They moved on, Bunk leading and directing the dog. After a time another track was picked up, and again Rouser went baying off into the woods.
“We’ll wait a while and see which way he turns,” said Bunk, who hoped to pick the lucky location for himself this time.
“Hark! What’s that?” cried Davis suddenly, as the distant report of a gun drifted to their ears.
“Somebody else out for rabs, I guess,” growled Lander. “Yes, there’s their dog. Listen!”
Another hound, much farther away than Rouser, was heard giving voice.
“Bet the feller that fired made a miss,” grinned Spotty. “It takes old Deadeye Grant from Texas to bring ’em down.”
With his ear cocked, Lander listened. After a time he said:
“This is a good place, Grant. You stay here. Spot, you can go farther up this time. I’m going to cross over.”
Watching them hurry away, Grant said nothing, although he knew Bunk was trying to secure for himself the chance of the next shot.
For some moments after they vanished his keen ears heard an occasional distant sound, like the cracking of branches or the rustling of bodies pushing through thickets; but this gradually died out, and something like a lonely hush settled over the winter woods. He could still hear the distant baying of the dogs, but this seemed even to accentuate the stillness in his immediate vicinity.