Neither of them neglected that duty, but Murray took the two plump hind-quarters of the doe and roasted them whole.
How?—with no stove, no oven, no kitchen tools of any sort or description?
Two forked sticks were set firmly in the ground on either side, in front of the fire, and a strong stick laid across from fork to fork at about four feet from the ground. Then a leg of venison, hung to this cross-piece by a thong of raw deer-skin, was turned round and round until the thong would twist no tighter. When it was let go, the weight of the meat kept it from untwisting too fast.
This was precisely what our great-grandmothers used to call a "roasting-jack," and all it required was that somebody should wind it up when it ran down, so that the meat would be evenly done all over.
Meantime the broiling and eating of smaller pieces went right on. Their long ride and hard work had given Steve and Murray both good appetites.
"Now, Steve, lie down. Sleep all you can."
"Sha'n't you take a rest?"
"Don't need much. Young eyes call for more sleep than old ones. Never mind me. I'll call you when the time comes."
Steve was used to obeying Murray, and was glad enough to do so now. He was quickly asleep under a spreading tree, while Murray sat down before the fire, as if to "mind the roast."
There was something more important than venison for him to think of, however. He had taken off his hat, and his white head was bare. With the strong light of the camp fire shining upon his weather-beaten face, he would have made a good subject for a painter.