Somewhere in the timber of the bridge a bloodthirsty little frog cried sharply.
"KEEL'IM! KEEL'IM!" Freckles muttered: "It's worse than that Black Jack swore to do to me, little fellow." A muskrat waddled down the bank and swam for the swamp, its pointed nose riffling the water into a shining trail in its wake.
Then, below the turtle-log, a dripping silver-gray head, with shining eyes, was cautiously lifted, and Freckles' hand slid to his revolver.
Higher and higher came the head, a long, heavy, furcoated body arose, now half, now three-fourths from the water.

Freckles looked at his shaking hand and doubted, but he gathered his forces, the shot rang, and the otter lay quiet.

He hurried down and tried to lift it.

He scarcely could muster strength to carry it to the bridge.

The consciousness that he really could go no farther with it made Freckles realize the fact that he was close the limit of human endurance.