Bang! The shrill report echoed across the lake and through the forest. The buck staggered. His forelegs gave way. With a gasping moan he toppled over, and his life-blood stained the ice.
No words can tell the delight of the young hunters. They cheered until they were fairly hoarse. Hamp drew his knife, and sprang astride of the feebly-struggling animal. By a single pass he slit its throat.
Jerry slapped Brick on the back.
“That was a grand shot,” he exclaimed. “I couldn’t have done it better myself. It was Hamp’s only chance. The hammer of my rifle was clogged with snow.”
Brick was almost speechless. He looked at the buck, and then at his companions.
“Did—did I really kill him?” he gasped. “Is he dead?”
“Dead as a door nail,” assured Hamp. “See, the ball went in between the foreshoulders. It must have pierced the heart. You’ve shot the first deer, Brick, and it’s something to be proud of.”
“I know it is,” admitted Brick. “I wish Tom Fordham was here now. He said I’d forget how to shoot when I saw a deer.”
“You didn’t, though,” said Hamp. “You saved my life.”
“And mine,” added Jerry. “It was a plucky thing to rush in between me and the buck.”