“Oh, is that you, Mr. Rawson? Have you your automatic there? Please, please finish the poor brute! I-I’ve wounded her—after provoking an attack.”
“I saw you, saw the whole episode,” Rawson declared grimly.
He drew his revolver, a shot rang out through the wood, and the bobcat lay still.
Silence.
Hugh swallowed hard, choking down a lump in his throat.
“I suppose we’ll have to report this—this exploit,” said Rawson gravely, laying a hand on Hugh’s shoulder. “Of course you’ll want the skin?”
The absence of any word of praise, any congratulation on his narrow escape, made Hugh feel doubly ashamed. To be sure, he had done a very plucky thing, he had shown a certain sort of courage which, had it been exerted wholly in self-defense, would have won golden opinions from his comrades, instead of this tacit censure on the part of Rawson. But there was nothing to do except brazen it out.
“Ye-es, I want the skin,” he replied slowly. “It will remind me of—of—not to do it again.”
“Take it and welcome, old man. When you have skinned the critter, you will go back to camp. I’ve caught you, see? You’re my prisoner.”
The young leader of the Wolf patrol, self-accused of needless slaughter, glanced at his superior with a look of unconcern.