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.
[Illustration: 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.