But for his excitement Fred would have noted a singular thing.

When the report of his rifle rang out in the stillness, the echo from the face of the cliff sounded as sharp and loud as the crack of his own weapon.

The explanation of this speedily became manifest.
Although the way was rough, the distance was so short that it took Fred only a brief time to reach the inanimate body of the buck.
"Hank couldn't have beaten that shot himself! I must have driven the bullet through his heart, which I shouldn't have done if he hadn't started to flee at the instant I pulled trigger----" At that moment an Indian, rifle in hand, stepped into view from among the rocks, and with a grin on his face came toward the youth.

Fred was not dreaming of anything of the kind, and looked at the red man in astonishment.
"Eh! howdy, brother?
That my buck," said the Indian, with his painted face still bisected by a tremendous smile.
The lad flared up on the instant.
"How do you make that out?
I just shot him." "No; me shoot him--he mine." Fred's gorge continued to rise.
"You are not speaking the truth.

I fired at him a few minutes ago and saw him spring in air and fall over the cliff." "Where you hit him ?" Ready to prove the truth of his own words, the youth stooped over the carcass, which was lying on its left side.