“Oh! I had a little dispute with a rival hunter, and he thought I’d played him a mean trick to step in when he was creeping up on the game. So we had it out; and if you come this way, Frank, I’ll show you how it all ended.”
When the wondering Frank looked down on the sleek form of the mountain cat, he emitted a whistle that meant astonishment.
“Great governor! however did you do it; and come out of the scrape without even a single scratch, too?” he asked, turning on Bob.
“Well, hardly that,” replied the other, wincing when Frank unconsciously laid a hand on his left shoulder. “If you look where you touched me you’ll see that my jacket and flannel shirt are clawed some. I reckon there’s need of that wonderful permanganate of potash wash that you think so much of.”
“And you’ll have to let me look at that shoulder right away, son,” declared Frank. “I never take any chances when clawed by an animal that lives on flesh. If blood poisoning ever sets in, it’s bound to be a bad job. And while I’m working you just pitch in, and tell me all about it; d’ye hear?”
Of course Bob complied. He was just aching to tell the story anyhow, boy-like. And Frank could easily picture the exciting scene, as he looked around him, and noted where the beast had first clawed up the ground when he just missed the form of the human hunter who had invaded his private preserves.
“Whew! things seem to be coming your way right along, Bob,” he remarked after both the story, and his dressing of the trifling wounds, were finished.
“They say it’s better to be born lucky than rich,” his chum laughed. “And if I can keep on in this way I’ve no kick coming. But how about the deer meat, Frank? We ought to take some of that along with us, hadn’t we?”
“I should say yes,” declared Frank, as he pulled out his hunting knife, and once more moved toward the spot where the deer lay.
“But I’d like ever so much to have this nice pelt to remember the affair by,” Bob remarked, casting a regretful eye back toward the dead panther.