[CHAPTER XII]
DOWN THE GORGE
During the week, the boys went out on several hunting expeditions. Many quail and jack-rabbits fell victims to their good aim. Dick Travers had been gradually developing what Dave described as a severe attack of "photographis nightowlis." He was constantly talking of Hank Merwin and the promised jacklight expedition, and Dave was sympathetic.
"Before it gets any worse, fellows, we'd better pull up stakes for a while," he said.
"That's good," approved Havens. "We can come back to the dugout any time," and, Bob agreeing, the matter was thereupon settled.
One morning, bright and early, they were ready to start. A great part of the outfit was hidden, the hunters carrying only what was absolutely necessary. Of course each was provided with a stout pole having a spike at the end.
"We'll have a dandy time out with Hank Merwin," said Havens. "He looks solemn enough—never smiles—but he'll treat you white."
At the first clearing, a magnificent view brought forth delighted exclamations. Streamers of purple mist hung over the valley, while the early morning sun cast a rosy glow over the snow-covered mountain summits which stood out against a pearly green sky.
Masses of pink and white laurel, gay in sunlight and cool in shadow, sent forth their delicate odors to mingle with those of the wild rose and grape blossoms.
Presently Bob Somers held up his hand—"Listen."