Part 8 (1/2)

”Got your compa.s.s, Max?” asked his cousin.

”It's O.K.,” replied the other, touching his pocket, suggestively.

”D-d-don't forget your g-g-grub,” said Toby.

”Both of us got the snack of lunch stowed away,” Steve made answer, as he pointed to the bulging side of his khaki hunting coat that had a game pocket running all the way around inside, ”big enough almost to stow a deer in,” Steve had laughingly declared.

”But I hardly think Max would ever need a compa.s.s,” Bandy-legs observed.

”You know he never yet was lost in the woods.”

”Glad to hear that, son,” remarked Trapper Jim.

”Sure thing,” Bandy-legs went on to say, ”Max, he can tell the points of the compa.s.s by the bark or the green moss on the trees, by the way the trees lean, and lots of other ways; can't you, Max!”

But the other only smiled, as though he thought there was no need of his wasting breath when, as Steve declared, he could have a loyal chum ”blow his horn” for him.

”All ready here, Max,” announced Steve, anxious to start.

So, with a few parting words the two hunters left the vicinity of the cabin in the forest. The others were just about ready to start out to learn what the various traps contained.

”Don't forget about that bear, Uncle Jim!” shouted Steve.

”I sure won't,” answered the old man, waving his hand.

”If he's been back over that trail you'll lug out Old Tom and give him a chance to earn his keep, won't you!” pursued Steve.

”That's right, I will.”

Satisfied with the answer, Steve followed after Max.

Now, although Steve had shot quail and ducks, rabbits and squirrels, he was not a big-game hunter. As yet he had to secure his first deer. And as the sporting instinct was coming on very markedly in the boy, he was anxious to be able to say he had shot a ”lordly” buck.

It was always that, with Steve, whenever he boasted of the great things he intended doing on a projected hunt. No ordinary doe seemed ever to enter into his calculations at all.

”And a five-p.r.o.nged buck, too,” he declared. ”I wouldn't waste my precious time with anything less.”

Knowing that Max had had more or less experience in the line of hunting, Steve was secretly pleased to take lessons. There might be times when Steve was inclined to boast that he knew it all; but when out with Max he felt that this style of bluff would not go.

They headed in the direction the trapper had laid out for them. Since the old man had spent many years around this region it stood to reason that he ought to know a good deal concerning the places where game was most likely to be found.

”Think we'll get one, Max?” asked Steve, after they had been walking for nearly a full hour through the forest.

”It's a toss-up,” replied the other; ”hunting always is, because you never know whether the game is there or not. And even if you are lucky enough to start something, perhaps you'll fail to bring it down.”

Steve laughed incredulously.

”Trust me to do that same,” he avowed, ”if only I can get my peepers on a five-p.r.o.nged buck. Think of what I've got in the barrels of my gun, Max, twelve separate bullets in each sh.e.l.l, and propelled by nearly four drams of powder. Wow! I'd sure hate to be the luckless deer that stood up before all that ammunition.”

”Especially when the keen eye and sure hand of Steve Dowdy is back of it all,” chuckled Max.