It may be wondered whether a faint glimmering of the truth did not force itself through the brain of the buck that had had such a strange experience.
Can it be that he felt that the lad who had fired the last shot had in some way done him an inestimable service in removing the hound from his path?
Probably such a conception is beyond the reach of a wild animal, but, be that as it may, the buck, after staring a moment at the flying figure, turned and looked at Tom Wagstaff perched in the tree, and then gazed down at Bob Budd, who was doing his utmost to shrink into a smaller space than ever beneath the sloping trunk of the oak. Then, as if disgusted with the whole party, he turned about and deliberately trotted off in the woods, showing no further concern for those with whom he had had such a lively bout.
The wounds given by Bob Budd a short time before were so insignificant that, though they roused the animal’s rage, they could not have caused him any inconvenience or suffering.
Finally, when it was apparent that the buck had departed for good, Tom Wagstaff descended from his perch in the tree, Jim McGovern slid down to the ground, Bob Budd backed out from beneath the oak, and each one recovering his gun, they came together in the open space where the dead Hero lay.
It was a characteristic meeting. Bob was maddened over the loss of his hound, while he and all three felt an unspeakable relief in knowing that the terrible buck had withdrawn without killing them.
“Of all shooting that I ever heard of, that is the worst,” said Bob, with a sniff of disgust, pointing at the carcass of Hero.
“It was better than yours,” retorted Jim, “for it killed something, while yours didn’t hurt anything.”
“I hit the buck, any way,” said Bob, sullenly.
“The buck didn’t act as though he knew it,” was the truthful comment of Tom Wagstaff.