Spencer's Mountain Read Online Free

the earliest tales he had heard from his grandfather.
    The hunting party was about a quarter of the way up the mountain when one of the men called out, “There’s a good stand right here.”
    â€œLet’s give this one to Clay-Boy,” Clay suggested, and the other men agreed.
    â€œI’ll be right up there where the road turns, son,” said Clay. “If one comes ’long I’ll let you have first crack at him.”
    Clay-Boy took up his station just off the roadway. He found an old tree stump, brushed it clear of snow and sat down. For a little while he could hear the distant conversations of the other men as each took his stand, but finally he could hear them no longer and a great stillness settled over the woods.
    He was not as cold as he had expected to be. Actually he might have done without one of the extra sweaters he was wearing. After a while he began to feel drowsy. He nodded, catching himself each time before his gradually lowering chin reached his chest. Each time on opening his eyes he would scan all that he could see for deer and, finding none, would begin to nod again.
    Something quite suddenly brought him fully awake. It was not a noise, for no sound had come. It was something the boy felt, a presence he sensed, and in the instant his eyes opened he saw standing not more than thirty feet away an enormous deer.
    What he saw was fixed forever in his mind, the dull gray sky of the winter morning, the barren limbs of the sleeping trees, the virgin snow and the great deer which stood silent, immobile, and enduring through all of memory.
    The deer either did not see him or it had no fear. It stood nearly rigid; only its sides moved as it inhaled gulps of air and exhaled them in small clouds of fog on the frosty air.The animal was a majestic thing. It stood with its proud head high and erect, its many-pointed antlers regally aloft. Its coat was white, and even across the distance that separated him and the deer, Clay-Boy could see that its eyes were pink.
    A shocking thing came then into the boy’s mind. He had thought so much about the hunt that the whole adventure had been contained in the idea. He had pictured himself coming home triumphantly carrying the greatest deer in the forest, but the actual killing of the deer he had not even imagined. Now it came to him with a terrible knowing that the whole purpose of his being there was that he should kill the live thing that stood before him.
    Clay-Boy hesitated. He could feel the small beads of cold perspiration breaking out on his forehead and down his back. He did not want to kill the beast. For one brief moment he wished the deer would leap away and lose itself in the forest, but it stood silent, quivering, waiting.
    When Clay-Boy raised his rifle his hands were trembling. Carefully he steadied his aim by laying his head against the butt of the rifle and when he found the heart of the deer he closed his eyes and pulled the trigger. The recoil sent the boy tumbling backward and when he scrambled to his feet he thought for a second the shot had missed its mark. But in that same instant the forelegs gave way and the deer collapsed into a kneeling position. Even when the hind legs folded and the deer’s body was entirely on the ground it held its head aloft, as if reluctant to surrender its antlers to the ground.
    Clay-Boy had heard enough hunting stories that he knew now what must be done. He ran headlong toward the stricken deer, grasped the antlers, and with all his force twisted them over and rammed them into the ground, thus protecting himself and exposing the deer’s throat at the same time.
    He reached for the knife, fumbling over the snap at the sheath for a second, and then when he had the knife firmly grasped he plunged the blade into the fur and leather of the animal’s throat. A shudder wrenched through the dying deerand when the boy felt the quiver of final strength wane from the antler he held, something