“He'll know better than to poke his head into a lighted room whose door is chained,” he said, a victorious twinkle in his eyes. “If I didn't send the bullet into his head, I at least left my mark somewhere on his face. Why I never dreamed that he would follow my trail so soon. Midnight Jack is right—Timon Moss is a veritable demon.”
If Gopher Gid had known that his words were falling upon the ears of the man he had mentioned, he would not have made preparations to inquire into the result of his nocturnal shot as soon as day broke.
Squatted like a toad, and with his repulsive face rendered doubly hideous by a long red streak across one cheek which bled profusely, Timon Moss sat behind some bushes which grew near the door of the cave home.
In one hand he held the ungainly but dread revolver which we have already seen in his gripe. He peered through the bushes at the door, waiting patiently for his prey.
At last the door slowly opened, and the whisky-smuggler saw the anxious face of his boy enemy.
“I didn't kill him, that's certain,” muttered the boy trapper. “Leastwise he isn't here to tell me this. Alas! Tanglefoot, that ball passed too near your face. It was a gentle reminder for you to keep your distance, and to knock when you come visiting.”
Suddenly the tiger in wait crouched nearer to the earth, and then, with a roar not unlike that of the jungle-king, he sprung at his prey.
The twain went over together, the weight of the smuggler bearing his young victim to the ground.
They reeled down the hill together, over and over like amateur wrestlers, but the strength of Tanglefoot was bound to win.
The boy tried in vain to slip from the smuggler's embrace, but it was like the hug of the she bear, and the fumes of bad liquor almost overpowered him. As Gid went back the revolver was torn from his hand, nor could it be regained. Tanglefoot used no weapon, and when they reached the foot of the hill, Gid found himself lifted in mid-air, and held out at arm's length by the panting ogre.