The frightened cougar had not thought of a trap, when he cowered in a little hollow behind a rotten log. It had not been set for him by either the oak or the hurricane, but it caught him, for a fork of one of the heavier limbs came down over that very hollow.
Cal thought he had never seen any real scratching done until that moment. The earth and leaves and sticks and bits of bark flew fast, as the powerful claws tore a passage out of that captivity.
"He's fighting to get away," said Cal.
"So'd I, if I saw any use in it. I could escape, too, in such a storm as this. If another should come, I'll try and be ready. His head and shoulders are free—there he comes!"
Crack! and the report of the rifle was answered by a loud whoop from Crooked Nose.
Out from his trap came the entire body of the cougar, in a convulsive struggle, and he lay dead upon the wet leaves, an ounce ball through his head requiring no second shot.
Whoop after whoop answered that of Crooked Nose, but Cal stood still, wet, very wet indeed, and almost wondering how he came to kill that tremendous wild beast.
The wrinkled, ugly face of the old Apache peered over his shoulder.
"Ugh! Heap bad manitou gone!"
Boys and braves came hurrying to the spot, and half a dozen angry dog-soldiers were eager to know who had fired a shot within the limits of the camp, contrary to rule.