“If only Hans could have come across this!” he exclaimed.
It was a dead doe lying in the woods not far from the camp. It had been shot, and after a long run had died where Merriwell had found it, nor had it been dead a great while.
“The work of poachers,” said Merriwell, with a feeling of ineffable contempt for men who could find it in their hearts to slaughter deer in this disgraceful and unlawful manner. “I wish the strong hand of the law could fall on some of those fellows.”
This was not the first evidence he had seen that poachers were carrying on their dastardly work around that portion of Moosehead Lake known as Lily Bay. A wounded deer had been noticed and distant shots had more than once been heard. He was beginning to believe that the dogs which had followed and attacked the buck belonged to these poachers.
After pushing the deer curiously about with his foot, Merriwell was about to turn away, when he chanced to see Hans Dunnerwust waddling down the dim path, gun in hand. It was plain that if Hans continued in his present course he could hardly fail to see the dead deer.
“Just the thing!” Merriwell whispered, while a broad smile came to his face. “If I don’t have some fun with Hans I’m a Dutchman myself!”
He put down his camera and rifle, and, lifting the body of the doe, stood it up against a small tree. By means of ingenious propping, he contrived to make it stand on its stiff legs and to give it somewhat of a natural appearance.
“It’s natural enough to fool Dunnerwust, anyway!” he muttered, picking up the camera and gun and sliding into the nearby bushes.