"And how do you do it, Rifle-Eye?" asked the boy.
"Same as you did just now. There's just a mite of difference where folks have ridden, there's perhaps just a few seedlin's been trodden down, an' there's a line between the trees that's just a little straighter than any animal's runway. But it's so faint that the more you think about it, the less sure you are. But, by an' by, you get so that you couldn't help followin' it in any kind of weather." And the old hunter, seeing the need of teaching Wilbur the intricacies of the pine country forests, gave him hint after hint all the way to his little camp.
When he got there Wilbur gave an exclamation of delight. The camp, as the Supervisor had said, was near a little spring, which indeed bubbled from the hillside not more than ten feet away from the tent, and gleaming on the slope a couple of hundred feet below, he could see the little lake which was "so full of trout" glistening itself like a silver fish in the sunlight. A tall flagstaff, with a cord all reeved for the flag, stood by the tent, and for the realities of life a strong, serviceable telephone was fastened to a tree.
Wilbur turned to the hunter, his eyes shining.
"What a daisy place!" he cried.
The old hunter smiled at his enthusiasm.
"Let's see the tent," he said, and was about to leap from his horse when the hunter called him.
"I reckon, son," he said, "there's somethin' you're forgettin'."
"What's that?" said Wilbur.
"Horses come first," said Rifle-Eye. "It's nigh dinner-time now. Where's the corral?"