THE CHANGED SIGN
“Say, that _was_ a shot!”
“That’s what! Just in time, too!”
Thus cried Jack and George. Bert was too surprised to utter a word, and
Tom was too anxious to make sure he had bagged the first specimen of
real game since coming to camp.
But there was no mistake about it. There lay the slain deer, and a fine
specimen it was. The one Bert had photographed with his camera had,
on the first alarm, darted into the underbrush, and was now far away,
doubtless wondering what had happened to her mate.
“Say, why didn’t you fellows tell me what was going on?” asked Bert, as
he whirled about and saw what had happened.
“We did,” spoke George.
“There came pretty nearly not being time enough to do anything,” went
on Jack. “It was touch and go, Bert, old man. Tom, here, fired just in
time.”
“Was it really as close as that?” asked the lad with the camera.
“It certainly was,” Jack assured him. “That deer had it in for you. I
guess he thought you were trying to pot his mate with a new-fangled
gun, and he made up his mind to stop you.”
“Well, Tom stopped him all right,” spoke George. “Say, it’s a fine
specimen!” and he gazed admiringly at the head and horns. “It will make
a fine trophy for your room, Tom.”
“I wasn’t thinking so much of that when I fired,” was the modest
answer. “I was wondering whether I could bowl him over before he
reached Bert with those business-looking horns.”
“And you did, old man. I shan’t forget that!” exclaimed Bert,
fervently. “I’ll do as much for you some day, only I’m not as good a
shot as you, so don’t take any chances. If a deer or a bear comes after
you, run first, and get in a safe place. Then wait for me to shoot at
it.”
“It was more luck than anything else that I got him,” Tom said. “If I
had stopped to think, I’m sure I’d have had a touch of ‘buck-fever,’
and I wouldn’t have been able to hold my gun steady. But I just up and
blazed away.”
“Well, now we’ve got it, what are we going to do with it?” asked Jack.
“Shall we trail after the one that got away--the one Bert took a
picture of?”
“What’s the use?” asked Bert. “She’s miles away from here now.”
“Besides,” added Tom, “we’ve got more meat here now than we can use in
a week. No use killing for fun. I’ve got the head trophy I want, and
it will be the turn of you fellows next. I won’t shoot any more deer,
though I’ll bag a bear if I can. We don’t want to shoot female deer if
we can help it.”
“That’s right,” agreed Jack. “Now let’s decide what to do about this
fellow. He’s a big one, and will take some cutting-up.”
The boys were rather dubious about getting the deer’s head off, and
taking the best part for food. But they were saved what might have been
an unpleasant task by the arrival of Sam Wilson.
“Hello!” cried the guide, as he saw his young friends. “Well, you have
had some luck, haven’t you! Is that your first one?”
“Yes,” answered Tom, as he related what had occurred.
“Well, now, that’s the way to do!” Sam cried. “He’s a fine critter,
too; good head and horns. I’ve got my pung just outside on the road.
I’ll take him along, dress him for you and send the head to an Indian
to be mounted. Old Wombo does pretty good work that way.”
“I wish you would have it done,” Tom said. “And take some of the
venison yourself. There’s more than we can use.”
“Besides, we’re going to get more deer in a few days,” added George.
“Oh, you are, eh? Well, nothing like being sure,” chuckled the old
guide and hunter. “So far, though, you’ve done as well as the men who
come up here, so I wouldn’t wonder but what you’d beat ’em. How have
you been? Anything happened?”
They told of their experiences in camp, and Tom mentioned Skeel and his
cronies.
“Trespassing on these preserves, eh?” exclaimed Sam. “Well, I’ll have
to look into that. These lands are posted, and only those who get
permission can enter on them, and hunt or fish. I’ll just put a flea in
the ears of those fellows, if they don’t look out!”
With the help of the boys, Sam carried the deer out to his waiting
pung. He said he had happened to pass near No. 2 Camp, and decided to
run in on the chance that the boys might be there.
The deer’s legs were tied together, and then a long pole, cut from the
woods, was thrust between them, lengthwise. On the shoulders of the
boys and the guide the carcass was taken out to the big sled.
“I’ll bring the meat over to-morrow,” promised Sam, “and the head will
be mounted later. It takes a little time.”
“Keep plenty of the venison yourself,” Tom urged.
“Well, just as you say,” was the laughing acceptance. “I haven’t had
much chance to do any hunting yet. I’m glad you had a good start of
luck.”
“And I hope my picture of the other deer comes out all right,” murmured
Bert, his interest, just then, centering in his camera.
“Well, if it hadn’t been for Tom, you might not have come out all
right,” said Jack, more than half seriously.
That was the extent of their luck for that day, however, except that
both Bert and George secured some fine snapshots. When Sam had departed
with the slain deer, the boys found a good place to stop, and build a
fire to make coffee. They ate their lunch with such appetites as come
only from life in the open, and, having finished, once more they set
out on the trail.
But, though Jack, Bert and George each hoped for a repetition of Tom’s
luck, in some modified form, it was not to be.
The boy hunters adopted all the suggestions of Sam, in looking for more
game, but though they saw signs of it, the game itself had disappeared,
at least for the time being.
“But we’ve got other days ahead of us,” suggested Tom. “We don’t have
to go back for more than two weeks, and that will give us plenty of
chances.”
They reached Camp No. 2 very tired, but satisfied with their day’s
trip. And they brought with them appetites that made Jack, who was
temporarily doing the cooking, wish his chums had left part of their
hunger in the woods.
“What! More beans?” he cried to Bert, who passed his plate for the
third time. “Can’t you eat anything but beans?”
“Don’t need to, when they’re cooked as good as this, old man,” was the
laughing answer. “That molasses you put in just gave ’em the right
flavor.”
“I’ll leave it out next time,” grumbled Jack. “I want a chance to get a
bite myself.”
The meal went merrily on, and then came a delightful evening spent in
the flickering blaze of the log fire, talking over the events of the
day. Bert had developed his picture of the deer, and found that it
would make a good print. Tom was dreaming of the time when he would
get back the mounted head to hang on the wall of his den at home, as a
memento of the trip.
Tom was destined to have other memories of the trip than his deer-head
trophy, but he did not know that yet.
A rather heavy fall of snow the next day prevented the boys from going
far from the cabin, for they did not want to take any chances on being
lost in the storm.
There was no need to go out for food, as they had plenty, and in the
afternoon Sam came over with a generous supply of deer meat, so their
larder was well supplied.
“When are we going to take in Camp No. 3?” asked Jack of Tom, when Sam
had gone back home in his pung sled.
“Well, we can go over there whenever you fellows want to. I don’t
believe, from what Sam says, that it’s quite as good hunting ground as
this, and I thought maybe you’d want to stay here until you each got a
deer’s head.”
“Yes, I guess that would be best,” agreed Bert. “This seems to be the
most promising location. And there may be bears around. I heard some
animal prowling about the cabin last night.”
“So did I,” confessed George. “Maybe it was Skeel and his crowd,” he
added.
“Hardly,” scoffed Tom. “More like it was a fox looking to pick up
something to eat that we had thrown out. But we’ll stay around here for
a few days longer, and then make a hike for No. 3. We might as well
take ’em all in while we’re here. No telling when we’ll get another
chance.”
Had the boys known what was in store for them, they would have started
for No. 3 Camp at once. But they did not know, and the delay gave the
enemies of Tom Fairfield a chance to plan their trick.
For the next day, at some distance from No. 2 Cabin, there might have
been seen three men, going along the snow-covered forest trail, in a
manner that could only be described as “slinking.” A glance would have
disclosed their identities--Skeel, Whalen and Murker.
“Think they’ll soon be on the move?” asked Professor Skeel. “If they
don’t take the trail, all our work will be wasted.”
“Well, we’ve got to take _some_ chances,” growled Murker. “If this
dodge doesn’t fool ’em, I’ll have to try another. But I think it will.
Once we get ’em confused, and off the road, we can separate ’em by some
means or other, and deal with Fairfield alone. You leave it to me.”
“Very well,” assented Professor Skeel.
A little farther walk through the woods brought the three conspirators
to a cross-road. It was not much traveled in Winter, but in Summer
formed a popular highway. The main road led back to the village, where
the boys had left the railroad train, and the cross highway connected
two towns--Ramsen and Fayetville.
Reaching this signboard, Murker looked around to make sure he was
unobserved. Then, with a few blows from a hammer, he knocked off the
two signboards. These he reversed, so that the one marked “Seven miles
to Ramsen” pointed in just the opposite direction--to Fayetville. The
other board he also reversed.
“But it’s the Ramsen one they’ll look at if they come to Camp No.
3,” said Murker, “and they’re almost sure to come. Then we’ll have
Fairfield where we want him!”