Ready to prove the truth of his own words, the youth stooped over the carcass, which was lying on its left side. A crimson orifice was seen just back of the foreleg, which showed where the tiny messenger of death had entered.
"That's where I struck him! What have you to say to that?"
"I shoot at the same time as brother. That where my bullet go in. Dere where it come out."
Reflection convinced Fred of the unpleasant fact that this Indian was speaking the truth. The relative position of the lad and the dead buck had been such that it was impossible for his bullet to take the course of the one that had slain the animal. The decisive shot, therefore, was not his.
"But I know mine struck him somewhere," was Fred's desperate exclamation; "could it have taken the same course as yours?"
The tantalizing smile came back to the face of the red man, who shook his head.
"My brother's bullet strike dere—hurt antler bad."
The Indian thrust the toe of his moccasin against the buck's antlers. It was plain that one of the prongs had been chipped off, as if by the impact of a glancing bullet. Fred could no longer deny the mortifying fact that his shot had no more to do with the death of the animal than if it had been a pebble tossed up the cliff by hand.
The discovery did not add to his temper, and he was in an unreasonable mood.
"You hadn't any business to fire at the buck when I did! I had picked him out for my game and it was a mean act on your part. We both struck him, and I shall claim one-half of him, for I'm hungry, and it will soon be supper-time."