continued with each stride, his pace became faster, his gait less labored. When, hours later, Almayne reached the spot where the elk had bedded and studied the tracks beyond it, the hunter read in those tracks the story of a long bitter struggle, a struggle with pain and with paralysis worse than pain, a struggle in which Awi Agwa had won.
It was early in the forenoon of the second day that Awi Agwa learned that he was pursued. From far behind him came a sound which he recognized at once—the dull boom of a distant rifle. Almayne, who had breakfasted only on some parched corn which he carried in a small bag attached to his belt, had shot a wild turkey to satisfy his appetite. The big bird, perched on an oak limb almost directly over his head, had tempted him irresistibly and he had killed it regardless of the possibility that the elk might hear the shot.
Awi Agwa heard and understood—knew that his enemy was on his trail. He had halted to graze on certain succulent weeds carpeting the ground in a grove of huge beeches. He had pulled scarcely a dozen mouthfuls when the far-off boom of the rifle reached him; and instantly his antlered head jerked upward and he lurched forward in the slashing gallop which is the elk's fastest gait.
It was a rash effort. At the first plunge intolerable pain shot through his wounded shoulder, his
