In the summer of 1855, I accompanied a hunting and fishing party, high up into the Cascade Mountains. Our route was along the Santiam River, and we made our final camp, at the west end of a narrow prairie, that stretched along for over a mile at the foot of the mountain ridge, on the south side of the river--a short distance beyond, was the highest table land, or dividing plateau of the mountains. The fishing was excellent--the hunting--it being the month of August, was indifferent; because the black-tailed buck at that season was lying in some sunny spot on the mountain side near water and grass--hardening his horns. My companions in wandering or climbing along the brush covered sides of the mountains, had several times started a large buck who passed down the sides of the mountains by, to him, a well known but secret trail, and crossed the head of the narrow prairie, and then dashed through the thick brush by an accustomed trail to the river below. The space between this prairie and the river, was a succession of descending benches. These benches had before this time been covered with a very thick growth of fir. When this fir had reached the height of eight or ten feet, a fire ran through, and killed nearly all of it, and another growth of fir had sprung up, making the descent to the river an almost impassable tangled mass. As we were out of venison, it was proposed that I take two rifles and go to the head of this narrow prairie, while my companions should go up on the mountain side, and by the making of a great deal of noise, start this buck from his sylvan retreat, and when he came down the mountain and crossed the upper end of the prairie, I should improve the opportunity to kill him. The plan worked admirably. He came through the thick brush on the mountain side, and dashed across the prairie. When he was nearly opposite to me, I fired at him with my own rifle, but struck him a little too far back. Before I could get the second rifle in my hands, he was in the brush and out of sight. I reloaded my own rifle, and went to the spot where he was when I fired, and I found that he was shot through the lungs, because the blood came out in sprays; and as it came out on both sides the bullet had evidently, passed through him. I followed him up slowly, by crawling through the brush--sometimes on my hands and knees, and at other times, after the manner of a serpent. He stopped frequently. When he did, he left a small pool of blood. My judgment was that the bullet struck him while he was stretched out, and that the skin closed at time over the mouth of the wound; and that he was bleeding internally--I concluded that as soon as he attempted to go down a steep incline, the blood would rush forward and smother him.