No doubt, had the combatants been left to fight it out in their own way, the tenacious wolves would in the end have pulled the old stag down, and made a meal off his carcase; for he seemed pretty well exhausted by this time, and there were still half a dozen of the savage brutes able to fight. But Roger could not stand such a spectacle. He sympathized with the gallant old buck, and, slipping from his horse, bow and arrow in hand, crept forward, meaning to put in a few "licks," as he called them, in favor of the animal that was outnumbered six to one. Dick sat there, holding his rifle, and not wishing to waste any of his precious ammunition unless it seemed necessary. He knew he could depend on his comrade not to injure the brave buck, whose tough meat would be of little use to them for food. And, after the way in which he had fought the whole wolf pack, it seemed as though he deserved a better fate than being shot down. The boy with the Indian bow succeeded in creeping close enough to get a good view of the performance. The actors in the forest tragedy were too excited and intent on their business to notice anything else. Even the usually wary pests of the timber were goaded to fury by this determined resistance on the part of their intended prey, and seemed wild to bring him down. Roger never enjoyed anything more in his life than when he took a quick aim, and sent a feathered arrow flying toward the nearest of the pack. The beast went over in a heap, and Dick chuckled when he saw the end of the arrow projecting from that gray side. Working like a machine Roger fitted another missile to his how, and again that fatal twang announced that the badgered stag had a new ally close by; for a second wolf rolled over, howling dismally. By that time the balance of the pack began to awaken to the fact that there was something strange in the actions of their companions. Perhaps they allowed themselves to ignore the wounded stag for a moment, and sniff the air. At any rate, there was a sudden flight on the part of the four animals still able to run; and the stag found himself master of the field. "Hurrah!" shouted Roger, unable to restrain his feeling of elation as he stepped in sight, waving his foxskin cap in triumph. "Take care," called out Dick, warningly, "or the stag may turn on you; he doesn't know that you mean to be his friend; and it would be a shame to have to kill him, after the handsome way he stood off that pack!" But the animal, while half disposed to attack this newcomer, being doubtless flushed with his apparent victory over the wolves, presently deemed discretion the better part of valor; for, turning, he went off at a limping pace. "Good-by, and good luck!" called Roger after him, as he stepped forward to knock one of the wounded wolves on the head with his hatchet, so as to recover his two arrows.