CHAPTER IV.
"Bully!" cried Steve, looking almost as happy as he did on that never-to-be-forgotten day when they found their first lovely pearl in a mussel taken from the Big Sunflower River.
"A b-b-bear!" exclaimed Toby. "L-l-let me s-s-see."
All of them were soon eagerly examining the marks so plainly described in the light snow. Bruin had evidently shuffled along here, heading for some favorite place in the neighboring marsh, where he knew food was still to be found.
"We'd better leave the old chap alone for a bit," announced Jim. "When I can make sure by his coming back to his den the same way that he's got a regular trail, we'll lay for him."
"I'd like to get in a shot with my gun," declared Steve.
"H-h-ho! Much g-g-good your N-n-number Seven shot'd d-d-do against his t-t-tough old hide!" jeered Toby.
"Get out! You don't think I'm such a ninny as that, I hope," answered Steve, indignantly. "Hey, take a look at that shell, and this one, too, will you? Know why that black cross is on them? Course you don't. Well, I'll tell you."
"H-h-hurry up then and t-t-tell me."
"They're buckshot shells," declared Steve. "Each one's got just twelve buckshot inside, all as big as pistol bullets. And at short range they're calculated to bring down a deer like fun. I'd be willing to take my chances against a black bear, given a good opening to hit him back of his foreleg. Now you know a heap more'n you did before, Toby Jucklin."
"S-s-sure," answered the other, nodding his head good-naturedly.
"But remember," said Jim at this juncture, "a good bearskin is worth all the way from five to twenty dollars to me. But after you've made a sieve out of it with twelve or twenty-four buckshot from that scatter gun, why, I hardly think I could give it away."
"So Steve, please restrain your bear-killing feeling just now," said Max. "Whether we get him in a trap or shoot him on the run the bear steaks will taste just as good; won't they, Uncle Jim?"
"I reckon you're right," replied the trapper, without any great animation; for doubtless he had found bear meat pretty tough eating, and given his choice would any day have much preferred the porterhouse steak which Steve had so often at home that he turned up his nose at it.
When they arrived at the marsh where the countless muskrats had their homes, a new species of interest was aroused.
Jim showed them how he had to employ entirely new tactics when dealing with the muskrats than in connection with the mink. The former were banded together in colonies, and the trapper had to be constantly on the alert lest in capturing one prize he frighten the whole family away.
"But I learned my business many years ago," the old trapper declared, with considerable pride, "when beaver lived in the North Woods. There never were more wary little animals than those same beaver, and the man who could circumvent 'em had a right to call himself smart."
After setting three traps he led the way to a place where he had left one baited on the occasion of his previous visit to the marsh.
"You see, here's where I set it on the bank," he remarked, "and the chain ran down there to a stake in deep water."
"But it ain't here now, Uncle Jim," said Steve.
"Because a curious and hungry musquash, anxious to reach the bait I stuck on a splinter of wood just above the trap, set it off."
"And then sprang back into the water, because that was his natural way of doing when alarmed, and soon drowned there. Was that the way it worked, Uncle Jim?" asked Max.
The old trapper looked fondly at him and answered:
"Exactly as you say, son. Men who trap these cunning small fur-bearing animals never get tired of studying their habits; and the one who enters most fully into the life and instincts of mink, 'coon, marten, otter, fisher, or even the humble muskrat, is the fellow who succeeds best in his business."
"B-b-but all the m-m-muskrats I ever saw could swim and s-s-stay under w-w-water's long as they p-p-pleased," Toby broke out with.
"That's a mistake," said Trapper Jim. "None of these animals can live under water all the time like a fish. They have to come up to breathe just so often. Beaver have houses made of mud and sticks. The entrances to these are always down below: but you find the tops of all beaver houses above the surface."
"But," said Steve, "I've seen muskrats dive just as Toby says, and waited with a club to have 'em come to the top of the water again; but lots of times I'd have to chuck it up as no good. How did that happen, Uncle Jim?"
"That is easily explained," answered the trapper. "Just as alligators do, so mink, otter, and muskrats have holes that run up into the bank of a stream, their nest being always above ordinary high water. When you missed seeing your rat it was because he happened to be near enough to dive down, enter his tunnel, and make his way up to his nest. You see, there are lots of queer things to be learned, if you only keep your eyes and ears open when in these woods."
"But show us if you really did get one in your trap," urged Bandy-legs, who knew much less about all these things than any one of the chums, yet felt considerable eagerness to learn.
So with a stick that had a fork at the end Jim felt around in the water at a point he supposed he would find something.
And, sure enough, he presently caught the chain and speedily pulled out the trap. It was not empty. A plump-looking muskrat was caught by both forelegs.
"You got him, all right, sure," commented Steve.
Trapper Jim was taking the victim out, and carefully resetting the trap in the same place it had been before; after which he renewed the bait.
"Like as not I'll have another to-morrow, and for days to come," he remarked; "unless they get suspicious on account of the scent we leave by touching things. I try to kill that all I can. But when animals are unusually timid, it's often necessary to come in a boat, and do it all without setting a foot on shore, because, you know, water leaves neither trail nor scent."
"Yes, the sharpest-nosed hound in the world is knocked out, I've read, when the game takes to the water."
It was Owen who made this remark, and the trapper nodded his head in approval as he added:
"I see you are a great reader, my boy. That's a mighty fine thing. There's only one that's better—proving the truth of things by actual experience. And while you're up here in the grand old North Woods with me I hope you'll pick up a lot of useful information that you never would find in any school books. Now we're ready to visit the second trap that was set a little farther along."
To the satisfaction of the trapper this furnished a victim equal in size to the first one.
"I didn't know muskrats counted for much, Uncle Jim," remarked Steve, who saw the sparkle in the old man's eyes as he handled the second prize.
"Oh well, the skins didn't pay for the trouble years ago," he said in reply, "but of late years good furs are getting so scarce that they are using heaps of muskrat pelts, generally dyed and sold under another name. It is a good serviceable fur, and if taken up North answers the purpose very well."
"Why do you say 'up North'?" asked Owen.
"Max there can tell you, I'm sure," laughed the trapper.
"Oh, well," remarked the one mentioned, "I do happen to know that the farther north you go the better the fur. And, of course, that means a higher price in the market, since all pelts are graded according to size and quality."
"That means, I suppose," said Owen, "that a muskrat skin taken away up in Northern Michigan or Canada is more valuable than the same sized pelt that was captured down, say, in Florida."
"Often worth twice or three times as much," remarked the trapper. "Stands to reason, too, since the little critters don't have much need of thick hides where the weather is generally warm."
"I can see through that all right," Steve admitted, "but ain't they queer lookin' little rascals, though! Some plump, too!"
"Fat as butter this season," observed Jim. "And I'm just longing to see how they taste. Last year they didn't just seem to suit my particular brand of appetite."
"What's that?" almost shouted Steve, "say, Uncle Jim, you're just trying to give me taffy now, sure you are."
"That's where you're mistaken Steve," said the trapper, smiling at the horrified expression on the boy's face.
"But—you don't mean to say you eat muskrats?" demanded Steve.
"Do I? Well, you wait and see how I'll tackle these this very evening. And if we're lucky enough to find a third one in my other set trap, why, you boys can have a look in, too."
"Me eat rats?" cried Steve, scornfully. "Mebbe I might if I had to do it or starve to death; but not when I've got other stuff to line my stomach with, I'm no Chinaman, Uncle Jim."
"Well, you'll change your tune before long," remarked the other, "and it's a mistake to class these clean little animals with common rats. The Indian name for him is musquash, and thousands of people appreciate the fact that his meat is as sweet as that of a squirrel."
"And I've been told," said Max, "much more tender."
"That's a fact," declared Jim, "I've got so I never try to fry a squirrel nowadays unless he's been parboiled first. They're the toughest little critters that run around on four legs."
When they arrived at the third trap it was found to contain another "victim of misplaced confidence," as Old Jim called it.
"Plenty to go around now, boys," remarked the trapper.
"You'll have to excuse me," said Steve, shuddering.
And yet before three days went by Steve had been induced to taste the musquash, as Trapper Jim prepared them, and found the dish so good that afterwards his tin pannikin was shoved forward for a second helping as often as any of the others.
On the way home, after all the traps they had brought had been set, Bandy-legs noticed a tree that stood up black and grim, as though a fire had destroyed it at some time.
"Yes," said Jim, when his attention was directed that way, "quite a few years ago we had a big fire up this way that did heaps of damage. And I've noticed that the conditions this fall are just about the same as that year. Why, we've hardly had any rain at all in the last two months."
"The woods must be pretty dry then, I should think," Max remarked.
"Dry as tinder," replied the other. "This little snow will all disappear, and unless we get a heavy fall soon, it wouldn't surprise me if some careless campers or deer hunters let their camp fire get into the brush when the wind is blowing great guns. Then there'll be the mischief to pay. But I hope it won't be any one of you boys."
Each and every one of them solemnly declared that he was firmly resolved to be unusually careful.
Finally they reached the cabin.
In the afternoon Old Jim skinned the three musquash, and showed the boys how he fastened the hides on stretching boards, which would cause them to retain their shape while they dried.
"We never put skins in the sun or near a fire to dry," he observed, seeing that most of the boys were anxious to learn all they could. "The best way is to stand 'em in the shade where the breeze can play on 'em. But, of course, you mustn't let the pelts get wet while they're drying."
Sure enough, Jim cut up the musquash, and gave evidences of satisfaction at finding them so plump.
As the afternoon began to wane Bandy-legs surprised his chums by actually volunteering to go out and gather wood for the fire.
This was really such an unusual occurrence that Max surveyed the other curiously as he passed out.
He wondered if Bandy-legs, generally quite lazy, had seen the error of his ways and meant to reform.
It appeared that Max was not the only one who thought this action odd, for Owen spoke of it.
"What d'ye suppose struck that boy?" he remarked.
"Never knew him to volunteer to do a thing before," declared Max.
"I should say not," Steve broke in. "Generally speaking, we have to use a stuffed club on Bandy-legs to get him to do anything but eat."
Toby chuckled.
"Gr-g-great s-s-stunt," he ejaculated, "g-g-got him anxious to t-t-try stewed m-m-m-m—" But that name was really too much for Toby, who had to be satisfied by pointing at the kettle in which Trapper Jim had placed the dismembered musquash.
At this the others laughed.
They were lounging around in the cabin at the time. A small blaze burned in the big fireplace at the bottom of the wide-throated chimney.
"What I want to know," remarked Owen, who had been examining one of the skins stretched on the thin board, "is why they fix these different ways. I've read that some skins are cured with the fur out and others with it in; some split and others dried whole."
"Glad you mentioned that," said Jim, looking pleased. "Skins are of all kinds. Some we dry cased, without cutting. I'm going to show you the whole business by degrees, if we're lucky enough—"
He stopped short in what he was saying, and seemed to cock his head on one side, as though listening.
"Say, I guess there must be some kind of bird or animal in your old chimney, Uncle Jim," remarked Steve.
"I thought I heard it, too," Owen declared.
All listened.
"There it goes again," said Steve; "and something dropped down right then. I was thinking of that story you told us where a bear came down through the big chimney of a cabin. Wow! Listen to that, would you?"
As Steve cried out in this way, the rattling in the chimney suddenly grew into an alarming noise. Then a large object fell with a crash into the fire.
CHAPTER V.
"It's a bear!" whooped Steve, as he made a headlong dash for the corner where his double barrel stood.
Forgotten just then was the injunction of the old trapper that they should not shoot any thing that wore fur, as it would cheat him out of all his expected profits.
If a bear became so bold as to enter the cabin by way of the chimney he must surely be treated, with scant ceremony. Buckshot or birdshot, it mattered little which the gun contained, since at close quarters the load would carry like a large bullet.
But Steve had not even managed to lay a hand on his gun, when he was amazed to hear above the barking of the two dogs, loud shrieks of laughter from Max, Owen, and Toby.
Even the hoarser notes of the trapper seemed to join in. And when there chanced to be a little break in all this racket, Steve caught a wailing voice crying aloud:
"Put me out! Somebody throw a bucket of water over me, and put me out! I'm all a-fire! Why can't you help a feller?"
A figure was dancing around like mad, now slapping at his trousers leg, and then trying to reach the middle of his back, where his coat seemed to be smoldering.
It was Bandy-legs.
Steve instantly recognized his chum, and this fact, taken with the noise in the chimney, gave the thing away.
Bandy-legs had tried to play a prank on them, and, as usual, made a sorry mess of it.
While sitting there and looking at the wide-throated chimney, perhaps his mind went out to what Jim had told about the curious bear which, hunting around on the roof of a cabin to ascertain where that fine odor of hams came from, fell down the chimney.
He would climb upon the roof and lower a make-believe wildcat, fashioned out of an old moth-eaten skin Jim had thrown away.
That accounted for Bandy-legs' astonishing announcement that he would go out and gather some of the wood for the night.
It also explained to Max just why he had been stout string that lay upon the trapper's table. This would be needed in the carrying out of his trick.
But, like the incautious bear, Bandy-legs had also leaned too far over the top of the chimney. Perhaps he wanted, not to sniff the smoked hams below, as in the case of Bruin, but to hear the shouts of consternation when his make-believe bobcat landed in the fireplace, apparently jumping up and down as Bandy-legs jerked the string.
The consequence had been that he fell into the opening, and, landing on all fours, scattered the little fire in every direction.
But seeing that the boy's clothes were really on fire in several places, Max grabbed up the first thing he could think of that might be depended on to extinguish the smoldering cloth.
"Hold on, that's my supper!" shouted Trapper Jim, clutching the hand of Max before he could empty the kettle. "Here's the water-bucket; use that."
And Max did so, drenching poor dancing Bandy-legs from head to foot with the contents of the pail.
"That's the time Bandy-legs came near getting more than his share of the grub," declared Owen, who was busily engaged stamping out some of the smoldering brands that had been scattered around so promiscuously when the sprawling figure of the boy landed in their midst.
"Somebody carry that old skin outside," said Trapper Jim. "It's burning more or less, and we'll have the cabin so full of smell we won't be able to stay in it much longer."
Toby volunteered to do this, although he had to handle the thing carefully so as not to get burned.
"I'll go after another bucket of water," remarked Max; "and I'd advise our practical joker here to jump out of those wet duds and get into some dry ones in a hurry."
Bandy-legs, looking disgusted and rather silly, was beginning to shiver, as the door, which now stood open to ventilate the cabin, allowed the chilly air of approaching evening to enter.
"Guess I will," he remarked; "'cause I've got that wood to gather."
"You bet you have," declared Steve; "we don't let you off from that job. And when you've got your hand in, we'll expect you to take care of the fuel business right along, see?"
"See you in Guinea first," muttered Bandy-legs, bristling up.
They could never coax him to tell what he had really intended doing at the time his treacherous heels slipped on the roof, and he fell down the big opening through which the smoke escaped.
Still, no one needed explanations. The fact of his lowering the old abandoned pelt, bundled up so as to look as much like a live bobcat as possible, spoke for itself.
Somehow or other this trip seemed to be particularly hard on practical jokers. Owen gravely remarked that all who were ordinarily given to playing pranks would take notice.
"Needn't look at me that way when you say that," remarked Steve. "I used to be a great hand for jokes, but never again. I've reformed, I have."
"Y-y-yes, like f-f-fun you have," scoffed Toby, who knew Steve "like a book," and had no faith in his professed change of heart.
After a while things looked comfortable again.
The fire burned cheerily on the hearth and Jim's kettle, hanging from an iron bar that could be let down, steamed and bubbled, and began sending out appetizing odors that even Steve sniffed with less resentment than he had anticipated.
"What d'ye think of it now, Steve?" asked Uncle Jim.
"Huh, if you mean the smell, why, it ain't so very bad," replied the boy. "Fact is, makes me think of rabbit stew, some."
"Beats any rabbit you ever ate; just wait," prophesied the trapper, who knew that once Steve overcame his prejudice he would admit as much himself.
Bandy-legs had finished dressing, and as he lacked certain garments to complete his attire, the other boys temporarily helped him out. When his own were dry he would return the borrowed articles.
As though desirous of doing penance because of his wretched failure as a prank player, Bandy-legs did work, bringing wood to the outside of the cabin with unwonted zeal.
Indeed, the trapper finally had to stop him.
"Looks like you meant to swamp us with firewood, son," he remarked, surveying the pile that was heaped up against the side of the cabin.
"Huh, thought I'd get enough while I was about it," Bandy-legs replied.
"Well, you've done yourself proud, my boy, and I reckon I'd stop now. We've got all we can use till to-morrow night. And I don't like too big a stack against the cabin wall. A spark from the chimney might set her going, and I'd hate to be burned out."
The supper was a success.
Of course they had plenty of other things to eat besides Steve's pet dish. The boys made sure of this, not fancying the idea of having to depend upon the musquash alone.
All of them but Steve tasted it and declared it fine. He could not be coaxed to even sample it at the time; but Old Jim believed Steve would come around in time.
"It's just because these plump little critters are so common," he remarked, with a smile of satisfaction, as he emptied the balance of the stew into his own pannikin. "If they cost four dollars each, now, and only the millionaires could buy 'em, you'd think they beat anything going."
"Yes," said bookworm Owen, "that's the way it was with diamond-back terrapin. Time was in Virginia and North Carolina, yes, in Maryland, too, when a man hired out to a planter along the coast, he had it entered in the contract that he was not to be fed on terrapin. They were looked on at that time as common stuff. To-day the rich pay five dollars apiece for decent-sized little fellows. You're right, Uncle Jim, it makes a lot of difference."
Talking in this strain, and picking up useful as well as interesting information from time to time, as Trapper Jim explained things to the boys who were his guests, the evening passed pleasantly away.
Even Bandy-legs seemed to forget his recent troubles part of the time.
Max, seeing him rub various portions of his body tenderly, asked whether he had really been burned. And when the baffled joker was induced to show several red marks, Max insisted on applying a soothing lotion, which took out much of the pain.
It was an evening long to be remembered by the boys. Steve's turn to occupy the extra bunk had come around, and he felt in high feather in consequence, while the other boys had to select their places on the floor.
But everyone seemed in the best of humor, and the soft furs promised to make just as good beds as they could wish.
When Max stepped out just before retiring to see how the weather promised for the morrow, he found a clear sky, the moon just peeping into view, and a wholesome tang in the air.
And as Max stood listening to the far-away mournful call of an owl to its mate, and noted the flood of soft moonlight, it was no wonder he said to himself:
"I tell you it's good to be here!"
CHAPTER VI
"Wish you fellows luck!" said Owen.
It was the next morning. Breakfast had been dispatched, and there was still a distinct odor of bacon and coffee in the air.
All of them were getting ready for the duties laid out for the day; and this remark of Owen's had been intended for Max and Steve.
Eager to indulge in a hunt, with the dim prospect of bringing home a fine deer, Steve had begged Trapper Jim to let him go. This was on the evening before, while they sat by the blazing fire in the cabin.
Now Old Jim had, of course, sized up impulsive Steve pretty well before now. He liked the boy very much, for he knew Steve was warm-hearted and a true comrade. But he hardly fancied having so impatient a lad go off by himself.
Accordingly, he had told Steve that if he could get Max to keep him company on a little hunt, he would post them with regard to where they were most likely to run across game.
And Max had only too gladly agreed.
He had a new magazine 30-30 repeating rifle. It was a small bore, but by using the soft-nosed bullets that mushroom out upon striking even the flesh of an animal, it would prove just as powerful as a heavier gun.
And Max was secretly just wild to try it on a deer, though he did not show his feelings the same way Steve would have done.
Both boys were ready to start out when the others left to make a round of the traps. They had received final instructions from Trapper Jim.
"Got your compass, Max?" asked his cousin.
"It's O.K.," replied the other, touching his pocket, suggestively.
"D-d-don't forget your g-g-grub," said Toby.
"Both of us got the snack of lunch stowed away," Steve made answer, as he pointed to the bulging side of his khaki hunting coat that had a game pocket running all the way around inside, "big enough almost to stow a deer in," Steve had laughingly declared.
"But I hardly think Max would ever need a compass," Bandy-legs observed. "You know he never yet was lost in the woods."
"Glad to hear that, son," remarked Trapper Jim.
"Sure thing," Bandy-legs went on to say, "Max, he can tell the points of the compass by the bark or the green moss on the trees, by the way the trees lean, and lots of other ways; can't you, Max!"
But the other only smiled, as though he thought there was no need of his wasting breath when, as Steve declared, he could have a loyal chum "blow his horn" for him.
"All ready here, Max," announced Steve, anxious to start.
So, with a few parting words the two hunters left the vicinity of the cabin in the forest. The others were just about ready to start out to learn what the various traps contained.
"Don't forget about that bear, Uncle Jim!" shouted Steve.
"I sure won't," answered the old man, waving his hand.
"If he's been back over that trail you'll lug out Old Tom and give him a chance to earn his keep, won't you!" pursued Steve.
"That's right, I will."
Satisfied with the answer, Steve followed after Max.
Now, although Steve had shot quail and ducks, rabbits and squirrels, he was not a big-game hunter. As yet he had to secure his first deer. And as the sporting instinct was coming on very markedly in the boy, he was anxious to be able to say he had shot a "lordly" buck.
It was always that, with Steve, whenever he boasted of the great things he intended doing on a projected hunt. No ordinary doe seemed ever to enter into his calculations at all.
"And a five-pronged buck, too," he declared. "I wouldn't waste my precious time with anything less."
Knowing that Max had had more or less experience in the line of hunting, Steve was secretly pleased to take lessons. There might be times when Steve was inclined to boast that he knew it all; but when out with Max he felt that this style of bluff would not go.
They headed in the direction the trapper had laid out for them. Since the old man had spent many years around this region it stood to reason that he ought to know a good deal concerning the places where game was most likely to be found.
"Think we'll get one, Max?" asked Steve, after they had been walking for nearly a full hour through the forest.
"It's a toss-up," replied the other; "hunting always is, because you never know whether the game is there or not. And even if you are lucky enough to start something, perhaps you'll fail to bring it down."
Steve laughed incredulously.
"Trust me to do that same," he avowed, "if only I can get my peepers on a five-pronged buck. Think of what I've got in the barrels of my gun, Max, twelve separate bullets in each shell, and propelled by nearly four drams of powder. Wow! I'd sure hate to be the luckless deer that stood up before all that ammunition."
"Especially when the keen eye and sure hand of Steve Dowdy is back of it all," chuckled Max.
"Oh, well, I don't want to boast, you know, Max, 'cause I might happen to make a foozle out of it. I was only speaking of the hard-hitting qualities of this little double-barreled Marlin of mine, that's all."
"Well, we must wait and see," said Max. "Perhaps you'll make good right in the start; and then, again, something might throw you down. The proof of the pudding's in the eating of it, they say."
"Oh, I do hope we get a deer, even if it doesn't fall to my gun," Steve continued to say. "It'd be too bad now if we spent a whole two weeks up here with Trapper Jim and never tasted any game besides measly squirrel, rabbit, or maybe partridge, if they're still to be had."
"You forget musquash," added Max.
"Bah! I wanted to forget it," declared the other.
"Suppose we knock off talking for a while, Steve," suggested Max. "We're coming to one of the places he said we might find deer. And they've got pretty sharp ears, let me tell you right now."
"But you said we were always hunting up against the wind, so our scent wouldn't be carried to the game," Steve observed.
"That's true enough, Steve, but even then good deer hunters seldom talk above whispers when they expect to run across game. This is one of the times when we can apply that old maxim we used to write in our copy books at school."
"Sure, I remember it well," chuckled Steve, "'speech may be silver, but silence is gold.' I'm dumb, Max."
And for a wonder, not another word did Steve utter for over half an hour. As he was usually such a talkative fellow, this keeping still must have been in the line of great punishment to Steve.
But, then, there are times when the sporting instinct sways all else. And Steve understood that still hunting deer meant a padlock on the lips.
After all, disappointment awaited them.
They put in a solid hour looking over all the territory first mentioned by Trapper Jim, but without starting a single deer.
"They've been around," Max finally observed, "and not long ago either, because you can see the tracks as fresh as anything; but it must have been yesterday, because they're not here now."
"Looky!" exclaimed Steve, "here's where a five-pronged buck must 'a' rubbed himself against this tree, because there's a big bunch of red hair sticking to the rough bark. Glory! Wouldn't I like to have been about over there by the log when he was doing it. Oh, such a shot!"
"You could hardly have missed him from there," laughed Max.
"What next?" asked the disappointed one.
"The sun's getting up pretty near the top of its range. That means it's near noon time," remarked Max.
"And time for grub, eh?" cried Steve. "Well, I won't be sorry, believe me, for several reasons. First place, I'm hungry as all get-out. Then, again, I'm tired of toting all this stuff around. Say when, Max."
"Oh, we'll keep on for half an hour more till we come to a stream where we can get a drink. Then in the afternoon we'll circle around some, so as to reach the other promising section Jim told us about. Come on, Steve."
Nothing rewarded their search; and chancing upon a gurgling creek about the end of the half hour, the two boys found a log to sit down upon.
After eating they rested for quite a spell.
Finally Steve could stand it no longer, but urged his companion to "get a move on him." So once again the two hunters walked on.
Steve was beginning to complain of being nearly done up, when Max asked him not to talk again only in a whisper, as they were now close upon the other feeding ground of the coveted deer.
And this caused Steve to brighten up immediately. In his eagerness to find game his pains were forgotten.
Max arranged that they separate and advance along parallel lines, so as to cover more territory.
He had been going on himself some little time when suddenly he heard Steve's gun roar. A second shot followed fast on the heels of the first, and Max, excited, ran in the direction of the sounds. A few minutes later he heard the lusty voice of Steve calling out:
"Take care, Max, he knows you're coming! Run for it! He's starting for you! Get a tree, Max, get a tree! He's a holy terror!"
CHAPTER VII.
Max saw what had happened in that one glance he took.
Steve had met his deer at last; and sure enough it was a sturdy buck that had five prongs to his antlers, showing his years.
Whatever upset Steve could only be guessed; but although he had certainly sent in two shots he had failed to bag the game.
Perhaps he wounded the deer with the first shot and the animal had fallen. Flushed with triumph, Steve had given a yell and started to hasten toward his quarry with the intention of bleeding it, as he understood should be done.
Then, when the buck scrambled to his feet, and charged straight at the young hunter, Steve had been so rattled that he missed entirely with his second shot.
After that it was run or take to a tree for Steve.
And sheltered behind an oak, around which he had been chased again and again by the angry buck, Steve had seen his chum appear in sight.
It was then he shouted his warning.
Max had no intention of picking out a tree for himself, as Steve suggested; at least not so early in the game. Time enough for that when he found he had made as bad a bungle of the affair as his chum seemed to have done.
Here was the fine chance to try his new rifle that he had been hoping would come along.
"Look out!"
Max hardly heard this last warning, cry from the boy who looked out behind the friendly oak. He had dropped on his right knee and raised his gun.
The buck was coming on pretty fast, considering the fact that he seemed to limp and be losing blood from the wound Steve had given him.
Max knew he had a difficult task to place his bullet where it was calculated to do the most good. There was little of the deer's breast exposed as with lowered head he charged toward this new enemy. But Max had all the necessary requisites that go to make up the good hunter—a quick eye, a sure hand, and excellent judgment in a pinch.
He took a quick aim, and meant to fire while the buck was still a little way off. This was to give him a chance to pump a new cartridge into the firing chamber of his gun in case the first shot failed to do the work.
After that—well, of course, there still remained the tree Steve recommended, and Steve ought to know a good thing when he saw it, since he had been saved from those really dangerous-looking antlers by a sheltering tree.
But, then, Max did not mean to register a miss.
He pressed the trigger at just the right time as the buck was rising in the air. And when he saw the deer crash to the ground, although he felt a thrill of satisfaction, cautious Max was not like Steve, rushing headlong forward to bleed his game.
On the contrary, his first act was to go through the rapid action that placed his rifle in serviceable condition again.
"Take care, Max," yelled Steve, seeing the buck struggling, "that's how he fooled me, the sharp dodger! He's the tricky one, all right, you bet! Watch him climb up again, now! Take that big tree right alongside you, Max!"
But instead of doing this Max advanced toward the spot where the buck had fallen. He was ready to send in another shot should it be needed. But there was no necessity.
The buck gave one last violent kick and then lay still.
"All over, Steve; you can come along," said Max, beckoning toward the other.
Steve stopped to pick up his gun, examined it with apparent solicitude, as if to make sure it had not been injured, and then carefully replaced the discharged shells with fresh ones.
"You never can tell what them there old five-pronged bucks will do," he said, as he came up to where Max stood, surveying their prize; "and it's best to be on the safe side; so that's why I waited to load my gun."
"And I reckon, Steve," said Max, with a smile, "that if you'd waited before to see if your buck got up again, you'd have downed him for keeps with that second barrel, and then you wouldn't have had to hunt up the safe side of a tree."
"Guess that's all to the good, Max," replied the other, humbly.
"Pretty fine-looking buck, ain't he, Steve?"
"Well, I should say yes," was the answer. "And just to think he's the very five-pronged old boy I've been talking about this long while."
"My, but he acted as though he was mad at you!" Max went on, anxious to hear some of the particulars of what had happened.
"That's straight goods, Max, and he had reason to be mad at me. I plunked him with that first shot and he went down. I thought I had him and started to run in, when, shucks, he got up again!"
"Then you fired again, but so rapidly that you missed; was that it, Steve?"
"Oh, I admit I was some rattled," replied the other.
"And then after you missed him, Steve?"
"Huh, after that things commenced to happen. They came so fast they kind of got me twisted," and Steve made a comical face with this statement that almost set the other off into a roar of laughter.
But he knew that if he gave way it might offend Steve and cause him to bottle up his explanation; so Max held in.
"And then?" he went on.
"Oh," said Steve, "I saw a tree and headed for it kerslam. But the old buck he seemed to be on the high-speed gear himself. First thing I knew he bumped me for fair, and then came back to stick me with his horns. But I didn't just care for knowing him any closer, and I rolled out of the way."
"You managed to get your tree after that, didn't you, Steve?"
"Seems like I did, Max, though honest to goodness, now, if you asked me how I did it I couldn't tell you. Reckon I must have just flown."
"Yes," laughed Max, "they always say fear has wings."
"Oh, now, looky here, you're mistaken, Max, sure you are. I wasn't afraid right then, only somewhat rattled."
"From the excitement of the thing," remarked Max. "Of course, and anybody would have been about the same. But lend a hand here and let's turn our deer over, Steve. I want to see where you hit him."
This they speedily accomplished; and then Steve, who had been pondering over something, broke loose again.
"Max," he said, with a little quiver to his voice, "I noticed just now that you said our deer. Do you mean to let me claim a share in this thing, then?"
"Why, of course," replied the other, as if in surprise; "we both shot him. See, here's where a buckshot from your gun struck him in the side. They must have scattered more than you thought they'd do at such a short distance."
"Yes," said Steve; "looks like it. But, Max, it was you who killed him."
"Oh, I ended him, that's right," said Max, who was nothing if not generous, "but only for you holding him here after wounding him, where would I have come in? Why, I'd never have had the first sight of the buck."
"Yes, that's so," said Steve, smiling grimly, "I held him all right, didn't I? But when he was chasing me around that old tree so lively, Max, somehow I didn't happen to look at it that way. Fact is, I thought the plagued buck was holding me."
"All the same," declared Max in a tone that settled it, "we got him, and both of us gave him a chance to bleed. You weakened him at first, you know."
"Oh, did I?" remarked Steve, feeling of his ribs, as if to make sure none of them were broken. "Well, you see, I can't help but wonder what would have happened to me if the old beast hadn't been weakened, just like you say."
That was too much for Max. And, besides, having coaxed the whole story from his chum now, he thought it would not matter very much if he did indulge in a good laugh.
To his surprise Steve joined in. Evidently the realization that he had actually helped kill a genuine five-pronged buck, fulfilling his wildest dream, caused Steve to be less "touchy" than usual.
"But we must manage to get him home some way, Max," he remarked after a while, when they had grown weary of admiring their prize.
"Think we could tote several hundred pounds four miles?" demanded Max. "If it was a little doe, now, I might be willing to tie the legs along a pole and try it; but I balk at this big chap."
"Then what shall we do?" asked Steve.
"I'm going to cut it up the best way I know how," his chum replied. "All we want to take along is one hind quarter. Plenty on that for two meals. And like as not we'll find the old chap pretty tough."
Accordingly the boys set to work. Steve knew next to nothing about such things, but was willing to do whatever his comrade asked of him. And while Max professed to be a clumsy butcher, he certainly did his work in a way to draw out words of praise from the delighted chum.
"There, that job is done," said Max, when the sun was nearly halfway down the western sky, "and I'm glad of it, too."
"We can take turns carrying the hind quarter," remarked Steve, hefting it; "after all, it doesn't seem so very heavy."
"I'm going to wrap it in the skin, which I removed the first thing," Max continued.
"But it's too bad to leave all the rest of our fine buck," sighed Steve.
"Oh, don't think I mean to let the foxes and other animals make way with the rest of the venison! I've got this rope here around my waist; you know it comes in handy sometimes."
Steve laughed.
"For pulling silly fellows out of quicksand and bog holes," he remarked. "Oh, yes, don't think I've forgotten what happened in that Great Dismal Swamp. But do you mean to yank the carcass up in a tree, Max? Is that the way you expect to use the rope?"
Max nodded in reply.
They soon accomplished this.
Max seemed to know just how to go about it, and presently the balance of the deer swung there in space, six feet or more from the ground, and as many below the strong limb over which the rope had been thrown.
"Think it'll be safe, do you?" asked Steve, puffing from the exertion of pulling such a weight upward.
"From every kind of animal but a bobcat. If one of that tribe happens along and is hungry, of course he could drop down on the upper part and munch away," was the reply Max made.
"Which happens to be the fore quarters of the buck, the part we don't care about so much," said Steve.
"Oh, I had that in mind when I fixed the rope, Steve."
"I might have guessed it, because you're always thinking ahead, Max. And shall we start for home now?"
"Shortly. Let's get rested a bit more. And I want to fix directions straight in my mind so we'll hit the cabin first shot," Max answered.
"Four miles, you said, didn't you?" Steve asked, with a big sigh; for now that the excitement was over he began to feel tired again.
"That's what Uncle Jim said," remarked Max.
After a while they started on their way and trudged along nearly two miles in silence, Steve insisting on sharing the load, which Max had made possible by fastening the venison to a pole, so that each could grasp it.
"Max," said Steve about this time.
"Yes, what is it?" replied the other, as they changed places.
"Catamounts and lynx and bobcats like fresh meat, of course; but you don't think now, do you, Max, they'd hurt those beautiful five-pronged horns?"
"Of course not," replied the other, walking on again.
"Because we ought to get those to mount and keep in one of our rooms at home, Max."
"Your room, Steve; you're a thousand times welcome to my share in them."
"Oh, thank you, Max, that's awful kind."
After a wearisome march they approached the cabin. It was late in the afternoon, but no friendly smoke arose from the chimney.
The returned hunters saw this fact with astonishment.
"What does it mean!" Steve remarked, as they came to a halt and set their burden down upon the ground.
"Hi, fellows!" called a voice.
Some one stepped out of the bushes across the little clearing and waved his hand. It was Owen, and he seemed to be beckoning in the most mysterious manner possible.
Max and Steve exchanged puzzled looks.
"What in the dickens is up now!" exclaimed the latter.
"Owen wants us to cross over to where he is," Max went on to say; "and I reckon the quickest way to find out is to join him."
"Ginger, I can see Toby there, too; yes, and now I get a glimpse of Trapper Jim and Bandy-legs! They're all sitting in a row on that log, Max, and lookin' solemn-like at the cabin. What in the wide world is up? She ain't a-fire that I can notice."
"Come along; let's find out," said Max, stooping to his end of the pole upon which the hind quarter of venison was slung.
"I'll just bust if I don't know soon, because I hate mysteries," muttered Steve, as he copied the example of his chum.
When the two victorious hunters came upon the rest, Jim and Toby and Bandy-legs got up off the log. They even smiled a little, but Max thought there was something rather forced about this half grin.
"What's happened?" he asked.
"Yes," added Steve impetuously, "what are you all pulling such long faces for, just like it was a funeral or something; tell us that?"
"It is something nigh as bad as a funeral," said Trapper Jim, a twinkle appearing in his eye.
"We're certainly bereft—of our home," added Owen, making a wry face.
"What!" gasped Steve, looking from the speaker across to the cabin.
"It's not exactly a funeral, but an eviction," remarked Owen again.
"He means," said Bandy-legs, "we're kicked out of our cabin—that to-night we'll have to sleep on the cold, hard ground, with only the sky for a blanket. And what's worse, it was my turn to try that jolly old bunk. Hang the luck, why couldn't he stay where he belonged and leave us alone!"
"Say, if it's an animal that's got in, and is holding the fort, why, let's go up and cross-fire him from the windows," suggested impetuous Steve.
"Not on your life!" exclaimed Trapper Jim, catching hold of Steve before he could break away. "That's just what we don't want to do—disturb him too violently or kill him while he chooses to hold the fort there."
"But why are you so careful about his health, Uncle Jim?" asked the bewildered Steve.
"Because our guest happens to be a striped skunk!" was the appalling answer he received.