“I thought that wasn’t the one I heard,” he cried, and pushing forward he literally threw himself upon another of the birds, lying in the thick grass and frantically beating its wings with such violence that it levelled the grass for some distance round.
“Take care,” cried the doctor warningly; “they can strike very hard with their wings.”
“I’ve found that out,” grumbled Chris bitterly, as he winced from a couple of blows, but retaliated with such vigorous action by means of the butt of his rifle that the beating ceased, the great bird’s head fell over, and the prize lay inert.
“Splendid!” cried Wilton and Bourne in a breath, as, hot and panting, Chris dragged his capture to where his companions stood watching the encounter.
“They did not take much pains about retrieving their game,” said the doctor.
“Sign that it’s too plentiful for them to need it, sir,” said Griggs, laughing. “I say; they’re not bad shots, to bring a lot like that down flying. Six birds out of one flock, with bows and arrows too.”
“There were such a lot of them to shoot, though,” said Chris, “and the birds were all quite together. I say, Ned, look at this arrow. Gone right through the neck.—Think they’ll come back to look for more, father?”
“No,” was the reply. “I can just see them under the sun, riding right away. We might go on now slowly if we keep in the thick grass.”
The word was given, and all mounted, but not until Griggs had followed the Indians’ example of tying the two birds’ legs together and swinging them across his saddle-bow, Chris’s proposal to carry his own capture being negatived on the declaration that it would be much easier for two to be carried together than one.
“You’ll get your supper after all, Ned,” said Chris, after they had been riding slowly on through the grass as near to their trail as could be guessed, for it was still considered advisable to keep as much under cover as possible, the Indians’ sense of sight being well known to be very acute.