“Shoot!”
It was only the faintest of whispers, but Thad caught it, for the mouth of the Indian guide was just a short distance away from his ear.
He had already lowered his cheek to the stock of the little rifle, and his finger was touching the trigger. Almost through instinct, such as comes to one who has the blood of a hunter flowing through his veins, the boy judged where he must aim, for such a thing as actually seeing the shoulder of the gloomy figure was just then impossible.
The sight of that grand animal standing there with upraised head, listening eagerly for the faintest indication of the presence of those whose calls had tempted him to make this pilgrimage, was one Thad would never be able to wholly get out of his mind.
Then he pressed the trigger of his rifle, and its quick response to the invitation came as a pleasure to his ears. Hardly had he fired than Thad was working the mechanism that was intended to throw out the empty shell, and send another fresh cartridge into the firing chamber; and it spoke well for his ability to do the right thing when he accomplished all this without the slightest hitch; so that in two seconds he was ready to send in a second shot if needed.
Sebattis had not fired.
This was really the first thing that flashed into Thad’s mind, and gave him sudden hope. The second was that even though he himself had wanted to shoot again, there was no chance, for the moose had disappeared.
He expected to hear that crashing of the bushes again, telling how the wounded animal, for he knew he must have hit the moose, was rushing away as fast as he had come. But he failed to catch it.
On the contrary, different sounds came to his ear, which he could not understand for the moment. It even seemed to him that the brave moose might have really met with an enemy, and was fighting gallantly against heavy odds.
Well, that was just what must be happening; and the foe was one that every moose must sooner or later find himself grappling with; for it was the grim reaper, death.