“How do you know that?” I asked, in a somewhat piqued tone.
“Simply enough. If you fired both shots together at so short a distance, they would have been found close together wherever they had struck, whereas the two shots in the neck and shoulder are more than two feet apart.”
I was compelled to admit that there was much truth in the observation, but still felt unwilling to give up all claim to having assisted in slaying our first buffalo. I pondered the subject a good deal during the remainder of the time we spent in cutting up and packing part of the buffalo meat, and in preparing to continue our journey, but could come at no satisfactory conclusion in my own mind, and, to say truth, I felt not a little crestfallen at my conduct in the whole affair.
While wandering in this mood near the spot where the buffalo had been first wounded, I received a sudden and severe start on observing the leopard crouching within a couple of yards of me. I saw it through the bushes quite distinctly, but could not make quite sure of its attitude. With a mingled cry of alarm and astonishment I sprang back to the place where I had left my rifle.
Jack and Peterkin instantly ran up with their pieces cocked.
“Where is it?” they cried in a breath.
“There, crouching just behind that bush.”
Jack darted forward.
“Crouching!” he cried, with a loud laugh, seizing the animal by the tail and dragging it forth; “why, it’s dead—stone dead.”
“Dead as mutton,” said Peterkin. “Hallo! what’s this?” he added in surprise. “Two holes close together in its forehead, I do declare! Hooray! Ralph, my boy, give us your paw! You’ve missed the bull and hit the leopard! If you haven’t been and put two bullets right between its two eyes, I’m a Dutchman!”