“Number 5,” said Rob promptly.
“Thought so. Best keep a bullet always in your guns, gentlemen, out here, for you never know what’s going to turn up next.”
The Indians were back now, going about picking wood for the fire as if nothing whatever had happened.
“But that man,” whispered Rob; “isn’t he hurt—clawed?”
“No, sir,” replied Shaddy calmly; and he asked a question of the man in the mixed Indian tongue. Then turning to Brazier, “Only got the wind knocked, out of him a bit, sir. No clawing. He don’t mind.”
“But the brute may come back,” said Rob.
“Well, Mr Rob, sir, if he do he’s a bigger fool than I take him to be. No, there’ll be no coming back about him. Just while he was up he was ready to fly at anything, but every one of them little shot will make a sore place which it will take him a fortnight to lick quite well again. I daresay they’re all lying just under his skin.”
“And what a skin!” cried Rob. “You could have got it off and cured it for me, couldn’t you?”
“Oh yes, or these chaps here, sir; but if you wants tiger jackets you mustn’t try to kill them as wears ’em with Number 5 shot.—Now, lads, more wood,” and a good fire was soon burning, over which the kettle was hung.
A meal was quickly prepared, but Shaddy indulged in a bit of a growl over it.