It was a perfect throw. No Mic-Mac could have done it better. Like a flash of lightning the bright steel blade went straight to its mark, and buried itself in the panther's forehead right between those awful eyes, whose malignant gleam it extinguished for ever.
Lifting Charlie to his feet we rushed forward, and stood in triumph over our fallen foe, shaking hands across his mighty body. How our hearts swelled with pride at the thought of the sensation our exploit would make!
With a twisted withe for a rope we laboriously dragged our prize to the canoe, and so got it across the river. Here we met the Indian who had been Johnston's teacher in the art of tomahawk-throwing. He seemed immensely relieved at seeing us.
"Me see you boys go over this morning, then hear devil scream this afternoon, and hear you go bang. Me 'fraid you all deaded this time."
Then as he discovered the fatal gash in the brute's head, his face lit up with pride.
"Johnston, you do that!" he cried. "Ah! smart boy. Me learn you how throw tomahawk like that."
Jack blushingly acknowledged the fact, and gave his Indian instructor due meed of praise for having taught him so well.
It was too big a job to get the heavy carcass of the panther any further, so the Indian took off the head and skin for us, and we presented him with the body, which he said was good to eat, and would "make Indian strong."
Our arrival at home with the trophies of our triumph over the terror of the forest caused great rejoicing. We were the heroes of the hour, and Charlie quite forgot his bruised shoulder in the pleasant excitement of the occasion.
We often revisited Indian Devil Run after that, and took many a fine fare of fish from its well-stocked waters, but we never saw another panther. We had apparently killed the last of the brood.