She came to this decision one morning in May when she had run out to try and get a snapshot of a grouse cock strutting on the edge of the alfalfa. She had moved cautiously along behind the currant bushes until just within the right distance to get a good picture and was adjusting the camera when a shotgun cracked in the draw above her.
"After my birds again!" Harry exclaimed indignantly. "If it's Joe I declare I'll go straight to town and fetch the game warden up here to arrest him. Of course he's spoiled my picture, too!" For the grouse had folded his wings and scuttled out of sight into the willows.
"I'll just go right along and see who that was," Harry decided, closing her camera and starting up the cow path through the glen.
At this time of the year the steep sides of the ravine were masked in the leafage of quaking asp, thorn apple, willow and choke cherry, and it was next to impossible to see whether the person shooting was there or not.
Harry did not stop to explore. She knew by experience that it was farther up in the high meadow, a favorite nesting place of grouse and sage hen that she was most likely to find the poachers. Now, in her excitement she had started running (Joe should not evade her!) but the path was steep, the sun ardent, and before she could reach the meadow she was out of breath, hot, and not any calmer. In a final, desperate effort to cut across Joe's path toward home she swerved through the trees and almost ran over Joe himself.
He was moving stealthily through the willows, but startled by Harry's unexpected appearance, he stopped short.
"Joe!" she exclaimed; "I thought so."
"You did!" He laughed mischievously. "I ain't the only fella that takes a short cut through here, am I?"
"You take it oftenest. Outsiders don't get here quite so early in the morning, as a rule. I see I'm too late to save my birds, though."
She pointed indignantly to the grouse hen that hung from Joe's left hand.