Bang!

The rifle spat a yard of fire, which almost scorched the creature's
breast. The impact of the bullet really drove the cat backward--or
else the agony of its death throes turned the heavy body from its
victim. It threw a back somersault and landed again in the snow,
tearing it up for yards around, the crimson tide from its wounds
spattering everything thereabout.

"Oh, it's dead!" cried Ruth, with clasped hands, when suddenly the
beast's limbs stiffened. "You've killed it!"

Then she had a chance to look at the person who had saved her.

"Fred Hatfield!" she cried. "Is it you? Or, who _are_ you? for
they all say Fred Hatfield is dead and buried."

"It doesn't matter who I am, Ruth Fielding," said the strange lad,
in no pleasant tone.

"Never mind. Come and see Mr. Cameron. Come to the camp. He will
help you----"

"I don't want his help," replied the boy. "I'll help myself--with
_this_," and he tapped the barrel of the rifle.

"But that belongs to Tom----"

"He'll have to lend it to me, then," declared the boy. "I tell you,