CHAPTER XXIV
SUSPICIOUS FOOTPRINTS
"You blunderhead!" called Bob Budd, forgetting his own peril in hisanger, "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 hestood with head raised, his brown sides rising and falling like a pairof bellows from his severe exertion, looking at the young man that hadfired the shot which ended the hunting career of Hero, as if debatingwith himself how best to end _his_ hunting career.
It would be putting it mildly to say that Jim McGovern wasdumbfounded. He was transfixed for an instant, and then, awaking tohis own peril, he whirled about, threw down his gun, and dashed forthe tree behind which he was standing a minute before.
Throwing both arms and legs around the trunk, as though it were a longlost brother, he began climbing fast and furiously.
It may be wondered whether a faint glimmering of the truth did notforce itself through the brain of the buck that had had such a strangeexperience.
Can it be that he felt that the lad who had fired the last shot had insome way done him an inestimable service in removing the hound fromhis 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 flyingfigure, turned and looked at Tom Wagstaff perched in the tree, andthen gazed down at Bob Budd, who was doing his utmost to shrink into asmaller space than ever beneath the sloping trunk of the oak. Then, asif disgusted with the whole party, he turned about and deliberatelytrotted off in the woods, showing no further concern for those withwhom he had had such a lively bout.
The wounds given by Bob Budd a short time before were so insignificantthat, though they roused the animal's rage, they could not have causedhim any inconvenience or suffering.
Finally, when it was apparent that the buck had departed for good, TomWagstaff descended from his perch in the tree, Jim McGovern slid downto the ground, Bob Budd backed out from beneath the oak, and each onerecovering his gun, they came together in the open space where thedead Hero lay.
It was a characteristic meeting. Bob was maddened over the loss of hishound, while he and all three felt an unspeakable relief in knowingthat the terrible buck had withdrawn without killing them.
"Of all shooting that I ever heard of, _that_ is the worst," saidBob, 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 commentof 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 andsave 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; "onlyI had better sense than to try to crawl _under_ a tree."
"Because you hadn't any to crawl under, _that's_ the onlyreason."
"There aint any of us in shape to find fault with the others, for wehave 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 significantreply of Bob.
The point of this remark was so apparent to all that they smiled andagreed that the best thing they could do was to return to camp. Theynaturally felt exhausted after their lively experience with theanimal, of whose pluck they had gained a better knowledge than everbefore.
"Suppose there had been _two_ of them," remarked Tom, leading theway down the mountain path.
"Then there wouldn't have been any of us," replied Jim, who waswalking next to him, Bob Budd bringing up the rear.
"I don't believe there's half so much fun in hunting as a good manypeople fancy," was the sage observation of young Wagstaff, who foundit so much easier to walk down than up the path, that he felt inclinedto discuss their recent experience.
"Well, for those that like that kind of sport, why, that's the kind ofsport they like. As for me, I'd rather stretch out in the camp andtake things easy."
This picture was so fascinating to the others that they hastened theirfootsteps so as to reach their headquarters with the least possibledelay.
"I can't help feeling grateful for one thing," remarked Bob, from therear of the procession.
"What's that?" asked Tom.
"That Jim shot poor Hero instead of me. I can't understand how Iescaped, for we weren't more than twenty feet apart, and Jim was fullyas far as that from the buck when he took such careful aim."
"My aim was all right," replied Jim, "but after the charge left thegun the hound and the buck changed places. If they hadn't moved thegame would have caught it."
Since, as I have explained, large game was exceedingly rare in thatsection of the country, and since, also, the Piketown Rangers had beenunusually favored in scaring up a fine buck on such short notice, itwould seem they had no reason to believe there was any probability ofencountering any more quadrupeds larger than a rabbit.
All the same, however, each member of the party should have seen to itthat his gun was loaded before moving from the scene of the flurrywith the buck. Such is the rule among hunters, and you will admit thatit is a good one.
Nevertheless, all were trudging down the mountain-side with emptyweapons and with never a thought of preparation for meeting any moregame.
Had the buck suddenly made his appearance nothing would have remainedfor them but to take to their heels; but inasmuch as they would havedone that if their guns were ready, I don't see that it made so muchdifference after all.
A short distance farther the trio reached a tiny stream of icy coldand clear water, which bubbled from the rocks only a short distanceaway on their left.
Naturally they were athirst again, and, since all their flasks hadbeen exhausted long before, they were driven to the necessity ofslaking their thirst with the _aqua pura_.
This was done in the original fashion with which I am quite sure allmy boy readers are familiar. Lying on their faces they touched theirlips to the sparkling fluid, and each drank his fill.
"Ahem!" sighed Jim McGovern, drawing the back of his hand across hismouth, "that aint so bad when you can't get anything better."
"Yes," assented Bob, "when a fellow is dying with thirst he can makeout 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 thatthe ingenuity of man cannot compound a nectar to be compared insoulful, 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 bodybut the immortal soul.
"I think I can go a little more of that," said Jim, kneeling downagain and helping himself as before; "I shouldn't wonder now that ifthere was a tax put on water the same as on whiskey a good deal moreof 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, pointingto the damp, yielding earth on the other side.
Jim and Bob stepped beside him and scrutinized the marks that sointerested 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 everseen on anybody."
Bob stepped across the brook and stooped down that
he might examinethe impressions more closely.
"What do you s'pose?" he asked, looking up in the faces of hiscompanions 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 anythingabout it let us know, and if you don't know, say so."
"Those tracks were made by a _big black bear_!"
The Campers Out; Or, The Right Path and the Wrong Page 24