“Whew!” sighed Victor, removing his cap and mopping his moist forehead; “there isn’t as much fun in this as I thought. I wouldn’t mind the walking and climbing if a fellow didn’t get tired.”
“And if you didn’t get tired you wouldn’t enjoy a rest like this.
“Do you remember,” he continued, “how Simon Kenton used to say at our house that no man could know what a good night’s sleep is unless he sat up one or two nights beforehand. I suppose there’s something in that, though we don’t have to try it on ourselves. I know that water doesn’t taste one-half so good unless you are as thirsty as you can be. It seems to me, Victor, that it’s time we bagged some game.
“We haven’t bagged much,” George added; “Mul-tal-la got an elk yesterday; Deerfoot brought down an antelope; I shot a turkey, and you came pretty near hitting a buffalo that was several yards off.”
“Came pretty near hitting him!” repeated Victor, with fine scorn. “I hit him fairly, and you know it, but these buffaloes have hard heads, like some persons I know.”
“Then you shouldn’t aim at their heads. Other people don’t, and it’s time you learned better.”
“I don’t know any relative of mine that is too old to learn a good many things,” replied Victor, without a spark of ill-nature.
“That sounds as if you mean me. I’ll own up that Deerfoot and I are liable to make mistakes now and then, but I don’t quite think either of us would run from a wounded antelope and keep up a yelling that could be heard a mile off.”
“It is sometimes a wise thing to run; you see it tempts your game to follow and brings him within range.”
“Where is the need of that when he must have been in range at the time you wounded him?”