Not long after daylight the following morning the crowds of Christmas hunters assemble in my plantation yard. As the season was nearing its close, every man I had invited came. And there was the lady in green. When I saw her, I was ashamed of the way in which I had bandied words with Steve about the nature of her attire. She was slender, graceful and very lovely. She looked like Maid Marian. Clad in Lincoln green, with a jaunty feather in her Robin Hood's cap, she was the attraction of all eyes. I could see that all the men were in love with her, and I didn't feel any too emotionally normal myself.
There was nothing about her of the type of huntress I had described to Steve. She appeared a strange combination of an elf, a child and a woman; and though I do not profess to know much about such matters, that particular combination seems especially alluring, perhaps dangerously so.
While my ***** drivers were getting their horses ready, and while stately deer hounds, woolly dogs and curs of low degree gathered from far and near on account of the general air of festivity and the promise of some break in the general hunger situation, I got everybody together and told them that we planned to drive the great Wambaw Corner; that we had standers enough to take care of the whole place, we had drivers and dogs, we had deer. The great, and really the only question was, can anybody hit anything? That is often a pertinent question in hunting.
I had men with me who had hunted all over the world, grizzled backwoodsmen who had never hunted more than 20 miles from their homes, pure amateurs, some insatiable hunters but rotten shots – and I had the lady in green.
Wambaw Corner is peculiarly situated. A tract of nearly a thousand acres, it is bounded on two sides by the wide and deep Wambaw Creek. On one side is the famous Lucas Reserve, an immense backwater, formerly used for waterpower, but now chiefly for bass and bream. In shape this place is a long and comparatively narrow peninsula, with water on three sides. On the south runs a wide road, along which I usually post my standers; but when I have enough (or too many), I post them along the creek. The chance there is excellent, for if a buck is suspicious, there's nothing he'll do quicker than dodge back and swim the creek.
With the woods still sparkling with dew, and fragrant with the aromas from myrtles and pines, I posted all my standers. I had sent my drivers far down on the tip of the peninsula, to drive it out to the road. I had also had a last word with Steve.
"Only one mistake you might be makin', Cap'n," he told me. "I dunno how 'bout wid a gun, but with a rollin'-pin or a skillet or a hatchet a woman don't eber seem to miss. Anyhow," he particularized, "dey don't neber miss me!"
"Have you got your plan made?" I asked him. ''You've got five other boys to drive. That just about sets you free to do what you want to."
"I got my plan," he said. "And," he added darkly, "if so happen it be dat I don't come out with de other drivers, you will onnerstand."
In a place like Wambaw Creek, there are at times a great many deer. They love its remote quiet, its pine hills, its abundant food, its watery edges. I have seen as many as six fine bucks run out of there on a single drive, a flock of wild turkeys and heaven knows how many does. I have likewise seen wild boars emerge from that wilderness – huge hulking brutes, built like oversize hyenas, and they are ugly customers to handle.
I knew that there was sure to be a good deal of shooting on this drive, certain to be some missing and possibly to be some killing. Everybody seemed keyed just right for the sport. I had men with me who had hunted all over the world, grizzled backwoodsmen who had never hunted more than 20 miles from their homes, pure amateurs, some insatiable hunters but rotten shots – and I had the lady in green.
After I had posted the men, there being no stand for me, or perhaps for a more romantic reason, I decided to stand with Maid Marian. She seemed like such a child to shoot down a big buck; yet she was jaunty and serene. When I had explained to certain of the standers as I posted them, just how an old stag could come up them, I could see from the way they began to sweat and blink that they were in the incipient stages of nervous breakdowns. But not so my Sherwood Forest girl.
Her stand, by the famous Crippled Oak, was on a high bank in the pinelands. Before her and behind her was a dense cypress swamp, in the dark vastness of which it was almost impossible to get a shot at a deer. If the buck came, she would have to shoot him when he broke across the bank. All this I carefully explained to her. She listened intently and intelligently.
She appeared concerned over my concern. ''You need not worry," she assured, for my comfort. "If he comes, I will kill him."
"Have you killed deer before?" I asked.
"No," she admitted lightly but undaunted. "I never even saw one."
My heart failed me. “This one," I told her, hoping that Steve's maneuvering would be effective, "is likely to have big yellow horns. He's an old wildwood hero. I hope you get him."
About that time I heard the drivers put in, and I mean they did. A Christmas hunt on a Carolina plantation brings out everything a ***** has in the way of vocal eminence. Far back near the river they whooped and shouted, yelled and sang. Then I heard the hounds begin to tune up.
Maid Marian was listening, with her little head pertly tipped to one side. "What is all that noise?" she asked with devastating imbecility.
Tediously I explained that the deer were lying down, that the ******* and the dogs roused them, and that by good fortune an old rough-shod stag might come our way.
“I understand," she nodded brightly. But I was sure she didn't.
Another thing disconcerted me: I could hear the voice of Prince, of Sam'l, of Will and of Precinct; Evergreen's voice was loud on the still air. But not once did I hear the hound-dog whoop of Steve. However, his silence did indicate that he was about some mysterious business.
In a few minutes a perfect bedlam in one of the deep corners showed that a stag had been roused. The wild clamor headed northward, toward the creek, and soon I heard a gun blare twice. But the pack did not stop. There was a swift veering southward. Before long I heard shots from that direction, but whoever tried must have failed.
The pack headed northeast, toward the road on which we were standing, but far from us. I somehow felt, from his wily maneuvers, that this was the buck with the palmated horns. Ordinary bucks would do no such dodging, and the fact that he had been twice missed would indicate that the stander had seen something very disconcerting.
Watching the lady in green for any tell-tale sign of a break in nerves, I could discover none. She just seemed to be taking a childish delight in all the excitement. She was enjoying it without getting excited herself.
About that time I heard the stander at the far eastern end of the road shoot; a minute later he shot again. He was a good man, a deliberate shot. Perhaps he had done what I wanted Maid Marian to do. But no. The pack now turned toward us. |
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