As the tiger's roar rang out, all the horses tied to the trees and in my care broke their halters and rushed wildly away. Daria's two horses attached to the sled, followed, leaping over all obstacles. Daria's greatest efforts were powerless to even reduce their speed. I soon forgot all about them, however, so intent did I become on the picture before me.
I saw Foma, who was nearest, make a few jumps toward him and then kneel and point his rifle at the beast who clung to Mikhailov. A shot followed. Immediately after, the tiger turned, looking just like a big cat. He gave three or four convulsive shakes and fell back without a sound on the snow, his hind legs sinking deep into it, and his front legs stretched to the sky.
I ran toward Mikhailov, but, before I reached him, I felt a strong arm on my neck and a voice interrupted by deep breathing: "Stop, you crazy boy! Wait! He might be able to break your neck yet. A tiger doesn't die as quickly as that." I stopped, and with the man who had spoken gazed where the tiger lay. It remained motionless. After a few seconds my companion judged it safe to approach. Foma had shot him in the ear, killing him instantly.
Mikhailov was lying with his right side and part of his head deeply imbedded in the snow. His fur coat had been torn from his shoulder, revealing a deep wound from which the shoulder blade projected. At first sight his head seemed attached to the body only by a shred of skin, so unnaturally was it twisted to one side and covered by a thick mass of blood.
Though shivering as if with a fever, I could not turn my eyes from the terrible sight. I regained possession of myself only when I heard my father's voice as he came up on horseback.
As he jumped down to examine Mikhailov he turned saying, "Go, help my brother catch Daria's horses."
The man addressed leaped at once on father's horse and hit it with a nagaika (a Cossack whip). The spirited animal put back its ears, and like an arrow shot out toward where Daria's horses could be just seen running around in circles in the snow.
One by one the other hunters arrived and stood around Mikhailov. No one seemed to know what to do, and no one dared, apparently, say what he thought, although two of the men took off their hats as is generally done in the presence of Death.
Finally some one did turn to my father with, "Is he quite dead?"
As if in answer, Mikhailov just then made a faint movement with a finger of his left hand. It seemed to me that he was trying to signify something by this, especially as it was followed by a slight moan or two. Then again there was silence.