Young Barbe was a brave hunter as well as skillful guide. On a bright morning in March, the lookout on the deck of the "Henry" shouted down the gangway that a herd of deer were in sight. Immediately the excitement of men and dogs was at fever-heat. The dogs, however, did not get the news until Koojesse had crept out, and from behind an island had fired upon the deer. His ball brought down no game, but the report of the gun called out Barbe with the whole pack of wolfish dogs at his heels, in full pursuit of the flying, frightened deer. The fugitives made tortuous tracks, darting behind the islands, now this way, and then off in another direction. But Barbe struck across their windings along the straight line toward the point at which they were aiming, while the rest of the dogs followed their tracks, and so fell behind. Koojesse returned to the vessel, the hope which just now was indulged of a venison dinner was given up, and the affair was nearly forgotten, except that some anxiety was felt lest the dogs should come to harm in their long and reckless pursuit. About noon Barbe came on board having his mouth and body besmeared with blood. He ran to this one, and then to that, looking beseechingly into their faces, and then running to the gangway stairs, where he stopped and looked back, as much as to say, "An't you coming? Do come, I'll show you something worth seeing!" His strange movements were reported to Mr. Hall in the cabin, but being busy writing he took no notice of it. One of the men having occasion to go toward the shore Barbe followed him, but finding that he did not go in the right direction he whined his disappointment, and started out upon the floe, and then turned and said as plainly as a dog could speak, "Come on; this is the way!" A party from the ship determined now to follow. Barbe led them a mile northward, then, leaving them to follow his foot-prints in the snow, he scampered off two miles in a western direction. This brought the men to an island, under the shelter of which they found the dogs. Barbe was sitting at the head of a slaughtered deer, and his companions squatting round as watchful sentinels. The deer's throat had been cut with Barbe's teeth, the jugular vein being severed as with a knife. The roots of the tongue, with bits of the windpipe, had been eaten, the blood sipped up, but nothing more. Several crows were pecking away at the carcass unforbidden by Barbe, who petted crows as his inferiors. Barbe wagged his tail and shook his head as the men came up, and said in expressive dog-language, "See here, now! didn't I tell you so!" The disturbed and blood-stained snow around showed that the deer had fought bravely. One of his legs was somewhat broken in the bloody conflict, which incident might have determined Barbe's victory. The men skinned the deer, and bore the skin and dissected parts to the vessel. CHAPTER XXXVIII. CUNNING HUNTERS.