"Wa'al, I reckon I can," said the Ranger, "seein' that I always have an' always do."
Wilbur had never camped in the open before without a tent or shelter of some kind, but he would not for the world have had his Ranger think that he was in the least disconcerted. Neither, to do him justice, was he, but rather anticipating the night under the open sky with a good deal of pleasure.
After the horses were unsaddled and hobbled, Rifle-Eye told Wilbur to get the beds ready. The boy, greatly pleased with himself that he knew how to do this without being told, picked up his ax and started for the nearest balsam. But he found himself in somewhat of a difficulty. The white fir grew to a much larger tree than the Balm-of-Gilead he had known in the East, and the lower branches were tough. So he chopped down a young tree near, scarcely more than a sapling.
A moment later he heard the Ranger call to him.
"How many trees of that size do you reckon you'll want?" he asked.
"Oh, they're only just saplings," the boy replied, "five or six ought to do."
"They'll make five or six fine trees some day, won't they?" queried the old woodsman.
"Yes, Rifle-Eye, they will," answered the boy, flushing at his lack of thoughtfulness. "I'd better take only one, and that a little bigger, hadn't I?"
"An' one that's crooked. Always take a tree that isn't goin' to make good timber when you're not cuttin' for timber."
Wilbur accordingly felled a small white fir near by, having had his first practical lesson of forest economy on his own forest, stripped the tree of its fans or flattest branches and laid them on the ground. A thickness of about six inches, he found, was enough to make the beds wonderfully springy and comfortable.