While Sam was talking, he and the principal had been walking along the hall, and now turned into the library.
The boy, taking the seat pointed out to him, slammed his cap down upon the floor, drew Oscar's letter from his pocket, and read as follows:
Camp in the Foot-Hills,
January 25, 18—Dear Sam: I wrote you a long letter last week (I know you haven't received it yet, for it is at this very moment lying snugly stowed away in one of the pockets of my saddle-bags), but I want to write just a few lines more, for I have something to tell you.
I have but a very few minutes to tell it in, because my guide is getting ready to make another attempt to reach the fort. He tried a few days ago, but the snow was so deep and soft that he was obliged to turn back before he had gone five miles. He has made a pair of snow-shoes since then, and will travel on them until he strikes the prairie, where he hopes to find the snow all blown off the trail. I tell you, Sam, you don't know anything about storms or snow or drifts in Eaton. You ought to be here now; and I really wish you were, for I hardly know what I shall do with myself while my guide is gone. Of course, I might hunt, but I think I shall be safer in camp. I saw something the other day, and since then I have lost some of my enthusiasm.
The valley in which our camp is located is so effectually protected that there is very little snow in it, and I have been able to go shooting every day. I have secured a very fine pair of mule-deer (called black-tails out here); but, although I have shot sixteen elk, I have not yet found a specimen, the horns not being as perfect as I wish they were. I have stalked one old fellow, who carries a magnificent pair of antlers, more than a dozen times, making use of all the caution and skill I was master of, but he has always been too smart for me. I have a rod in pickle for him, however, and in my next letter I shall tell you that I have got him.
But if I have failed in one thing, I have been remarkably successful in another. Give me a good grip and shake, old fellow, and then go and look at that skin hanging up there. A black bear? No, sir! You never saw one of that species with claws eight inches long. It's a grizzly, and my guide says he never in his life saw but one larger. I killed him myself with a single bullet. How I did it, or how I had the courage to shoot at him at all, I can't tell for the life of me. It seems more like a dream than a reality. He was close upon my guide, who had wounded him and could not run fast enough to get out of his way, and in a minute more there would have been sad work in that little grove of scrub oaks, had it not been for my lucky snap-shot which broke the bear's neck. I don't hunt alone any more, and now you know the reason why.
Sam, not a word to mother about this. While I shall keep you posted in everything, I shall be careful what I write to her. Don't mention it to anybody who will be likely to repeat it.
But my guide is ready and waiting. I am going to see him a mile or two on his way, and won't I be lonely when I come back to camp! Remember me to all my friends in Eaton, pat Bugle for me, and believe me, as ever,
Faithfully yours,
Oscar Preston.
THE END.
