Swiftly and deftly he slit the beautiful skin the length of the body, and then did likewise on each leg. So skilful was the young hunter that in a brief time he had drawn back the skin sufficiently to cause him to call to his companion, "Come here and help me."

Together the two boys then tore the skin from the body, and young Boone rolled the panther's hide into a small, compact bundle. He tied this securely with a deerskin thong, and then added it to his burden.

At once the boys began to run swiftly to regain the distance they had lost. They had not advanced far, however, before they saw some one approaching them on the trail.

"'Tis as I thought," said James Boone with a smile. "Our guns have 'roused our friends."

"That's Sam Oliver."

"I see it is," replied James.

Neither of the boys spoke again as the man rapidly approached them. Both knew him as one of the hunters of the company, and as one whose labours chiefly were confined to that field.

Sam was perhaps fifty years of age, tall, rawboned, sunburned, with an expression of face not unpleasing, and a frequent twinkle in his eyes.

As for felling the trees or building the houses of logs, Sam was willing for others to a.s.sume those labours, and whatever honours might accrue from such tasks. For himself he much preferred to do his part by supplying the band with game.

Frequently the two boys had gone with the trapper when he had made the rounds of his traps, and in the warm days of summer nothing had delighted either more than to accompany him into the forest, where they were interested in the weird, and at times fantastic, tales Sam related of his personal adventures, and also of the characteristics of the denizens of the forest.

"What's wrong, lads?" inquired the hunter as he approached.

"Nothing is wrong now," laughed Peleg. "We shot a painter back here. And there is its hide," he added as he pointed with pride to the bundle which was suspended from his companion's shoulders.

Glancing at the object to which his attention had been directed, Sam whistled and then said, "Seen any more?"

"No, sir."

"Seen any signs o' redskins?"

"No, sir. Have you seen any?"

"That's for the King to say," replied the hunter, laughing in apparent heartiness, though no sound escaped his lips.

The expression, "that's for the King to say," was one that fell so frequently from the lips of Sam Oliver that both boys understood what he meant. It was his method of evading a direct reply to any question he did not wish to answer.

"All of which means," said James, "that you _have_ seen some redskins."

"A few signs. Nothing very bad, and nothing that should be spoken of by either of you. In course we are bound to find the varmints following us, but I don't think they will attack us if we are on our guard. We must do our best, and after that there is no good in trying to do anything more.

Your father says everything that happens is right, or it wouldn't be.

Strange," he added, as he again looked at the panther's skin which James Boone was carrying, "strange that you should have got him so easy. I have known the time when it would have taken half-dozen bullets to put an end to a fighting painter."

"Have you shot a good many of them?" inquired Peleg.

"Oh, a few, a few," replied the hunter. "The strangest sight I ever see was one time when I was followin' three o' the varmints. They led me a hard chase, and it was two days before I caught up with them, and when I did, I almost wished I had not."

"Why?"

"I will tell you. When I came near a big open s.p.a.ce there in the woods I heard the worst screechin' I ever heard in my life. You simply cannot describe it. They were snarlin' and spittin' and screamin' and growlin', and sometimes it seemed as if they were doin' all four things at once.

My first thought was that this was no place for Sam Oliver. It sounded like a hundred painters were fightin' to the death. I reckon I did turn back a little way, but the screechin' and the screamin' kep' up so that I finally decided that I must find out what was goin' on."

"What was it?" inquired Peleg.

"When I crep' up close to the clearin' and peeped out I saw two painters a-fightin'. They were crouchin' on the ground facin' each other and callin' each other every name they could think of in painter language. I did not know what had happened to the third painter, but I knew I ought not to stay there long. But all at once the two varmints leaped at each other and a minute later they were in such a plight that you would not have known what kind of beasts they was. They had ripped and torn and clawed and scratched and bit each other until it did not seem as if what was left could hang together. Then all at once one of them got the other fellow by the throat and it wasn't long before he said good-bye."

"Did you shoot him?" asked Peleg.

"No, for just then I heard a noise right behind me and when I looked back I see the third painter creepin' toward me and I fired at it and ran. Somehow I managed to get away, and next day I went back to the scene o' battle but I could not find anythin' there except the dead painter. The others had gone. I had been so long trailin' them that I thought I wouldn't follow any further. But if I live to be a hundred years old I shall never forget that there fight I saw between those two big cats! There are some animals," continued the hunter, "that seem to have reg'lar feuds, jest like fam'ly troubles. They may fight one another once in a while, but they will make up to fight the enemies of the fam'ly every time they get a chance."

"What do you mean?" asked Peleg.

"Well, for instance, there's the beaver and the otter. They seem to have had a declaration of war from the very beginning same as cats and dogs.

I see a beaver house one day las' winter standin' right in the middle o'

the pond which the beavers had made. You know they build a long tube right up through the centre o' the floor which looks somethin' like a chimney. The top o' this one was about four feet higher than the floor, and it was a good two feet through. The water round their house came almost to the top of the door. Mr. Beaver, when he wanted to go into his house, used to dive and come up through the tube, then he would shake himself, and slide down to his floor, which was always dry. It was always warm, too, for even in the coldest weather the water all round the house kep' it from freezin'. I reckon this particular fam'ly was pretty well provided for because they were all fat. Leastwise they looked as if they might have been, though they were dead when I saw them."

"How was that?" inquired Peleg.

"Why, the otter had gone after them."

"Into their house?"

"No! No! No otter would ever dare do that. In a fight in a place like that the beaver, which has such strong teeth and is such a strong little brute anyway, would have the advantage every time. The otter works in 'nother way. The beaver fam'ly had been busy all through the summer hidin' their strips o' poplar and birch and willows in the bottom o' the lake which they had made. They intended to have their easy time in the winter, and they do, too, unless some otters happen along.

"In this case I am tellin' you about, a couple o' otters had tried to break into the house, but the walls was hard as granite. If the otter can only get the beaver into the water he can catch him easily, because the otter is as quick as a fish. So the beaver simply works on the defensive and builds a house strong enough to keep out any otter that may happen along. But pretty soon the otters begin to look into the beavers' dam. By and by, when they find a weak spot, where they can work a hole straight through, they begin their job. When the weather is not too cold and the ice not too thick, just as soon as the water in the lake begins to drop a little, then the beavers begin to hunt for the leak. But when the water falls fast and there is a covering of ice all over the lake and sometimes the ice caves in, you see the beavers then cannot get their provisions, and the inside o' their houses is as cold as it is outside.

"The otters have a reg'lar course they follow, goin' from one place to 'nother and making their rounds 'bout every ten days to two weeks. I reckon in the case o' this beaver fam'ly I am tellin' you about that the otters came back in a fortnight or so and found the beavers all dead or in no shape to fight. Here comes Daniel Boone himself," the hunter exclaimed suddenly, "and I reckon you boys will have to explain to him what you meant by your shots back yonder."

CHAPTER III

THE HUNT FOR GAME

At the words of the hunter the boys looked up and saw the scout approaching. He was a tall, lean man, quiet in his bearing, in the prime of middle life, and with every indication of self-control, as well as of strength, stamped upon his face and form. His expression showed that he was anxious concerning the shots which had been fired, but as he drew near the boys he was not the first to speak. Peleg's admiration was manifest in the manner in which the young pioneer looked up to the great leader, though the boy, like others of his day and age, seldom spoke to his elders unless first they had spoken to him.

In response to the question which was expressed in the eyes of Daniel Boone, rather than in words, Sam Oliver said quietly, "The boys shot a painter."

There was a slight smile on the face of Daniel Boone as he said, "Did they? Was it necessary?" he added, as he turned to his son.

"Yes, sir," replied young Boone. "The varmint was just ready to spring on Peleg. He was crouching on the branch of a tree directly over him, and if I had not fired he would have had him."

"It must be right. You know," added Boone quietly, smiling again as he spoke, "I am one of those who believe that whatever happens is right."

"And yet," suggested the hunter, "you don't stop tryin' for yourself, nor for others, either."

"Not at all," answered the scout. "A man must follow the best light he can get and then, beyond that, where he cannot go, he must believe that things do not 'happen.' I have heard some men blame their 'luck' for what befell them. I have never thought there was any such thing as 'luck.' The trouble is we do not always see the connection in events, and in our ignorance we say a thing 'happens.' I am sorry the boys had to shoot the painter."

"I never knew," laughed the loquacious Sam, "that you had any sympathy to waste on those critters."