CHAPTER XI
TO THE RESCUE!
As Bob had surmised from the sounds that reached him, Alf had not been long in striking luck. Shortly after leaving the camp he bagged first one chicken and then another, and in a short time was lucky enough to bring down a fine jack-rabbit. Then he hastened back to camp, and arrived there just as he heard the sound of Bob's gun in the far distance.
"I guess I've done the better of the two," he said merrily, as he displayed the result of his half-hour's hunt. "That's the first shot that I've heard from Bob."
"There's no telling. Maybe your friend has shot an elephant!" remarked Mackintosh. "Here, Haggis! Tak' these birds and the beastie from the laddie, and dress them for the spit. There's a fine roasting fire, and we'll be having dinner all ready by the time Maister Bob gets back. I'm thinking that he's come off second best the day."
"Not much praise to me. If there's nothing to shoot, a fellow can't get much of a bag, can he?" remarked Alf generously. He was ready enough to laugh at his friend in a good-humoured way. It was quite another matter, however, for any other person to cast the slightest sneer at his chum. "I was lucky in finding sport right at hand. But when it comes to shooting—a quick aim on the wing or on the run—I can't hold a candle to Arnold. Hark! Did you hear that? He has brought down two, to balance with my three."
"Young boys give long trail," remarked the half-breed, who was pushing wooden skewers through the birds, preparatory to balancing them on wooden Y's before the fire.
"Too long," grunted the Scotsman. "We can't afford to waste time. I was meaning to start off again soon after dinner."
But by the time the birds were ready for eating, and the inevitable coffee was hot in the billy-tin, there were no signs of the boy's return.
Mackintosh was plainly annoyed.