storing it by the cabin door, and the hunters
did not return until just after sunset. They were empty-handed, but in
high spirits, and had a great tale to tell.

Five miles from camp, Maurice and Peter had come upon the fresh trail
of a moose, and had followed it nearly all day. Toward the middle of
the afternoon, however, they were obliged to give up the chase and turn
back, for they were fully fifteen miles from home.

On the way to the cabin they chanced upon a well-beaten deer trail that
they felt certain must lead to a "yard." It was too late to follow it
that day, but they determined to have a great hunt on the morrow.

Killing yarded deer is not exactly sportsmanlike, and is unlawful
besides; but law is understood to yield to the necessities of the
frontier, and the boys needed the meat badly.

The next morning they were off early. It was clear and cold. A little
wind blew the powdery snow like puffs of smoke from the trees, and the
biting air was full of life. It was impossible to be anything but gay
in that atmosphere; even Fred, oppressed with anxiety as he was, felt
its effect.

The fresh snow was criss-crossed here and there with the tracks of
small animals,--rabbits, foxes, and squirrels,--and now and again a
spruce partridge rose with a roar. These birds were plentiful, and the
boys might have made a full bag if they had ventured to shoot.

It was nearly noon before they reached the deer trail. They followed
it back for some twenty minutes, and came down into a low bottom, grown
up with small birch and poplar. Fred had only the vaguest idea what a
deer yard was like; he half expected a dense huddle of deer in a small,
beaten space, and he was consequently much startled when he suddenly
heard a sound of crashing and running in the thickets.

Macgregor's rifle banged almost in his ear. Maurice fired at the same
instant. Something large and grayish had shot up into view behind a
thicket, and had departed with the speed of an arrow. Peter fired
again at the flying target, and Fred caught a single glimpse of a buck,
with antlered head carried high, vanishing through a screen of birches.

"Hit!" shouted Macgregor, and he ran forward, clicking another
cartridge into his rifle.

They had walked right into the "yard." All round them the snow was
trampled into narrow trails where the herd had moved about, feeding on
the shrubbery. With a little more caution they might have got three or
four