One day Captain Moore and old Benson got permission to go off on a hunt, and took the boys along. All of the party were mounted, and each carried a saddle-bag with part of the necessary camping outfit.
"If it's possible to do so, I'll show you some big game," announced the old scout. "Although I'll allow big game is mighty scarce, even in these parts."
"Have the hunters shot down everything?" asked Joe.
"A good bit, lad. You see, many used to come out here just to shoot for the sake of killing. I've known a party of six men to kill twenty or thirty buffalo and then leave the carcasses to the wolves. That was a shame."
"So it was!" cried Darry. "One or two buffalo would have been enough."
"Some hunters never know when to stop," put in Captain Moore. "They shoot as long as anything shows itself. If it wasn't for that these hills would be filled with buffalo, deer, bears, and all other kind of game."
The morning was clear and cool, and everybody in the party was in the best of spirits. The course was down into a broad valley, in the middle of which flowed the Rocky Pass River, and then up a series of hills leading to Tom Long Mountain—a favorite resort in this territory for sportsmen.
"Do you think we'll see or hear anything of those desperadoes?" asked Joe of his brother, as they rode along side by side.
"It's not likely," answered the young captain. "As soon as they learn that the soldiers are after them they'll take to their heels in double-quick order. They haven't any taste for meeting our regulars."
"It's queer that this Matt Gilroy should go in for this sort of life—if he is as well educated as you say."