Upon a gravelly bank which a combination of circumstances had kept partially free from snow was a flock of geese.
As it was still too far off to make it worth while to risk a shot, the hunters, scarcely breathing, crept slowly on.
Finally Yardsley paused. He looked at the boys, nodded, and raised his gun, the others instantly following suit. A roar, as the reports blended in one tremendous volume of sound, fairly deafened them all; the separated wreaths of smoke joined into a bluish cloud, while the eager hunters dashed quickly forward.
Swiftly flying against the clear blue sky, could be seen all of the flock that had escaped the massacre, and there, on the ground, lay many birds—ten in all.
"This here is Goose Lake, an' them is geese," remarked Yardsley, dryly.
A loud cheer followed his words.
"Simply great, isn't it?" cried Nat, enthusiastically.
"And all big fellows, too," commented Bob Somers, gleefully. "We'll have a feast fit for a king."
It was unanimously decided to return at once to camp.
It was a long, toilsome tramp, and the sun hung low on the horizon when Yardsley's log cabin at length came in view.