“It might have been—I’m not certain.”
The Major thrust a finger into a hole in the cap.
“That’s where one shot went through. But, by the great horn spoon, Parker! what’s a man to do to secure reasonable safety in the woods these times? I put on a red cap to warn gunners not to pot me for a deer. Have I got to wear sleigh-bells, or carry an automobile horn, to let ’em know it’s a human being that’s coming? I must say things are at a pretty pass, when anybody who wants venison has to take his life in his hand to get it!”
“Agreed!” said Mr. Parker. “That’s one of the reasons why I’ve practically dropped hunting. But that cap, now—strikes me the red might not show very clearly among the dead leaves.”
“What I saw seemed to be dark rather than red,” Sam explained.
The Major pulled at his tuft of beard. “All most extraordinary and yet—queer how the thing might have happened, as the boy says. I’d half made up my mind that scoundrel was gunning for me; so, naturally enough, when that charge of buckshot came my way, I looked where I thought it probably came from. And the puff of smokeless powder isn’t much—it’d have been gone in a few seconds. And sound fools you on direction. Expecting attack from a certain quarter, I’d be pretty sure to place the sound there, whether or no. And the boy declares he was right across the gulch? Umph!”
Sam resumed his account. He made confession to his fright; to the moments which passed before he dared to look at the farther ridge, even though he heard the loud crackling of branches.
The Major nodded. “That fits, too. Soon as I could wrap a handkerchief about the bleeding paw I was off after Groche. But finally you crossed over to see what you’d bagged, eh? Umph! Why didn’t you run away?”
“I—I didn’t think I should.”
“Wanted to, didn’t you?”