The big buck came on and struck the brush a stunning blow that sent the stalks and twigs flying in all directions. Then the animal backed out and started for Henry, who had begun to reload.
All this had happened faster than I can relate it, yet it had given Barringford sufficient time to throw powder and ball into his gun and fix the priming. Now the old hunter came close to the side of the buck and blazed away once more, straight for those reddish eyes.
The shot was a telling one, for it tore out one eye completely and seriously damaged the other. Again the buck halted, and then turned slowly back and began to stagger off. But he could not see and in a moment more hit the rocks of the cave with a crash that could be heard for a considerable distance.
"Good for you, Sam!" cried Henry, who was now reloading. "I reckon we've got him."
"Don't be too sure," returned the old hunter. "He's got lots of fight in him yet."
Barringford was right, for again the buck turned and now catching a glimpse of Barringford through the blood of his wounds made a mighty leap for the frontiersman. But Barringford was too quick for him and leaping aside, sprang on the rocks of the cave, satisfied the wounded buck could not follow him to that spot.
By this time Henry had reloaded, and watching his chance he ran up and let drive for the buck's neck. This shot proved fatal, and rocking to and fro for several seconds the magnificent beast at last fell down on his side, and breathed his last.
"Is he—he dead?" came from Dave, as he pulled himself out of the tangle of brushwood.
"I think he is," replied his cousin. "But we had better make sure. Bucks are mighty tricky at times."
Taking out his hunting knife Henry went forward and cut the throat of the game. Then Barringford leaped from the rocks, and all went to inspect the buck.