“Jump back, Stumpy! Jump back!” yelled Bart, fearing that the heavy animal would crash on top of Fenn. But, though the stout lad was incapable of leaping back, he managed to push himself out of danger, from the hold he had on the horns. Then he rolled over the snow, now red from the blood of the buck.
Bart rushed up, with rifle ready for another shot, but there was no need. His one bullet had struck a vital spot, and the big animal was breathing his last. Then Bart turned his attention to his chum.
Fenn was lying curiously white and still upon the snow, and, as Bart looked, he saw a stream of blood coming from under where the lad was stretched out.
“Fenn! Stumpy! Are you hurt?” he cried, laying down his gun, and endeavoring to raise Fenn’s head. As he did so he saw that the lad’s wound was in his arm, where the sharp prongs of the deer had cut a gash. It was bleeding freely, and Bart knew this must be stopped.
Not in vain had he listened to his sister’s almost constant talks about first aid to the injured. Bart recollected some of Alice’s instructions, and, a moment later he was binding up the cut with some bandages which he had stuck in his pocket with the idea of using to clean his gun, but which now served a more useful purpose.
Bart was glad to see that, as he wound the linen rags around Fenn’s arm, the flow of blood ceased. Then, rubbing the unconscious lad’s face with snow, Bart noted a wave of returning color, and, a moment later, Fenn opened his eyes.
“Is anybody hurt?” he asked, slowly.
“You’re the only one—except the buck,” answered Bart, with a sigh of relief, “and you’re not so badly off, I guess, that is, unless you’re wounded some other place besides the arm.”
“No, I think that’s all. But what happened to the buck?” and Fenn looked around.
“There he is,” replied Bart, pointing to the dead animal. “You certainly had nerve to tackle him by the horns, Stumpy.”