Biff’s rifle spoke. The lead fox stopped short, whirled in his tracks and darted back. The other animal did likewise. But Frank’s aim was more accurate.
Bang!
The lead fox dropped into the snow, threshed about for a moment and lay still.
The other animal raced madly away, seeking cover. But by this time Biff had ejected the empty shell and had taken aim again. He pressed the trigger, sighting at the fleeing fox.
This time his aim was sure. The animal leaped high in the air, turned completely over and fell motionless in the snow.
“We got ’em!” yelled Biff joyfully. He began scrambling down the slope, anxious to inspect the prize. Frank followed him. At the bottom of the gully they came upon the dead animals, lying only a few yards apart. Each had been killed almost instantly.
“Amos Grice won’t lose any more hens after this,” declared Frank, with satisfaction.
“Just got them in the nick of time!” said Biff. “In another two seconds they would have been back among the trees and we’d have never seen them again.”
Chet and Joe, attracted by the sounds of the shots, now appeared at the top of the slope. They were astonished when they found that the hunt was already ended and that Frank and Biff had slain the marauders.
“You’re lucky, that’s all,” said Chet solemnly. “Just lucky. It was just by chance that the foxes headed this way instead of going down toward where we were waiting for them.”