White Tail is the son of Father Buck, who is the leader of the herd. He and his rival Young Black Buck get into all kinds of adventures, but they have to be wary of Puma the Mountain Lion and Timber Wolf! Will White Tail be able to keep away from them and follow in his father's hoofsteps?
By : George Ethelbert Walsh (1865 - 1941)
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White Tail grew rapidly in size and strength, his long, clean limbs showing taut muscles and great springing power; and his neck grew thick and short, which is well for a buck, who must use it in savage thrusts when the head is a battering ram. His horns were short and bony, but they protruded in front like knobs against which it would be unpleasant to fall.
But his antlers were his pride. They spread out fan-shape on his head, crowning it with a glory that made Mother Deer supremely happy. At times it seemed as if the antlers were too heavy for the head and neck, but White Tail carried them easily, and when he shook them in sport or anger any one could see they were just fitted to him.
In time he stood as high as Father Buck, and a head taller than Mother Deer. The day the tip of his antlers reached an inch above Father Buck’s, he felt a little thrill of pride. To be as big and tall as his father had always been his ambition. But while it pleased Father Buck that his son was growing so big, it made him a little sad.
“You will soon be ready to take my place, White Tail,” he said. “You’re growing taller and stronger every day.”
“That may be, Father Buck,” he replied, “but it will be many a season before I can run as fast and far as you, or show the same strength in a fight. Oh, no, there’s little chance of my equaling you for many, many seasons.”
Father Buck merely smiled and nodded his head. “I want you to run out with me to Stepping Stone brook,” he said simply. “There is something I want to show you.”
White Tail was always eager for a run with Father Buck. Nearly every day they went off together to hunt and explore. Father Buck had been teaching him all the ways and tricks of the woods so that his education would be complete.
It was a cool, crisp day, and they ran through the woods, side by side, in long, gentle lopes until they came to Stepping Stone brook. This was a small stream confined between two ledges of rocks, with stones placed in it for stepping across when one didn’t want to wet the feet. Frequently the whole herd crossed it, using the stones so that not a foot touched the water.
When they reached the brook, White Tail immediately took a long drink of the cooling water, for their run had made him hot and thirsty. Father Buck watched him in silence, a very sad expression in his beautiful eyes. There was admiration also, but a little sadness.
“White Tail,” he said suddenly, “I have brought you here to tell you something. Stepping Stone brook has always been the test for our leaders. Here it is that many a youngster has first earned his right to lead the herd, and, alas! many an older leader has broken his heart here.”
White Tail looked up in surprise, and glanced from the speaker to the trickling waters. He was clearly puzzled by the words he had heard.
“No buck can be leader of the herd unless he can jump across Stepping Stone brook, clearing it from bank to bank without faltering or stumbling. If he fails he must wait until he can make the leap. Many, many have tried and failed, and others—”
White Tail’s eyes gleamed with anticipation. He liked to take risks and attempt difficult tasks.
“I see,” he said, laughing joyfully, “you brought me here to see if I could make the leap. Well, I can do it! I’ll show you. I won’t disappoint you, Father Buck.”
“I know you won’t, White Tail,” was the reply. “I shouldn’t have brought you here so soon if I thought you would fail. But I had another purpose, too.”
“What is it?” asked White Tail.
“I will tell you later. Now I want to see you take the leap. Years ago, many, many seasons ago, I came here, and took it. There on the rocks you can see the marks of my leap. It was one of the longest ever made by any of our people. I was naturally proud of it. I shall never forget that day. I think it was the happiest of my life—except one.”
“Which other one?” asked White Tail.
“The day I defeated Black Buck in the final struggle for leadership,” was the reply. “It was a battle that lasted for hours, and all the herd watched us. We were down, and up again and again, struggling, fighting and bucking until it seemed as if both of us would die from exhaustion. But I finally won. I got him down on his knees, and then rolled him over, and stood there until he acknowledged my leadership. That of course was the happiest day of my life.”
White Tail thrilled at this story, and for a moment forgot the thing he was going to do until his father spoke again.
“Now let me see you take the brook in a jump.”
White Tail trotted back on the embankment, but he discovered there was little room for a start. It was almost a standing leap. That was why it was so hard. Across on the other side the embankment shelved down gradually to the shore, with grass and moss covering the bold face of the rock.
“Take your time,” Father Buck cautioned. “Measure the distance well, and do not spring unless you’re sure of yourself. Many a buck that failed the first time never got his courage up to repeat it. It is the first leap that counts.”
Reflecting long and earnestly on his father’s words, White Tail measured the distance with his eyes, and then drew back as far as he could. He gathered his powerful hind legs together, squatted down on them, pawed the rock with his front ones, and stood a moment in trembling anticipation. His nostrils dilated, his eyes flashed. Then with a sudden forward spring he darted toward the edge of the rock, and when he reached it his hind hoofs dug on the rock for a secure purchase. There was a momentary hesitation, as if he had decided not to make the attempt. Then his body shot upward and outward across the brook in the prettiest jump that any deer had ever taken.
He cleared the brook, with its stepping stones, passed the opposite edge, and landed all four hoofs firmly planted on the upper part of the slope. He had made the jump successfully.
Father Buck crossed the stream on the stones, and glanced down at his old mark. A spirit of exultation seized him.
“You have passed my old mark, White Tail, beaten it by a foot,” he said. “You will some day be leader, I know.”
White Tail was as much interested as his father in his triumph. He examined the marks, and then wanted to repeat the jump to see if he could better it.
“No,” cautioned Father Buck, “once is sufficient. The second time may not be so good. You have established your mark. We will scratch it here with our hoofs as a challenge to all others. Let Young Black Buck beat it if he can. Until he does that is your mark.”
White Tail accepted this order, and made no further attempt to jump the brook. If Young Black Buck beats it some day then he would have a chance to try it again, and, if possible, score a longer jump.
“What was your other purpose in bringing me here today?” he asked remembering his father’s words.
“Ah! That is the sad part of it,” sighed Father Buck. “But you must know. I will show you.”
Just what he meant will appear in the next story.
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