“Better give it up, old man,” Scott said, eying him coolly. “You’re all in.”
The man swayed unsteadily, and gasped what was meant to be a threat.
“Come,” Scott commanded, taking a step forward, “drop that knife and be sensible.” He snatched up a stick and advanced resolutely. The man still waved the knife sullenly. With one quick blow of the stick Scott sent the knife flying and almost at the same instant felled the man with a left to the jaw. Greenleaf came up panting, and the man showed no further signs of fight. Scott secured the knife as a trophy of the chase.
“Now get up and come along sensibly,” Scott commanded.
Neither Greenleaf nor the poacher had sufficient breath left to talk and they made their way out to the road in silence. It was not till then that either of them noticed that Sturgis was not with them or even in sight on the road.
“We certainly could not have lost him,” Scott exclaimed.
“Maybe he twisted a leg in that swamp,” Greenleaf suggested. “I came near it several times.”
As they hurried along they were surprised to find how far they had come. They had covered a good half-mile after they left the swamp.
“No wonder I was so pesky winded,” Greenleaf said, as they made their way slowly along the hillside. “That’s the farthest I have run since the bear chased me in Montana. Here’s that deer trail. We can cross the swamp now.”
The swamp was very narrow and before they had gone four rods Newman stopped with a gasp. The boys followed his frightened stare and horror almost paralyzed them for an instant. Then they burst into roars of laughter in which Newman joined maliciously. There, only a short distance ahead of them, was Sturgis, suspended by one foot from a deer snare so that only his head and shoulders rested comfortably in the soft moss. They were afraid at first that he was badly hurt, but the sheepish look of humiliation was too much for their gravity. Ten feet beyond, the deer was still struggling on another wire.