"What is it?" demanded Lige in a low voice.
As if in answer to his question, the hounds uttered a deep, menacing growl.
Tad made no reply, but signaled with his hand that they were to remain quietly where they were.
They saw him slip off the strap that held the rifle to his back and bring the weapon around in front of him. There he paused, holding the gun idly in one hand, his gaze still fixed on the top of the tree.
All at once the butt of the rifle leaped to his shoulder. There was a puff of smoke, a crash, followed by a loud squall, and a great floundering about among the branches.
Without lowering the weapon from his shoulder, the young hunter let go another shot.
The squalling ceased suddenly, but the disturbance in the tree continued, sounding as if some heavy body were falling through the branches.
This proved to be the case. In a moment more the animal he had fired at came tumbling down, landing in a quivering heap at the foot of the tree.
Tad lowered the muzzle of his smoking weapon, gazing in keen satisfaction at the victim of his successful shot.
"Good shot!" glowed Lige. "It's a cat." Yet, before he could dismount, the hounds had wrenched themselves free and pounced upon the body of the dead bob-cat. With savage growls they tore the sleek hide into ribbons, on one side, and were devouring the flesh of the animal ravenously.