“Nay, it’s no deer,” said Shaddy; “I’ll let you see what it is. Hi!” he called; and the Indians crowded past through the dense growth, went boldly right to the front, and Shaddy reappeared smiling.
“Back again,” he said; “they’ll bring him along.”
Rob turned back unwillingly, for he was eager to see what the dead animal might be, Shaddy’s mysterious manner suggesting the possibility of its being something extraordinary. But he followed the others out, the guide seeming to drive them all before him back into the open spot by the fire, while almost directly after the Indian boatmen appeared, half carrying, half dragging—each holding a paw—with his white under fur stained with blood—the great jaguar, perfectly dead.
“There,” cried Shaddy, “now you can have your skin, sir; and you deserve it for those two shots.”
“But I couldn’t have—” began Rob.
“But you did, sir,” said Shaddy, who was down on his knees by the beautiful animal. “Here you are: face and head all full of small shot, and down here right in the loins—yes: back regularly broken by a bullet. Your piece was loaded proper after all.”
“A splendid shot, Rob,” cried Brazier, and Joe patted his back.
“But it was quite an accident,” said Rob, excitedly.
“Accident?” growled Shaddy. “If you shot at a man in England and killed him, do you think the judge would say it was an accident?”
“Well, no,” said Rob, laughing.