As the snake passed to the rear of the opening Joe swung himself down and made a leap forward to where John Ford had just reached for his gun.
Bang! went the weapon of the backwoodsman. His aim was uncertain, and the rattlesnake was merely struck on the tail, a wound that caused it to become more enraged than ever. There was another hiss, and then the reptile came straight for Ford, its eyes gleaming more venomously than before.
By this time Joe had his gun at hand. Luckily the weapon was loaded with shot, and the youth had taken care to keep the priming dry. He took hasty aim and pulled the trigger.
As the report of the gun sounded out, the head of the rattlesnake was seen to fly into half a dozen pieces. The body whipped in one direction and another, and it was a long time before it straightened out and lay still.
“A good shot!” cried John Ford. “And in the nick of time, too!”
The reports of the two guns brought all of the others in the camp hurrying in that direction, thinking there might be another attack of the Indians.
“You are well out of that, lad,” said Daniel Boone, on examining the body of the snake. “He was a bad one. Did he strike you at all?”
“No, but he hit the end of my hunting shirt,” answered Joe.
“If that is so, be careful not to touch the spot and you had better soak it in brandy or cut it out.”
“I would cut it out,” put in John Ford. “Soaking may take out the poison, and it may not. I once knew a man who got a rattlesnake fang in his boot. He soaked it in rum for two days, and yet, later on, when he used the boot, it made his foot swell up as if he had been bitten by a nest of hornets.”