“Shoot—shoot!” whispered Joe: “the ball—not the small shot.”
But Rob did not stir; he merely stood with the muzzle of the gun presented toward the beast, and did not raise it to his shoulder. Not that he was stupefied by the peril of his position, but held back by the non-menacing aspect of the puma. Had there been a display of its fangs or an attempt to crouch for a spring, the gun would have been at his shoulder in a moment, and, hit or miss, he would have drawn the trigger.
“Why don’t you shoot?” whispered Joe again.
“I can’t,” replied Rob. “It must be a tame one.”
“Nonsense! You’re mad. We’re right away in the wilds.”
“I don’t care where we are,” said Rob, who was growing cool and confident; “this must be a tame one. I shall go forward.”
“No, no—don’t! He’ll claw you down.”
“He’d better not. I’ve got my finger on the trigger. Here! Hallo, old chap! puss! puss! whose cat are you?”
“He’s mad,” whispered Joe as Rob advanced, and the puma stood firm watching him, till they were so close together that, in full confidence that they had met with a tame beast, the property of some settler or Indian, he laid his gun in the hollow of his left arm, and stretched out his right hand.
The puma winced slightly, and its eyes grew more dilate; but, as Rob stood still, the wild look passed slowly away, and it remained motionless.