Fire would frighten them away, Bob knew; but he had no means of quickly igniting a handful of dead leaves. In those early days, long before matches of any kind had come to be known, the only way to get fire was by the use of flint and steel; and often it was a difficult task, requiring a pinch of powder, the same as was used for priming in the pan of a gun.
In this emergency there flashed into the active mind of the young pioneer a dozen schemes for frightening the panthers away, or, at least, make the brutes hesitate long enough for him to have a chance to hand to his brother the gun that was so tantalizingly close to his eager fingers. Both armed, they might, by two well-directed shots, put an end to both of the panthers.
Each scheme was, however, dismissed as impracticable as soon as thought of, and there remained to Bob only the one thought,—he must, regardless of the danger, reach his brother’s gun!
Believing that a sudden noise might momentarily disconcert the beasts, he gathered himself for a spring, and then, with a shrill, piercing cry, he leaped from the bushes, and dashed forward.
The distance was but a few yards, and was quickly covered. Seizing Sandy’s gun, he, by the same motion, tossed it to his eager brother, and the two lads, back to back, stood with ready weapons, awaiting the spring of the crouching panthers.
Moments passed and, to the boys, the tension was fearful. Suddenly the silence was broken by a sharp, cracking sound, followed by a mighty crash, as a huge dead tree toppled down, its bare, gaunt branches grazing the boys, as they stood alertly eying the surrounding bushes.
This was followed by a slight rustling sound and then all was again still.
For several minutes the lads maintained their tense attitude and then, with a sigh of relief, Bob relaxed his strained muscles.
“I believe, Sandy, the fall of that dead tree scared the brutes away,” he said, at last.