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CHAPTER XXI – “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!”
CHAPTER XXII – 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.
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.
CHAPTER XXIII – A BRILLIANT SHOT
The new arrival was Hero the hound. He came on the scene with a rush and proceeded straight to business.
He did not need to pause to take in the situation, but with a faint whine and short yelp he bounded for the savage buck, which did not see him until they collided. But the old fellow was game. Though he had fled in a wild panic when the baying of the dog rang through the woods, yet now that he was at bay he fought like a Trojan.
Realizing that it was a fight for life, he whirled about, lowered those splendid antlers and went for the canine like a steam engine.
The dog had no wish to be bored through by such formidable weapons, and, with a bark of fear, he leaped back, alert and watchful for a chance to seize his victim by the throat.
Now was the time for the young hunters to put in the finishing touches, for the buck was so occupied with his new assailant that he could give them no attention.
Bob Budd dared not crawl from under the tree and run for his gun lying some yards away, which would have to be re-loaded before it could be of use to him.
But the young man was convinced that the golden opportunity for the others had arrived, and he did not hesitate to proclaim it in tones that could have been heard a half-mile off.
Tom Wagstaff was persuaded that he was safe so long as he remained astride of the limb where he had perched himself with such haste when the buck gave him a lively chase, and if he knew his own heart (as he was confident he did) he did not mean to descend from his elevation and run the risk of being elevated or bored by the antlers of the vicious buck.
“By the time I can get down there and get hold of my gun he will have the dog knocked out and then he’ll start for me, and where will Ibe? No; I had enough hard work to climb up here and I’ll stay.”
And so, unmindful of the reproaches and appeals of the howling Bob, Tom continued to play the part of interested spectator.
The fight between the buck and the hound promised to be a prolonged one, though it looked as if the fine beast would have to succumb in the end.
Had he been able to get the dog in a corner where he could not dodge, it is probable he might have finished him, for one terrific ramming of those antlers would have been enough, but the agility of Hero saved him each time. When the horny weapons were lowered and the buck made a rush which seemed sure to impale the canine, he sprang nimbly aside like a skillful sparrer, still on the alert for an opening.
The deer displayed an intelligence that hardly would have been expected at such a time. He avoided rearing on his hind legs, and trying to hew his assailant with his fore-paws, as he had sought to do in the case of the youngsters, for such an effort on his part would have given Hero the fatal opening he wanted. One lightning-like bound, and his sharp teeth would have closed in the throat of the buck, and there they would have stuck until he gasped his last breath.
Not only that, but the hound would have kept his body out of reach of the hoofs, while, as a matter of course, the antlers would have been powerless against such a determined assailant.
It was this fact which must have been understood by the buck, that caused him to keep his head lowered and toward the hound, who, despite his rapid darting hither and thither, was unable for a time to catch him off his guard.
It was a forcible commentary on the incompetence and cowardice of the hunters, that there were three of them, all armed and one with both charges in his gun, and yet they dared not interfere while the feinting and striking was going on between the dog and buck.
It must be borne in mind that what I am relating took place in an exceedingly brief space of time.
But the contest, if such it may be called, between the two animals might have continued indefinitely, so far as Bob Budd and Tom Wagstaff were concerned.
The latter, as I have explained, was safely perched among the branches of a tree, while his unloaded gun lay on the ground some distance away, and it was certain to lie there until the struggle between Hero and the larger animal should be settled.
Bob was equally positive that it was his duty to keep himself squeezed beneath the trunk of the oak, though his dread of the animal caused him to edge as many inches as he dared toward the opposite side.
As for Jim McGovern, he was in a quandary. He was as strongly resolved as the other two to avoid any charge from the buck, reasoning that if neither of his brother Rangers was able to stay him with their loaded guns, it was improbable that he could do so with his single weapon.
But somehow or other he felt it incumbent upon him to make use of his gun, which he still held in hand with its two hammers raised and the triggers ready to be pressed.
He inclined to favor the scheme of climbing a tree, where he could open a bombardment at his leisure and smile at the anger of the buck that was so much interested in the hound.
But the difficulty with this plan was that of taking the weapon into the branches with him. To make his way up the trunk, he needed the use of all his limbs, arms as well as legs, and it was therefore out of his power to carry a heavy gun with him.
You will understand that the same obstacle would be encountered in grasping a limb and lifting himself upward, for a lad who drinks whiskey and smokes cigarettes can never be enough of an athlete to draw himself upward with a single arm.
At such times as I am describing the most sluggish brain thinks fast, and the thoughts I have named went through the head of Jim McGovern in a twentieth of the time taken to narrate them.
He was inclined to the theory that he ought to do something, though impatient with the continued yelling of Bob.
“Now’s your chance, Jim! What are you waiting for? Shoot quick, for he’ll soon kill the dog and then he’ll finish me!”
“If you’ll shut up for a minute,” shouted Jim, in reply, “I’ll shoot, but you’re making such an infernal rumpus that I can’t take aim.”
At this hint Bob ceased his appeals and something like silence settled over the exciting scene.
The fiery Hero saw that he would soon have the buck at his mercy, for the animal was tiring himself out by his savage charges. Sometimes he would lower his antlers and dash forward for twenty paces at the dog, which deftly avoided him and saved his strength. Then the buck would slowly fall back, all the time maintaining his defiant front and charging again, often before he had fully recovered from his preceding effort.
It was an interesting fact that, during the few minutes occupied by this singular contest, each of the combatants met with a hair-breadth escape, so to speak, from the other.
Once when the buck made his rush, Hero, in leaping backward, collided with an obstruction on the ground which caused him to roll over and over, and the formidable antlers touched him; but with inimitable dexterity he regained his feet and escaped the sword-like thrust that grazed his skin.
No escape could have been narrower, but that which the buck met within the same minute was fully as narrow.
It may have been that Hero was a victim to some extent of the impatience which the youths around him felt, for seeing an opportunity he bounded like a cannon-ball from the earth at the throat of the buck.
The latter was quick to read the meaning of the crouching figure which left the ground before he could drop his antlers to receive him, else it would have gone ill for the assailant, but the buck flung his head backward just far enough to save his throat from those merciless fangs.
When it is stated that the flesh of the deer just back of his jaws was nipped by the same teeth which could not get a hold deep enough to be retained, it will be admitted that the fellow could not have had a closer call.
But these furious efforts were far more telling upon the larger animal than upon the dog, which could not have failed to understand that he had only to wait a brief while to have the buck at his mercy, and those teeth, once buried in the throat of the game, would stay there, as I have said, until the last gasp of life departed.
By and by Hero saw a better opening than before and instantly gathered his muscles for a spring.
A few seconds previous to this crisis Jim McGovern had mastered the idea that there was but one thing to do, and that was to take careful aim at the buck and kill him; no quicker means of ending the danger could be devised than that.
He had learned that a good place into which to send the charge, no matter what the species of the animal may he, is just behind the foreleg, where a well-aimed bullet or charge of shot fired at close quarters, is sure to reach the seat of life.
While running his eye along the barrel the buck turned broadside toward Jim, and thrusting one foot forward gave the very opportunity he wanted.
Fearful that he would shift his position the next instant, Jim discharged both barrels in quick succession.
The report was yet ringing through the woods when a rasping howl rose on the air that made the blood of every one tingle.
“I didn’t know that deer let out such cries as that when they were shot,” muttered Jim, lowering his gun and walking forward, “but I s’pose I sent both charges through his heart —great Jewhilakens!”
He had suddenly awakened to the fact that instead of shooting the buck he had sent both charges into the body of the hound, just as he was in the act of leaping at the throat of his victim.
The inevitable consequence of this blunder was that Hero lay stretched on the ground as dead as Julius Cæsar.
