“That Steve What-is-it saw me shoot that hawk the other day. I guess he knows that we’re good shots. And of course Tony Traddles knows we’re not tenderfeet.”
The boys saw Tony blaze away with his rifle several times at the birds, but they didn’t see a feather fly. Hitting a bird on the wing with a rifle is no easy task, at best. Chet’s work with the six-shooter was the result of long practice and a certain aptitude that the boy had originally possessed.
If the men were out of meat it looked as though they would go hungry to bed, for no other game appeared in the course of the afternoon’s ride. Evening was already approaching and Dig began to grumble because Tony and Steve did not seek a camp.
“This being paced by a pair of irresponsible chumps like them, is no fun. Who knows,” he said, “but they may keep on all night.”
“Not on those horses they are riding,” declared Chet firmly. “They’ve been ridden hard already, and they are about giving out.”
“That’s so, too,” Dig hastened to agree. “I hate to see a pony punished the way those fellows are punishing their mounts. They ought to be jailed for that, if for nothing else.”
The men had headed up the long slope of a low hill. It was timbered, but scantily; and there were many rocks cropping out of the soil. The boys had not seen water lately and they were anxious to refresh their horses and themselves.
“I hope there’s a spring on the far side of this hill,” Chet said.
“Say! there’s something over there!” exclaimed his chum. “Look at Tony!”
The big, hairy man had turned in his saddle and was vigorously beckoning the boys on. He was undoubtedly excited by something he saw beyond the hill, on the summit of which he and his partner now were.