Arthur paced up and down the floor, wringing his hands, and giving other indications of a very agitated state of mind; but he made no effort whatever to undo the wrong to which he was a silent but willing accessory. He was so terribly frightened, and trembled so violently in every limb, that he dared not go to supper, pleading a headache as an excuse for his non-appearance. He went to bed at dark, but not to sleep. He lay there, tossing restlessly about, until he was called up to witness a scene the memory of which went with him to his dying day.
Meanwhile, Bob and George were busy with their hunting and fishing outfits—wiping out rifles and shotguns, critically examining flies and leaders, and making all the other preparations necessary for their sojourn in camp.
The only weapon that Bob intended to take with him was a three-barreled Baker gun (two shot barrels, with a rifle barrel underneath), that had once belonged to his father; while George was to use the little fowling-piece he had brought up from the bottom of the lake, and a heavy, muzzle-loading rifle that had bowled over more than one lordly elk on his native heath.
Bob had spent an hour or more in loading shells, and, when he got through, the Creedmoor cartridge-case he placed upon the table was about as heavy a weight as he cared to lift.
“Why, Bob, what makes you take so much ammunition?” asked George, casting aside a frayed leader that had parted while he was testing its strength. “We can’t use it all up in two days. One would think that we were going off on a regular campaign.”
“So we are. We shall have need of every cartridge in this case before we come back,” replied Bob, little dreaming how true were the words he uttered. “I wish we could take a couple of the wolf hounds with us. We shall be almost certain to catch a wolf in the valley, and I should like to have you see how easily the dogs could overtake and pull him down. But by the time we get the tent and all our provisions and a brace of setters crowded into the boat, it will be pretty well loaded, I tell you. Now, if Dick Langdon were only here to go with us, we would have a time of it, wouldn’t we? By-the-way, George, we must write to him as soon as we come back.”
Poor Bob was destined to “have a time of it,” as it was, and on more than one occasion he told himself that he and George would never live to write a letter to Dick Langdon.
As the boys intended to make an early start, they made all the preparations they could that night, so that they would not be delayed in the morning.
Bob gave his orders to the cook, who promised that they should not suffer for the want of something to eat while they were in camp; and after supper the skiff was hauled from its moorings at the boat-house, and made fast to a tree on the bank, in front of the ranch.
The little tent, which had sheltered Bob and his companions during the journey from Dixon Springs, was put into it, together with a goodly supply of canned goods—enough to last them a month, George said—and then the two setters that Bob intended to take with him were separated from the rest of the pack and shut up in the kennel, so that they could be found when wanted.