“But—it is a cat!” exclaimed the other, rubbing his eyes with the knuckles of one hand, and looking again.
Meanwhile Step Hen had cautiously advanced a pace or two, staring at the dangling object as though he did not know whether to really believe his eyes or not.
Giraffe, seeing him going on, pushed to his side; and when the two of them came close to the object that had gripped their attention, they turned to exchange stares.
“A dead cat!” said Giraffe, solemnly.
“And hung up by the hind legs to that limb; now who could have done that?” demanded Step Hen.
“Must have been the same old critter that tackled our poor chum, Bumpus, back yonder. Some friendly forest ranger just happened along in the nick of time, and used his rifle on the yowler. Here’s where the bullet hit him, right in the heart,” and Giraffe laid his finger on the wound.
“But say, here’s where another caught him on the square head, and this hole shows where yet a third passed through his body. Why, he’s been riddled, all shot to pieces, that’s plain!” Step Hen declared, positively; and the other two listened, not wanting to break in just yet.
“Buckshot, not a rifle bullet ended this here cat, that’s sure,” said Giraffe.
“And say, Bumpus is carrying a two-shot Marlin scatter gun that uses buckshot cartridges!” went on Step Hen.
They looked at each other again, and then once more eyed the swinging trophy of some one’s skill.