“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!”