"It was over that way," said the chief, flashing his light toward a clump of brush beyond the circle that had been charred black by the jets.
They began to advance cautiously. The light picked out a wet shapeless bundle on the ground a yard or two this side of the thicket.
"That's Pendergrast, I guess," said Matt in a tight voice.
"Yes, I suppose so!" The chief sounded sick. "What's that?"
Matt had heard it, too, a crashing in the thicket. He halted and swung up his rifle.
The next instant the head of a large Jersey bull came into view. The animal stalked into the circle of light. The bull lowered his head and snorted, pawing the mud.
Matt fired. He fired for the neck. The bull's knees folded; he slumped gently to the ground.
"Got him, by God!" said the chief. There was a ragged cheer from the ship behind them.
"Well," said Matt in an unhappy voice. "We may as well get it over with. Pendergrast might be alive."
But he wasn't. Pendergrast had been an old man, and the bull had gored him cruelly. Matt doubted that he had lived more than a minute or two. They hauled his broken body up with a rope and laid it out on his bunk.