The rain cleared the atmosphere, and Monday was cool and delightful,
and, with the exception of two or three showers, a perfect day. Camp
was moved and our entire outfit portaged to the first small lake. Our
net, which Pete and Richards had set the day before, yielded us
nothing, but with my rod I caught enough trout for a sumptuous supper.

The following morning (July fourth) Pete and I, who arose at half-past
four, had just finished preparing breakfast of fried pork, flapjacks
and coffee, and I had gone to the tent to call the others, when Pete
came rushing after me in great excitement, exclaiming, "Caribou!
Rifle quick!" He grabbed one of the 44's and rushed away and soon we
heard bang-bang-bang seven times from up the lake shore. It was not
long before Pete returned with a very humble bearing and crestfallen
countenance, and without a word leaned the rifle against a tree and
resumed his culinary operations.

"Well, Pete," said I, "how many caribou did you kill?"

"No caribou. Miss him," he replied.

"But I heard seven shots. How did you miss so many times?" I asked.

"Miss him," answered Pete. "I see caribou over there, close to water,
run fast, try get lee side so he don't smell me. Water in way. Go
very careful, make no noise, but he smell me. He hold his head up
like this. He sniff, then he start. He go through trees very quick.
See him, me, just little when he runs through trees. Shoot seven
times. Hit him once, not much. He runs off. No good follow. Not
hurt much, maybe goes very far."