They headed in the direction the trapper had laid out for them. Since the
old man had spent many years around this region it stood to reason that
he ought to know a good deal concerning the places where game was most
likely to be found.

"Think we'll get one, Max?" asked Steve, after they had been walking for
nearly a full hour through the forest.

"It's a toss-up," replied the other; "hunting always is, because you
never know whether the game is there or not. And even if you are lucky
enough to start something, perhaps you'll fail to bring it down."

Steve laughed incredulously.

"Trust me to do that same," he avowed, "if only I can get my peepers on a
five-pronged buck. Think of what I've got in the barrels of my gun, Max,
twelve separate bullets in each shell, and propelled by nearly four drams
of powder. Wow! I'd sure hate to be the luckless deer that stood up
before all that ammunition."

"Especially when the keen eye and sure hand of Steve Dowdy is back of it
all," chuckled Max.

"Oh, well, I don't want to boast, you know, Max, 'cause I might happen to
make a foozle out of it. I was only speaking of the hard-hitting
qualities of this little double-barreled Marlin of mine, that's all."

"Well, we must wait and see," said Max. "Perhaps you'll make good right
in the start; and then, again, something might throw you down. The proof