University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.
THE PRACTICAL UTILITY OF BURNING A DOG IN THE FOREHEAD.

They went along at great speed, when the fine level
valley road rolled out its white ribbon before them, and
the bloom which they had laughed about soon came into
Sally's cheek, and the light into her eyes again. The
animal's gait was regular and easy, and by the time they
had reached the bottom of hunter John's hill, the young
girl looked like a different being, so rosy were her cheeks
and her brow so laughing. She seemed to have caught
the gorgeous crimson of the sunset-trees, and the light of
the radiant heaven, and with the incarnate spring-time of
her smile to make the autumn glories, merest folly—
wholly out of place!

The doctor was pressed to spend the night, and finally
he consented—making hunter John promise to awake
him early. The hunter gave him a strange look, and
said, “Please God that should be:” which Doctor Thomas
tried in vain to understand.

“What were you burning your dog to-day for, friend?”
he said, while they sat thoughtfully smoking before the
blazing pine splinters, whose warmth the coolness of the
October evening rendered far from unpleasant; “you did
not tell me, recollect.”

The hunter smiled.

“That ain't all,” said he, “I've been to Mrs. Courtlandt's
to-day since you passed by; and more has been
done yet.”

“What?”

“You'll see, I hope. I'm hoping the time's come.
But suppose it does,” muttered the hunter, “what'll I
gain? Why on earth now should I be so anxious? Poor
old fool! I'm not knowing what I do.”

The doctor endeavored in vain to extract from hunter
John an explanation of these singular speeches; and soon
after he was shown to his chamber. Very early he
seemed to hear, as in a dream, the same trampling that
formerly attracted his attention, then the subdued yelping
of dogs, then the gradually dying notes of a horn—that
seemed to sound from fairy land. Then all died away,
and he slept again.

At sunrise he was suddenly aroused by the report of a
rifle, which—borne on the echoes of the valley—came
distinctly and clearly to his ears. He rose and dressed,
and descended. He met his hostess and Sally who were
already “stirring,” and asked them who had fired? They
could not tell, but expected it was the hunter.

Suddenly a horn, ringing, joyful, and sonorous, rolled
its clear music down the mountain side, and all paused,
listening earnestly. It sounded again; then a third time.
Sally clapped her hands and with a flushed face cried,
“Oh! I believe father has killed that buck at last!”

And so the hunter indeed had. In half an hour he appeared
on the bank of the stream with the enormous buck
before him on his saddle; there the stranger met and
congratulated him. They were soon before the house
and the buck was laid on the grass. It was an animal
of uncommon size—with antlers of extraordinary length
and weight, and its hair was much lighter in color than
usual. There could be but one such deer in a thousand
herds.

The hunter did not appear as joyful as one would have
expected at this realization of all his hopes and desires.

“When you saw me yesterday,” he said to his guest,

“I was burning my dog in his forehead, and we do that
when any deviltry is in a hound—”

“Deviltry?”

“To be plain, when they are witched,” said the hunter,
“and Belt was as much witched as my rifle. Then I
went down to Mrs. Courtlandt's and she took my rifle and
unwitched that!”

Hunter John spoke doggedly, and the stranger did not
contradict or interrupt him. He proceeded:

“I knew after that how it would be,” he said, “and I
can't say why I didn't brand the dog before, and get Mrs.
Courtlandt to fix my gun; but I reckon I was afraid,”
added the hunter, ingenuously. “So this morning I went
out after the buck, determined to bring him home with
me, or wear myself out. Just up on the mountain side I
met Barry, who was also hunting the varmint, and we
took different ways looking for him. I knew his haunts
though, and in half an hour I was on his track—he was
started—and I knew it was the beast himself, for Belt
don't run any other of late, and his tongue told me when
the game was afoot. Well, I ran him from one end o'
the valley to the other—doubled the mountain, and went
after him along Sleepy Creek. I thought Elkhorn would
a' burst—but he never failed, because he knew well
enough that the buck was doomed. The varmint soon
doubled again for the mountain and I followed him—I
could see him easy now, and I followed him without
holding Elkhorn in, though the mountain ain't a level
road there. So we came—thunderin' down straight toward
the house here—yonder you see the bridle path;
and having a good sight of him, I dropped the bridle and
leveling my gun, let him have it. But I missed—my
rifle hadn't the deviltry out of it quite yet. I knew I
hadn't touched him—but Belt was at his heels and he
was tired. The next minute I saw him rearing on Moss
Rock, and he fell over the precipice—the dogs after him.

Look there—Dapple is good for nothing! His hind leg
and off foreleg is broke! Well, I was on him in no time.
My arm still hurt me where it was broke and it was
weakly, but that was nothing. I jumped off my horse,
pitched into him, and got only this scratch here, before
my knife was through his throat, and his neck was
quivering!”

As he spoke, the hunter, with flashing eyes and flushed
face, rolled up his sleeve and showed a deep wound in his
shoulder. The doctor looked at the deer—his antlers
were bloody.

“You are wounded!” he exclaimed, “run, Miss Sally,
and get some linen.”

The girl, pale and startled, hastened to bring it. The
hunter suffered his wound to be bandaged, with many
“pshaws!”

At the moment he again rolled down his wide sleeve,
as if nothing had happened, Barry made his appearance
at the bottom of the hill, his horse white with foam and
bathed in sweat. On seeing the deer, he threw himself
from the seat and ran up the hill.

“Is he dead at last!” cried Barry.

The hunter smiled.

“As a door nail, Barry my boy; you can see for yourself.”

“Poor animal!” said the doctor laughing, “he was too
fine a beast to be cut down in his pride—only to supply
some hungry mouth with venison!”

Sally blushed, and looked at Barry.

“There's more than that on his death, doctor—and I
believe from your wicked way of laughing, you know it,”
said the hunter. “Sally's marriage to— but she'll tell
you all. I need rest. I'm most nigh worn out.”

“Your marriage, Miss Sally!” cried Doctor Thomas
with well dissembled astonishment. The young girl
blushed; and Barry seemed much disposed to interrupt

the speaker; only he did not know how to do so with
propriety.

“So there's a marriage on the tapis is there? Well, I
suppose you'll have a splendid supper on the strength of
the buck, my dear host—I have no doubt you will enjoy
a slice from the saddle.”

“No,” said hunter John.

“You won't eat him?”

“I am going this very morning to Martinsburg to sell
him. Sally's got to be married in him.”

“Married in him!”

The hunter laughed.

“I'm joking with you,” said he, “I mean that the
money I get for the varmint is going to buy her a white
silk dress—yes, that very thing. My baby'll look pretty
then, won't she?” said the hunter, tapping his daughter's
cheek with a well pleased smile.

Sally, overcome with joy and diffidence, ran into her
chamber, where throwing herself into a chair, she began
to cry. But they were not sorrowful tears.

“And now, dame! some breakfast!” cried the hunter,
“I'm off in an hour.”