Almost at the same moment he heard the crack of his uncle's rifle. He saw Corry spring to his feet, and stand still, while Vosh Stebbins darted away to the left, as if he thought he might be needed there.
"What can it be? I don't see a single thing. No—yes—there he goes, straight for Corry! Why doesn't Vosh stop?"
The deer in sight was a fine buck, with antlers which afterward proved him to be three years old; and it was easier for Corry to hit him "on the run" than to hit a white rabbit. He fired both barrels too, and he shouted to Port; but there was no more glory for the city boy this time. Corry had aimed too well, and the buck had been too near; and it was hardly necessary for the dogs to pull down their game.
"Corry, hear that? It's Vosh's gun. What's the matter?"
"There goes his second barrel. Run: your gun's loaded."
It was all in a minute; and Port darted away with a strong impression that something strange had happened.
Corry must have thought so too, for he loaded his gun like lightning.
Something strange had indeed happened.
Deacon Farnham had walked on rapidly towards the deep ravine, after leaving the boys. He had known that forest ever since he was a boy, and had killed more than one deer in that vicinity. He did not go any great distance, keeping his eyes sharply about him, when he suddenly stopped short, and raised his rifle.
It looked as if he were aiming at a clump of sumach-bushes; and Port, or even Corry, would probably have said they saw nothing there. Vosh, perhaps, or any hunter of more experience, would have said,—