But, with another sharp crack, the limb broke in twain, and Bob Somers shot downward.
An awful screech came from the wildcat.
"He'll be torn to pieces," cried Havens.
"Jehoshaphat! This is terrible," gasped Dave Brandon.
In an instant Bob landed in the midst of a mass of underbrush and tangled vines. His fall was broken by these, and he managed to hold on to his rifle.
The wildcat crouched and emitted another blood-curdling screech; Bob strove to regain his feet. Then, as he got on one knee, a lithe form launched itself in the air.
It was a critical moment. Bob's arms trembled; he had no time to bring the rifle to his shoulder, but managed to blindly point it upward and pull the trigger. The cat dropped heavily in the bushes and lay quite still.
The bullet had pierced its brain.
For an instant, Bob Somers could scarcely realize his good fortune. Then, as his excited companions pushed their way toward him, he uttered a cry of triumph.
"I've got him, Chubby," he cried, "and with one shot, too. And never aimed, either—what do you think of that?"