one leg far behind him, and stretching
his left arm to its utmost extent along the barrel of his piece, he
began slowly to raise its muzzle in a line with the straight trunk of
the tree. The eyes of the group in the sleigh naturally preceded the
movement of the rifle, and they soon discovered the object of Natty’s
aim. On a small dead branch of the pine, which, at the distance of
seventy feet from the ground, shot out horizontally, immediately
beneath the living members of the tree, sat a bird, that in the vulgar
language of the country was indiscriminately called a pheasant or a
partridge. In size, it was but little smaller than a common barn-yard
fowl. The baying of the dogs, and the conversation that had passed
near the root of the tree on which it was perched, had alarmed the
bird, which was now drawn up near the body of the pine, with a head
and neck so erect as to form nearly a straight line with its legs. As
soon as the rifle bore on the victim, Natty drew his trigger, and the
partridge fell from its height with a force that buried it in the