They examined the deer and found it had suffered nothing but the gaping wound in the throat, made evidently by the wildcat.
“This is a prize,” said Henry. “It saves us the trouble of shooting one.”
“I suppose the wildcat brought the deer down and the painter wanted to steal it,” said Dave. “It’s a pretty good-sized deer for a wildcat to tackle.”
“I reckon as how the wildcat war half starved an’ got desprit,” spoke up the old frontiersman. “He must have jumped down on the deer from some tree and hung on till the deer war dead.”
The others had by this time come up, and they looked at the deer with interest. The game was slung over the back of one of the horses and the onward march resumed. That night all enjoyed the fresh venison.
On the following day they came to a fair-sized river, and there encamped for their noonday repast. Taking an axe, Henry cut a round hole in the ice and brought forth his fishing lines.
“Going to try fishing, eh?” said Dave. “All right, I’ll do what I can to help.”
They soon had their lines ready, and baiting up, allowed them to sink through the hole. The fish were sluggish, and for a long time they got no bite. But then came a lazy tug, and hauling in, Henry brought up a fat fish that weighed all of two pounds.
“Good for you, Henry!” cried his cousin. “You always were lucky at this sort of thing.”
“Not always,” answered Henry, grimly. “I have fished through the ice more than once and caught next to nothing.”