A PLAIN DUTY
_...And the great hunter crouching behind the rock brought his trusty
rifle to bear upon the distant stag. The keen-eyed marksman looked like
a statue as he knelt, waiting._
Westy recalled these words in the mammoth volume on the sitting room
table at the farm. He had admired, even been thrilled at the heroic
picture of the great hunter whose exploits in the Maine woods were so
flatteringly recorded. It had not at the time occurred to him that the
noble stag might have looked like a statue too. Well, here was the
actual result of such flaunted heroism, and Westy did not like it. It
was quite a different sort of picture.
Then, suddenly, it occurred to him that he was to blame for this pitiful
spectacle. He who shoots does not always kill. But he who shoots intends
to kill. If the fugitive had failed of his purpose it was because he had
been frightened at the sound of some one near at hand. The shooting
season was not on, it had been a stolen, lawless shot.
A feeling of anger, even of hate, was aroused in Westy’s mind, against
the ruthless violator of the law who had been forced to save himself by
flight before his lawless deed was completed. He had probably thought
the footfalls those of a game warden. To shoot game out of season was
bad enough as it seemed to the scout. To shoot living things seemed now
bereft of all glory to the sensitive boy. But to shoot and not kill and
then run away seemed horrible. This poor deer might suffer for hours.
Westy had seen a little demonstration of the kind of thing he had been
reading and hearing about. Through the medium of the alluring printed
page, he had been present at buffalo hunts, he had seen kindly,
intelligent elephants laid low, and here he was seething with rage that
the blood of this harmless, beauteous creature had been shed, and shed
to no purpose.
But Westy was more than a sensitive boy, he was a scout. And a scout has
ever a sense of responsibility. It was futile to consider what some
stranger had done while this poor creature lay suffering. All that he
had read and heard about hunting big game and all such stuff was
forgotten in the consciousness of a present duty. He, Westy Martin, must
put this deer out of its suffering; he must kill it.
The owner of the precious rifle, all shiny and oily, shuddered. He,
scout of the first class, must finish the work which some criminal
wretch had begun.
He was too essentially honest to take refuge in his promise not to shoot
at anything but a target. He had a momentary thought of that, and then
was ashamed of it. Phrases familiar to him ran through his head. Serious
boy that he was, he had always been a reader of the Handbook. _A scout
is helpful. A scout is friendly to all.... A scout is kind. He is a
friend to animals. He will not kill nor hurt...._
Yet he was not friendly to all. He was enraged at the absent destroyer,
who had made it necessary for him to do something he could not bear to
do. He wished that Ira were there to do it instead. He who had admired
the great hunter crouching behind a rock, wished now that the mighty
hunter might be present to attend to this miserable business. He had
never dreamed of such an emergency, of such a duty. He wished that one
or other of the sprightly youngsters in the advertisements, who were so
ready with their firearms, might shoot for once in this humane cause.
Poor Westy, he was just a boy after all....