"And only a week back, you say, Tom?" remarked Felix, a frown appearing on his face. "Then some party has been around here a short time ago? I had begun to believe we were going to have it all to ourselves; but I suppose that would be too good luck. Any idea what sort of a man the hunter was?"
"Injun," replied Tom, laconically, as he pointed to the mark of a moccasin in the soft soil near by; and which Felix noticed "toed-in;" for an Indian always walks that way; as Nature intended man should, before he began to wear stiff boots, and started to use his feet the wrong way, by "toeing-out."
"Whew! then all I hope is, that it turns out to be that good old halfbreed we heard so much about, Charley Crow they call him, because his other name is too much for a fellow's tongue. I wouldn't mind him so much; and if he's starting to put in a season trapping in this neighborhood, why, we might make friends with him, you know."
"As for me," declared Tom, with a disconsolate look on his sun-burned face; "you know, I don't take much stock in any Injun or half-breed. I only hope we have the good fortune not to run across this fellow, or any of his kind, all the time we stick it out up here. But then I'm prejudiced, I own up. Charley may be all they say about him. We'll let it go at that. If he doesn't bother us, be sure I'll not go ten steps out of my way to look him up."
All the same, it made them a little serious as they walked back to the camp. If there were others hunting and trapping in that section, such a thing always opened the door for all sorts of new troubles.
Supposing there should turn out to be a whole hunting party of Shoshones or Flatfoot Indians off their reservation, and engaged in a grand hunt; they would make things look pretty "sick," as Tom expressed it, around there, in short order.
But then, fortunately perhaps, boys are not much given to forebodings; and presently both Tom and his chum were feeling themselves again. Doubtless the recollection of that deer would return to them more than a few times to arouse these same doubts and speculations. And every time Tom felt that smashed bit of lead in his pocket, he would allow himself to indulge in guesses that could hardly lead to anywhere in particular.
It was now getting on toward noon, and Felix announced that he would not bother making a start until some time afterwards. There was no need of hurry, and inside of a couple of hours, he thought he ought to cover as much ground as he wanted to get over for that time.
"I'd better be making a start with those wolf pelts," said Tom; "because there's no telling what we may have on our hands by tomorrow, if only a third of those nine traps bring us returns. Makes me think I'm out again with Old Sol. How much I'd like to have him along, right now, he's such a bully old chap; and with a lot of queer things to tell about his experiences."
Although Felix did not bother to say so, truth to tell, he was entirely satisfied with the way things ran just then; there could not be a better comrade than Tom Tucker, and according to his mind, two was always a better number than three.