“Oh! I did get him, didn’t I, Sebattis?” he cried, delighted beyond measure at his good fortune; for it is not every hunter who can say he brought down the first big game at which he has fired.
The guide was bending over the fallen monarch of the Maine woods. His first inclination was to see where the fatal bullet had struck.
“Mighty good shot. Great little gun.”
He looked at Step Hen’s up-to-date thirty-thirty calibre rifle as though after this he must be a fool to go packing his own heavy tool through woods, and over carries, when one-half the weight would do better work.
And he even thrust his finger into the ragged hole just back of the fore leg of the dead animal, as though wondering how so small a bullet could ever make such a big opening. Sebattis had something to learn concerning the results springing from the use of a soft-nosed bullet, that flattens out when striking any object, even the side of an animal.
“We ought to let the boys know right away,” said Thad, thinking of how his chums must be almost consumed with anxiety to be told the result of that lone shot; which Step Hen must guess came from his new rifle, and not the larger one carried by the Indian guide.
“Tad call um here. Me make little fire, so see how climb hill,” said Sebattis.
Only too gladly did Thad send out a whoop that easily reached the listening ears of those comrades in camp. An answering hail came back.
“Come on over here, all of you,” was all Thad would say in return.