Was it a dread of impending evil that prompted him to say, as he placed the caps on his gun and started his pony forward again:
“Mr. Chamberlain was always right, and he shot close to the mark when he told me that I would not find plain sailing before me, simply because I was about to engage in a congenial occupation. I have been at the fort but a few hours, and yet I have wished myself back in Eaton more than a dozen times. Why didn’t I keep away from that ravine? Thoughts of Tom will force themselves upon me continually, and all my pleasure will be knocked in the head. How can I enjoy myself when I know that he is in such a situation? Hold on there! I am ready for you now!”
Although he was deeply engrossed in his meditations, Oscar could still keep an eye out for game; and when that flock of sage-hens arose from the bushes almost at his pony’s feet, they did not catch him napping.
Being accustomed to the noise made by the grouse of his native hills when it suddenly bursts from its cover, the sound of their wings did not startle him as it startles the tyro.
He was so excited that he did not think to stop his pony, but still he was cool enough to make his selections before he fired; and when he saw, through the thick cloud of smoke that poured from each barrel, two little patches of feathers floating in the air, and marking the spot where a brace of the finest members of the flock had been neatly stopped in their rapid flight, he knew that his ammunition had not been expended in vain.
There was another thing Oscar did not think of, and that was whether or not his pony would stand fire. But it was now too late to debate that question, and besides, it had been settled to his entire satisfaction. Almost simultaneously with the quick reports of the fowling-piece there arose other sounds of an entirely different character—a crashing in the bushes, followed by muffled exclamations of astonishment and anger. These sounds were made by Oscar, who had been very neatly unhorsed.
The pony would no doubt stand fire well enough to suit his half-savage, rough-riding Indian master, but he was not steady enough to suit the young taxidermist.
When the double-barrel roared almost between his ears, his head went down, his hind feet came up, and Oscar, being taken off his guard, went whirling through the air as if he had been thrown from a catapult.
He lost no time in scrambling to his feet, but he was too late to catch his pony. All he saw of him was the end of his tail, which was flourishing triumphantly in the breeze as the tricky little beast went out of sight over the brow of the hill.
“Well, go if you want to!” shouted Oscar, holding one hand to his head, and rubbing his shoulder with the other. “You’ll never come that on me again, I tell you. I can hunt just as well on foot. Now, where’s my gun?”