The bullet seemed to have brought down its bird, for I had turned suddenly and saw that nothing flew away. All I could see was a blue puff of smoke, soaring up over the pawpaws.
In no very amiable humor, I proceeded toward the spot, but on reaching it I found no one upon whom to discharge my spleen. Guns were cracking in other parts of the wood, and I could see men moving about at the ends of long vistas, but not the man who had come so near shooting me!
It was altogether an odd circumstance, and I stopped to reflect upon it.
Was it carelessness on the part of one of my fellow-sportsmen; who, seeing what he had done, and ashamed of it, preferred sneaking away?
I might have thought so; but then, where was the pigeon? I had turned so quickly, that I must have seen it fall, or fly off.
I saw neither!
I now reached the pawpaw thicket. I could find no bird, either dead or wounded; but, while traversing about, I picked up the "patching" of the bullet. It was a piece of dressed doeskin.
There was nothing in this to guide me to the sportsman who had used it.
I now felt a growing desire to identify him; for the longer I reflected, the more I became convinced that the shot had not been accidental.
"The bullet!" thought I; "that may serve my purpose."