The buck was coming on pretty fast, considering the fact that he seemed to limp and be losing blood from the wound Steve had given him.
Max knew he had a difficult task to place his bullet where it was calculated to do the most good. There was little of the deer's breast exposed as with lowered head he charged toward this new enemy. But Max had all the necessary requisites that go to make up the good hunter—a quick eye, a sure hand, and excellent judgment in a pinch.
He took a quick aim, and meant to fire while the buck was still a little way off. This was to give him a chance to pump a new cartridge into the firing chamber of his gun in case the first shot failed to do the work.
After that—well, of course, there still remained the tree Steve recommended, and Steve ought to know a good thing when he saw it, since he had been saved from those really dangerous-looking antlers by a sheltering tree.
But, then, Max did not mean to register a miss.
He pressed the trigger at just the right time as the buck was rising in the air. And when he saw the deer crash to the ground, although he felt a thrill of satisfaction, cautious Max was not like Steve, rushing headlong forward to bleed his game.
On the contrary, his first act was to go through the rapid action that placed his rifle in serviceable condition again.
"Take care, Max," yelled Steve, seeing the buck struggling, "that's how he fooled me, the sharp dodger! He's the tricky one, all right, you bet! Watch him climb up again, now! Take that big tree right alongside you, Max!"
But instead of doing this Max advanced toward the spot where the buck had fallen. He was ready to send in another shot should it be needed. But there was no necessity.
The buck gave one last violent kick and then lay still.