“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.