The Gun Club Boys of Lakeport

One day all of the boys went gunning deep into the woods back of the shelter. They went on their snowshoes, and managed to scare up eight rabbits, four squirrels, and seven partridges. It was a beautiful day for such sport, and in addition to bringing down his share of the game, Harry procured several photographs, one showing Joe in the act of bringing down two partridges with one shot.

“That will prove that you are an out-and-out hunter, Joe,” said Harry, after the snap shot was taken. “They can’t go back on a picture.”

“Oh, you must remember, there are lots of trick photos,” said Joe, with a laugh. “Don’t you remember that one we saw of a man shooting at himself?”

“Yes,” put in Link, “and I once saw a picture of a man riding himself in a wheelbarrow. But we can all testify that this is no trick photo.”

Sunday the boys took it easy, and it was a rest well earned and well needed.

“Now for the last of our outing,” sighed Harry. “This week will wind it up.”

“Let us look at the traps,” came from Bart, and he and Link and Fred did so, and found in them two rabbits and a squirrel. There were also signs of a wolf around two of the traps, but they did not catch sight of the beast.

“I fancy that wolf wanted to get one of our rabbits,” said Link. “Perhaps we scared him off just in time.”

“I want nothing to do with wolves,” said Bart. “If they’ll let me alone, I’ll let them alone.”

A couple of days later old Runnell came in somewhat excited. “Unless I am greatly mistaken, I have seen the track of a moose,” he said. “I am going to follow up the tracks. Who wants to go along?”

Who? All of them, and they said so in chorus, while each reached for his gun. Old Runnell made them put on their snowshoes and fill their game bags with provisions.

“We may be gone until to-morrow,” he said. “Running down a moose is no easy thing, even if the snow is deep.”

The route lay along the shore and then across the lake to the mainland. They struck the shore at a point where the pines were heavy, and Joe Runnell showed the young hunters where the moose had stopped to feed.

“He’s after some tender bark,” said the old hunter. “See how he nosed around in the snow for it.”

After a brief rest they continued their journey, but night found the game still out of sight, and they had to go into camp in the best shelter they could find.

“Never mind,” said Harry. “A moose isn’t to be found here every day.”

“No, nor every week, either,” added old Runnell. “So far I haven’t heard of a single one being brought down this winter.”

They were up again before sunrise and following the tracks as before. These now led up a rise of ground and Joel Runnell went in advance.

“The tracks are getting fresher,” he announced. “I don’t think he’s a mile off at the most.”

They went on for a short distance farther, and then Joe put up his hand.

“Hark!” he said, in a low voice. “What sort of a noise is that?”

They listened, and from a distance heard a scraping and sawing that was most unusual.

“We’ve got him!” said old Runnell. “That’s the moose rubbing himself on a tree.”

He crept forward, with the others close behind. Soon they came to a little opening in the forest. Here were several rocks backed up by a clump of hemlocks. Against one of the hemlocks stood a tall, magnificent moose, with wide-spreading antlers. He had been scraping his back on the rough bark, and now he proceeded to repeat the operation.

“You boys can all fire at the same time,” whispered Joel Runnell. “I’ll wait and see what you can do.” And giving them time to take aim, he gave the signal.

The guns rang out together almost as one piece, causing a tremendous report to echo throughout the forest, and filling the little opening with smoke.

“You’ve got him!” shouted Joel Runnell, with as much joy in his voice as if he had brought the game down himself. And when the smoke lifted they saw the moose totter and pitch headlong. Once, twice the animal tried to rise up, then over he went with a thud on the rocks, gave a kick or two, and lay still.

With loud shouts of triumph the young hunters rushed in. But old Runnell held them back.

“Beware,” he cried. “He may give a last kick that will split some one’s head open. Wait!” And they waited until they were certain that life was extinct.

“What a beautiful haul!” came from Bart. “And see, every one of us hit him in the neck and breast.”

“I’m glad we didn’t hit him in the face,” said Joe. “We can mount that head and it will be something fine.”

“Yes, but who is to keep it?” asked Harry.

“We can take turns,” was the answer, and this caused a laugh.

To get such large game back to the camp at Needle Rock was not easy, and it took them until long after nightfall to cover the distance, and then all were thoroughly exhausted. The moose was placed in a safe place, and they retired without taking the trouble to cook a regular supper.

CHAPTER XXX

THE FIND – END OF THE OUTING

Noon of the next day found Joe walking along the lake shore some distance below the camp. On the outing the day before he had lost a glove and he was trying to locate it in the snow.

“I’m pretty sure I dropped it somewhere along here,” he told himself. “I know I had it on just before we came to those bushes yonder.”

He was still some distance from the bushes when he espied a dark object hanging from one of the branches, among some dried leaves. Thinking it was either the lost glove or the remains of an old bird’s nest, he went over to investigate. The next instant he set up a shout of joy:

“The pocketbook! The pocketbook at last!”

He was right; the pocketbook was there, hanging down from the long string which had been wrapped around it – a dingy, brown affair, well worn at all of the corners and containing two pockets.

With a heart that thumped wildly in his breast, Joe took hold of the pocketbook to examine it. Scarcely had he done so when he gave a groan and his hopes fell as rapidly as they had risen.

The pocketbook was empty. It contained absolutely nothing at all.

“Sold!” he muttered, laconically. “Sold, and just when I thought I had it!”

“What have you found, Joe?” came in Harry’s voice, and a moment later his brother came up.

“Here is Hiram Skeetles’ pocketbook – but it is empty.”

“You don’t say!” Harry looked at the object a moment. “Was it hanging like that when you first saw it?”

“Yes.”

“Then perhaps the contents dropped out, or was shaken out by the wind.”

“To be sure.” Joe went down on his knees at the roots of the bush and began to scrape away the snow. “I hope we do find something.”