For the present, at least, there was nothing to be done. He glanced at his watch. It was three o'clock. He turned into his sleeping-bag again, having first taken the precaution to put his rifle within easy reach. Yet try as he would he could not sleep. His eyes stared, broad awake, at the shadowy dome of the tent. He wished it was day.
As he lay there straining his ears for the cadence of approaching herd-bells he was conscious of a muffled sound—a dull, soft footfall, as if some one was loitering stealthily about the tent. He heard it again. Then he could distinctly hear a sniffing at the corner of the tent near which the provisions lay.
Donald's heart leaped to his throat.
He could feel the blood pounding under his ears.
Who was coming so near with that velvety tread?
Noiselessly he wriggled out of his sleeping-bag and stood behind the flap of the tent, rifle in hand. Then he heard the unmistakable panting of some heavy creature—some creature so close to him that he could detect the rhythm of every breath it drew. Shaking in every limb he stole a look outside. Just beside the opening of his shelter he could see, clearly defined in the moonlight, a thick, dark shadow outlined on the grass. It was cast by some beast that was halting near the doorway.
In another second it would be upon him.
The boy caught his breath.
There was no time to think.
Raising his rifle, he fired at the great dark mass. Again he fired!