“Talk about being wounded in the war,” said Dig grimly, as Chet tied the handkerchief again. “I ought to get a pension. My uncle carried this old rifle for three years in the war, and I bet I’m the only one that’s ever been wounded with it.”
“And that at the wrong end,” chuckled Chet. “But didn’t your uncle ever shoot at the enemy?”
“I don’t believe so. He was too tender-hearted. It’s a family trait,” said Dig gravely.
“I bet you don’t show any of that tenderness of heart if we come within shooting distance of those elks,” said Chet, climbing back into the saddle.
“Now, aren’t you just right?” proclaimed Digby.
They galloped on, seeing the elks from the next rise not more than three miles away. How the graceful creatures had come out here on the plain was something of a mystery—especially without more of their tribe.
Now Chet took the lead and governed the approach to the feeding place of the elks. There were no thickets, but there were several mounds behind which the young hunters could screen themselves.
Yet none of these shelters was near enough to enable the boys to get within easy rifle shot. They tried one mound, dismounting and lying flat, to rest the barrels of their guns over the top of the rise.
But the distance was too great. Dig wanted to try it, but Chet forbade him to shoot.
“The elks are travelling away from us. If you wounded one, it would gallop farther and farther away. Then we’d likely lose the game entirely. If we could get around ahead of them it would do to risk a long shot. But of course they are feeding up wind.”