“Hangnation! Why don’t he let me alone?” he growled, and, it is safe to say, he never scrambled under shelter with such celerity in all his life.
Quick as he was, he was not an instant too soon, for once more the sharp hoofs came within a hair of cutting their way through his shoulder.
But so long as he shrank into the smallest possible space beneath the oak he was safe, though he felt anything but comfortable with the buck making such desperate efforts to reach him.
“Where the mischief is Jim?” growled Bob, who had just cause to complain of the dilatoriness of his companion; “why don’t he come forward and help us out?”
Jim McGovern had not been idle. He was the only member of the Piketon Rangers that had a loaded gun at command, and when he heard the appeal of Bob Budd he hurried from his station to his help.
But, as I have intimated, there was no member of that precious band that thought enough of the others to risk his life to help him, and Jim, it may be said, felt his way.
Instead of dashing forward like Tom, who was ignorant of the combativeness sometimes displayed by a wounded buck, he moved cautiously until he caught sight of the respective parties without exposing himself to the fury of the wounded animal.
Jim arrived at the moment the beast made for Tom, and the sight alarmed him.
“What’s the use of a fellow getting killed just to do a favor for some one that wouldn’t do as much for you?” was the thought that held the chivalrous young man motionless, when he ought to have rushed forward to the defense of Bob Budd.
“Great Cæsar!” muttered Jim, shrinking behind the tree which he was using for a concealment, “I never knew that a buck was such a savage animal; he’s worse than a royal Bengal tiger that’s been robbed of its young ones.”