ond shot had
broken a hind leg. The scratching places he had made were efforts to
regain the use of this limb, and at one of them the deer had fallen and
parted the rag of skin by which the antler hung.

It was Rolf's first important trailing on the ground; it showed how
possible it was, and how quickly he was learning the hardest of all the
feats of woodcraft.

Chapter 49. Rolf Gets Lost

Every one who lives in the big woods gets lost at some time. Yes, even
Daniel Boone did sometimes go astray. And whether it is to end as a joke
or a horrible tragedy depends entirely on the way in which the person
takes it. This is, indeed, the grand test of a hunter and scout, the
trial of his knowledge, his muscle, and, above everything, his courage;
and, like all supreme trials, it comes without warning.

The wonderful flocks of wild pigeons had arrived. For a few days in May
they were there in millions, swarming over the ground in long-reaching
hordes, walking along, pecking and feeding, the rearmost flying on
ahead, ever to the front. The food they sought so eagerly now was
chiefly the seeds of the slippery elm, tiny nuts showered down on wings
like broad-brimmed hats. And when the flock arose at some alarm, the
sound was like that of the sea beach in a storm.

There seemed to be most pigeons in the low country southeast of the
lake, of course, because, being low, it had most elms. So Rolf took
his bow and arrows, crossed in the canoe, and confidently set about
gathering in a dozen or two for broilers.

It is amazing how well the game seems to gauge the range of your weapon
and keep the exact safe distance. It is marvellous how many times you
may shoot an arrow into a flock of pigeons and never kill one. Rolf went
on and on, always in sight of the long, straggling flocks on the ground
or in the air, but rarely within range of them. Again and again he fired
a random shot into the distant mass, without success for two hours.
Finally a pigeon was touched and dropped, but it rose as he ran forward,
and flew ten yards, to drop once more. Again he rushed at it, but it
fluttered out of reach and so led him on and on for about half an hour's
breathless race, until at last he stopped, took deliberate aim, and
killed it with an arrow.

Now a peculiar wailing and squealing from the woods far ahead attracted
him. He stalked and crawled for many minutes before he found out, as he
should have known, that it was caused by a mischiev