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A long pause followed this expression of astonishment
on the part of the mountaineer. He seemed to doubt the
seriousness of his guest—he, apparently, could not believe
he was in earnest.

“Mrs. Courtlandt's!” said he.

“Certainly my friend!”

“Down the valley here?”

“Why, somewhere in the neighborhood. I can't say
precisely where.”

“And why are you going there, sir?” asked the old
hunter.

“I have business,” said the traveler with the air of a
man whose private affairs are invaded by idle curiosity.

The mountaineer shook his head.

“No good will come of it,” said he.

“How so?”

“Mrs. Courtlandt, sir, don't stand well in these parts;
and I'm free to say I don't like her myself, though her
brother is my good friend.”

“You! do you know her?”

“I've been to her house off and on these five years,
and I never missed seeing some deviltry there.”

The traveler bent a steady grave look upon his host.

“What do you mean by deviltry?” he said.

“She's good friends with one I won't name,” said the

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hunter, dropping his voice; “there's all sorts of things
there that oughtn't to be. Don't ask me about it.”

“And why don't you like her?”

The mountaineer with a great effort, replied shortly,

“She spelled my rifle!”

“What is `spelled?”'

“Bewitched some people call it.”

The traveler did not smile this time; but fixing himself
calmly in his seat, and quietly smoking:

“Tell me how that was, my friend,” said he.

“Well, that I'll do soon,” his host replied. “There's
a buck about here, in these mountains, half as big and
strong again as any deer they ever run in these parts.
We call him Old Satan; you see that name was given
him because the rifle ball has never touched him, or,”
and the hunter lowered his voice, “passed through him
and not given him any hurt. I don't believe that myself,
but old father Brant, one of the best beads in the hills
here, says it's so—and only the other day coming along
here, he told me he was done hunting the varmint. He
couldn't stand it.”

“Have you hunted him?”

“I'm going to tell you. Yes I have, and I'm most
nigh wearied out; I thought I had strong legs and pretty
good wind, but that buck has tired out me and Elkhorn—
knocked us both up.”

“Who is Elkhorn?”

“My horse.”

“Well about your rifle and the rest.”

“I'm coming to that. I hunted the buck I've been
telling you about till I was tired, and I had never yet
got a shot at him. I thought if I could draw a clear
bead on him he was gone. The other morning I passed
by Mrs. Courtlandt's early and was so thirsty that I nigh
gave up. I went in to get a drink, and she was up that
early, fixing some plants or other in a big book and

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writing under 'em. The room was full of things I hadn't
any liking for—strange outlandish jars and machines—
and I most repented coming. She gave me the water
very polite, and took my rifle to look at, and asked me
if I had killed the buck. I told her no, and then she
laughed, and begun turning something, and said she
would fix my gun so I couldn't miss. She made me rest
my right hand on the table, and touch my gun to the top
of a bottle. I did it! and I felt as if the lightning struck
me! I dropped the gun and stood there without knowing
where I was, and the first thing I knew I was in
the path outside, and she closed the door. All she said
to me was, laughing, `Go on, hunter John! go on, hunter
John!”'

The mountaineer put up his sleeve to wipe the perspiration
from his brow.

“And you think your gun was bewitched?”

“Sure as you're there,” he said in a low voice, “I have
had three shots at that buck, and I've missed him every
time. I had a clear bead and shot steady. It was no
use. The ball went crooked!”

The stranger mused.

“And you are still hunting that buck?”

“I'm going to hunt him till one of us is dead.”

“And you think I had better not go to Mrs. Courtlandt's
do you, my friend?”

“You know best.”

“I do; and I must go and see her: but I shall see you
all here again.”

“Why,” cried the mountaineer hospitably, “I just remember
now. Wife and Sally are going to have a merry-making
here to-morrow evening, and you must come.
Sally!” he called aloud.

“Here I am father,” the girl replied. She was at his
elbow and heard the conversation.

“Tell doctor—my poor old memory.”

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