That's the feedin' greound. There's a deep
gorge cut right inter that hill, back 'o the pint. The gorge has a
pooty smooth rocky bed. In the spring o' the year, there's a brook
runs through there and pours inter the river jest below. But it's all
dry neow, and the deer, as a gen'al thing scramble eout of their
feedin' place into this gorge and foller it deown to the river to git
their drink. It brings 'em eout jest below the pint. We have got neow
to cross over to the pint, huggin' the bank, so the critters shan't
see us, and take a shot from there. Git yer piece ready, Captin. Ef
there's tew, or more, I'll hev the fust shot and you the second. Don't
speak, arter we git on to the pint, the leastest word".
"I understand", said John, as he examined his rifle, to see that all
was right.
"Now for it", said Micah, as having finished their arrangements, they
entered the canoe.
Silently, they paddled along, sheltered from observation by the little
wooded promontory and following as nearly as possible the crankling
river as it indented into the land. In a few minutes, they landed and
proceeded noiselessly to get a view of the bank below.
After a moment's reconnoitre, John turned his face towards Micah with
a look of blank disappointment.
But Micah looked cool and expectant. He merely pointed up the rocky
gorge and said under his breath--
"'T aint time to expect 'em yet. The wind, what there is on it, is
favorable tew,--it blows right in our faces and can't kerry any smell
of us to 'em.
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