"I reckon not."
"Then I'll have him stuffed," said Bob. "Won't that be great? Only wish I'd got him myself," he added, half regretfully.
"You orter be glad he didn't get you," observed the trapper, dryly. "Now, I'll make a drag. Twenty-five or thirty pounds of cat meat would be a little too much ter carry."
Yardsley strode forward, and selecting an ash of suitable thickness—of course it was a mere sapling—quickly felled and trimmed it. Then he cut it into two pieces of equal length.
"Pitch in an' get me some short bits fur the cross-bars, cap'n," he said, handing Bob the hatchet. "We'll have it fixed in a minute."
As soon as Bob Somers had complied with his request, the trapper laid the two pieces of ash parallel on the ground, then three cross-bars were quickly fastened in place.
"Want anything better than that?" he demanded, with a grin. "I'll jest cut them 'ere ends, so's ter make 'em lift off the snow like runners."
"Have you a rope to pull it with?" asked Bob.
"Catch John Yardsley a-comin' out unprepared? I reckon not. Guess we'd better hit the trail fur camp," he added.
The wildcat, otter and other game were securely attached to the drag, which was not difficult to pull over the snow-crusted ground.