“Help!” yelled the young soldier, “help!”
The fall had been a peculiar one, and as the youth and beast rolled over, the animal got its foreleg entangled in the strap of Henry’s musket. It snapped at the weapon, burying its teeth deeply into the wooden stock. Then, realizing its mistake, it let the musket go and snapped at the young soldier, but by this time Henry had rolled out of reach.
Hearing the cry for help, Dave rushed forward, followed by the others, Raymond and Gilfoy carrying torches snatched from the camp-fire.
“It’s a catamount!” cried Raymond. “Give it to him, men!” And he opened fire with his own musket.
Gilfoy threw his torch at the beast, and it landed on the catamount’s head, causing it to turn and roll over in alarm. Then the beast made another leap, this time straight for Raymond’s throat.
As the catamount left the ground White Buffalo fired a second arrow. His first had grazed the catamount’s back. His second aim was more true, and with a snarl the beast fell back with the point sticking deeply in its side.
“Good for you, White Buffalo!” cried Henry.
He had scarcely spoken when Dave took a shot at the beast, followed by Shamer and lastly Silvers. All three of the shots went more or less true, and the catamount whirled round and round, snapping and snarling. Then it dropped in a heap, gave a few kicks, and lay still.
“That was a wild one, and no mistake,” said Silvers, after all had assured themselves that the catamount was really dead.
