When he floundered forward the deer had gone, but something was smashing through the undergrowth up the face of the hill, and the weary man prepared for a grim effort as he saw the red trail it left behind.  He fell headlong in a thicket where the splashes were warm upon the withered leaves, staggered up again, and presently reeled against a cedar on the crest of a depression.  There was nothing visible, but he could hear a confused rattle and snapping of twigs, and shook himself as he remembered the speed with which even a badly-wounded deer can make downhill.  He had his choice of a long and possibly fruitless chase or another supperless night that would be followed by a very scanty breakfast on the morrow.  Alton did not care to anticipate what might happen after that, because he had discovered on previous occasions that green tea will not unassisted sustain vigorous animation very long.

In place of it he went downhill, falling into bushes, floundering to the shoulders through withered fern, and now and then stumbling over rotting trees, but the splashes grew closer, and he fancied the sound before him a little nearer.  It was significant that there was any sound at all, because a deer usually clears every obstacle in its almost silent flight, and the gasping man took heart again.  The quarry’s strength was evidently failing as its life drained away, but darkness was also close at hand, and Alton knew that he could not hold out very long.  Already there was a horrible pain in his left side and his sight was growing dim.

He went on, stumbling, gasping, falling now and then, for any man not accustomed to the bush in that country would find it sufficiently difficult to walk through, until once more a grey patch of something showed up in a thicket.  Again the rifle flashed, a dim shape reeled out of the bushes, and, while the man savagely smashed through those it had quitted, plunged into another thicket.  Alton, who did not see it come out again, also went in headlong, tripped, and fell upon something with life in it that struggled spasmodically beneath him.  There was no room to use his rifle, for he and the deer were rolling amidst the fern together, and while he felt for its throat the long knife came out.  Twice it sank harmlessly amidst the snow and leaves, and then there was a gurgle, and the man rose stiffly to his feet, with dripping hands and something smoking on the sleeve of his jacket.  He glanced at it without disgust, and then down at the limp shape, which now lay very still, almost compassionately.

“Well,” he said simply, “it was you or me, and the wolves would have had you, anyway.”

He was busy amidst the bushes for some time, and the light had gone when he stood up with the deer upon his shoulders and the rifle beneath it.  It would have pleased him better to carry the latter, but the bushman brings home a deer with its fore-legs drawn over his shoulders and grasped in front of him.  Alton jerked it into the most convenient position, and then stopped a moment, panting, and glanced about him.  His burden was not especially heavy, but he was weary and his camp was far away, while, though a half-moon was now growing into brilliancy above the firs, it was dark below.