“That can’t be a Bush deer!” he cried.
“It sounds ’way more like an elephant,” said Gordon, with a gasp.
They ran forward until they stopped a few yards short of something very big and shadowy that was still struggling in the grass. Gordon cautiously crept up a little nearer.
“Those aren’t deer’s horns, anyway,” he announced. “Plug it quick. The blamed thing’s getting up.”
Nasmyth flung the rifle up to his shoulder, and twice jerked a fresh cartridge into the chamber, but this time there was silence when the crash of the heavy Marlin died away among the woods. They crept forward a little further circumspectly, until Gordon stopped again with a gasp of consternation.
“Well,” he said, “I guess it couldn’t be either a Bush deer or a wapiti.”
They were still standing there when their comrades came running up, and Mattawa, who took down his light, broke into a great hoarse laugh.
“A steer!” he said, and pointed to a mark on the hide. “One of Custer’s stock. Guess he’ll charge you quite a few dollars for killing it.”
Nasmyth smiled somewhat ruefully, for he was by 108 no means burdened with wealth, but he was, after all, not greatly astonished. Few of the small ranchers can feed their stock entirely on their little patches of cleared land, and it is not an unusual thing for most of the herd to run almost wild in the Bush. Now and then, the cattle acquire a somewhat perilous fondness for wrecking road-makers’ and prospectors’ tents, which explains why a steer occasionally fails to be found and some little community of axemen is provided with more fresh meat than can well be consumed.
“I’m afraid it’s rather more than likely I’ll have to pay a good price,” said Nasmyth. “Do you feel anxious for any more shooting to-night, Wheeler?”