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 woul
d 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 sp
ace 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?”
The Edward S. Ellis Megapack Page 176
