“Boys,” cried McBain, “it is sweet to dream of home sometimes; it is one of the greatest pleasures of a traveller’s life. But we’ve many more wild adventures to come through yet, ere the Snowbird sails up the loch. Who says shore?”
Shore! That was indeed a magic word. Allan and Rory jumped up at once. Ralph had some marmalade to finish, but he soon followed them. He found Seth fully equipped, and the bear-hound, as they called the Skye terrier, all alive and full of fun. The men, too, were ready. They were going off for a three days’ hunt on the rocky plains, miles and miles beyond the forest.
It was only one of many such they had enjoyed; and there is, in my opinion, no life in the world to compare for genuine enjoyment with that of the wild hunter, especially if he be lucky enough to find pastures new, as did our heroes. For the first few days of roughing it in forest and plain one feels a little strange, and often weary; but the free fresh air, the constant exercise, and the excitement, soon banish such feelings as these, and before you are a week out your muscles get hard, your skin gets brown, and your nerves are cords of steel; if on horseback, you fear not to ride anywhere; if on foot you will follow the lion to his lair, or the panther to his cave in the rocky hillside, and never think once of danger. It is a glorious life.
On hunting expeditions like that on which we find our friends starting to-day, they went out with no intention of sticking to any one kind of game. They made what they called “harlequin bags;” they were armed, prepared for anything, everything, fur or feather, fish or snake. They had fowling-pieces for the smaller game, express rifles for bigger, and bone-smashers for the wild buffalo of the plains. These latter they shot for their skins. The sport was at all times exciting, and, as our heroes were on foot, sometimes even dangerous, as when one day Stevenson, who had fired at and only wounded a sturdy bull, was chased by the infuriated animal and narrowly escaped with his life. Do these animals think the flashing and cracking of the rifles some kind of a thunderstorm, I wonder? I do not know, but certain it is that often, on a herd being fired into, it will take closer rank and stand in stupid bewilderment, instead of dashing away at once; and thus hundreds may be killed in an hour or two.
As an experienced trapper, old Seth had the whole management of these hunting expeditions.
He often made our heroes wonder at the amount of tact and wisdom he displayed, as a plainsman and wild hunter.
“I guess we’ll have moosie to-night,” he said, one evening. It was the first day they had fallen among buffalo.
“What kind, Seth?” asked McBain. They were seated round the camp fire, having just finished dinner.
“Wolves,” said Seth.
“Have you seen their tracks?” inquired McBain.