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Updated: May 22, 2025
The fellow had been dead for hours he was cold and still. But Delcarte's search was not without results, for above Snider's heart was a wound, a slit about an inch in length such a slit as a sharp knife would make, and in the dead fingers of one hand was clutched a strand of long brown hair Victory's hair was brown.
One of our bullets, or one of the last that Delcarte fired, had penetrated the heart, and the beast had died even as it sprawled forward crushing Delcarte to the ground. A moment later, with our assistance, the man had scrambled from beneath the carcass of his would-be slayer, without a scratch to indicate how close to death he had been. Delcarte's buoyance was entirely unruffled.
It was a horrid, fearsome sound, the like of which never had fallen upon my ears before. We looked in the direction from which it came. The smile had died from Delcarte's lips. Even at the distance we were from him I saw his face go suddenly white, and he quickly threw his rifle to his shoulder.
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