THE BAYING OF A HOUND
Dick Halliard caught the gleam of the pistol in the hands of the
enraged Bob Budd, but before he could bring it into play the younger
lifted up his bicycle, ran it swiftly a few paces, sprang up behind,
and set his legs to work with desperate energy.
As he did so he remembered he was still in danger. He leaned as far
ahead as he could, like a frontier scout trying to avoid the shots of
a party of Indians. It was well he took the precaution, for Bob was so
beside himself with wrath that he deliberately pointed the weapon at
the fast-disappearing fugitive, and let fly with three chambers as
fast as he could discharge them. It was not his fault that the bullets
sped wide of the mark, for he tried hard to hit the lad that had
handled him so roughly.
Dick glanced over his shoulder, and as he caught sight of the dim
figure in the moonlight he said, with a smile:
“Bob wouldn’t have used his pistol if he wasn’t beside himself with
rage; any way, I think he and the rest of them will let me alone after
this.”
Bob Budd stood a full minute after the bicyclist vanished in the
gloom. By that time his anger gave way to a feeling of alarm, as he
reflected on what he had done, or rather tried to do.
He had stopped Dick Halliard on the highway; he had attacked him
without cause, and when he was fleeing had discharged his pistol at
him, doing so with the intention of hitting him with each cartridge.
If Dick chose to prosecute him, what could keep him out of State
prison?
The thought was a startling one, and did not contribute to the
Ranger’s comfort as he picked his way homeward, where, after a time,
he was joined by Jim McGovern, returning from his equally marked
failure to “even up” matters with Dick Halliard.
You may be certain that neither Bob nor Jim had anything truthful to
tell about their meeting with the young man. McGovern stated that he
lost his way, and, finding the hour was so late, decided to put off
his revenge until a more favorable time. He took care to keep the
marks of Bowser’s teeth from the sight of the others, and he was
therefore vexed by no annoying questions.
Bob explained that he had been looking for Dick Halliard, and wondered
that he did not meet him. The news given by his brother Rangers showed
that the doomed youth was elsewhere that evening, which, the bully
added, was mighty lucky for him.
When Wagstaff commented on the bruised appearance of Bob’s face, he
replied that he ran against the trunk of a tree in the woods, and then
he hastened to change the conversation.
“To-morrow we shall have our hunt, boys,” he said, with glowing face,
“and here’s success to it!”
The others eagerly joined in the toast, for the reason that they never
refused to join in any toast presented.
“You think we’re going to have good weather?” remarked Tom.
“There’s no doubt of it. I asked old Swipes, Carter, and the prophets,
and they all agree that the weather will be prime for several days to
come.”
“If that’s to be the case, the best thing for us to do is to sleep
while we can, so as to be up early in the morning.”
The suggestion was so eminently wise that it was adopted without
further delay.
The following morning was one after a hunter’s own heart. The air was
crisp and cool, but not sufficiently so to be chilly, nor was it mild
enough to render oppressive the slight exertion of walking.
It was too early in the autumn for many of the leaves to fall from the
trees, so that in most places a hunter could see but a short distance
in advance when picking his way through the woods.
The Piketon Rangers were not accustomed to rise with the sun, and
having retired quite late the preceding night, did not rouse
themselves as early as was their intention. But their minds were so
fixed on the expected enjoyment of the hunt that they willingly put
forth the extra exertion needed.
They were in high spirits, for everything was promising, and the
bracing air produced its effect upon them.
“I don’t think there will be any need of our pistols,” remarked
Wagstaff, doubtingly, when they were ready to start.
“I generally carry mine at all times,” replied Bob Budd, “but we have
got to do some mountain climbing, and will be likely to find them in
the way. I guess we had better leave them.”
This settled the question, and the three smaller weapons were hidden
within the tent, in a hollow which Bob’s ingenuity had fashioned, and
where the valuables were not likely to be found by any prowlers in the
neighborhood.
The rifles which Jim and Tom had brought from home were left at Bob’s
house, and he furnished each with a double-barreled shot gun, as the
kind of weapon most likely to be needed, though it seemed to the city
youths that the others were just what was wanted in the event of
meeting bears or deer. They had cause to regret their choice sooner
than they anticipated.
Not the least enthusiastic member of the party was Bob Budd’s hound
Hero, that had all a trained animal’s enjoyment of the hunt, and who
received so few chances of taking part in the sport that his appetite
was at the keenest point.
He darted ahead of the campers, running at his highest speed for a
half-mile in sheer wantonness of spirits, then darting off at right
angles, and finally trotting back to his friends, as if wondering why
they did not make greater haste.
Several times his baying roused the belief on the part of Jim and Tom
that he had struck the trail of some animal, but Bob, who had been out
with him before, shook his head.
“He lets out a peculiar cry when he takes the scent; I’ll know it the
minute I hear it.”
“But what makes him yelp _now_, when there isn’t any game?” asked
Jim.
“Because he can’t help it, just as we sing and shout when we feel
happy and merry.”
“There he goes! _That_ means something!” exclaimed Tom, coming to
an abrupt halt to listen to the baying of the hound, a considerable
distance ahead.
But Bob again shook his head.
“Wild animals aint so plenty that they can be scared up as quick as
all that; we must get further up the mountain before we can look for
anything worth shooting.”
When Bob was a small boy he had accompanied his uncle on several
hunting expeditions in this part of the world, and he held a bright
recollection of the occasion.
Many years before deer and bears had been plentiful, and he remembered
that his uncle described how the hunt for a deer should be managed
among the mountainous section to the rear of their camp.
That knowledge promised to be of great help to Bob, now that, after
the lapse of so long a time, he had started to hunt over the same
ground.
The course of the party was steadily ascending, and since there were
many rocks and considerable tangled undergrowth in their way, it was
not long before they felt the result of the unusual exertion.
“Great Cæsar!” exclaimed Tom Wagstaff, dropping down on a log and
panting hard; “this is like a good many other things which don’t give
half as much fun as we expect. Bob, where’s that flask?”
The others were also glad to sit down for a brief rest, and Bob lost
no time in producing the required article, which was applied to the
lips of each in turn with the bottom pointed toward the sky, and a
part of the fiery contents gurgled down their throats.
“Of course it’s tiresome, because it’s all the way up up-hill,” said
Bob, who took of his hat and fanned his flushed face; “but we’ll soon
get as high as we want to go, and then it’ll be plain sailing.”
“It’s easy enough to come down-hill, provided it aint too steep.”
“If it gets that way, all a fellow has to do is to lie down and roll,”
said Bob; “but I’m hopeful that Hero will start some animal before we
go much further.”
The three listened, but though the hound was absent nothing was heard
from him. He evidently was making a “still hunt,” but the moment he
struck a scent he was sure to let the young hunters know.
Whether or not they did their part, there could be no doubt that the
canine would perform his in a creditable manner, for he had been
trained by competent hands that fully understood how to teach so
sagacious an animal.
Having rested themselves, the party pushed up the mountain-side, until
they reached a sort of plateau or table-land, beyond which it was not
necessary to climb further.
By this time the three were pretty well tired out again, and once more
an appeal was made to the stuff in the flask, without which the
hunters felt they could not get along.
Then they indulged in several cigarettes apiece, that and the drink of
alcohol being the worst preparation possible for the sport in which
they were engaged.
“Now,” said Bob Budd, “we have only to wait here until Hero starts the
game for us.”
“Will it come up in front of us to be shot?” was the natural inquiry
of Tom Wagstaff.
“I shouldn’t have said that ‘we’ are to wait here, but one of us,” Bob
hastened to explain. “You’ve noticed that we have been following a
path all the way to this point. Well, it keeps on over the mountain
and down the other side.”
“Who made the path?”
“It is a hundred years old, if not older, and was made by wild animals
that came down the mountain to drink from the stream that makes the
mill-pond near our camp. The path branches off into three forks a
quarter of a mile up the mountain, each of the three having been used
by deer, bears, and other wild beasts that used to be so plentiful in
these parts.”
“Where are the other paths?”
“This is the middle one; about two hundred yards to the left is the
second, and not quite so far to the right is the third; now, if Hero
starts any game he is sure to take one of these paths in his flight.”
“But suppose the animal is on the other side of Hero,” said Jim, “that
is to say, suppose the dog is between us and him?”
“Then he will run the other way, but there’s where Hero will show his
training. He knows as much about hunting as we do.”
If Bob had said that the canine knew a great deal more he would have
told the truth.
“If Hero should strike the scent of a deer or bear he would know in a
minute whether he was closer to us than the game, and if the dog was
the closer, he would not bay until he had circled around and got on
the other side, for he knows that if he didn’t do so the beast would
run _away_ instead of _toward_ us, and his business is to
drive him down within our reach.”
Tom and Jim were filled with admiration of the brute, whose knowledge
of sporting matters was so extensive.
“I had no idea a pup could be trained to such a fine point,” remarked
Jim, “but I suppose it is the nature of the beast.”
“When I was a sweet, innocent little boy,” said Bob, disposed to be
facetious, “I came up here with my father and Uncle Jim to hunt deer.
They left me at this spot while father went to the left and Uncle Jim
to the right. I was too small to handle a gun, and they told me if I
saw anything to yell. Well, a very queer thing happened. A buck and
doe were started, and the old fellow came trotting over this path. He
never saw me until I let out a yell like a wild-cat, when he wheeled
off to one side and dashed through the wood to where father was
waiting. He was shot without trouble, and at the same moment Uncle Jim
brought down the doe, that took the other path.”
“Do you suppose there is any likelihood of Hero starting two to-day?”
“We will be lucky if he starts one, for the animals are very scarce,
and hunters have spent several days roaming over the mountains without
getting a shot.”
“It seems to me that to make sure of our sport we should station
ourselves as you did,” said Jim; “then if the animal comes down this
side of the mountain, he will be sure to take one of the three paths,
and Tom or you or I will get a shot at him.”
“It will be time enough when we hear Hero,” replied Bob, “for he aint
likely to start a deer very near us.”
The young man’s knowledge of the sport was so much superior to that of
his companions that they naturally deferred to him in the preliminary
arrangements.
“How long ago was it that you had that famous hunt with your father
and uncle?” asked Jim McGovern.
Bob reflected a minute, and replied that it was ten years, if not
more.
“You can see that I was but a sprig of a youngster, though I was
considered unusually smart. If they had given me a gun, and I had had
a chance to kneel down and aim over the rocks, I would have brought
down that buck, for he couldn’t have offered a better target than at
the moment I scared him away.”
“Do you suppose,” asked Tom Wagstaff, “that any deer have been over
these paths within the past few weeks or months?”
By way of reply Bob stooped down and brushed away the leaves covering
the space of several feet in front, doing it with great care.
“Look!” said he to the others, who kneeled beside him.
There, sure enough, were the imprints of the small, delicate hoofs of
a deer, the marks being so distinct that there could be no mistake
about their identity.
“But they are under the leaves,” said Jim.
“Yes; under the leaves that have fallen this year, but on top of those
that fell last fall; you can see how the rotten leaves have been
pushed down in the ground by the hoofs.”
“Then how long since the deer went by?”
“It is so early in the autumn that few leaves have fallen, so I’m
satisfied the game passed within a few days, probably not more than a
week ago.”
“If _that’s_ the case,” said the gratified Jim, “there is a much
better chance than I suspected for us—”
“_Hark!_”
The peculiar cry of the hound at that moment rang out on the autumn
air sharp, clear, and distinct.
“He has struck a scent as sure as you’re born!” exclaimed Bob.