ern edge of the meadow, then boldly darted across the open to an isolated rock scarcely thirty yards from the spot where the combat raged. Neither bull saw the black barrel of the long rifle which was presently thrust out from behind that rock.
Again and again Almayne drew his bead. The tide of battle had turned. Awi Agwa's strength was waning now. He forced the fighting no longer. He stood still, head down, legs braced, holding back his enemy by weight rather than muscle. Calmly, unhurriedly Almayne drew his bead again, lining his sights on the spot behind Awi Agwa's shoulder through which a bullet would plunge straight to the heart.
Yet for a little while longer the hunter delayed the fatal shot. This was a wilderness battle such as few men had ever witnessed. He was unwilling to end it before he must.
A minute the combatants stood motionless, head to head, their antlers interlaced. Then suddenly the usurper launched his attack. He had been glad to rest for a while to recover his wind. Now, knowing that his opponent was done, he would make an end. His swollen neck twisting and writhing, his antlers grinding against those of his adversary, his champing jaws dripping foam, he drove forward with all his strength.
Almayne, his finger crooked about the trigger,
