“That’s a buck’s ear,” he replied.

Hardly had he finished speaking when Wetzel intentionally snapped a twig.  There was a crash and commotion in the thicket; branches moved and small saplings waved; then out into the open glade bounded a large buck with a whistle of alarm.  Throwing his rifle to a level, Joe was trying to cover the bounding deer, when the hunter struck up his piece.

“Lad, don’t kill fer the sake of killin,” he said, quietly.  “We have plenty of venison.  We’ll go arter a buffalo.  I hev a hankerin’ fer a good rump steak.”

Half an hour later, the hunters emerged from the forest into a wide plain of waving grass.  It was a kind of oval valley, encircled by hills, and had been at one time, perhaps, covered with water.  Joe saw a herd of large animals browsing, like cattle, in a meadow.  His heart beat high, for until that moment the only buffalo he had seen were the few which stood on the river banks as the raft passed down the Ohio.  He would surely get a shot at one of these huge fellows.

Wetzel bade Joe do exactly as he did, whereupon he dropped on his hands and knees and began to crawl through the long grass.  This was easy for the hunter, but very bard for the lad to accomplish.  Still, he managed to keep his comrade in sight, which was a matter for congratulation, because the man crawled as fast as he walked.  At length, after what to Joe seemed a very long time, the hunter paused.

“Are we near enough?” whispered Joe, breathlessly.

“Nope.  We’re just circlin’ on ’em.  The wind’s not right, an’ I’m afeered they’ll get our scent.”

Wetzel rose carefully and peeped over the top of the grass; then, dropping on all fours, he resumed the advance.

He paused again, presently and waited for Joe to come up.

“See here, young fellar, remember, never hurry unless the bizness calls fer speed, an’ then act like lightnin’.”

Thus admonishing the eager lad, Wetzel continued to crawl.  It was easy for him.  Joe wondered how those wide shoulders got between the weeds and grasses without breaking, or, at least, shaking them.  But so it was.

“Flat now,” whispered Wetzel, putting his broad hand on Joe’s back and pressing him down.  “Now’s yer time fer good practice.  Trail yer rifle over yer back—­if yer careful it won’t slide off—­an’ reach out far with one arm an’ dig yer fingers in deep.  Then pull yerself forrard.”

Wetzel slipped through the grass like a huge buckskin snake.  His long, lithe body wormed its way among the reeds.  But for Joe, even with the advantage of having the hunter’s trail to follow, it was difficult work.  The dry reeds broke under him, and the stalks of saw-grass shook.  He worked persistently at it, learning all the while, and improving with every rod.  He was surprised to hear a swish, followed by a dull blow on the ground.  Raising his head, he looked forward.  He saw the hunter wipe his tomahawk on the grass.