Macolm had set of before the sun had lifted. It would be a two or three day hunting trip at best, but if needs be he would stay up on top of the high moors till he had made a kill depending on what the condition of the weather was like. But the sign's were good as there had been two weeks of almost continuous good weather. But the weather up on the high plateau above the glens was a capricious beast that could change in an instant . Even in the summer months, if the wind was blowing down from the north east it would numb you down to the very marrow of your bones. No one in the bothy stirred as he left; quietly sneaking away like some skulking thief on a dark night.
As he left, he was accompanied by his loyal dog Mungo, and his sturdy short legged pony, he had named George after the king. They made their way along the well worn, pebble strewn path that snaked alongside the bank of the crystal clear burn which ran the whole length of the valley floor. . Their way ahead was well lit by the bright glow of the full spring moon that hung like a glassy pearl on a coat of navy velvet. The shrill shriek of a Buzzard suddenly broke the stillness of the night. He looked over in its direction and he could see it outline on a silver birch as it stood guard on a branch above a half built nest. . He knew it could see him it better than he could see it. It's mate would be near by, and before long there would be a couple of chicks in the nest; that would be till the stronger, greedier of the two chicks pushed its weaker flightless sibling out of the nest to its death below. Before the end of the summer he would have a new arrival himself to take care of, as his wife was not to far of giving birth to their first. The Buzzard gave an other shriek,which he decided to take as an indication of good luck from one hunter to another.
After a couple of miles he had reached the foot of a stony, narrow, cattle path that would let him make his way safely up steep hillside to the high plateau of the moor above. As he climbed it got colder, but at best it was dry; there was no water-laden mist cloaking the heather that might dampen his soul. But the wind had started to pick up more the higher he climbed; he pulled his bunnet down over his ears and his heavy wool cloak in a bit tighter.
As he reached the summit, a faint sliver of sulphur yellow to the east, split through the inky darkness that had been left behind, as the moon moved over to the west. It was almost dawn as he reached the summit of the high moor. It had been a tiring, arduous climb and he needed a little time to rest and to catch his breath. He found a well used hollow that would allow him some protection from the chilly, gusting wind that was blowing briskly over the top of the hill.
Taking his fathers old Claymore sword from the saddle bag on his pony; he quickly cut some softer heather with the razor sharp blade to make a comfortable nest he could lie on; becoming his dog Mungo into him to share their heat till the sun showed face.
Before long, the warming sun eventually showed its face- slowly banishing the night as it rose over the horizon to the east. His pony, which never ventured to far on it's own was still close by, he could hear it above his nest in the hollow kneuk; snorting as it chomped away contentedly on the abundant young heather shoots.
He was reluctant to rise from the comfort of his soft heather bed down in the in the hollow. But there were more pressing things to be getting on with and the quicker he got on with the task he came to do, the quicker he got back to his kin folk and the warmth of the fire in their bothy.
He stuck to the cattle paths as he made his way across- what felt like the top of the world, keeping his eyes skinned for any sign of a deer herd or of a Solitary stag.
Come the warmer spring the deer always made their way higher up the moors, to the better grazing grounds where they could feed on the abundance of young sprouting heather shoots. . There would be doe's with them as most of the females had given birth at the end of the winter months. But he was not after a female with a doe in tow. He was after the lone stag. He who had been banished by a more dominant male, who would be keeping a close watch over the females he had fought so hard to win from an other, once all conquering male. He must have covered a good six mile's and had stopped for a rest. He heard the stag before he had seen it; as it's gruff , low pitched throaty baying echoed over the hill tops. Perhaps he was calling to a favourite female lost in battle to a, bigger, stronger male. Keeping his head low MaColm scanned the ground ahead of him looking for his quarry. He seen the beasts great antlers first.. It seemed that the omens were good. He was down wind and more importantly he was closer than he could ever have hoped for. As deer had incredibly acute senses and would normally have been more aware of him long before he knew they were there. He quickly fell to his knees. His pony was a little way behind him but out of sight., George always caught up eventually.. His dog Mungo knew instinctively what was expected of him, and instinctively clapped down beside his master.
