[Illustration: HIS FINGER TREMBLED ON THE TRIGGER] Suddenly, from another direction--straight across the ravine and near the top of the ridge--came sounds of movements in the undergrowth. Instinctively, Sam brought the gun to his shoulder; its muzzle barely protruded from the branches. His finger trembled on the trigger. And then his eager eye had a glimpse of a darker patch amidst the dried leaves, a patch which seemed to be moving very, very slowly. Sam had heard tales of “buck fever,” and had laughed at the plight of its victims; but now he could sympathize with them. His heart was pumping furiously; he was trembling from head to foot; every muscle seemed to be relaxed and helpless. And, as if to mock him, that dark spot across the ravine grew clearer and more distinct. It was too high from the ground to suggest the presence of any of the smaller animals likely to be found in the woods. “That--that’s a deer over there!” Sam told himself desperately. “It--it can’t be anything else!” With an effort he summoned all his will. The swaying barrels along which he glanced steadied. His finger pressed the trigger. There was a roar which seemed to him as loud as thunder. His right shoulder ached under what was like a smart blow from the butt of the gun. A thin wisp of smoke blew away from the muzzle, and was lost in the branches. On the other side of the gully was violent commotion. The dark spot vanished. In its stead appeared the bare head of a man! Sam uttered a queer, faint, choking cry of horror. The gun dropped from his hands. His head sank to the ground, and he lay, face downward, for the moment utterly overcome. Through his recklessness and folly he had shot a fellow being. Terrible certainty was his that he had not missed his aim, and that he had wounded, perhaps fatally, the victim of his criminal carelessness. There flashed upon him all the possible consequences of his act--arrest, imprisonment, disgrace; sorrow and suffering for his parents; pain and anguish for the stranger, even if he survived his wounds. For a little Sam closed his eyes, but he could not keep from his ears the ominous sounds from the other ridge. The man had not cried out; but there was a wild crashing of brush, as if he were writhing convulsively in the thicket. Presently the sounds grew less distinct. The man must be weakening from loss of blood! Sam’s imagination pictured him lying in a crimson pool, and the boy shuddered at the thought. Yet it nerved him to the duty which he knew was his to do. Sam had faults enough, but lack of courage to face the music, as the saying goes, was not among them. Plainly, the way for retreat was open for him, if he chose to take it; there was nobody to interfere. But Sam, once he had recovered somewhat from the shock of his disaster, set himself resolutely to the task of making such amends as he might.