The young men thanked him warmly for his advice.
“In point of fact,” continued Buell Hampton, “I’ll be up in the same region myself. But I’m travelling light and will have the start of you. Moreover, we can very easily lose each other in that rugged country of rocks and timber. But don’t mistake me for a buck, Roderick, if you catch sight of my old sombrero among the brushwood;” saying which he reached for the broad-brimmed slouch hat hanging against the wall.
“I’ll take mighty good care,” replied Roderick. “But I hope we’ll run up against you, Major, all the same.”
“No, you won’t find me,” answered Buell Hampton, with a quiet smile. “I’ll be hidden from all the world. Follow the deer, young men, and the best of luck to you.”
The two comrades started away in high feather, anticipating great results from the tip given them by the veteran hunter. Going straight to the livery bam, they rigged out three burros, and sent with them one of the stablemen who, besides being a fairly good cook, happened to be familiar with the trail to Spirit River Falls, and also knew the location of the “hunter’s hut” as they found the old log structure indicated by Buell Hampton was locally named.
These arrangements concluded, Roderick and Grant started for the hills. Some half a mile from Encampment they separated—Jones going along the east bank of the South Fork of the Encampment River and Roderick following the North Fork until he came to Conchshell canyon. The day was an ideal one for a deer hunt. There was not a breath of wind. The sky was overcast in a threatening manner as if it were full of snow that was liable to flutter down at the slightest provocation.
As Roderick reached the plateau that constituted the Conchshell ranch he concluded to bear to the left and as he said to himself “Keep away from temptation.” He was out hunting wild deer that day and he must not permit himself to make calls on a sweet-throated songster like Gail. On through the open fields and over the fences and into a thick growth of pines and firs, where he plodded his way through snow that crunched and cried loudly under his feet Indeed the stillness of everything excepting his own walking began to grate on his nerves and he said to himself that surely a whitetailed deer with ordinary alertness could hear him walking even if it were half a mile away.
As he trudged along mile after mile he was very watchful for game or tracks, but nothing stirred, no trace of deer was discernible in any direction. He was following the rim of a hill surmounting some boxlike canyons that led away abruptly to the left, while a smooth field or park reached far to the right where the hills were well covered with timber. Here and there an opening of several acres in extent occurred without bush or shrub.
It was perhaps one o’clock in the afternoon and he was becoming a bit leg-weary. Brushing the snow away from a huge boulder he seated himself for a short rest. Scarcely had he done so than he noticed that occasional flakes of snow were falling. “More snow,” he muttered to himself, “and I am a good ways from a cup of coffee if I am any judge.”
After he was rested he got up and again moved on. Just then, as he looked down into a box canyon, he saw three deer—a doe and two half-grown fawns. Quickly bringing his gun to his shoulder his first impulse was to fire. But he realized that it would be foolish for the animals were at least five hundred yards away and far below the elevation where he was standing.