The aim was none of the best, but some of the shot penetrated the animal’s hind leg, and caused it to start back limping. At this, Joe tried to scramble up, but found himself too weak to do so. The deer then turned upon Harry, and that youth met the onslaught by hitting the game over the head with his gun-stock.
“That’s the way to do it!” shouted Joel Runnell, who was coming up as fast as he could, hunting knife in hand. “Don’t let him get away to buck you. Crowd him up!” And Harry crowded the deer that was now inclined to flee. A moment later the old hunter was at hand, and, catching the game by one prong, plunged the keen knife into the upturned throat; and then the brief but fierce fight came to an end.
“Say, but that was hot!” gasped Joe, when he at last arose. “I was afraid I was a goner, sure!”
“Where is Fred?” asked old Runnell, looking around as he reloaded.
“He ran away,” answered Harry. He raised his voice: “Fred, where are you? Come back, the fight is over.”
“Are those deer dead?” came in a trembling voice from a distance.
“Yes.”
At this news the stout youth came limping back, one snowshoe on and the other under his arm. He looked rather sheepish.
“Thought you’d leg it, did you?” said old Runnell, quizzically. “Can’t say I blame you much.”
“I—I guess I was looking for that other deer,” answered Fred, lamely. His companions could not help but smile, but they did not let the stout youth see it.