"We want meat, and I'm going to spring a surprise on those bullies,"
muttered Cyrus, setting his teeth.
Still lying flat, he shot his eyes down the hill-slope, forming a plan
of descent; then he lifted the rifle beside him, and jammed some fresh
cartridges into the magazine.
Ere a dozen long breaths had been drawn, he was stealthily moving
towards the valley, slipping from spruce to spruce--an arrowlike,
unnoticeable figure in his dark gray tweeds.
He was close to the foot of the hill when the three breathless fellows
above saw him raise his rifle, just as the unfortunate little caribou,
after many efforts to escape, had been beaten to its knees.
"He'll drop one, sure! He's a crack shot--is Cyrus! There! he's drawing
bead. Bravo!... he's floored the biggest!"
Herb's gusty breath blew the sentences through his nostrils, while the
sudden, explosive bang of the Winchester cut through all other sounds,
and set the air a-quiver.
Twice Cyrus fired.
The largest bull-caribou leaped three feet upward, wheeled about,
staggered to his knees.
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