"You talked about breaking our line, and I expect we could get over the spur in front," he said. "Let's try."
XVIII
THE CARTRIDGE BELT
Jimmy's clothes were torn and he was bothered about his boots. He rather thought clothes and boots that would long bear the strain of a journey across the rocks were not made. At all events, one could not buy them at a Canadian settlement store. Then the things were wet and the morning was cold.
For all that, he must not grumble. The deer did not like the heavy dew and their habit was to come out on the rocks and get the sun. The Indian thought he had found a spot they haunted, and after breakfast led the others across a small tableland. By and by he stopped and Jimmy got down in the fern. In front, the timber was thin and a short distance off was a smooth rock. Jimmy saw the rock and the trees on the other side, but for a few moments this was all. A deer's soft color harmonizes with stones and trunks, and, when its outline is broken, to distinguish the animal is hard.
The Indian frowned and signed, and Jimmy imagined the small patch of light color cutting a pine trunk was a head. For one thing, it moved, and the crooked line below it looked like a leg. Jimmy did not see the deer's back, but the top of the leg indicated where its shoulder was, and he rested his rifle on a branch. He got the sights where he wanted, braced his muscles, held his breath, and steadily pulled the trigger.
The deer jumped and a thin streak of smoke floated in front of Jimmy's eyes. The animal was not on the rock, but after a moment or two he saw it rise from a thicket and go over some tangled branches a man's height from the ground. Yet he thought the leap awkward and the deer came down in the fern before it ought. His heart beat and he waited for another shot, until he saw Deering a few yards off and remembered that their cartridges were not numerous. Deering's body was firmly poised, his head was bent forward and he balanced his rifle half-way to his shoulder as if it were a gun. Jimmy knew he could use it like a gun.
When the deer broke from the fern at the edge of the tableland Jimmy did not shoot. The animal's leap carried it across a clump of tall raspberries, but it would vanish in a moment and the brush in front was thick. Deering's rifle jerked, and the graceful body, carried by its speed, plunged into the brush. Jimmy heard a crash and the deer was gone. He thought it had gone over a rock and putting down his rifle he ran.
A minute or two afterwards he stopped at the top of a precipitous slope. A stream, however, cut the mountain-side, and in places small trees were rooted in the stones. A hundred feet below, the deer lay on a shelf by a waterfall.
"I think I can reach it," said Jimmy, and went cautiously down.