Menotah: A Tale of the Riel Rebellion. Trevena John

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СКАЧАТЬ deer sprang from the thick of the sweeping branches out into the open. Away it bounded, with the ease and certainty of a well-aimed arrow, over a ridge of splintered rocks. Away – across to the opposite shadows, where lay shelter and life.

      But then the weapon screamed death, and spat the bullet forth.

      While still in the air, the graceful creature's body stiffened, as though each muscle had been thrilled and stretched by an electric current. The nimble feet touched the ground, but not now to dart away in fresh flight. The deer tottered forward, because the impulse to seek shelter was a dying passion, but the slender legs gave way. After staggering blindly, it fell to its knees; then, after swaying backwards and forwards with pitiful gasping, it finally rolled over upon the moss bed with a groan, while warm blood trickled cruelly over the short soft fur.

      'Good shot, Winton! You took him fine, boy.'

      Then two men stepped from the bushes. The one, who thus spoke his opinion of the other's aim, was an elderly man, thin and dark featured. His somewhat sallow face was decorated by nature with a grizzled beard, while more than an occasional grey hair might have been observed beneath the rim of his felt hat. Extremely dark eyes and heavy mouth revealed the fact of Indian ancestry.

      His companion, scarcely more than a boy, was unmistakably English. The breeze stirred his fair hair at an altitude of over six feet above ground; age could not claim from him more than twenty-one years.

      'Shot a bit too far back, though,' continued Sinclair the hunter. 'Don't say it wasn't difficult to kill from your position, and you took him on the jump.'

      'Dead, isn't it?' said Winton, blowing down his rifle barrel.

      The hunter laughed. 'No, sir. Get over there with your knife, and finish him. Don't leave the poor brute to bleed and sob himself to death.'

      The other slung the rifle to his shoulder, drew a long hunting knife, then made across the open space. He knelt by the side of the panting creature, wound his fingers round a branching antler, and pulled the head round to inflict the coup de grâce.

      Sinclair leaned up against a rock, his arms folded, a smug smile gradually widening across his features.

      'You shouldn't mutilate,' he called out carelessly. 'Shoot to kill outright – specially deer. It's bad policy to only wound a buck.' Then he chuckled as he perceived the statuesque position of his companion.

      With a necessary hardening of the heart – for the stabbing of a deer in cold blood makes the man of refinement feel strangely a murderer – Winton raised his knife and prepared to cut across the long veins swelling at the side of the palpitating neck. The blade descended, his grasp tightened, the steel flashed down – when suddenly the graceful creature lifted its head with a dying effort, and gazed with great, suffering eyes full into his face. It was then that the young man paused, while the dry chuckle broke out behind.

      For in that seemingly unequal contest the animal won. All strength fled from the murdering hand when its owner beheld those dark fixed eyes of his piteous victim. They were large and luminous, while tear drops of pain trickled along and blackened the surrounding fur. The small black nostrils quivered pitifully in death gaspings. A heartbroken torture overspread the face, which reproached him for the cruel deed of his hand.

      A minute later the knife fell unused to the ground. A sickening revulsion of feeling followed, sweeping over him with overpowering force, combined with weariness and a hatred of life. His eyes could not alter the direction of their gaze, for they were held and fascinated by that dark, reproachful glance, as a bird is rendered helpless by the snake.

      'Got it,' muttered Sinclair. 'Got it bad. But it will be good for the boy.'

      That strange malady, the deer fever, had a firm hold upon Winton. His entire body became seized with violent ague. He trembled with cold, though conscious at the same time that his hands and feet were burning. His quick breath stabbed him with hot gasps. Moisture broke out on his forehead as a horrible vision presented itself to the imagination. He himself was the victim, while the conqueror lay before him. His only chance for life lay in immediate flight, but his feet were chained together and fastened to the ground. He must therefore remain and die.

      'It's what I looked for,' muttered Sinclair into his beard. Then he came forward across the open space, and picked up the knife.

      As he bent over the deer, and as the animal resigned its life with a deep sob, the man in the trance revived and gazed blankly, first at the dead creature stretched beside him, then at the grinning face of his companion.

      'What in the devil's name have you been up to, Sinclair?' he said stupidly.

      'Up to, eh?' remarked the hunter slowly, with evident enjoyment, as he wiped the knife. 'What are you doing anyhow, lying around there half asleep? Good sort of buck killer you are!'

      The young man pulled himself up. 'You've been fooling.'

      'I'm a clever chap, then. Reckon I could knock you over in that shape? Well, well, to think of a strong young fellow like you being beaten by a harmless sort of half dead beast.'

      'You don't say it was the deer?' asked the young man, still dazed.

      The hunter laughed. 'That's what. You had the fever, and as strong as I've ever seen it take a man.'

      'Well – that beats all,' said Winton, hanging on each syllable.

      'Told you it wasn't well to wound and not kill. Guess you won't fix another for quite a time.'

      'How's that? Lots of them around, aren't there?'

      'I reckon,' said the other drily. 'Question is whether you'll be able to shoot when you sight one. It'll worry you a bit. I'm thinking.'

      Winton stretched his long limbs. 'It takes me all my time to understand this. Course I've heard of the fever – lots of times, but I didn't put much on hunters' talk – '

      'And now you've had it.'

      'It doesn't last, though?'

      'Won't with you, I reckon. I've known some taken with it when they weren't any better than boys, and as they got older it didn't show any wearing off. Whenever they'd start to shoot at a deer, the fever would come up as bad as ever.'

      'But it doesn't happen to everyone?'

      'I guess it's the exception. I've never had it. Some say it's no bad sign when a young fellow gets knocked over with it. For it's generally men that are good shots who get bothered with the fever. Another thing – if a fellow goes to knife the beast with any sort of pity – you had, I know, for I watched you close – he's gone. You're feeling right again, eh?'

      The other assented. 'It goes off as quickly as it comes on, anyhow.'

      'And leaves a man none the worse,' added the hunter. Then he hastened to change the subject, as he noticed the gradual blackening of the surrounding shadows.

      'See here, Winton, it's getting sort of late. Alf will be bothering, if we're not back by dark. Suppose you wait here, while I make tracks for the horses?'

      'There's an hour of daylight yet,' said Winton. 'Let's sit down for a smoke. There's lot of time.'

      Sinclair glanced round a little uneasily. 'Make it half a pipeful, and I don't mind joining you. I'm sort of hungry for a bit of plug. But, I tell you straight, I'm not wanting to hang around here long after sunset.'

      Winton СКАЧАТЬ