CHAPTER XV.
SIGNAL FIRES IN THE JUNGLE.
“I guess we got ’em,” Jimmie cried, as the smoke drifted away.
“I got mine.”
Peter spoke proudly, just as if there had been no fear of the result a moment before.
“Mine’s lying down to rest,” Jimmie went on. “I’m goin’ up to feel his pulse.”
“If he gets a swipe at you, you’ll wish you hadn’t been so curious about his old pulse,” Peter observed.
But Jimmie did not at once go toward the wounded beast. The great cat lifted its head, gave a cry that echoed and re-echoed through the forest, and sprang for the tree. The boy’s revolver spoke again, and the long hours of practice with the weapon in the shooting galleries of New York told. The beast dropped to the ground with a bullet in the brain, sent in exactly between the eyes.