“Why! they went the other way!” Dig declared. “Isn’t that so?”
“We suppose so. Hard to tell what a frightened bunch of animals will do, though I supposed they would continue to graze northeast.”
“Never mind. We’ll see what those things are if they’ll let us get near enough.”
It wasn’t long before the boys identified the moving objects (of which they caught sight now and then as they cantered over the rolling prairie) as a pair of elks. The spreading horns of the male were quite easily seen.
“If we get one of those, boy, it’s going to be no cinch,” declared Digby Fordham. “That’s a big buck.”
“We’ll try, at least,” said his chum. “If you don’t at first succeed, you know—”
“Oh, yes! I know,” returned Dig. “Suck eggs! But I’m not fond of ’em in that way. Take it from me, I don’t care to ‘try, try again’ for those elks. We’re soon going to be just as hungry as ever Robinson Crusoe was. Fix it so I get a shot at one of ’em from a rest, Chet.”
“Well! don’t rest the butt of your rifle against your forehead again,” advised Chet, glancing at the smear of blood that had oozed through the handkerchief Dig had bound about his brow.
“Watch me!” growled Dig. “I won’t shoot this old gun again without being mighty sure that she isn’t going to kick me.”
When they came to the next water-hole he dismounted and bathed the wound on his forehead. It was a bad gash, and the forehead was sore and bruised all about the wound.