“Don’t shoot, Joe!” cried his companion.
“Why not?”
“If the Indians are after ’em we may have trouble.”
There was no time to argue the matter, for even as Harry Parsons spoke the deer leaped the small brook which wound its way through the mighty forest and in a twinkling were out of sight again. Then all became as quiet as before.
“Don’t hear any Indians,” was Joe Winship’s comment, after straining his ears for a full minute. “And lost a tremendously good shot,” he added regretfully.
“Well, it’s best to be on the safe side. If half a dozen redskins were after those deer we wouldn’t stand any show at all against ’em,” said Harry Parsons, with a decided shake of his curly-haired head. “You remember what our folks told us—to keep out of trouble.”
“But what beautiful deer they were!”
“You are right. And it isn’t likely they’ll come back this way——”
“Hush!”
As Joe Winship uttered the word he caught his companion by the sleeve and pointed through the forest to where there was an opening, perhaps an acre in extent, dotted here and there with small brushwood.