Soon he raised his long, fine-pointed head, and trotted away a few yards, stopped to sniff again, then went back to his gruesome work.
At this juncture, I noiselessly projected my rifle barrel over the log.
I had not, however, gotten the sights in line with him, when he trotted away reluctantly, and ascended the knoll on his side of the hollow.

I lost him, and had just begun sourly to call myself a mollycoddle hunter, when he reappeared.

He halted in an open glade, on the very crest of the knoll, and stood still as a statue wolf, a white, inspiriting target, against a dark green background.

I could not stifle a rush of feeling, for I was a lover of the beautiful first, and a hunter secondly; but I steadied down as the front sight moved into the notch through which I saw the black and white of his shoulder.
Spang! How the little Remington sang! I watched closely, ready to send five more missiles after the gray beast.

He jumped spasmodically, in a half-curve, high in the air, with loosely hanging head, then dropped in a heap.