Nor did the squirrel chattering in the tree or the bird
singing on the bough just over his head tell him that the hunter was
near. Tayoga looked again down the arrow at the chosen place on the
gleaming body of the deer, and with a sudden and powerful contraction of
the muscles, bending the bow a little further, loosed the shaft.
The arrow flew singing through the air as swift and deadly as a steel
dart and was buried in the heart of the stag, which, leaping upward,
fell, writhed convulsively a moment or two, and died. The young Onondaga
regarded his work a moment with satisfaction, and then walked forward,
followed by his white comrade.
"One arrow was enough, Tayoga," said Robert, "and I knew before you
shot that another would not be needed."
"The distance was not great," said Tayoga modestly. "I should have been
a poor marksman had I missed."
He pulled his arrow with a great effort from the body of the deer, wiped
it carefully upon the grass, and returned it to _gadasha_, the quiver.
Arrows required time and labor for the making, but unlike the powder and
bullet in a rifle, they could be used often, and hence at times the bow
had its advantage.
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