CHAPTER VIII
THE VALLEY OF ENCHANTMENT
Roger knew what was expected of him under such conditions. A regard for his own safety induced him to roll aside. If the wounded animal endeavored to fasten upon his body in its death throes, he preferred to be in some other and safer locality.
There was confusion for a minute or so. Roger, after escaping from the claws of the unseen beast, scrambled first to his knees and then to his feet. He could not think of going back to search for his gun, because something was struggling on the very spot, and he could imagine what that writhing object must be.
So he drew his hunting knife and waited. Then the sounds began to grow fainter, which the boy knew was a promising sign. Finally all became still again.
“Dick!” he whispered.
“Yes, I’m here, Roger,” he heard his cousin say.
“Is he dead, do you think?” asked the other.
“I have just poked about with the barrel of my gun, and touched him,” Dick replied. “There’s no movement to the body, so I feel sure I finished him. Come this way; I felt your gun with my foot just now.”
They had no means of seeing the motionless form of Dick’s quarry, unless they chose to go to great trouble with flint and steel and tinder. There was really no need of this, because all of them were familiar with the denizens of the forest; so that, using their hands, they readily ascertained the nature of the invader of the camp.