Their coats, like those of the smaller deer, were of a brown which seemed to have caught its dye from the autumnal tints surrounding them.  In shape they justified Dol’s criticism; for they certainly were not unlike cows of the Alderney breed, save for the widely branching horns.

Of the strength of these antlers the hidden spectators got sudden, startling proof, as the two largest caribou drew off from the rest, and charged each other in a real or sham fight, the battle-clang of their meeting horns sounding far away to the hill-top.

“Them two bulls are having a big time of it.  Look at ’em now, with the small one.  That’s a stranger in the herd,” hummed Herb into the ear of the boy next to him, his voice so light and even that it might have been but the murmur of a falling leaf.  “It’s an all-fired pity that we’re jest too far off for a shot.”

The “stranger,” which the woodsman’s long-range eye had singled out, was of a smaller size and paler color than the other caribou; and Herb—­who could interpret the forest pantomime far better than he would have explained the acting of human beings on a stage—­told his companions in whispers and signs that it was in distressed dread of its company.

The attentions which the rest paid to it seemed at first only friendly and facetious.  The two big bulls, after trying their mettle against each other for a minute, separated, and moved towards it, prodded it lightly with their horns, and playfully bit its sides, a sport in which the other members of the herd joined.

“They’re playing it, like a cat with a mouse; but I guess they’ll murder it in the long run if it’s sickly or weak.  Caribou are the biggest bullies in these woods—­to each other,” whispered Herb.

“By the great horn spoon! they’re doing for it now,” he gasped, a minute later.  “Sho!... if I only had my old Winchester here, I’d soon stop their lynching.  Try it, you, Cyrus!  You’re a sure shot, an’ you can creep within a hundred yards of ’em without being scented.  Try it, man!”

The guide’s flashing eyes and quick signs conveyed half his meaning; his excited sentences were so low that Garst only caught fag-ends of them.  But they were emphasized unexpectedly by a faint bleating sound rising from the valley,—­the helpless bleat of a buffeted creature.

“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.