“I—I can’t do it. I’m too nervous,” he said in a whisper to Jack.
“Nonsense. Wait a minute and aim again. You’ll be all right in a second. Take a long breath and count five.”
Will did as directed, but it was no use. The muzzle of his rifle wobbled more than ever when he tried to aim.
“I—I can’t,” he whispered again. “You shoot, Jack.”
Then, realizing that Will was too nervous to do it, and not wanting to see the buck escape, as they needed fresh meat in camp, Jack took aim and pulled the trigger.
At the instant the report rang out, the buck raised his head, wheeled around, and catching sight of Jack standing on the edge of the clearing, came at him almost as fast as an express train. He had been only slightly wounded, and, full of rage, he had only one desire—to annihilate the person responsible for the stinging pain he felt.
Jack saw him coming, and threw down the lever of his rifle to pump another cartridge into the chamber. But, to his horror, the lever refused to work. It had become jammed in some way, and the exploded shell could not be ejected. He pulled and tugged at it, the buck coming nearer by leaps and bounds.
“Jump—jump!” Jack heard Will cry, and realizing that he could not get in another shot, he leaped to one side, hoping to get out of the way of the infuriated animal.
But his foot caught in the entangled branch of a bush, and he fell backward, full length, right in the path of the advancing buck, that was snorting with rage.
Jack tried to roll over, but the bush held him fast. He felt that it was all up with him, and he closed his eyes, expecting the next instant to feel the buck leap on him, to pierce him with its keen hoofs.