A SHOT IN TIME
For some time the young hunters discussed the curious happening, but
they could arrive at no solution of the mystery. Fenn took the turtle,
and put it in a box back of the stove, hardly knowing why he did so,
except that he had some notion of adding it to his collection, or of
giving it to Professor Long.
"Well, there's no use talking about it any more," decided Bart. "Let's
get ready and go off on another hunting trip. We haven't got much longer
to stay here--not more than two weeks."
This suited his companions, and soon they were cleaning their guns,
sorting cartridges and fitting them in their belts, taking care not to
make the mistake Frank did, when he was treed by the wildcat; and
looking to their clothing and hunting boots.
That afternoon Fenn was seen to be busy in the cook tent. He looked out
now and then, disclosing a face on which were many spots of flour.
"What you up to now, Stumpy?" asked Bart, who had finished his hunting
preparations. "Making something good for grub?"
"Sure," answered Fenn. "How does meat pie strike you?"
"All right, as long as it isn't made of rubber boots and flannel
bandages," answered Frank.
"Not this time," declared Stumpy. "There'll be no monkey-shines with
this pie. We'll have it hot for breakfast before we start off hunting."
He was busy all the rest of that afternoon, and, judging by the time he
spent over it, the pie was going to be an elaborate affair.
Fenn was the first one up the next morning. He tumbled out of his
blankets, made a hurried toilette, and, a few minutes later was heard to
excitedly cry out:
"Here! That'll do you fellows! A joke's a joke, but this is too much!
Where did you put it, you lobsters?"
"Where did we put what?" asked Bart, sticking his head out of the tent
flap. "Why this unseemly noise, Stumpy, my son?"
"You know well enough. Where's the meat pie?"
"You don't mean to tell us you've gone and walked in your sleep, and
eaten that meat pie we were to have for breakfast; have you?" cried Ned.
"No, I haven't; but some of you fellows have hidden it," declared Fenn.
"Come on, now. This is enough of that joke. Tell me where it is, Bart,
and I'll warm it up for breakfast."
"Why, I haven't seen it, Stumpy." Bart's voice had the ring of
innocence.
"Then you hid it, Frank."
"Not on your life. I've got too good an appetite."
"Then Ned must have put it somewhere. Tell us, Ned."
"Search me!" cried Ned, earnestly. "I never touched it, Stumpy. Where
did you put it when you went to bed?"
"In the cook tent, high up on a box. Some of you fellows must have taken
it, for snow fell in the night, and there wasn't a track going into the
tent when I came out here. You fellows took it before you came in to
bed. Own up, now!"
"I didn't!" declared Bart, and the others asserted their innocence.
"Well, somebody has it!" insisted Stumpy, earnestly. "The meat pie is
gone, and it was a dandy, too!"
His distress was evident. The other lads, likewise, felt the loss of
their chief breakfast dish. Stumpy looked at them with an eye of
suspicion, but they gazed frankly back at him.
"That mysterious man----" began Frank.
"Wait a minute," suggested Bart, who had finished dressing. "I'll take a
look."
He went carefully out to the cook tent, and made several observations.
Then he stooped down and carefully brushed off the light layer of snow
that had fallen during the night. When the undercrust was exposed he
uttered an exclamation.
"There's the tracks of the thief who stole the meat pie, Stumpy," he
said, pointing to some marks in the snow.
"Who was it?" asked Ned.
"A fox," answered Bart. "He sneaked into the tent after we had gone to
bed, and took the pie off the top of the box where Fenn had set it. Then
he carried it off, and the snow obligingly came and covered up his
tracks. I guess if we look far enough we can find the basin that held
the pie, where the fox dropped it."
They made a circle about the camp, and soon Fenn uttered a cry of
triumph.
"Here's the pan!" he called. "It's empty. No meat pie for breakfast this
morning," he added regretfully.
"I wish we could shoot that fox!" exclaimed Ned vindictively. "As it is
you'll have to give us pancakes, Fenn."
There was no help for it. The pie dish had been licked clean, though
how the fox had managed to carry it from the tent was something of a
mystery. However, Fenn soon stirred up a mess of cakes from self-raising
flour, and a hot breakfast was partaken of, while hunting plans for that
day were discussed.
"I'm going to look for the thieving fox," declared Fenn. "The idea of
that dandy pie going to waste!"
"No foxes," insisted Bart. "Nothing less than bear to-day, fellows. We
don't want to bother with small game," and they started out.
But the bears seemed to have warning of the approach of the young
Nimrods, for none was in evidence, though there were tracks in the snow,
which Bart, enthusiastic sportsman that he was, followed hopefully for
some distance, until they disappeared down in a deep gulch, where even
he did not think it wise to follow.
"Let's separate a bit," suggested Frank, after another mile or two had
been covered. "I think there are too many of us here. Ned and I will go
off together, and you and Stumpy do the same, Bart."
"All right," agreed the stout lad, and Bart nodded assent.
"Come on over this way, Stumpy," called Bart to his partner. "We'll get
all the bears, and leave the rabbits for those fellows."
It was about an hour after this that Bart, who had gone on a little in
advance of Fenn, whose wind was not of the best, heard a grunt of
surprise from his stout comrade. Mingled with it was an expression of
fear. The lads had just passed through a little clearing, and Fenn had
stopped to look back. In an instant Bart saw what Fenn was gazing at.
It was a noble buck, with wide, branching antlers, and he stood on the
edge of the little glade, glaring, as if in defiance, at those who had
invaded his home. As Bart looked he saw Fenn raise his rifle.
"Don't! Don't shoot, Stumpy!" called Bart. "It's against the law.
There's tracking snow!"
But it was too late. The stout lad's rifle cracked, and by the start the
buck gave Bart knew his chum had wounded the animal.
The next instant, after a savage shake of his big head, with the
spreading horns, and a stamping of his sharp hoofs, the angry animal
sprang forward, straight at Fenn. The lad was excited, and was trying to
pump another cartridge into the chamber, but the mechanism of his gun
had jammed.
"Jump, Fenn! Jump to one side!" shouted Bart, bringing his rifle around.
There was no time to think of the game laws. His chum was in danger, and
he would be justified in shooting.
But before he could fire the buck was upon poor Fenn. With one sweep of
his sharp horns the beast swept the lad aside, knocking him down. Then,
with lowered head, the animal tried to gore the prostrate lad.
Fenn saw his one chance for safety, and took it. He scrambled up,
grabbed the horns, and held on like grim death. The buck reared, swung
around and tried to strike Fenn with the knife-like hoofs. Then a
curious thing happened. One of the hoofs went through Fenn's loose belt,
and this so tangled up animal and boy that they both went down in the
snow, and rolled over.
"Fenn will be killed," gasped Bart, and his heart almost stopped
beating. But the buck struggled to his feet again, and succeeded in
getting his leg free from the belt. Fenn had again grabbed hold of the
horns of the infuriated animal, which, at that instant swung around,
presenting a good shot to Bart. Should he fire? Could he hit the buck
and not injure his chum? It was ticklish work, but the need was great.
Bart decided in an instant, took quick aim and fired.