A LUCKY SHOT
“Well, we’re not going to stay in all the rest of the day, are we?”
asked Jack Fitch, pushing back his chair from the table.
“I should say not!” exclaimed Bert. “There’s plenty of time yet to go
out and bag a deer or two.”
“Nothing small about you,” chuckled Tom, as he looked to his
ammunition. “But I agree that there’s no use wasting time indoors. It
does look like a storm, so we won’t go too far away from the cabin.”
“Are we going to stay here to-night?” asked George.
“Sure,” remarked Tom. “It’s too far to tramp back to No. 1 Camp. This
is just as well stocked up, and as there are plenty of bedclothes here,
and lots of wood, we don’t care how cold it gets outside.”
They had finished their meal, and it was now early in the afternoon. It
would soon be dark, however, for in December the days are very short.
But, as Jack had said, the few remaining hours of daylight need not be
wasted, and as yet the boys had not bagged any big game.
“It’s too dark for photographs,” suggested George, as he saw Bert
getting out his camera.
“Not if I make a few as soon as I get out,” was the answer. “I want to
get some views around this camp.”
A close search through the cabin had not revealed that Skeel and his
companions had entered. The boys felt sure it was those men who had
made the tracks in the snow about the little building. But, if they had
entered, nothing had been unduly disturbed.
“I wish I knew what their game was,” spoke Jack, as he shouldered his
gun and followed Tom and the others outside.
“It _is_ sort of a puzzle,” our hero agreed. “We’ll have to take a walk
over to Hounson’s some day this week, and see what we can learn. If
those fellows think they can trespass all over these camps it’s time we
told Sam Wilson. He’ll send them flying, I’ll wager!”
“That’s right!” declared Bert.
The boys followed a trail through the woods. Their friend, the guide
and caretaker of the camps, had told them about it, advising them to
follow it, as they might see some game along it. This they were now
hoping for, keeping a bright lookout in every direction.
As they tramped along, the sudden rattle of a dried bush on the right
of Tom attracted his attention. He looked in time to see a white streak
darting along.
“A rabbit!” he cried and fired on the instant.
“Missed!” yelled Bert, as the echoes of the shot died away.
“No, I didn’t!” cried Tom. “You’ll find him behind that stump.”
And, surely enough, when the other boys looked, there was the rabbit
neatly bagged. He was needed for food, too, for they had no fresh meat
at this camp, and already they were beginning to tire of the canned
variety.
Except for the determination to each bring back a deer’s head, and the
pelt of a bear, our four boy hunters had made up their minds not to be
wanton shots. They wanted to get enough game for food, and the head and
skin for relics, after using such of the meat as they needed of the
bear and deer.
“Of course we four can’t eat all that meat in the short while we’ll be
in the woods,” Tom said, “but we can give it to Sam, so it won’t be
wasted.”
Tom and his chums had the right idea of hunting, and had no desire to
slaughter for the mere savage joy of killing.
“Another rabbit and a few partridges and we’ll have enough to keep the
kitchen going the rest of the week,” Bert said, as Tom put the bunny in
his bag. “Then all we’ll have to look for will be a bear or a deer.”
But even small game was scarce, it seemed, and though several shots
were tried at rabbits at a distance, and though some partridges were
flushed, no further luck resulted.
It was growing dusk when Tom suggested that they had better return to
camp, and they retraced their steps. However, the rabbit was a large
one, and, made into either a stew or potpie, would provide the main
dish for their next day’s dinner.
Early in the morning the boys were on the move again. They hunted
around the cabin, planning to come back to it at noon for the hot
rabbit dinner, and this they did.
The only luck they had was that Bert and George got some fine
photographs. But not a rabbit nor a bird fell to their guns that day.
Tom scared up a fox, and took several shots at it, hoping he might
carry home the skin. But if Reynard were hit he showed no signs of it,
and went bounding on through the woods.
“We’ll make a regular hunt of it to-morrow,” decided Tom, as they sat
about the cheerful fire in the cabin that night. “We’ll get an early
start, take our lunch, a pot to make some coffee over an open fire,
and we won’t come back until dark.”
“That’s the talk!” cried Bert.
“This is the best hunting ground, according to what Sam said,” Tom went
on, “and we want to put in our best licks here. So we’ll take a whole
day to it, and go as far as we can, working north, I think, as the
woods seem to be thicker there.”
This met with the approval of the others, and they started out the next
morning, equipped for staying several hours in the open. They set out
on a new trail, one they had not traveled before, but they had not gone
far on it before Tom, who was in the lead, came to a sudden halt, and
uttered an exclamation of surprise.
“What’s the matter?” called Jack, who was directly behind him. “See
some bear tracks?”
“No, these are Skeel tracks, I should say. Those fellows must be just
ahead of us, for the marks seem quite fresh.”
Tom pointed to some impressions in the snow. Among them were footprints
showing that same star mark in hob nails.
“I wonder why they’re trailing and following us?” remarked Bert. “It
can’t be just for fun.”
“Maybe they don’t know where to look for game, and are depending on
us,” suggested George.
“That might be so,” agreed Tom. “But I wish they’d show their hands,
and not keep us guessing all the while. It’s getting on my nerves.”
“Well, we’ll keep a lookout for ’em now,” suggested Bert, “and if we
see ’em, we’ll give ’em a bit of our minds.”
“Yes, and I’m going to ask Sam Wilson to tell ’em to go,” added Tom.
“They haven’t any right here. They may be scaring all the game away,
and besides, it’s risky. They may get in the way of our guns, or we
come too close to theirs, though I haven’t seen them with either a
rifle or a shotgun yet.”
“No they don’t seem to be hunting, but if they aren’t, what in the
world are they up here for?” asked Bert.
“That’s what gets me,” remarked Jack. “Well, come on. Time’s too
valuable to waste in chinning.”
Once more they took up the trail. The footsteps of the three men, on
their mysterious errand, crossed the path of our friends at an angle,
and they did not think it wise to follow the marks of the hob nails.
Luck seemed to be better to-day, from the very start, for, before they
had gone three miles, they had bagged two rabbits, three squirrels and
Jack had a partridge to his credit.
“Enough to keep us from starving,” he said. “Now for bigger game--a
deer, at least.”
“I’d like to get a good deer picture,” announced Bert, looking to see
that his camera was in working order.
A little later the four boys stood in a small clearing in the woods,
wondering which way to go next, for, so far, they had seen no signs of
either bear or deer. They hoped it was not so late in the season that
all the bears would be enjoying their winter sleep.
Suddenly there was a slight noise over in the underbrush to the left of
the clearing.
“I’m going to see what that is!” cried Bert, starting forward with his
camera.
“Probably nothing but a rabbit,” said Jack. “And we’ve got enough of
the bunnies.”
“Then I’ll take a snapshot; that won’t hurt,” Bert responded.
The others, not much interested, watched him. Softly he went forward,
hoping he might get a picture of a rabbit in its native woodland. The
sun was just right for a picture.
But, as Bert looked, a deer suddenly came out of the brush, and stood
on the edge of the clearing, seemingly unconscious of the presence of
the boys. They had seen the beautiful creature, however, and for the
moment none of them raised his rifle. Bert’s, indeed, was slung on his
back out of the way while he used his camera.
Without speaking, Bert motioned to his chums not to shoot until he had
a chance to make a picture. Tom and the others signified that they
would hold their fire.
Bert crept up, the deer still unconscious of the presence of its
enemies, and the youth soon had the animal in focus. It looked as
though it would be a fine photograph.
Suddenly there was another crashing sound in the bushes, and as the
boys, startled, turned, they saw a larger deer, with sharp, branching
antlers, step from cover just behind Bert. The latter was so intent on
getting the photograph that he did not turn to see how he was menaced
from the rear.
The male deer, with a snort and a stamping of hoofs, and with lowered
head, leaped toward Bert. The animal, evidently thinking its mate in
danger, was going to her defense.
“Look out, Bert!” cried Jack, but the warning would have come too late.
Bert did not even turn around, for he was on the point of pressing the
shutter release of his camera. He had noticed a slight movement on the
part of the female deer that indicated she was about to leap into the
bushes.
“There, I’ve got you!” cried Bert, as he pressed the bulb.
The next instant he was startled by a snort behind him. He heard a
rattle of hoofs, and the voices of his chums crying a warning.
Bert turned to run, but he would not have been in time, except for what
happened. A lucky shot on the part of Tom probably saved his friend
from severe injury, if not death.
With a sudden motion Tom threw his rifle to his shoulder, took quick
aim, and fired.
The male deer went down in a heap, actually turning a somersault, so
great was its speed. And it came to rest, breathing its last, almost at
Bert’s feet.