“What will we do, Chet? Don’t forget that starvation stares us in the face.”
“Pull in your belt a little more,” grinned Chet.
“Whew! if I pull it in much tighter,” declared Dig, “I’ll cut myself in two. I’ve got a waist like a wasp already. My stomach thinks my throat’s cut. I tell you, boy, we’ve got to eat!”
Dig was much in earnest. It was pressing close to noon and their breakfast—and the previous evening’s meal—had not been very satisfactory. Chet was just as earnest in his desire to kill game; yet, he would not have started this way had he not at first thought that the elks were mounted men.
Being on the ground, however, he set his wits to winning out against the cunning of the game. He and Dig rode around several mounds and finally came to a shallow valley between two of the small eminences, and through which they might ride right out upon the little prairie on which the elks grazed.
“And that’s the best we can do, Dig, I believe,” Chet declared. “We couldn’t possibly steal up within sure rifle shot, afoot. Got to trust to our horses being quicker on their feet than the elks for the first few jumps. And don’t let your rifle smash your face again!”
“Let’s get down and cinch up,” said Dig nervously. “If our saddles should slip—”
“Hold on! hold on, boy!” advised Chet, under his breath. “Don’t you have an attack of elk fever at the critical moment.”
“Stop talking, and come on,” urged Dig, pulling up on Poke’s straps until the black mustang squealed. “Do hush, you black abomination! Don’t you give us away.”
Into the saddles again, and the boys looked at each other. It was to be a race of a quarter of a mile or more before they came within rifle range of the feeding elks. Chet nodded and Dig returned it. Then they gave their mounts free rein, and Hero and Poke dashed forward.