“Foxy old Mr. Peaked Toes has been clear up on top o’ th’ ridge an’ then doubled back and laid down whar he can watch his back track,” whispered the guide. “But we’ve fooled him this time.”
For a few minutes they watched him. Then the hush of the great forest was abruptly broken by the alarm notes of a crow, so close at hand that Walter instinctively looked up, expecting to see the black mischief maker above their heads. But no bird was to be seen, and a glance at Big Jim’s grinning face told him that the crow was none other than the guide himself.
When his glance once more returned to the buck it was to behold a lordly animal standing with his magnificent head, crowned with ten point antlers still in the velvet, thrown up, his sensitive nostrils testing the wind for trace of possible danger. For a few minutes he stood motionless, ears forward to catch the least sound, big soft eyes searching the hillside, delicate nostrils expanded and a-quiver in the effort to read some warning in the air. So the king stood, suspicious but not alarmed, a royal animal in the full vigor of maturity.
Satisfied that ears and eyes and nose could detect no danger, but still suspicious, he suddenly bounded behind the hemlocks, clearing a fallen tree with a leap which was a marvel of lightness. The thicket shut him from their view, but presently Big Jim called Walter’s attention to a slight movement of bushes far up along on the ridge.
“He’s making a sneak t’ high ground whar he can have a better look around. Then he’ll make a big circle t’ try the wind from all quarters. Did yer notice that scar on his shoulder? He’s been burned thar by a bullet or had an ugly tear in a scrap with another buck. Son, you’ve seen th’ King o’ Lonesome Pond. I’ve tried fer him for th’ last three years in th’ open season, but th’ old rascal knows as well as I do when th’ huntin’ season begins and he’s too smart fer me. No walkin’ up on him then like we did to-day! I’d like t’ get him and yet—well, fact is I’d hate t’ see him dead. He sure is a king! Now fer camp an’ lunch an’ then a try fer them trout. Son, yer’ll make a still hunter one o’ these days, and, son, don’t yer never fergit thet still huntin’ is th’ only real sportin’, square deal way o’ huntin’ deer.”
These few words of approval from his companion amply rewarded the boy for his long effort to “keep his feet in the way they should go” and now as they tramped rapidly toward camp he felt within him for the first time the sense of mastery and self-reliance which is ever the woodsman’s best reward.
In the afternoon fishing Walter failed to equal his record catch of the day before, but nevertheless landed some handsome trout, and they soon had all they could use. After an early supper the guide led the way to a deer run only a short distance from camp, where, he said, the animals were in the habit of coming down to drink. Here at one side in a position to command an unobstructed view of a part of the run Walter set up his camera, masking it with branches broken from the surrounding trees. A flash was arranged to be exploded by an electric spark from two dry cells which had been brought along for the purpose. A stout thread was fastened across the run in such a way that an animal passing up or down must strike it and the adjustment was such that the least pull would make the necessary contact and set off the flash.
“Thar’s a couple o’ other runs close by, and it’s all a chance whether a deer will take this partic’lar run, but I think th’ chance is good,” said the guide.
Back at camp the guide put out the fire lest the smell of smoke should alarm the game. Then they sat down to wait, Big Jim whiling away the time with stories of hunting and adventure which set the boy’s pulses to faster beating. Swiftly the shadows crept through the woods and dusk settled over the landscape. Through the tree tops Walter caught the gleam of the first star.
“Ought not t’ be long now ’fore thar’s somethin’ doin’,” said the guide.