CHAPTER XI—THE FIRST ADVENTURE
As Chet Havens and Digby Fordham mounted into the hills, the country about them became wilder and quite free from signs of man’s habitation. Even the behaviour of the birds and the squirrels was different from their conduct nearer town.
“I could knock the head off that fellow,” Dig declared, referring to a big grey squirrel that flirted his tail and chattered in a tall hemlock not far off the trail, “if I only had my little rifle. This thing is a reg’lar elephant gun, Chet,” and he shifted the heavy rifle to his other shoulder.
“Knock the head off it, hey?” repeated Chet.
“Not a very sportsmanlike way to get a squirrel.”
“Huh! I’m not so particular how I get my game, as long as I get it. I don’t claim to be a fancy shot like you, Chet.”
“If you were like Davy Crockett, you’d say a squirrel didn’t count in a game score if it wasn’t shot in the eye,” chuckled Chet. “Of course, anybody can shoot the head off a squirrel.”
“Whew!” ejaculated Dig. “Do you s’pose Davy always shot his squirrels in the eye? When a fellow wants a mess of squirrel pot-pie I don’t believe he is going to trouble about which end he kills his squirrel at.”
“He was a great shot, though,” Chet remarked admiringly. “My grandfather saw him shoot in a match once, and he said Davy Crockett carried off every prize.”
“I suppose all the yarns they tell about him are true,” said Digby, his eyes twinkling; “but I always liked that one about his shooting the coon the best.”
“What is that?” asked his chum innocently.
“Why,” said Dig, “when the coon saw Davy Crockett aiming at him, he sang out:
“‘Hol’ on, Mars’ Crockett! Don’ shoot! I’ll come down!’”
“That’s a yarn, Dig,” laughed Chet. “But it’s a good one. Come on! Here’s a straight piece of road. I’ll race you.”
“Hold on!” exclaimed Dig. “I’ve shaken down my breakfast enough already. Do you see those raspberries, Chet?”
“Cracky! what a lot of them!” cried Chet.
“Let’s have a mess of them,” his chum said eagerly, and leaped down from his saddle.
“Here! here!” called Chet. “Hitch your horse, old man. We don’t want to be chasing Poke all over the pasture.”
“All right. And hang your tinware on the saddle,” urged Dig, slipping the strap of his own rifle over the cantle after hitching Poke. He raced to the nearest clump of raspberry bushes as though he thought they would mysteriously disappear if he did not reach there in a minute.
Chet climbed more slowly after him out of the well-defined trail into the rocky berry pasture. Both boys were unarmed save for the knives in their belts, for even their revolvers were in their saddle holsters. The bushes hung heavy with the ripe fruit and Dig, who was inordinately fond of the berries, at once filled both hands and began to cram the fruit into his mouth.
“Look out! you’ll choke yourself,” his chum admonished him.
“Don’t you worry, old boy,” mumbled Dig, still eating greedily. “It would be a lovely way of dyin’—”
Just then, as though conjured for Dig’s particular punishment, there rose up on the other side of the clump of raspberry bushes a shaggy, black figure, almost within reach of Dig’s outstretched arm.
“Oh! oh! ah!” gasped Digby. “It’s yo—your buf—buffalo, Chet!” and he fell back upon his chum, the crushed raspberries running out of his mouth in two streams.
“What’s the matter with you?” asked his chum, who did not, on the instant, observe the object that had surprised Dig. “Stop joking about that buffalo.”
“Give me a gun! Give me a gun!” groaned the other boy, his mouth finally freed from the crushed fruit.
Then Chet saw the bear—a big black fellow, standing erect, and to all appearances just as scared as Digby Fordham was.
It had the funniest expression on its muzzle. Its jaws were all beslobbered with crushed raspberries, as were its paws. It had been pressing the berries into its mouth just as Dig had been doing, and Chet thought the sight of the two—the boy and the bear—was one of the funniest he had ever seen.
The bear’s little ears were cocked, and its eyes were amazingly sharp. But its surprise was plain and it staggered back just as Dig had done.
“Give me a gun!” begged the latter again, hoarsely.
The bear turned and both boys thought it was coming around the clump of bushes to get at them. Dig uttered a squeal of fright and tumbled backwards down the hill. Chet whipped out his skinning-knife, that being the only weapon he had with him, and stood his ground.
But the bear only swung around to drop to all fours, and with a startled “Woof! woof!” he galloped away across the hill, soon disappearing in the thick jungle.
But the bear had startled something besides Digby Fordham. While Chet hugged his sides in laughter at the sight of his chum sprawling down the hill, wild snorts and a sudden clatter rose from the trail.
“Look out for the horses, Dig!” yelled Chet, breaking off his spasm of laughter in the middle.
Poke had caught a glimpse of the bear or had smelled him. The black horse flung himself back upon his strap and snapped it.
Then Chet saw the bear—a big black fellow, standing erect
“Whoa, Poke!” cried Dig, and ran quickly down the hill.
Yelling “Whoa!” to a whirlwind would have done about as much good. Poke started on a gallop, and when his master rolled down to the trail the black horse was already three lengths away.
Hero did not try to escape. Perhaps his nostrils were not so sensitive to the smell of the bear. But his master hurried to soothe him.
Poke shook off the swinging rifle at almost his first leap, and its striking his heels frightened the horse all the more. Then he began to strew Dig’s camping outfit along the trail, one piece at a time.
Following the rifle, the pistol was tossed out of its holster—Dig had forgotten to fasten the flap of the pocket. His lasso was only hung on the saddle horn and that dropped off, banging the galloping horse about the heels.
Dig, running after him, yelled “Whoa!” until he almost lost his voice, but to no purpose.
The blanket roll became unfastened and it whipped Poke over the flanks. One article after another was spewed from the roll, and after striking the frightened horse, bounded off into the trail or beside it.
A can of condensed milk hit a boulder and burst. A skillet was kicked into the air as Poke ran, and when it was found there was a hole through it as big as one’s fist.
“By all the hoptoads that were chased out of Ireland! That creature never will stop.”
“Get on my horse, Dig,” begged his chum.
“All right. But unhitch all that truck. I’ll take your lariat.”
“Going to lasso Poke?” demanded Chet, still much amused.
“I don’t care if I hang him,” declared Dig, leaping on the bay horse, and whirling him into the trail.
Dig was a splendid rider. No matter how hard-bitted the horse was he rode, he always made a good appearance in the saddle. The black horse could outrun the bay; but Poke lacked the guidance of his master’s hand. He was still going at a heavy gallop, and Hero gained upon him at every leap.
The camp equipment was still dropping out of Dig’s blanket-roll, and as long as that occurred Poke would undoubtedly run. Dig rose up in Hero’s stirrups, uncoiled the rope, and prepared to cast it over the black’s head when he got near enough.
Meanwhile Chet came on behind, loading himself down with the scattered camp outfit and the rifles. He was soon too heavily laden to travel fast; besides, he had to stop now and then to laugh.
Poke gave his master a two-mile chase, and then Dig roped him and brought the black horse back with him at the end of the lariat.
“I’d trade him for a cast-off pair of boots, and then swap the boots for a broken-bladed jackknife,” grumbled Dig, who always made frightful threats against Poke when the black horse had misbehaved. “Whew! I thought I’d have to walk all the way to Grub Stake by the way this villain started.”
Chet was choked with laughter again. Dig turned on him sternly.
“Say! what’s the matter with you now?” he demanded. “What are you laughing at?”
“I—I wonder if that—that buf—buffalo you thought you saw is still—still running,” cried Chet, holding his aching sides.