He kept on now till his heart was near bursting, and when at last he made his strategic loop and lay down to rest and watch he felt that he must have secured ample time to recover. But not so. Before he had half got his wind, and while his flanks were yet heaving painfully, those meagre but terrible cries again drew near. This time, perforce, he let the pursuers run by, and saw that they seemed as fresh as ever. Then he sprang up and resumed the flight, shaken by the first chill of real terror that he had known since that forgotten day in the thicket when the hare and the fisher jumped upon him.
His flight now led him past the back lots of Ramsay's farm, where the cattle were pasturing. Either because his sudden fear made him seek companionship or with an idea of confusing his scent with that of the cattle, he leaped into the pasture and ran here and there among the mildly wondering cows. Then he leaped the fence again at the farthest corner, plumped into the thick underbrush, and headed toward the fields with which he had been wont to make so free. He had just vanished in the leafage when his pursuers appeared at the other side of the pasture. They ran in at once among the cows, paying no heed whatever to angry snorts and levelled horns, unravelled the trail with perfect ease, dashed over the fence again, and darted into the underbrush with a new note of triumph in their yelpings.
"THEN HE LEAPED THE FENCE AGAIN."
When the buck heard their voices so close behind him his knees almost gave way. He knew he could not run much farther, and he knew his shifts were all vain against such implacable foes as these. He half-paused, with a brave impulse to stand at bay. But some other impulse, undefined, but potent, urged him on toward Ramsay's farm. It was familiar ground, and he had never suffered any hurt there. He knew that the old farmer was most dangerous, but he was not an instant, horrible, inevitable menace like this which was close upon his heels. Moreover, he had seen the cattle go up to the barn-yard and take refuge there, and come away in safety.
With the last of his ebbing strength he burst forth into the open, ran across the corn-field, passed the corner of the garden, brushed against the end of the well-sweep, and paused before the open door of the stable. The heavy door was carelessly propped open with a stick. In contrast with the glare of the sunshine outside, the interior looked black and safe. But all about, though mixed with the smell of the cattle, was the dreaded smell of man. He wheeled aside, dimly intending to go around the stable and resume his hopeless flight, but as he did so the yelp of his pursuers broke louder upon his ears. He saw them break from the woods and dart into the corn-field. This decided him. He wheeled again, half-staggering, struck blunderingly against the stick which propped the door open, stumbled across the threshold, ran to the innermost depths of the stable, and fell gasping into a box stall which Ramsay had once built for a colt. At the same moment the heavy door, no longer propped back, swung to with a slam, the big wooden latch rising smoothly and dropping securely into place.
When the dogs arrived and found the door shut against them they broke into angry clamour. Once around the building they ran to see if there was any other entrance. Then they clawed savagely at the door, barking and growling in their balked fury. Their noise brought Ramsay on the run from the potato-field, over the rise, where he was working. He was surprised to see two strange dogs making such a fuss at his stable door. Being a canny backwoodsman, however, instead of going straight to the door, he went around behind the stable and looked in the window.
When Ramsay saw the shivering, tawny form and great antlers on the floor of the stall his heart swelled with exultation. The coveted trophies were his. He ran into the kitchen for his gun. Then he changed his mind and picked up, instead, his long hunting-knife. When he approached the stable door the dogs turned upon him threateningly. But the crisp voice of authority with which he ordered them aside was something they were quite too clever to defy. Sullenly, with red eyes of wrath, they obeyed, waiting for their masters to arrive and support them.
Ramsay closed the door carefully behind him and strode to the box stall, knife in hand. On its threshold he paused and scrutinized the captive with triumphant admiration. Sure, besides the trophies of hide and horns, there was meat enough there to do him all winter—tough, perhaps, but sweet, seeing that it had been fatted on his choicest crops. He looked at the animal's heaving sides and realized what a magnificent run he must have made. Then as he stepped forward with his knife he wondered what could have induced the beast to flee to such a refuge. The buck was gazing up at him with wide eyes, reassured by the man's quiet. There was no terror in that gaze, but only a sort of anxious question; and he never flinched, though the laboured breath came quicker through his nostrils as the man approached his head.
As Ramsay met that anxious, questioning look, the eager triumph in his own eyes died away, and his grim mouth softened to a half-abashed, half-quizzical smile. The bright blade in his hand slipped furtively into his belt, as if he didn't want the buck to notice it. Then, muttering approvingly, "Ye've fooled 'em, ain't ye!" he picked up a little shallow tub that stood in a corner of the stall and started out to the well to get the beast a drink.