She had caught glimpses of
these wary animals and was sure that they always crossed the stream
at a certain spot above her camp. It was to this place that she
went to hunt them. With the stealth and cunning of a panther she
crept through the forest, circling about to get up wind from the
ford, pausing often to look and listen for aught that might menace
her--herself the personification of a hunted deer. Now she moved
silently down upon the chosen spot. What luck! A beautiful buck
stood drinking in the stream. The woman wormed her way closer. Now
she lay upon her belly behind a small bush within throwing distance
of the quarry. She must rise to her full height and throw her spear
almost in the same instant and she must throw it with great force
and perfect accuracy. She thrilled with the excitement of the
minute, yet cool and steady were her swift muscles as she rose and
cast her missile. Scarce by the width of a finger did the point
strike from the spot at which it had been directed. The buck leaped
high, landed upon the bank of the stream, and fell dead. Jane
Clayton sprang quickly forward toward her kill.
"Bravo!" A man's voice spoke in English from the shrubbery
upon the opposite side of the stream. Jane Clayton halted in her
tracks--stunned, almost, by surprise. And then a strange, unkempt
figure of a man stepped into view.
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