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 had it not been that Tom Remmington, one of the game wardens of the Berkshires, had heard of the chase that morning and taking his Winchester had gone out to investigate. A traveler on the country road had reported that five dogs were running the King of the Hoosacs and that he was nearly all in. "They will get him in another half day if you don't get them," had been the report. So Tom had slipped five cartridges into his Winchester and gone to investigate.

He had taken two snap shots at a bob cat which he had bounced in a thicket, so he finally arrived on the scene with three cartridges in his rifle. He was guided to the spot by the deep baying of old Bruiser.

For half an hour he could not locate the fight, due to the echoes which rolled along the mountainside in a deceitful manner, but when he finally rounded a cliff and came in full sight of the fray it was a battle royal that met his eyes. The great deer was down on one knee, he was wedged as far as possible into the crevasse, while old Bruiser had him by the nose