So he led the way off the trail. Even Stone Fence seemed to know that the day’s journey was nearly over. He trotted on more placidly, and the horses quickened their pace.
They had made but small progress that day. However, with all the set-backs and delays it was fortunate that they had come this far.
The water was a narrow stream trickling between willows and other moisture-loving shrubs. They made camp and started a fire very quickly. They cut up the doe Chet had shot and all the dainty parts that Dig clamoured for were prepared for the skillet, while the flayed haunches and shoulders were hung high in the saplings, out of the way (as the boys thought) of any marauding beast.
“Tell you what,” Chet said, “if your calf doesn’t draw the wolves down here, the smell of that fresh venison will do the trick. Watch and watch tonight, boy.”
“Oh, Chet! what’s the use? I’m tired,” yawned his chum.
“I should think you would be paddling on after that fool calf! But expect no sympathy from me,” and Chet insisted upon tethering the horses near the camp instead of letting them roam, hobbled.
“By the last hoptoad that was chased out of Ireland!” Dig exclaimed, “why don’t you build a stockade and build a big bonfire? One would think you were expecting a whole drove of savage beasts down here.”
Just then a mournful wail came down the wind—a shuddering cry that made Dig start and hold suspended the piece of meat he had upon his fork.
“Wha—what’s that? A coyote?” demanded Dig.
“That’s one of your friends,” said Chet grimly. “It’s the call of a hungry wolf. You can expect him and his gang early.”