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that the terrible buck had withdrawn without killing them.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_!”