He picked up a heavy stick and threw it into the thicket. With a whirling of wings a big covey of quail rose up from its center.
Walter fired one barrel after the other into the middle of the flock.
"Good!" exclaimed McCarty. "You got a dozen at least. Watch where the balance light. Here, Bob, fetch 'em out."
The dog rushed forward, but stopped at the edge of the thicket.
"Fetch 'em out, Bob; fetch 'em out," encouraged the lad, but the dog turned back with drooping tail.
"There's something wrong in there," declared McCarty; "something the dog is afraid of."
"Well, I'm going in and get my quail," Walter said. "I'm not going to be cheated out of the first quail I ever killed."
"Hold on," said McCarty, "there's no telling what you may run up against. The thicket isn't over fifty feet across. Let's set fire to both sides of it, and one of us stand by each end. We ought to be able to kill whatever it is as it comes out."
"Good," Walter agreed. "I'll take my stand by this end, and you can take yours by the other."