Tom Fairfield's Hunting Trip: or, Lost in the Wilderness

“Of course we four can’t eat all that meat in the short while we’ll be in the woods,” Tom said, “but we can give it to Sam, so it won’t be wasted.”

Tom and his chums had the right idea of hunting, and had no desire to slaughter for the mere savage joy of killing.

“Another rabbit and a few partridges and we’ll have enough to keep the kitchen going the rest of the week,” Bert said, as Tom put the bunny in his bag. “Then all we’ll have to look for will be a bear or a deer.”

But even small game was scarce, it seemed, and though several shots were tried at rabbits at a distance, and though some partridges were flushed, no further luck resulted.

It was growing dusk when Tom suggested that they had better return to camp, and they retraced their steps. However, the rabbit was a large one, and, made into either a stew or potpie, would provide the main dish for their next day’s dinner.

Early in the morning the boys were on the move again. They hunted around the cabin, planning to come back to it at noon for the hot rabbit dinner, and this they did.

The only luck they had was that Bert and George got some fine photographs. But not a rabbit nor a bird fell to their guns that day. Tom scared up a fox, and took several shots at it, hoping he might carry home the skin. But if Reynard were hit he showed no signs of it, and went bounding on through the woods.

“We’ll make a regular hunt of it to-morrow,” decided Tom, as they sat about the cheerful fire in the cabin that night. “We’ll get an early start, take our lunch, a pot to make some coffee over an open fire, and we won’t come back until dark.”

“That’s the talk!” cried Bert.

“This is the best hunting ground, according to what Sam said,” Tom went on, “and we want to put in our best licks here. So we’ll take a whole day to it, and go as far as we can, working north, I think, as the woods seem to be thicker there.”

This met with the approval of the others, and they started out the next morning, equipped for staying several hours in the open. They set out on a new trail, one they had not traveled before, but they had not gone far on it before Tom, who was in the lead, came to a sudden halt, and uttered an exclamation of surprise.

“What’s the matter?” called Jack, who was directly behind him. “See some bear tracks?”

“No, these are Skeel tracks, I should say. Those fellows must be just ahead of us, for the marks seem quite fresh.”

Tom pointed to some impressions in the snow. Among them were footprints showing that same star mark in hob nails.

“I wonder why they’re trailing and following us?” remarked Bert. “It can’t be just for fun.”

“Maybe they don’t know where to look for game, and are depending on us,” suggested George.

“That might be so,” agreed Tom. “But I wish they’d show their hands, and not keep us guessing all the while. It’s getting on my nerves.”

“Well, we’ll keep a lookout for ’em now,” suggested Bert, “and if we see ’em, we’ll give ’em a bit of our minds.”

“Yes, and I’m going to ask Sam Wilson to tell ’em to go,” added Tom. “They haven’t any right here. They may be scaring all the game away, and besides, it’s risky. They may get in the way of our guns, or we come too close to theirs, though I haven’t seen them with either a rifle or a shotgun yet.”

“No they don’t seem to be hunting, but if they aren’t, what in the world are they up here for?” asked Bert.

“That’s what gets me,” remarked Jack. “Well, come on. Time’s too valuable to waste in chinning.”

Once more they took up the trail. The footsteps of the three men, on their mysterious errand, crossed the path of our friends at an angle, and they did not think it wise to follow the marks of the hob nails.

Luck seemed to be better to-day, from the very start, for, before they had gone three miles, they had bagged two rabbits, three squirrels and Jack had a partridge to his credit.

“Enough to keep us from starving,” he said. “Now for bigger game – a deer, at least.”

“I’d like to get a good deer picture,” announced Bert, looking to see that his camera was in working order.

A little later the four boys stood in a small clearing in the woods, wondering which way to go next, for, so far, they had seen no signs of either bear or deer. They hoped it was not so late in the season that all the bears would be enjoying their winter sleep.

Suddenly there was a slight noise over in the underbrush to the left of the clearing.

“I’m going to see what that is!” cried Bert, starting forward with his camera.

“Probably nothing but a rabbit,” said Jack. “And we’ve got enough of the bunnies.”

“Then I’ll take a snapshot; that won’t hurt,” Bert responded.

The others, not much interested, watched him. Softly he went forward, hoping he might get a picture of a rabbit in its native woodland. The sun was just right for a picture.

But, as Bert looked, a deer suddenly came out of the brush, and stood on the edge of the clearing, seemingly unconscious of the presence of the boys. They had seen the beautiful creature, however, and for the moment none of them raised his rifle. Bert’s, indeed, was slung on his back out of the way while he used his camera.

Without speaking, Bert motioned to his chums not to shoot until he had a chance to make a picture. Tom and the others signified that they would hold their fire.

Bert crept up, the deer still unconscious of the presence of its enemies, and the youth soon had the animal in focus. It looked as though it would be a fine photograph.

Suddenly there was another crashing sound in the bushes, and as the boys, startled, turned, they saw a larger deer, with sharp, branching antlers, step from cover just behind Bert. The latter was so intent on getting the photograph that he did not turn to see how he was menaced from the rear.

The male deer, with a snort and a stamping of hoofs, and with lowered head, leaped toward Bert. The animal, evidently thinking its mate in danger, was going to her defense.

“Look out, Bert!” cried Jack, but the warning would have come too late. Bert did not even turn around, for he was on the point of pressing the shutter release of his camera. He had noticed a slight movement on the part of the female deer that indicated she was about to leap into the bushes.

“There, I’ve got you!” cried Bert, as he pressed the bulb.

The next instant he was startled by a snort behind him. He heard a rattle of hoofs, and the voices of his chums crying a warning.

Bert turned to run, but he would not have been in time, except for what happened. A lucky shot on the part of Tom probably saved his friend from severe injury, if not death.

With a sudden motion Tom threw his rifle to his shoulder, took quick aim, and fired.

The male deer went down in a heap, actually turning a somersault, so great was its speed. And it came to rest, breathing its last, almost at Bert’s feet.

CHAPTER XIII

THE CHANGED SIGN

“Say, that was a shot!”

“That’s what! Just in time, too!”

Thus cried Jack and George. Bert was too surprised to utter a word, and Tom was too anxious to make sure he had bagged the first specimen of real game since coming to camp.

But there was no mistake about it. There lay the slain deer, and a fine specimen it was. The one Bert had photographed with his camera had, on the first alarm, darted into the underbrush, and was now far away, doubtless wondering what had happened to her mate.

“Say, why didn’t you fellows tell me what was going on?” asked Bert, as he whirled about and saw what had happened.

“We did,” spoke George.

“There came pretty nearly not being time enough to do anything,” went on Jack. “It was touch and go, Bert, old man. Tom, here, fired just in time.”

“Was it really as close as that?” asked the lad with the camera.

“It certainly was,” Jack assured him. “That deer had it in for you. I guess he thought you were trying to pot his mate with a new-fangled gun, and he made up his mind to stop you.”

“Well, Tom stopped him all right,” spoke George. “Say, it’s a fine specimen!” and he gazed admiringly at the head and horns. “It will make a fine trophy for your room, Tom.”

“I wasn’t thinking so much of that when I fired,” was the modest answer. “I was wondering whether I could bowl him over before he reached Bert with those business-looking horns.”

“And you did, old man. I shan’t forget that!” exclaimed Bert, fervently. “I’ll do as much for you some day, only I’m not as good a shot as you, so don’t take any chances. If a deer or a bear comes after you, run first, and get in a safe place. Then wait for me to shoot at it.”

“It was more luck than anything else that I got him,” Tom said. “If I had stopped to think, I’m sure I’d have had a touch of ‘buck-fever,’ and I wouldn’t have been able to hold my gun steady. But I just up and blazed away.”

“Well, now we’ve got it, what are we going to do with it?” asked Jack. “Shall we trail after the one that got away – the one Bert took a picture of?”

“What’s the use?” asked Bert. “She’s miles away from here now.”

“Besides,” added Tom, “we’ve got more meat here now than we can use in a week. No use killing for fun. I’ve got the head trophy I want, and it will be the turn of you fellows next. I won’t shoot any more deer, though I’ll bag a bear if I can. We don’t want to shoot female deer if we can help it.”

“That’s right,” agreed Jack. “Now let’s decide what to do about this fellow. He’s a big one, and will take some cutting-up.”

The boys were rather dubious about getting the deer’s head off, and taking the best part for food. But they were saved what might have been an unpleasant task by the arrival of Sam Wilson.

“Hello!” cried the guide, as he saw his young friends. “Well, you have had some luck, haven’t you! Is that your first one?”

“Yes,” answered Tom, as he related what had occurred.

“Well, now, that’s the way to do!” Sam cried. “He’s a fine critter, too; good head and horns. I’ve got my pung just outside on the road. I’ll take him along, dress him for you and send the head to an Indian to be mounted. Old Wombo does pretty good work that way.”

“I wish you would have it done,” Tom said. “And take some of the venison yourself. There’s more than we can use.”

“Besides, we’re going to get more deer in a few days,” added George.

“Oh, you are, eh? Well, nothing like being sure,” chuckled the old guide and hunter. “So far, though, you’ve done as well as the men who come up here, so I wouldn’t wonder but what you’d beat ’em. How have you been? Anything happened?”

They told of their experiences in camp, and Tom mentioned Skeel and his cronies.

“Trespassing on these preserves, eh?” exclaimed Sam. “Well, I’ll have to look into that. These lands are posted, and only those who get permission can enter on them, and hunt or fish. I’ll just put a flea in the ears of those fellows, if they don’t look out!”

With the help of the boys, Sam carried the deer out to his waiting pung. He said he had happened to pass near No. 2 Camp, and decided to run in on the chance that the boys might be there.

The deer’s legs were tied together, and then a long pole, cut from the woods, was thrust between them, lengthwise. On the shoulders of the boys and the guide the carcass was taken out to the big sled.

“I’ll bring the meat over to-morrow,” promised Sam, “and the head will be mounted later. It takes a little time.”

“Keep plenty of the venison yourself,” Tom urged.

“Well, just as you say,” was the laughing acceptance. “I haven’t had much chance to do any hunting yet. I’m glad you had a good start of luck.”

“And I hope my picture of the other deer comes out all right,” murmured Bert, his interest, just then, centering in his camera.

“Well, if it hadn’t been for Tom, you might not have come out all right,” said Jack, more than half seriously.

That was the extent of their luck for that day, however, except that both Bert and George secured some fine snapshots. When Sam had departed with the slain deer, the boys found a good place to stop, and build a fire to make coffee. They ate their lunch with such appetites as come only from life in the open, and, having finished, once more they set out on the trail.

But, though Jack, Bert and George each hoped for a repetition of Tom’s luck, in some modified form, it was not to be.

The boy hunters adopted all the suggestions of Sam, in looking for more game, but though they saw signs of it, the game itself had disappeared, at least for the time being.

“But we’ve got other days ahead of us,” suggested Tom. “We don’t have to go back for more than two weeks, and that will give us plenty of chances.”

They reached Camp No. 2 very tired, but satisfied with their day’s trip. And they brought with them appetites that made Jack, who was temporarily doing the cooking, wish his chums had left part of their hunger in the woods.

“What! More beans?” he cried to Bert, who passed his plate for the third time. “Can’t you eat anything but beans?”

“Don’t need to, when they’re cooked as good as this, old man,” was the laughing answer. “That molasses you put in just gave ’em the right flavor.”

“I’ll leave it out next time,” grumbled Jack. “I want a chance to get a bite myself.”

The meal went merrily on, and then came a delightful evening spent in the flickering blaze of the log fire, talking over the events of the day. Bert had developed his picture of the deer, and found that it would make a good print. Tom was dreaming of the time when he would get back the mounted head to hang on the wall of his den at home, as a memento of the trip.

Tom was destined to have other memories of the trip than his deer-head trophy, but he did not know that yet.

A rather heavy fall of snow the next day prevented the boys from going far from the cabin, for they did not want to take any chances on being lost in the storm.

There was no need to go out for food, as they had plenty, and in the afternoon Sam came over with a generous supply of deer meat, so their larder was well supplied.

“When are we going to take in Camp No. 3?” asked Jack of Tom, when Sam had gone back home in his pung sled.

“Well, we can go over there whenever you fellows want to. I don’t believe, from what Sam says, that it’s quite as good hunting ground as this, and I thought maybe you’d want to stay here until you each got a deer’s head.”

“Yes, I guess that would be best,” agreed Bert. “This seems to be the most promising location. And there may be bears around. I heard some animal prowling about the cabin last night.”

“So did I,” confessed George. “Maybe it was Skeel and his crowd,” he added.

“Hardly,” scoffed Tom. “More like it was a fox looking to pick up something to eat that we had thrown out. But we’ll stay around here for a few days longer, and then make a hike for No. 3. We might as well take ’em all in while we’re here. No telling when we’ll get another chance.”

Had the boys known what was in store for them, they would have started for No. 3 Camp at once. But they did not know, and the delay gave the enemies of Tom Fairfield a chance to plan their trick.

For the next day, at some distance from No. 2 Cabin, there might have been seen three men, going along the snow-covered forest trail, in a manner that could only be described as “slinking.” A glance would have disclosed their identities – Skeel, Whalen and Murker.

“Think they’ll soon be on the move?” asked Professor Skeel. “If they don’t take the trail, all our work will be wasted.”

“Well, we’ve got to take some chances,” growled Murker. “If this dodge doesn’t fool ’em, I’ll have to try another. But I think it will. Once we get ’em confused, and off the road, we can separate ’em by some means or other, and deal with Fairfield alone. You leave it to me.”

“Very well,” assented Professor Skeel.

A little farther walk through the woods brought the three conspirators to a cross-road. It was not much traveled in Winter, but in Summer formed a popular highway. The main road led back to the village, where the boys had left the railroad train, and the cross highway connected two towns – Ramsen and Fayetville.

Reaching this signboard, Murker looked around to make sure he was unobserved. Then, with a few blows from a hammer, he knocked off the two signboards. These he reversed, so that the one marked “Seven miles to Ramsen” pointed in just the opposite direction – to Fayetville. The other board he also reversed.

“But it’s the Ramsen one they’ll look at if they come to Camp No. 3,” said Murker, “and they’re almost sure to come. Then we’ll have Fairfield where we want him!”

CHAPTER XIV

THE BEAR’S TRAIL

Bert Wilson was carefully examining his camera, sitting at a table in the cozy quarters of Cabin No. 2, where he and his chums had gathered after the day’s hunt. When he had adjusted the shutter, which had stuck several times of late, thereby spoiling some fine pictures, Bert took up his gun, and began taking that apart to clean it.

“I say! What’s up?” questioned Tom, who was lying lazily on his back on a blanket-covered couch, staring at the flicker of the flames on the ceiling. “Getting ready for an expedition, Bert?”

“Well, I sort of feel it in my bones that I’ll get a bear to-morrow, or a deer anyhow, and I’m taking no chances,” was the answer.

“Going to get the game with your gun or your camera?” asked Jack.

“Both,” was the quick answer. “I’ll snapshot him first and pot him afterward.”

“If he lets you,” laughed George. “But I’d like to see any healthy bear stand for having Bert poke a camera in his face, and then shoot a slug of lead into him.”

“You watch my smoke – that’s all,” said Bert significantly, as he went on cleaning his gun.

“What’s the program for to-morrow?” asked Jack, who, like Tom, was doing nothing, and taking considerable pains at it.

“Well, I thought we’d go off on an all-day hunt again,” was the young host’s answer, for Tom was really in that position, it being on his invitation, through his father, that the boys had come to the hunting camp.

“That idea suits me,” responded Jack. “But take along more grub than we did last time. I was hungry before we got back.”

“Why don’t we shoot what we want to eat?” suggested George. “I never read of a party of hunters having to depend on canned stuff or the grocery when they were really good shots, as we are!” and he puffed himself up with pretended pride. “What’s the use taking a lot of grub along when you can shoot a partridge or two, and broil ’em over the coals of an open fire? Doesn’t that sound good?”

“It sounds a great deal better than it really is,” spoke Tom. “That sort of thing is all right to read about, but I like my game to stand a little after being killed. And it’s hard to dress and get ready anything when you’re on a tramp. So I think we’ll just take our grub along. We’ll have more time for hunting then.”

“That’s right,” assented Jack.

Bert’s interest in his gun prompted George to look after his weapon. Jack and Tom declared theirs were already in perfect shape for the morrow’s sport, providing they saw any game.

“I do wish we’d spot a bear,” said Jack, with an envious sigh.

“Not much chance of that,” came from Tom. “I asked Sam about that, and he said while bears were plentiful in this part of the Adirondacks, at certain seasons, this wasn’t exactly the time for them. They’re probably in their caves, or hollow logs, waiting for Candlemas Day, to come out and look for their shadows.”

“Do you really believe in that superstition – that if a bear, or a ground hog, does see his shadow on that day, there’ll be six weeks more of Winter, and if he doesn’t, there won’t?” asked George.

“There you go again – shooting questions at us!” laughed Tom. “No, I don’t believe it, but lots of folks do.”

“Did Sam say anything about the chances for getting more deer?” Bert wanted to know.

“Well, yes, he admitted there were plenty this year. But I’ve shot mine, so I’m not interested,” Tom said.

“I’m counting on a bear-skin rug to put in front of my bed,” remarked Jack. “Then when I have to jump up in the cold, I can warm my feet before I start to dress.”

“Nothing like comfort,” spoke Bert. “Going to have your bear’s skin tanned with the head on, Jack?”

“Yes, I think I will.”

“Better get your bear first,” said Tom grimly. “Well, let’s lay out plans for to-morrow’s hunt. What trail shall we take? I rather fancy, from what Sam said, that the old lumber road will be best to start on. Maybe we can make Camp No. 3 in the day’s tramp, and do some hunting along the way.”

“That’s rather too much of a risk, isn’t it?” asked Jack. “We could easily make Camp No. 3 in a day’s tramp, if we started out from here early enough, and didn’t waste any time following game trails. But if we try to do any hunting, we’re likely to be delayed. Then we won’t be able to start for camp until late. We may not reach it, and not be able to get back here and then – ”

“Great Scott!” cried Tom. “Have you any more if and but calamities up your sleeve, old man? If you have, trot ’em out. We can make Camp No. 3 all right, and do some hunting, too. Why, it’s a good trail once we get over the mountain and strike the road to Ramsen. That’s what Sam said.”

Tom spoke of going over the mountain, but what he meant was going over the ridge of the highest range which they were then among. For the mountains were all around them, differing in height and rugged appearance only.

“Well, go ahead and let’s try it, then,” said Jack, with a shrug of his shoulders. “And if anything happens, don’t blame me!”

“We won’t, as long as you don’t say ‘I told you so!’” exclaimed Bert. “That always makes me mad.”

“All right – let it go at that,” suggested Tom. “Then we’ll take as much time as we want for hunting to-morrow, and strike for Camp No. 3 when we feel like it. We’ll take along some grub, and make coffee as usual. That sounds good.”

“And I do hope I get a bear – or deer,” murmured Bert. “If I don’t I’m going to – ”

“Hark!” suddenly interrupted Tom. He sat up quickly, in a listening attitude on the couch.

“Nothing but the wind,” murmured George, as a shutter rattled.

“Hark!” ordered Tom again.

There was some sound outside. All the boys heard it plainly, and a dog they had borrowed that day from Sam, to help them in tracking any game on the trail of which they might get, sat up and growled.

“Someone is out there,” said Tom in a whisper.

“Some animal – a skunk, maybe,” suggested Bert. “I’m going to stay in. I don’t like him – not for a scent!” and he laughed at his own joke.

Tom, however, was softly getting up from the couch. He looked fixedly toward one certain window.

“Jack, turn the light out suddenly!” he ordered in a whisper. “Bert, have your gun ready.”

“Do you really think it is – anyone?” asked Bert, as he reached for his gun, which he had finished cleaning, and put together again.

“Someone or – something,” went on Tom, and his voice did not rise above a whisper. He moved slowly over toward the window.

“Here goes the glim!” Jack announced, and at once the cabin was darkened. It took but a minute, however, for the boys’ eyes to become accustomed to the change, and they saw moonlight streaming through the window toward which Tom was moving. The others followed him, walking softly.

“There he goes – it is someone!” hoarsely whispered Bert, and he pointed to a black figure stealing over the snow. It was plainly in sight, for the ground was deeply covered with snow.

“It’s a bear!” George burst out. “It’s a bear! Where’s my gun? Where do you shoot a bear, anyhow? I don’t want to spoil the skin. Say, where’s my gun?”

“Dry up!” ordered Tom sharply. “It isn’t a bear!”

“It is so!” began George. “Where’s my – ”

Before anyone could stop him, or object, Bert had slipped to the door, opened it, and had fired his gun at the retreating black object.

“Look out!” Tom cried. “You might kill him! That’s a man – not a bear, Bert!”

“I know it,” was the calm answer. “I only fired over his head to scare him. Look at him scoot, would you?”

And indeed the black object that George had thought was a bear suddenly straightened up, revealing itself to be a man. He ran with fast strides toward the circle of woods that were all about the hunting cabin. The man reached the shelter of the black trees a little later, and was soon lost to sight.