“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 today?”
“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 whee
led 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.
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.
The Edward S. Ellis Megapack Page 175
