We ran the canoe to shore, and while I made it fast, Hubbard and
George ran breathlessly ahead to where the caribou had disappeared.
I followed at once, and soon came upon them and the caribou, which
fallen thirty yards from the river with a bullet through his body
just back of the left shoulder. A trail of blood marked his path
from the river to where he lay. As the animal floundered there in
the moss, Hubbard, with the nervous impetuosity he frequently
displayed, fired again against George's protest, the bullet
entering the caribou's neck and passing down through his tongue the
full length. Then George caught the thrashing animal by the
antlers, and while he held its head down Hubbard cut its throat.

We made our camp right where the caribou fell. It was an ideal
spot on the high bank above the river, being flat and thickly
covered with white moss. The banks at this point were all sand
drift; we could not find a stone large enough to whet our knives.
George made a stage for drying while Hubbard and I dressed the
deer. Our work finished, we all sat down and roasted steaks on
sticks and drank coffee. The knowledge that we were now assured of
a good stock of dried meat, of course, added to the hilarity of
feast. As we thought it best to hoard our morsel of flour, it was
a feast of venison and venison alone.

While waiting for our meat to dry, we had to remain in camp for
three or four days. On the next afternoon (Thursday, August 13)
Hubbard and I paddled about three miles up the river to look for
fish, but we got no bites, probably because of the cold; in the
morning there had been a fringe of ice on the river shore.