"Were we ever in this neighborhood before?" questioned Dave, after a
silence of several minutes.

"Yes, I was up here three or four years ago," answered his cousin, who, as
my old readers know, was a natural-born hunter and woodsman. "Got a deer
right over yonder." And he pointed with his hand. "The one I hit plumb in
the left eye."

"Oh, yes, I remember that," came from Dave. "It was a prime shot. Wish I
could do as well sometime."

"You needn't complain, Dave. You've done better than lots of men around
here. Some of 'em can't shoot anything at all. They are farmers and nothing
else."

"Well, we'll all have to turn farmers sooner or later--after the best of
the game is killed off."

"Has your father said anything about going out to his trading-post on the
Kinotah again?"

"Nothing more than what you heard him say on New Year's day--that he would
go as soon as the weather got warm enough, and it was considered safe."

"I wish I could go out with you. I really believe I could make some money,
bringing in pelts,--more money than I can make by staying here."

"Perhaps you could, Henry, and, oh, I wish you could go!" went on Dave
impulsively. "Wouldn't we have the best times, though!"