CHAPTER XX—THE BAYING OF A HOUND
Dick Halliard caught the gleam of the pistol in the hands of the enraged Bob Budd, but before he could bring it into play the younger lifted up his bicycle, ran it swiftly a few paces, sprang up behind, and set his legs to work with desperate energy.
As he did so he remembered he was still in danger. He leaned as far ahead as he could, like a frontier scout trying to avoid the shots of a party of Indians. It was well he took the precaution, for Bob was so beside himself with wrath that he deliberately pointed the weapon at the fast-disappearing fugitive, and let fly with three chambers as fast as he could discharge them. It was not his fault that the bullets sped wide of the mark, for he tried hard to hit the lad that had handled him so roughly.
Dick glanced over his shoulder, and as he caught sight of the dim figure in the moonlight he said, with a smile:
“Bob wouldn’t have used his pistol if he wasn’t beside himself with rage; any way, I think he and the rest of them will let me alone after this.”
Bob Budd stood a full minute after the bicyclist vanished in the gloom. By that time his anger gave way to a feeling of alarm, as he reflected on what he had done, or rather tried to do.
He had stopped Dick Halliard on the highway; he had attacked him without cause, and when he was fleeing had discharged his pistol at him, doing so with the intention of hitting him with each cartridge. If Dick chose to prosecute him, what could keep him out of State prison?
The thought was a startling one, and did not contribute to the Ranger’s comfort as he picked his way homeward, where, after a time, he was joined by Jim McGovern, returning from his equally marked failure to “even up” matters with Dick Halliard.
You may be certain that neither Bob nor Jim had anything truthful to tell about their meeting with the young man. McGovern stated that he lost his way, and, finding the hour was so late, decided to put off his revenge until a more favorable time. He took care to keep the marks of Bowser’s teeth from the sight of the others, and he was therefore vexed by no annoying questions.
Bob explained that he had been looking for Dick Halliard, and wondered that he did not meet him. The news given by his brother Rangers showed that the doomed youth was elsewhere that evening, which, the bully added, was mighty lucky for him.
When Wagstaff commented on the bruised appearance of Bob’s face, he replied that he ran against the trunk of a tree in the woods, and then he hastened to change the conversation.
“To-morrow we shall have our hunt, boys,” he said, with glowing face, “and here’s success to it!”
The others eagerly joined in the toast, for the reason that they never refused to join in any toast presented.
“You think we’re going to have good weather?” remarked Tom.
“There’s no doubt of it. I asked old Swipes, Carter, and the prophets, and they all agree that the weather will be prime for several days to come.”
“If that’s to be the case, the best thing for us to do is to sleep while we can, so as to be up early in the morning.”
The suggestion was so eminently wise that it was adopted without further delay.
The following morning was one after a hunter’s own heart. The air was crisp and cool, but not sufficiently so to be chilly, nor was it mild enough to render oppressive the slight exertion of walking.
It was too early in the autumn for many of the leaves to fall from the trees, so that in most places a hunter could see but a short distance in advance when picking his way through the woods.
The Piketon Rangers were not accustomed to rise with the sun, and having retired quite late the preceding night, did not rouse themselves as early as was their intention. But their minds were so fixed on the expected enjoyment of the hunt that they willingly put forth the extra exertion needed.
They were in high spirits, for everything was promising, and the bracing air produced its effect upon them.
“I don’t think there will be any need of our pistols,” remarked Wagstaff, doubtingly, when they were ready to start.
“I generally carry mine at all times,” replied Bob Budd, “but we have got to do some mountain climbing, and will be likely to find them in the way. I guess we had better leave them.”
This settled the question, and the three smaller weapons were hidden within the tent, in a hollow which Bob’s ingenuity had fashioned, and where the valuables were not likely to be found by any prowlers in the neighborhood.
The rifles which Jim and Tom had brought from home were left at Bob’s house, and he furnished each with a double-barreled shot gun, as the kind of weapon most likely to be needed, though it seemed to the city youths that the others were just what was wanted in the event of meeting bears or deer. They had cause to regret their choice sooner than they anticipated.
Not the least enthusiastic member of the party was Bob Budd’s hound Hero, that had all a trained animal’s enjoyment of the hunt, and who received so few chances of taking part in the sport that his appetite was at the keenest point.
He darted ahead of the campers, running at his highest speed for a half-mile in sheer wantonness of spirits, then darting off at right angles, and finally trotting back to his friends, as if wondering why they did not make greater haste.
Several times his baying roused the belief on the part of Jim and Tom that he had struck the trail of some animal, but Bob, who had been out with him before, shook his head.
“He lets out a peculiar cry when he takes the scent; I’ll know it the minute I hear it.”
“But what makes him yelp now, when there isn’t any game?” asked Jim.
“Because he can’t help it, just as we sing and shout when we feel happy and merry.”
“There he goes! That means something!” exclaimed Tom, coming to an abrupt halt to listen to the baying of the hound, a considerable distance ahead.
But Bob again shook his head.
“Wild animals aint so plenty that they can be scared up as quick as all that; we must get further up the mountain before we can look for anything worth shooting.”
When Bob was a small boy he had accompanied his uncle on several hunting expeditions in this part of the world, and he held a bright recollection of the occasion.
Many years before deer and bears had been plentiful, and he remembered that his uncle described how the hunt for a deer should be managed among the mountainous section to the rear of their camp.
That knowledge promised to be of great help to Bob, now that, after the lapse of so long a time, he had started to hunt over the same ground.
The course of the party was steadily ascending, and since there were many rocks and considerable tangled undergrowth in their way, it was not long before they felt the result of the unusual exertion.
“Great Cæsar!” exclaimed Tom Wagstaff, dropping down on a log and panting hard; “this is like a good many other things which don’t give half as much fun as we expect. Bob, where’s that flask?”
The others were also glad to sit down for a brief rest, and Bob lost no time in producing the required article, which was applied to the lips of each in turn with the bottom pointed toward the sky, and a part of the fiery contents gurgled down their throats.
“Of course it’s tiresome, because it’s all the way up up-hill,” said Bob, who took of his hat and fanned his flushed face; “but we’ll soon get as high as we want to go, and then it’ll be plain sailing.”
“It’s easy enough to come down-hill, provided it aint too steep.”
“If it gets that way, all a fellow has to do is to lie down and roll,” said Bob; “but I’m hopeful that Hero will start some animal before we go much further.”
The three listened, but though the hound was absent nothing was heard from him. He evidently was making a “still hunt,” but the moment he struck a scent he was sure to let the young hunters know.
Whether or not they did their part, there could be no doubt that the canine would perform his in a creditable manner, for he had been trained by competent hands that fully understood how to teach so sagacious an animal.
Having rested themselves, the party pushed up the mountain-side, until they reached a sort of plateau or table-land, beyond which it was not necessary to climb further.
By this time the three were pretty well tired out again, and once more an appeal was made to the stuff in the flask, without which the hunters felt they could not get along.
Then they indulged in several cigarettes apiece, that and the drink of alcohol being the worst preparation possible for the sport in which they were engaged.
“Now,” said Bob Budd, “we have only to wait here until Hero starts the game for us.”
“Will it come up in front of us to be shot?” was the natural inquiry of Tom Wagstaff.
“I shouldn’t have said that ‘we’ are to wait here, but one of us,” Bob hastened to explain. “You’ve noticed that we have been following a path all the way to this point. Well, it keeps on over the mountain and down the other side.”
“Who made the path?”
“It is a hundred years old, if not older, and was made by wild animals that came down the mountain to drink from the stream that makes the mill-pond near our camp. The path branches off into three forks a quarter of a mile up the mountain, each of the three having been used by deer, bears, and other wild beasts that used to be so plentiful in these parts.”
“Where are the other paths?”
“This is the middle one; about two hundred yards to the left is the second, and not quite so far to the right is the third; now, if Hero starts any game he is sure to take one of these paths in his flight.”
“But suppose the animal is on the other side of Hero,” said Jim, “that is to say, suppose the dog is between us and him?”
“Then he will run the other way, but there’s where Hero will show his training. He knows as much about hunting as we do.”
If Bob had said that the canine knew a great deal more he would have told the truth.
“If Hero should strike the scent of a deer or bear he would know in a minute whether he was closer to us than the game, and if the dog was the closer, he would not bay until he had circled around and got on the other side, for he knows that if he didn’t do so the beast would run away instead of toward us, and his business is to drive him down within our reach.”
Tom and Jim were filled with admiration of the brute, whose knowledge of sporting matters was so extensive.
“I had no idea a pup could be trained to such a fine point,” remarked Jim, “but I suppose it is the nature of the beast.”
“When I was a sweet, innocent little boy,” said Bob, disposed to be facetious, “I came up here with my father and Uncle Jim to hunt deer. They left me at this spot while father went to the left and Uncle Jim to the right. I was too small to handle a gun, and they told me if I saw anything to yell. Well, a very queer thing happened. A buck and doe were started, and the old fellow came trotting over this path. He never saw me until I let out a yell like a wild-cat, when he wheeled off to one side and dashed through the wood to where father was waiting. He was shot without trouble, and at the same moment Uncle Jim brought down the doe, that took the other path.”
“Do you suppose there is any likelihood of Hero starting two to-day?”
“We will be lucky if he starts one, for the animals are very scarce, and hunters have spent several days roaming over the mountains without getting a shot.”
“It seems to me that to make sure of our sport we should station ourselves as you did,” said Jim; “then if the animal comes down this side of the mountain, he will be sure to take one of the three paths, and Tom or you or I will get a shot at him.”
“It will be time enough when we hear Hero,” replied Bob, “for he aint likely to start a deer very near us.”
The young man’s knowledge of the sport was so much superior to that of his companions that they naturally deferred to him in the preliminary arrangements.
“How long ago was it that you had that famous hunt with your father and uncle?” asked Jim McGovern.
Bob reflected a minute, and replied that it was ten years, if not more.
“You can see that I was but a sprig of a youngster, though I was considered unusually smart. If they had given me a gun, and I had had a chance to kneel down and aim over the rocks, I would have brought down that buck, for he couldn’t have offered a better target than at the moment I scared him away.”
“Do you suppose,” asked Tom Wagstaff, “that any deer have been over these paths within the past few weeks or months?”
By way of reply Bob stooped down and brushed away the leaves covering the space of several feet in front, doing it with great care.
“Look!” said he to the others, who kneeled beside him.
There, sure enough, were the imprints of the small, delicate hoofs of a deer, the marks being so distinct that there could be no mistake about their identity.
“But they are under the leaves,” said Jim.
“Yes; under the leaves that have fallen this year, but on top of those that fell last fall; you can see how the rotten leaves have been pushed down in the ground by the hoofs.”
“Then how long since the deer went by?”
“It is so early in the autumn that few leaves have fallen, so I’m satisfied the game passed within a few days, probably not more than a week ago.”
“If that’s the case,” said the gratified Jim, “there is a much better chance than I suspected for us—”
“Hark!”
The peculiar cry of the hound at that moment rang out on the autumn air sharp, clear, and distinct.
“He has struck a scent as sure as you’re born!” exclaimed Bob.
CHAPTER XXI—“HELP! HELP!”
“Take your stations,” added Bob Budd, excitedly; “we’re going to have the tallest kind of fun; I’ll stay here, and you—”
But his friends did not wait for further directions. Tom Wagstaff sprang up, gun in hand, and went threshing among the trees and through the undergrowth toward the path on the left (as they faced the mountain ridge), while Jim McGovern was equally prompt in hurrying to the trail on the right.
Within a few seconds after the first baying of the hound fell upon their ears Bob Budd found himself alone.
“They’re such lunkheads,” he said to himself, “that the two together don’t know enough to hit the side of a barn ten feet off. I hope the deer will take the middle path so that I can show them how the thing is done, which reminds me that it is time to take another drink.”
Meanwhile the dog Hero was getting in his work in brilliant style.
The first sounds of the hound showed that he was over the mountain crest, and within the following minute it was apparent to all that he was approaching, his baying rapidly growing more distinct.
This confirmed what his owner had said: he had held his peace until beyond the wild animal, so that the latter, when he awoke to the alarming fact that the hound was after him, naturally turned in the opposite direction, and was, therefore, coming toward the three hunters, though, of course, it must remain undecided for a time which trail he would take.
The baying of Hero continued at brief intervals, and drew near so fast that each of the three hunters knew the game was sure to pass near him, and one of them was to be favored with a shot before he was a quarter of an hour older.
Which would it be?
“I think I’m to be the lucky chap,” reflected the delighted Tom, over on the left, “and I’ll show Bob, who thinks he knows so much, that some things can be done as well as others. What the mischief is the matter with me?”
This impatient inquiry was caused by Tom’s discovery that a singular nervousness had taken possession of him and was rapidly increasing. The belief that a wild animal was bearing down upon him and would soon break cover affected him as he had never been affected before.
He found himself trembling in every limb, while his teeth rattled as though he were shaking with the ague. Angered at his weakness, he strove desperately to overcome it, but, as is the rule at such times, though he was able to check himself for an instant, he was powerless to master his strange weakness.
I suppose I hardly need tell you that Tom was suffering from that peculiar nervousness known as “buck fever.”
Experienced hunters laugh at amateurs when they see them overtaken by the exasperating disease (if it be proper to call it that), which never attacks them.
“Confound it!” muttered Tom, “I wonder whether Bob or Jim is affected this way; if I don’t get better, I hope the deer won’t come in sight of me.”
Nevertheless, it quickly became apparent that the animal had taken the path on the left, and was approaching the impatient hunter, who had stationed himself behind the trunk of a large oak, with his gun at full cock, ready to let fly with both barrels the instant he saw the chance.
Each of the trails to which I have alluded were traversed so rarely that they showed only dimly, and were overhung by the luxuriant undergrowth and branches growing beside them. This prevented Tom seeing very far along the path, so that his ear gave him knowledge of the whereabouts of the animal before the eye located him.
The youth was still striving desperately to get the mastery of the buck fever, when he heard the crashing tread of the game, which was advancing along the trail, and unless he wheeled aside would pass within twenty feet of where he stood.
Suddenly a commotion was discernible among the vegetation, and the next instant Tom caught sight of the antlers of a noble buck, who was sailing along with such speed that the next second his shoulders and body burst into sight.
He was running fast with that peculiar lope natural to the animal, and no doubt was panic-stricken by the baying of the hound, not far behind and gaining fast.
The sight of the royal game intensified Tom’s nervousness. He compressed his lips and held his breath, with the resolve to calm his agitation or die in the attempt.
But finding it utterly beyond his power, he deliberately stepped from behind the tree, and when the buck was no more than fifty feet away, and coming head on, he let fly with both barrels.
Had the animal been perched in the topmost branches of the beech-tree on the left he would have received a mortal hurt, but as it was, he was not touched by a single pellet of the numberless shot that were sent hurtling and rattling among the leaves.
“Confound you!” muttered Tom, aware of his absurd failure; “I’ll club you to death.”
And swinging the butt of his weapon over his shoulder he rushed savagely at the beast.
In doing so, he ran into a peril of which he did not dream, for nothing is truer than that “a deer at bay is a dangerous foe,” and he would have been practically helpless against an assault of the animal.
Had the latter been wounded there is little doubt that he would have lowered those beautiful antlers and charged directly at the ardent hunter, who would have been caught in a most unpleasant dilemma; but the fact that he was unharmed, added to the terrible baying coming closer every minute, drove all idea of fight from the buck, which wheeled sharply to one side and went crashing through the undergrowth toward the path where Bob Budd was waiting for him.
Tom Wagstaff was carried away by the excitement of the moment, and with his gun clubbed started in frantic pursuit of the fleeing game, resolved to help bring it down, even if he could not shoot it.
He doubtless would have chased the animal a considerable distance had the route been favorable, but beside the rocks and boulders there was no end to the wiry, running vines, one of which wrapped itself about his ankle in a fashion peculiar to its species, and Tom sprawled headlong on his face, his gun flying a half-dozen feet from his hands.
Still determined to keep up the pursuit, he hastily scrambled to his feet, and catching up the weapon, tore ahead with the same frantic haste as before.
Unfortunately for him, however, when he fell he was partly turned around, and his ideas were so confused that he started back over his own trail without a suspicion of the fact, not awaking to his blunder until too late to correct it.
In the meantime the buck was making matters lively not only for himself, but for the other parties.
The report of Tom’s gun readied the ears of Bob and Jim as a matter of course, since they were quite near, but Bob knew that the shot had failed to bring down the game, since he was heard plunging through the wood toward the path beside which Bob Budd was excitedly awaiting his approach.
It would have been strange if Bob had not felt something of the nervousness that had played the mischief with Tom, but it was to a much less extent, so that he did not doubt his ability to fire as coolly and effectively as when practicing at a target.
It is a thrilling experience even for the veteran hunter when a noble buck breaks cover within easy gunshot, and the sight of the animal, as his leathery sides, proud head, and spreading antlers burst upon his vision, stirred the pulses of Bob Budd as they had not been stirred since his encounter with the Widow Finnegan, a couple of nights before.
“You’re my game!” he exclaimed, aiming at the animal and discharging the two barrels in quick succession.
He did better than Tom Wagstaff, though he failed to drop the buck in his tracks, as he expected to do.
In fact, it seems to be one of the impossibilities to kill any of the cervus species instantly—that is, so as to cause him to fall at once, like many other animals when mortally hurt.
I once sent a bullet straight through the heart of a deer that was running broadside past me. He kept straight on with unabated speed for a dozen yards, when he crashed directly against the trunk of a tree and fell all in a heap. But for the tree in his way he would have run considerably further.
Bob lost his head very much as Tom had done a minute before, for observing that the buck did not fall, he clubbed his gun and rushed forward with the intention of braining him.
But from this point forward there was no parallelism in the flow of incidents.
The buck had been slightly wounded, just enough to rouse his anger. It is not impossible, also, that the sight of a second hunter and the sound of the baying hound near at hand convinced him that he was caught in close quarters and must make a fight for it.
So when Bob rushed to meet him, instead of fleeing, the buck lowered his antlers and rushed to meet Bob.
“Jewhilakens!” exclaimed the terrified youth, “I didn’t think of that!”
And wheeling about, he fled for his life.
Where to go or precisely what to do except to run was more than the fugitive could tell.
Accordingly he sped with all the haste at his command, running, it may be said, as never before. His terror was irrestrainable when he cast a single glance over his shoulder and saw that the buck was in savage pursuit.
“Fire! murder! Tom and Jim! where are you? Come to my help, quick, or I’m a goner!” shouted Bob, dodging to the right and left like a Digger Indian, seeking to avoid the rifle shots of a pursuing enemy; “why don’t you help me? The buck has got me and is going to chaw me all to pieces!”
CHAPTER XXII—HOT QUARTERS
In such critical moments events come and go with startling rapidity.
Bob Budd was never in greater peril than when fleeing from the enraged buck that was determined to kill him. It was not only able to run much faster than he, but he was practically powerless to defend himself, since his gun was empty, and though he might face about and deliver one blow, it could effect nothing in the way of slaying or checking the animal.
In his terror the fugitive did the best thing possible without knowing it.
He caught sight of a large oak that had been blown down by some violent gale, the trunk near the base being against the ground, which sloped gradually upward and away from the earth to the top, which was fully a dozen feet high, held in place by the large limbs bent and partly broken beneath.
Without seeing how this shelter was to prove of any help to him, he ran desperately for it.
Fortunately it was but a short distance off, or he never would have lived to reach it.
As it was, at the moment he gathered himself to spring upon the sloping trunk the pursuing buck reached and gave him a lift, which accomplished more than the fugitive wished, for instead of landing upon the trunk, he was boosted clean over, and fell on the other side.
Striking on his hands and knees, with his gun flying a rod from him, Bob crawled back under the tree, where he crouched in mortal terror.
The animal stopped short, and, rearing on his hind legs, brought his front hoofs together, and banged them downward with such force that they sank to the fetlocks into the earth.
His intention was to deliver this fearful blow upon the body of the boy, and had he succeeded in doing so it would have gashed his body as fatally as the downward sweep of a guillotine.
The interposition of the trunk saved Bob, but so close was the call that the sharp hoofs grazed his clothing.
In his panic lest the infuriated beast should reach him, Bob scrambled through so far that he passed from under the sheltering tree.
Quick to see his mistake, the buck leaped lightly over the prostrate trunk, and, landing on the other side, again rose on his hind legs, placed his front hoofs together and brought them down with the same terrific force as before.
Bob’s escape this time was still narrower, for his coat was cut by the knife-like hoofs, which shaved off several pieces of the shaggy bark.
But the young hunter kept moving and scrambled out of reach from that side just in the nick of time.
The buck bounded over again, but Bob was quick to see his mistake, and now shrank into the closest quarters possible, taking care that the solid roof covered him.
Then he forced his body toward the base of the leaning tree, until the narrowing space permitted him to go no further, and he was so compressed that he could hardly breathe.
THE BUCK LEAPED LIGHTLY OVER THE PROSTRATE TRUNK
Meanwhile he did not forget to use his lungs.
“Tom! Jim! hurry up or I’m lost! Where are you? Come, quick, I tell you! the buck is killing me!”
The frantic appeal reached the ears it was intended for, and the two other Piketon Rangers dashed toward the spot, though not without misgiving, for the wild cries of their imperiled comrade warned them of the likelihood of running into danger themselves, and neither was ready to go to that extent to save their leader.
Tom Wagstaff was the first to reach the spot, and he paused for a moment, bewildered by the scene.
He saw the buck bounding back and forth over the tree, rising on his hind legs and bringing down his front hoofs with vicious force, occasionally lowering his antlers as he endeavored to force the fugitive out of his refuge.
At the first Tom could not locate Bob, whom he expected to see standing on his feet, braced against a tree and swinging his clubbed gun with all the power at his command.
The frantic shouts, however, enabled him to discover his friend, and he called back:
“Keep up courage, old fellow! I’m here, and will give the beast his finishing touch!”
The exasperating buck fever had vanished, and Tom’s nerves were as steady as could be wished, though he was naturally flustered by the stirring situation.
Bringing his gun to his shoulder, he aimed directly at the beast, which could not have offered a better target, and pulled both triggers.
But no report followed.
“Confound it!” he muttered, “I forgot that the old thing wasn’t loaded! Can’t you stay there, Bob, for a day or two, till I go down to Piketon and bring forty or fifty people to pull you out?”
“No; I’ll be killed,” called back the furious Bob; “the buck will get at me in a minute more!”
“All right—”
“No, it aint; it’s all wrong!” interrupted the terrified lad; “load your gun as quick as you can and shoot him!”
“That’s what I’m trying to do—good-bye!”
At that juncture the buck seemed to decide there was a better chance of reaching Tom than there was of getting at Bob, so leaving him alone for the moment, he rushed at the former.
It was the sudden awakening to this fact which caused Tom to bid his comrade a hasty farewell and to take to his heels.
“I don’t think an empty gun is much good to a fellow,” said Tom, throwing it aside as he fled with great speed.
It was Tom’s extremely good fortune that when he set on his frenzied flight he had a much better start than Bob Budd, and he knew enough to turn it to good account.
Heading straight for the nearest tree, he ran under it, making at the same moment the most tremendous bound of which he was capable.
This leap enabled him to grasp one of the lower limbs with both hands and to draw himself up out of reach at the moment the buck thundered beneath.
“I wonder whether a deer can climb a tree,” was the shuddering thought of the fellow, as he looked downward at the animal from which he had just had such a narrow escape; “’cause if he can, I’m in a bad box; I wish he would go back to Bob.”
And that is precisely what the buck did do.
Quick to perceive that the second lad was beyond his reach, he wheeled about and trotted to the fallen tree.
Poor Bob, when he perceived the animal making after Tom, thought his relief had come, and began backing out from under the trunk of the oak.
He had barely time to free himself from the shaggy roof, when he looked around and saw that the buck was coming again.
“Hangnation! Why don’t he let me alone?” he growled, and, it is safe to say, he never scrambled under shelter with such celerity in all his life.
Quick as he was, he was not an instant too soon, for once more the sharp hoofs came within a hair of cutting their way through his shoulder.
But so long as he shrank into the smallest possible space beneath the oak he was safe, though he felt anything but comfortable with the buck making such desperate efforts to reach him.
“Where the mischief is Jim?” growled Bob, who had just cause to complain of the dilatoriness of his companion; “why don’t he come forward and help us out?”
Jim McGovern had not been idle. He was the only member of the Piketon Rangers that had a loaded gun at command, and when he heard the appeal of Bob Budd he hurried from his station to his help.
But, as I have intimated, there was no member of that precious band that thought enough of the others to risk his life to help him, and Jim, it may be said, felt his way.
Instead of dashing forward like Tom, who was ignorant of the combativeness sometimes displayed by a wounded buck, he moved cautiously until he caught sight of the respective parties without exposing himself to the fury of the wounded animal.
Jim arrived at the moment the beast made for Tom, and the sight alarmed him.
“What’s the use of a fellow getting killed just to do a favor for some one that wouldn’t do as much for you?” was the thought that held the chivalrous young man motionless, when he ought to have rushed forward to the defense of Bob Budd.
“Great Cæsar!” muttered Jim, shrinking behind the tree which he was using for a concealment, “I never knew that a buck was such a savage animal; he’s worse than a royal Bengal tiger that’s been robbed of its young ones.”
But Jim had a good double-barrelled gun in his hands, and he was so close to the buck that it seemed to him he ought to be able to riddle him with shot. Besides, Jim had not a particle of the buck fever which incapacitated Tom, but which does not attack every amateur hunter.
“The best thing I can do is to climb this tree,” he added, looking upward at the limbs, “and then if I miss, why the buck can’t get at me, for he don’t look as though he’s built for climbing trees.”
At this juncture the buck was on the further side of the prostrate oak, trying to root out Bob from his shelter. Since he could not reach him with his hoofs, he seemed to believe that a vigorous use of his antlers would accomplish his purpose.
It looked as if he was about to succeed, for one of the blunt points gave Bob such a vigorous punch in his side that he howled with terror.
At the same moment, while staring about as best he could for the tardy Jim, he caught sight of his white face peering around the tree behind which he stood.
“Why don’t you shoot, Jim?” he yelled; “do you want to see me killed? The buck is ramming his antlers into my side! The next punch he gives me they will go clean through.”
At this instant another party arrived on the scene.
CHAPTER XXIII—A BRILLIANT SHOT
The new arrival was Hero the hound. He came on the scene with a rush and proceeded straight to business.
He did not need to pause to take in the situation, but with a faint whine and short yelp he bounded for the savage buck, which did not see him until they collided. But the old fellow was game. Though he had fled in a wild panic when the baying of the dog rang through the woods, yet now that he was at bay he fought like a Trojan.
Realizing that it was a fight for life, he whirled about, lowered those splendid antlers and went for the canine like a steam engine.
The dog had no wish to be bored through by such formidable weapons, and, with a bark of fear, he leaped back, alert and watchful for a chance to seize his victim by the throat.
Now was the time for the young hunters to put in the finishing touches, for the buck was so occupied with his new assailant that he could give them no attention.
Bob Budd dared not crawl from under the tree and run for his gun lying some yards away, which would have to be re-loaded before it could be of use to him.
But the young man was convinced that the golden opportunity for the others had arrived, and he did not hesitate to proclaim it in tones that could have been heard a half-mile off.
Tom Wagstaff was persuaded that he was safe so long as he remained astride of the limb where he had perched himself with such haste when the buck gave him a lively chase, and if he knew his own heart (as he was confident he did) he did not mean to descend from his elevation and run the risk of being elevated or bored by the antlers of the vicious buck.
“By the time I can get down there and get hold of my gun he will have the dog knocked out and then he’ll start for me, and where will Ibe? No; I had enough hard work to climb up here and I’ll stay.”
And so, unmindful of the reproaches and appeals of the howling Bob, Tom continued to play the part of interested spectator.
The fight between the buck and the hound promised to be a prolonged one, though it looked as if the fine beast would have to succumb in the end.
Had he been able to get the dog in a corner where he could not dodge, it is probable he might have finished him, for one terrific ramming of those antlers would have been enough, but the agility of Hero saved him each time. When the horny weapons were lowered and the buck made a rush which seemed sure to impale the canine, he sprang nimbly aside like a skillful sparrer, still on the alert for an opening.
The deer displayed an intelligence that hardly would have been expected at such a time. He avoided rearing on his hind legs, and trying to hew his assailant with his fore-paws, as he had sought to do in the case of the youngsters, for such an effort on his part would have given Hero the fatal opening he wanted. One lightning-like bound, and his sharp teeth would have closed in the throat of the buck, and there they would have stuck until he gasped his last breath.
Not only that, but the hound would have kept his body out of reach of the hoofs, while, as a matter of course, the antlers would have been powerless against such a determined assailant.
It was this fact which must have been understood by the buck, that caused him to keep his head lowered and toward the hound, who, despite his rapid darting hither and thither, was unable for a time to catch him off his guard.
It was a forcible commentary on the incompetence and cowardice of the hunters, that there were three of them, all armed and one with both charges in his gun, and yet they dared not interfere while the feinting and striking was going on between the dog and buck.
It must be borne in mind that what I am relating took place in an exceedingly brief space of time.
But the contest, if such it may be called, between the two animals might have continued indefinitely, so far as Bob Budd and Tom Wagstaff were concerned.
The latter, as I have explained, was safely perched among the branches of a tree, while his unloaded gun lay on the ground some distance away, and it was certain to lie there until the struggle between Hero and the larger animal should be settled.
Bob was equally positive that it was his duty to keep himself squeezed beneath the trunk of the oak, though his dread of the animal caused him to edge as many inches as he dared toward the opposite side.
As for Jim McGovern, he was in a quandary. He was as strongly resolved as the other two to avoid any charge from the buck, reasoning that if neither of his brother Rangers was able to stay him with their loaded guns, it was improbable that he could do so with his single weapon.
But somehow or other he felt it incumbent upon him to make use of his gun, which he still held in hand with its two hammers raised and the triggers ready to be pressed.
He inclined to favor the scheme of climbing a tree, where he could open a bombardment at his leisure and smile at the anger of the buck that was so much interested in the hound.
But the difficulty with this plan was that of taking the weapon into the branches with him. To make his way up the trunk, he needed the use of all his limbs, arms as well as legs, and it was therefore out of his power to carry a heavy gun with him.
You will understand that the same obstacle would be encountered in grasping a limb and lifting himself upward, for a lad who drinks whiskey and smokes cigarettes can never be enough of an athlete to draw himself upward with a single arm.
At such times as I am describing the most sluggish brain thinks fast, and the thoughts I have named went through the head of Jim McGovern in a twentieth of the time taken to narrate them.
He was inclined to the theory that he ought to do something, though impatient with the continued yelling of Bob.
“Now’s your chance, Jim! What are you waiting for? Shoot quick, for he’ll soon kill the dog and then he’ll finish me!”
“If you’ll shut up for a minute,” shouted Jim, in reply, “I’ll shoot, but you’re making such an infernal rumpus that I can’t take aim.”
At this hint Bob ceased his appeals and something like silence settled over the exciting scene.
The fiery Hero saw that he would soon have the buck at his mercy, for the animal was tiring himself out by his savage charges. Sometimes he would lower his antlers and dash forward for twenty paces at the dog, which deftly avoided him and saved his strength. Then the buck would slowly fall back, all the time maintaining his defiant front and charging again, often before he had fully recovered from his preceding effort.
It was an interesting fact that, during the few minutes occupied by this singular contest, each of the combatants met with a hair-breadth escape, so to speak, from the other.
Once when the buck made his rush, Hero, in leaping backward, collided with an obstruction on the ground which caused him to roll over and over, and the formidable antlers touched him; but with inimitable dexterity he regained his feet and escaped the sword-like thrust that grazed his skin.
No escape could have been narrower, but that which the buck met within the same minute was fully as narrow.
It may have been that Hero was a victim to some extent of the impatience which the youths around him felt, for seeing an opportunity he bounded like a cannon-ball from the earth at the throat of the buck.
The latter was quick to read the meaning of the crouching figure which left the ground before he could drop his antlers to receive him, else it would have gone ill for the assailant, but the buck flung his head backward just far enough to save his throat from those merciless fangs.
When it is stated that the flesh of the deer just back of his jaws was nipped by the same teeth which could not get a hold deep enough to be retained, it will be admitted that the fellow could not have had a closer call.
But these furious efforts were far more telling upon the larger animal than upon the dog, which could not have failed to understand that he had only to wait a brief while to have the buck at his mercy, and those teeth, once buried in the throat of the game, would stay there, as I have said, until the last gasp of life departed.
By and by Hero saw a better opening than before and instantly gathered his muscles for a spring.
A few seconds previous to this crisis Jim McGovern had mastered the idea that there was but one thing to do, and that was to take careful aim at the buck and kill him; no quicker means of ending the danger could be devised than that.
He had learned that a good place into which to send the charge, no matter what the species of the animal may he, is just behind the foreleg, where a well-aimed bullet or charge of shot fired at close quarters, is sure to reach the seat of life.
While running his eye along the barrel the buck turned broadside toward Jim, and thrusting one foot forward gave the very opportunity he wanted.
Fearful that he would shift his position the next instant, Jim discharged both barrels in quick succession.
The report was yet ringing through the woods when a rasping howl rose on the air that made the blood of every one tingle.
“I didn’t know that deer let out such cries as that when they were shot,” muttered Jim, lowering his gun and walking forward, “but I s’pose I sent both charges through his heart—great Jewhilakens!”
He had suddenly awakened to the fact that instead of shooting the buck he had sent both charges into the body of the hound, just as he was in the act of leaping at the throat of his victim.
The inevitable consequence of this blunder was that Hero lay stretched on the ground as dead as Julius Cæsar.
CHAPTER XXIV—SUSPICIOUS FOOTPRINTS
“You blunderhead!” called Bob Budd, forgetting his own peril in his anger, “you’ve killed Hero. I hope the buck will gore you to death.”
The triumphant animal seemed to be on the point of doing so, for he stood with head raised, his brown sides rising and falling like a pair of bellows from his severe exertion, looking at the young man that had fired the shot which ended the hunting career of Hero, as if debating with himself how best to end his hunting career.
It would be putting it mildly to say that Jim McGovern was dumbfounded. He was transfixed for an instant, and then, awaking to his own peril, he whirled about, threw down his gun, and dashed for the tree behind which he was standing a minute before.
Throwing both arms and legs around the trunk, as though it were a long lost brother, he began climbing fast and furiously.
It may be wondered whether a faint glimmering of the truth did not force itself through the brain of the buck that had had such a strange experience.
Can it be that he felt that the lad who had fired the last shot had in some way done him an inestimable service in removing the hound from his path?
Probably such a conception is beyond the reach of a wild animal, but, be that as it may, the buck, after staring a moment at the flying figure, turned and looked at Tom Wagstaff perched in the tree, and then gazed down at Bob Budd, who was doing his utmost to shrink into a smaller space than ever beneath the sloping trunk of the oak. Then, as if disgusted with the whole party, he turned about and deliberately trotted off in the woods, showing no further concern for those with whom he had had such a lively bout.
The wounds given by Bob Budd a short time before were so insignificant that, though they roused the animal’s rage, they could not have caused him any inconvenience or suffering.
Finally, when it was apparent that the buck had departed for good, Tom Wagstaff descended from his perch in the tree, Jim McGovern slid down to the ground, Bob Budd backed out from beneath the oak, and each one recovering his gun, they came together in the open space where the dead Hero lay.
It was a characteristic meeting. Bob was maddened over the loss of his hound, while he and all three felt an unspeakable relief in knowing that the terrible buck had withdrawn without killing them.
“Of all shooting that I ever heard of, that is the worst,” said Bob, with a sniff of disgust, pointing at the carcass of Hero.
“It was better than yours,” retorted Jim, “for it killed something, while yours didn’t hurt anything.”
“I hit the buck, any way,” said Bob, sullenly.
“The buck didn’t act as though he knew it,” was the truthful comment of Tom Wagstaff.
“I don’t see that you have any chance to talk,” retorted Bob; “for you fired both barrels at him and then yelled for us to come and save you.”
“But you didn’t come, and I had to run out here to help you.”
“Yes; and the minute you caught sight of the buck you took to a tree.”
“I was only doing what you had done a minute before,” said Tom; “only I had better sense than to try to crawl under a tree.”
“Because you hadn’t any to crawl under, that’s the only reason.”
“There aint any of us in shape to find fault with the others, for we have all made an exhibition that it’s lucky nobody else saw.”
“It seems to me,” said Bob, “that we don’t amount to much as hunters; what do you suppose has become of that buck?”
“He isn’t far off, but I don’t believe it will do to hunt him.”
“Why not?”
“There is too much danger of finding him,” was the significant reply of Bob.
The point of this remark was so apparent to all that they smiled and agreed that the best thing they could do was to return to camp. They naturally felt exhausted after their lively experience with the animal, of whose pluck they had gained a better knowledge than ever before.
“Suppose there had been two of them,” remarked Tom, leading the way down the mountain path.
“Then there wouldn’t have been any of us,” replied Jim, who was walking next to him, Bob Budd bringing up the rear.
“I don’t believe there’s half so much fun in hunting as a good many people fancy,” was the sage observation of young Wagstaff, who found it so much easier to walk down than up the path, that he felt inclined to discuss their recent experience.
“Well, for those that like that kind of sport, why, that’s the kind of sport they like. As for me, I’d rather stretch out in the camp and take things easy.”
This picture was so fascinating to the others that they hastened their footsteps so as to reach their headquarters with the least possible delay.
“I can’t help feeling grateful for one thing,” remarked Bob, from the rear of the procession.
“What’s that?” asked Tom.
“That Jim shot poor Hero instead of me. I can’t understand how I escaped, for we weren’t more than twenty feet apart, and Jim was fully as far as that from the buck when he took such careful aim.”
“My aim was all right,” replied Jim, “but after the charge left the gun the hound and the buck changed places. If they hadn’t moved the game would have caught it.”
Since, as I have explained, large game was exceedingly rare in that section of the country, and since, also, the Piketown Rangers had been unusually favored in scaring up a fine buck on such short notice, it would seem they had no reason to believe there was any probability of encountering any more quadrupeds larger than a rabbit.
All the same, however, each member of the party should have seen to it that his gun was loaded before moving from the scene of the flurry with the buck. Such is the rule among hunters, and you will admit that it is a good one.
Nevertheless, all were trudging down the mountain-side with empty weapons and with never a thought of preparation for meeting any more game.
Had the buck suddenly made his appearance nothing would have remained for them but to take to their heels; but inasmuch as they would have done that if their guns were ready, I don’t see that it made so much difference after all.
A short distance farther the trio reached a tiny stream of icy cold and clear water, which bubbled from the rocks only a short distance away on their left.
Naturally they were athirst again, and, since all their flasks had been exhausted long before, they were driven to the necessity of slaking their thirst with the aqua pura.
This was done in the original fashion with which I am quite sure all my boy readers are familiar. Lying on their faces they touched their lips to the sparkling fluid, and each drank his fill.
“Ahem!” sighed Jim McGovern, drawing the back of his hand across his mouth, “that aint so bad when you can’t get anything better.”
“Yes,” assented Bob, “when a fellow is dying with thirst he can make out very well on that stuff, but it’s mighty thin.”
“I would hate to be obliged to stick to it,” added Tom.
And yet every one of that precious party knew in his own heart that the ingenuity of man cannot compound a nectar to be compared in soulful, refreshing deliciousness with the tasteless, colorless, odorless drink of nature.
Stick to that, boys, and never touch a drop of the enemy which, put in the mouth, steals away the brains and wrecks not only the body but the immortal soul.
“I think I can go a little more of that,” said Jim, kneeling down again and helping himself as before; “I shouldn’t wonder now that if there was a tax put on water the same as on whiskey a good deal more of it would be drunk.”
Tom Wagstaff was standing a few feet farther up the streamlet, carefully scrutinizing the ground.
“What are you looking at?” asked Bob Budd.
“Aint those dents the tracks of some wild animal?” he asked, pointing to the damp, yielding earth on the other side.
Jim and Bob stepped beside him and scrutinized the marks that so interested their companion.
“By jingo!” exclaimed Jim, “they are the tracks of something, and if they were made by a man, then he’s got the queerest feet I ever seen on anybody.”
Bob stepped across the brook and stooped down that he might examine the impressions more closely.
“What do you s’pose?” he asked, looking up in the faces of his companions with a scared expression.
“We s’pose we don’t know what made the tracks.”
“But guess” insisted Bob, with provoking deliberation.
“An elephant?”
“No.”
“A hippopotamus?”
“Nothing of the kind.”
“How can we guess?” asked Jim, impatiently; “if you know anything about it let us know, and if you don’t know, say so.”
“Those tracks were made by a big black bear!”
CHAPTER XXV—UP A TREE
“Gracious!” gasped Tom Wagstaff, “let’s run!”
“I agree with Tom,” added Jim, glancing furtively around, as though he expected to see the dreadful beast rush out of the woods after them.
“You’re a fine set of hunters, aint you?” sneered Bob; “after coming out to hunt game you want to run when you strike the trail of the very creature you’re looking for.”
“I aint looking for bears,” said Tom, “I haven’t lost any.”
“And besides,” added Jim, “there isn’t any fallen tree here where we can crawl under to get out of the way.”
“But there’s plenty of trees which you can climb—there he comes now!”
Tom and Jim each glanced affrightedly around, not knowing which way to run to escape the dreaded brute.
But it was a joke of Bob’s, and he made the woods ring with his laughter, while, as may be supposed, the others were in no amiable mood.
“I don’t see any fun in that sort of thing,” growled Tom.
“You may do like the boy in the fable, who shouted ‘Wolf!’ once too often,” added Jim, ashamed of his weakness.
The next instant Tom Wagstaff shouted: “There he comes and no mistake!”
Tom and Jim were standing on one side of the streamlet, facing Bob on the other side, so that his back was turned toward the point at which they were gazing.
The expression on the countenance of the couple was that of extreme alarm, though such a brief time had elapsed since Bob had given them a scare that they had not yet recovered from it.
“You’re right!” Jim added, instantly, as he and Tom wheeled and dashed off at the top of their speed through the woods.
Bob was determined they should not fool him. He laughed again in his hearty fashion, throwing back and shaking his head.
“You can’t come that, boys!” he called, “it’s too soon after my little joke on you.”
“But, Bob, we aint joking,” shouted back Jim, looking over his shoulder, but still running; “the bear is coming as sure as you are born.”
“You can’t fool me.”
Bob had not the remotest suspicion that his friends were in earnest, but the sight of them climbing the same tree led him to think they were pushing their poor joke with a great deal of vigor.
At this same moment he heard a crashing and trampling among the bushes behind him, and, checking the words on his lips, turned his head.
The bear was coming!
An enormous fellow of the ordinary black species had been descried by Tom and Jim when less than a hundred yards away, and he was advancing straight toward the spot where the three were standing.
They were in dead earnest, therefore, when they fled, calling to Bob the frightful news.
Had not Bob just played a joke on them he would not have doubted their sincerity, so that in one sense his peril was a punishment for his own misdoing.
It need not be said that the laughter on Bob Budd’s lips froze, and he made a break after his companions, who had so much the start of him.
“Gracious!” he muttered, “I didn’t think they were in earnest; I’m a goner this time sure.”
Nevertheless he had no thought of sitting down and waiting to be devoured by bruin, who lumbered along in his awkward fashion, rapidly drawing near him.
Bob’s hat went off, his gun was flung from his hand, and with one bound he landed far beyond the edge of the streamlet and made after his friends, throwing terrified glances over his shoulder at the brute, which took up the pursuit as though it was the most enjoyable sport he had had in a long time.
Once more the exasperating vines got in the way, and the panic-stricken fugitive fell sprawling on his hands and knees, bounding instantly to his feet and making for the tree where his friends had secured refuge.
By this time the bear was almost upon him, so close indeed that he reached out one of his paws to seize his victim.
No words can picture the terror of Bob Budd when he felt the long nails scratching down his back and actually tearing his coat, but bruin was a few inches too short, and the youth made such good time that he struck the tree a number of paces in advance of his pursuer.
The fugitive, however, did not stop, for before he could climb the brief distance necessary to reach the limbs, the beast would have had him at his mercy. He therefore continued his flight, yelling in such a delirium of fright that he really did not know what words escaped him.
“Why don’t you come down?” he called to his friends, “and give me a chance? Let him chase you awhile.”
It is unnecessary to state that neither Tom nor Jim accepted the urgent invitation of their imperiled comrade.
“Run hard, Bob, and show him what you can do!” called back Tom, who really thought it was all over with their leader.
This shout accomplished more than was expected. The noise led the bear to look up the tree, where he observed the two boys perched but a short distance above him. He seemed all at once to lose interest in the fugitive, who continued his flight some distance farther, when, finding his enemy was not at his heels, he sprang for a sapling, up which he went like a monkey.
The trouble with Bob, however, was that he climbed too high. It was a small hickory, not much thicker than his arm. This kind of wood, as you are aware, is very elastic, and the first thing the lad knew was that the upper part, to which he was clinging, bent so far over that it curved like a bow, and before it stopped he had sank to within six or eight feet of the ground.
Had the bear continued his pursuit, Bob would have been in an unfortunate predicament; but, casting a glance behind him, he noticed the beast had stopped under the tree supporting Tom and Jim.
Two courses were open to him, either of which would have secured his safety.
He had time enough to drop from the sapling and take to a larger one, up which he could have climbed and been beyond harm; or he could have slid a little farther down the hickory, so as to allow it to right itself, and he still would have been safe, for a bear is unable to climb a tree so slight in diameter that his paws meet around it.
But Bob was too terrified to do either. He simply held fast, and did the worst thing possible: he continued to shout for his companions to come to his help.
By this means he once more attracted the notice of bruin to himself, whereas, if he had held his peace, he would have given the whole of his attention to the two boys in the larger tree.
The bear had reared on his haunches, seemingly with the intention of striving to reach the lads, when he turned his head and took a look at the one in the sapling.
Stupid as is bruin by nature, he saw that it would be easier for him to reach the single fugitive than the others, and he proceeded to do so.
You need not be told that Tom and Jim, like Bob, had thrown away their guns again in their frenzied flight, through fear that they would retard their efforts to get beyond his reach.
Poor Bob, when he found himself once more the object of the animal’s undivided attention, felt as though he might as well let go and be devoured at once. All the same, though, he hung fast and continued his cries, which, had there been time, would have brought help from the distance of a mile.
He was clinging to the sapling with both hands, and his two feet, that were wrapped about the small trunk, only a short distance below his shoulders. This caused the centre of his body to hang down like the lower point of a horseshoe, the curve being sharper than that of the bowed hickory.
Halting directly under the howling lad, the bear reared on his haunches, reached upward with one paw and struck Bob a sharp blow. It caused him no material damage, but set the body to swaying back and forth. At the same time the hickory nodded, letting the lad sink a few inches and then rising with a regular, swinging motion.
This would have ceased in a moment of itself, but for the action of the bear, who, every time the body came within easy reach, hit it a sharp tap with his paw, causing it to swing back and forth in a sort of rhythmic accord with the dipping of the sapling.