“What’s that? Did you hear that?” asked Andy, as the sound of a movement came to their ears.
“It’s a deer!” shouted David excitedly, running in the direction the caribou had taken. “We hit un! We knocked one down! See un?”
They had indeed wounded a big caribou. Hidden by the trees it had run for a score of yards before it fell, and had been out of their line of vision until they reached a point where they had a clear view of the trail the fleeing caribou had made in the snow. The caribou was now vainly struggling to regain its feet, and a bullet from David’s rifle was sent to end its suffering.
“A good shot!” said Indian Jake, who had heard the firing and now overtook the boys.
“Did you knock one down too?” asked Andy excitedly.
“No, I made a clean miss of ’em,” Indian Jake confessed. “They got a sniff of us and took fright, and I just took a chance shot. You lads made good shootin’ t’ catch ’em running!”
“We never thought we touched un,” said David “We never has time t’ take fair aim. We just pulls up and lets go.”
“’Twas quick shootin’,” declared Andy. “I wonder which of us hit un—you or me—Davy?”
But they were never to know that, and it mattered little. They had secured fresh meat, which was needed, and that was the chief consideration.
“He’s good and fat,” said David, prodding the carcass with his toe. “He’s like t’ have four fingers o’ fat on his back.”