Hunting Near Burnt Hills (2)

A sizable elk herd had been spotted among the thick willows along the far shoreline when the pirogue rounded the bend in the river. Putting into shore and taking Cruzatte with him, Lewis had left the rest of his party at the river's edge and set off to replenish their dwindling provisions. The men were hardy meat eaters and had sustained themselves on little other than wild game and pemmican throughout the long months of their expedition. Fresh venison would be welcome.

Two bucks were shot immediately. The first one dropped on the spot, killed instantly by a sure shot from Lewis' rifle. Cruzattte's aim was not so sure --he being near sighted in one eye and practically blind in the other. His shot only wounded the second one and it bolted off into the forest with the rest of the herd. Reloading their rifles the two men stalked the injured animal. Heading off in separate directions, in the hope of a quick kill, the two hunters soon lost sight of each other.

Lewis spotted the faltering buck within a couple of hundred paces. Bringing the rifle swiftly to his shoulder he laid his finger across the trigger. At that precise moment the bullet struck. Out of the blue, a searing ball of pain stabbed through his left thigh an inch or so below the hip joint. Just missing the bone, it made its exit and sliced across the hindquarter of his right thigh laying open the flesh of his buttock to the depth of the offending bullet's diameter. A trickle of warm blood ran down and around his thighs and a slow burning sensation burst into a white-hot blaze in the seat of his leather breeches as he hollered out to Cruzatte, "Damn you! You have shot me in the ass!" Being that his garments were made of elk skins, Lewis supposed that the visually impaired Cruzatte had mistaken him for the animal in which they were in hot pursuit.