Blue Lake was an ideal place for a wild camp.  It was almost circular and nearly a mile in diameter.  To the north its shore blended with the heights that led to the peaks; heights clad with a rugged growth of pines and firs that extended toward the timber line.  There was nothing gentle or park-like about the Blue Lake.

Its chilly depths were spring-fed, and sheltered trout that were far from logy.  They would put up an awful fight for life, and as the boys were using back-to-nature poles, made from the branches of trees, the fish tried the patience even of Injun.

When not tied to a tree Sitting Bull’s part in the hunting was to interfere with matters as much as possible.  As a hunting dog he had only one advantage; he didn’t bark.  But he deserved no credit for that.  It wasn’t his nature to bark.  As Bull tore enthusiastically about, Whitey would watch him with a rueful smile, and say, “The only way he could help would be by going home, and of course he can’t do that.”

“In early October a crisp morning found Injun and Whitey leaving camp to begin what for them was a special day’s hunting.  They were going for deer.  The deer loved the secluded shores of the lake, and some distance from the camp a run led to a spot where the animals came down to drink.  This morning the camp was down the wind from that spot; so it was ideal.  The boys planned to go in the canoe, and Sitting Bull was securely tied to a tree to await their return.  But Bull looked so longing, so lonely, there was so much entreaty in his eyes, that Whitey allowed his heart to overrule his head.

“He can’t raise much of a row in the canoe, and he won’t bark,” Whitey said rather shamefacedly.  “Let’s take him along.”

Injun said nothing, as usual, but he didn’t look disapproving.  So they got into their canoe and paddled up the wind until near the run, where they found a low, overhanging branch and ran the canoe under it.  So masked they waited for Mr. Deer to come and drink.

In about an hour he came and with him was Mrs. Deer, or maybe it was his daughter, and not his wife, for she looked so young and timid one hardly could picture her as the mate of Mr. Deer.  He was a big fellow who would weigh about four hundred pounds, and had fourteen points—­little branches shooting off his horns.

It was Injun’s turn to shoot first, and he pulled back his bowstring and braced himself to let go.  Right here it may be said that at thirty yards an arrow propelled by an Indian-made bow is just as deadly as a bullet, if it hits its mark.  But Injun shot a little high and caught the buck in the shoulder.  He threw up his head and let out a roar of battle, looking every inch the magnificent creature that he was, and just churned the waters of the lake, which he was in up to his knees.

He didn’t have very long to bellow his defiance, for Whitey’s Springfield rifle spoke.  Now Mr. Deer turned almost completely over from the shock, but again the hit was not in a vital spot.  The canoe was rocking a little, and Mr. Deer was not exactly posing to be shot at.  And there was another excuse that I have mentioned before—­buck fever:  the disease that comes when a big buck deer jumps up from nowhere, and causes the hunter to lose his head and do the wrong thing.