Part 38 (2/2)

They circled the grove till they found the tracks leading away, and followed them as fast as they could. But, being on skis, they were soon baffled, as the lion had made at once for the steep, rocky cliffs. So they rushed to the other yard. Here the herd had not been disturbed.

They were all browsing on a new path they had packed among some willows.

”Come,” Joe cried. ”Back to see Mills and find out what to do! The old lion may get the other herd to-night.”

That night there was a moon, and the Ranger and the boys, clad in all their thickest clothes, with four pairs of woollen socks in their big, easy moccasins, with sweaters, fur coats, fleece-lined mittens and bearskin helmets, advanced on snow-shoes up the valley.

”The lion may come back to the carcases, or wolves may scent 'em and come,” Mills said, ”or he may attack the other herd. Then, again, he may do nothing, and we'll have to watch every night for a week. You two take the dead herd, and I'll watch the other. Approach it up wind--don't get on the windward side at all, and if you can find a good rest in a tree, get up in that, with a clear view of the opening. Let the lion get in close before you fire, and let him have it in the heart and head. There ought to be light enough to-night. Better have your guns in rest, pointed at the carcases, so you won't have to make any noise lifting 'em.”

The Ranger and the scouts now separated, and Joe and Tom, making a wide circle to get sharp to leeward of the yard, moved silently over the deep snow, in the cold, clear, almost Arctic moonlight, with the great peaks of the Divide rising up like silvery ghosts far overhead. There was no noise in all the world, and no living thing except themselves, except once when a startled snow-shoe rabbit leaped across an opening, white as the snow he was half wallowing in.

”Say, this is spooky!” Joe whispered.

”You bet,” Tom whispered back. ”The little old electric lights in Southmead Main Street are some way off!”

They drew near the wood where the yard was, and crept stealthily into the dark shadows of the pines. The dead deer lay in a tiny opening, five black objects on the moonlit snow. The boys, still keeping down wind, each picked out a tree, and with their rifles carefully locked, climbed up through the scratching, snowy branches till they could work into some kind of a seat, and get their guns pointed out, with an opening along the barrel to sight.

”Say, I hope the old lion don't take too long,” Tom whispered. ”My seat's about two inches wide, and sharp on top.”

”Gosh, I'd sit on a needle all night to save those other deer,” Joe answered. ”But don't talk. He may be coming any minute.”

In cold and silence, they waited. There wasn't a sound, except now and then a m.u.f.fled groan or creak of a tree limb, as one or the other of the boys had to s.h.i.+ft his position. It grew later and later. Joe's eyes ached with watching the five black objects on the snow, and the patch of white moonlight around them. They ached, and would close. He was bitterly cold, too. He did not know whether he would be able to pull the trigger if the lion came, or pry his lids wide enough apart to see the sights. Every time he tried to sight the gun now, it was just a blur of s.h.i.+ning blackness. And he knew Tom must be feeling the same way. Mills certainly had not fired at anything--they could have heard a rifle shot for ten miles in that deadly still Arctic hush.

Then, so suddenly it almost made him fall off his branch, something dark and long and lean came sneaking into the patch of moonlight. It was the lion, its paws sinking down, its body crouched over them, till it seemed to creep like a snake. In this ghostly light, it looked about ten feet long, and Joe suddenly felt hot blood go through his half-frozen veins.

The lion gave a low, angry snarl, and stopped dead about three feet from the body of a deer, raising its head a little. Evidently it had heard Joe or Tom moving his rifle barrel to sight. But he had no time to retreat. Almost as one shot, the two guns blazed, with two flashes of red out of the evergreens, and a report that seemed to shatter the cold night silence.

The dark form of the lion gave a leap into the air, and landed kicking in the snow.

At the same instant two figures literally fell out of the trees, and rushed toward it, going in up to their waists, for neither waited to put on his snow-shoes again.

Tom was the first near it.

”Look out!” Joe yelled. ”He's not dead! He may come at you!”

But Tom had his gun up, and at pointblank range, with his sights in full moonlight, he deliberately took aim, and fired again, at the lion's heart.

The body gave a last kick, and fell on its side, stone dead, its blood slowly running out on the snow.

”_He'll_ never kill any more deer!” Tom cried.

They turned the lion over, and examined it. One bullet had hit him in the front leg, one in the jaw, shattering it, and entering its throat.

But which shot was whose, n.o.body could say.

”I guess it was yours that got his head,” Tom declared, ”'cause I was so sleepy I couldn't see to sight.”

”My hands were so cold, I almost couldn't pull the trigger, so it must have been yours,” Joe answered.

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