“Now you see what you did,” exclaimed Frank as he came up with two horses hurrying forward in the moonlight and made out that Phil was on the rear one.
“We’d have both been there,” answered Phil, “if I hadn’t. But say, it’s a good thing Mr. Hosmer was there to stop me. I couldn’t follow the river. I had to take to the meadow. And that hill! Whew! But say,” he went on with a chuckle—“first blood for me. See what’s here.”
An animal lay across Phil’s saddle.
“You don’t need to tell me what that is,” sniffed Frank. “It’s a billy goat. I can smell him.”
“A yearlin’ kid,” explained “Grizzly.” “Jist right fur brilin’ ur roastin’.”
Then it dawned on Frank.
“Why that’s what we’re here for, Rocky Mountain goats. Has it got horns?”
“Toothpicks,” laughed Phil. “But I saw some real ones.”
“Regular big ones?” asked Frank, his interest rising.
“Well, big enough to shoot, I reckon,” answered Phil. “Certainly big enough to climb some. I wish I’d had my rifle. That’s what you did by lettin’ me send my rifle in the wagon.”