“Shoot as if it were a bird flying,” suggested Phil. “That’s what I’m going to do.”
Before he had finished there was an exclamation from Mr. Mackworth. Slowly ascending the highest point of the ridge, as if to greet the rapidly rising sun, was a goat that made all those seen previously, only pigmies.
“If I can get that fellow, it’ll be worth this trip,” exclaimed Mr. Mackworth as he rested his elbow on the open window ledge. “He’s a whopper.” Phil was too excited to think of his own rifle. Frank made no reply. The big goat had already heard the noise of the propellers but could not locate it. As he peered to all points of the compass Frank dropped the machine and headed off a bit to give Mr. Mackworth a side shot. The experienced hunter’s shot was perfect. As the crack of it sounded the frame of the monster goat seemed to rise in the air; there was a moment in which the watchers supposed the bullet had missed and then—with mournful bleat—the goat sank in a heap without even a spring forward.
With a long sweep out over the deep valley, while Mr. Mackworth caught his breath and grasped the window ledge, the Loon sped onward in a spiral movement.
“That’s enough!” commanded the alarmed man.
“We’re goin’ back,” laughed Frank. “Get ready, both of you. They’re all there yet. They can’t locate us.”
Phil’s side of the cabin now faced the flock. As the airship shot nearer he strained his eyes to select a Billy worth his fire.
“There he goes,” exclaimed Mr. Mackworth. “Take that one jumpin’ up the rocks.”