The trapper gazed at the hound long and earnestly as if to read his mind, and then he answered thoughtfully: 

“No—­he warn’t none of our folks, Mr. Thayor—­one o’ them gunners, I guess.  They all know the old dog.  And now,” continued the old man, “I presume, likely, arter we’ve washed up a mite, we’d better be makin’ tracks for home.  I’m gittin’ hollerer ’n a gourd.  How be you, friend; hongry?”

“Hungry as a wolf,” returned Thayor, still beaming over his good luck.

The Clown now appeared, and drawing his heavy knife, began dressing the buck.

“Here, Freme,” cried the trapper, when the deer had been quartered, “that’s yourn,” and he slung the forequarters over the Clown’s neck.  “Ride nice?” asked the old man.  “Kinder hefty, ain’t it, Freme?”

“Wall, it ain’t no ear-ring,” laughed the Clown, shifting his burden to a finer balance.

“I’ll take the hind quarters,” said Thayor, straddling them across his neck, as the Clown had done, and with his own and Thayor’s rifle spliced to the buck’s head, the Clown led the way back to camp.

* * * * *

Some mornings after the hunt, during which Thayor had become so saturated with the life about him that the very thought of his work at home was distasteful, the banker called Holcomb to one side, and the two took their seats on a fallen tree, sections of which had warmed their tired and rain-soaked bodies more than once during his stay in the wilderness.

The open-air life—­the excitement of the hunt—­the touch of the cool woods, had removed from Thayor’s mind every lingering doubt of his future plans.  With the same promptness which characterized all his business transactions, he decided to return to New York the next day.

“Billy,” began the banker, when he had settled himself comfortably, and lighted his cigar, “do you suppose Skinner can get a despatch out for me in the morning?”

“Yes, he might,” replied Holcomb.

“Well, will you please see that he does then?  And, Billy, one thing more—­how many acres did you tell me the other day there was as far as we can see?” and he waved his hand to the stretch below him.

“About fifteen thousand, sir.”

“Well, that will do for a beginning.  I’m going to settle here, Billy, permanently—­all my life.  I want you to start to-morrow and find out who owns, not only this fifteen thousand acres, but what lies next to it.  I’m going to buy if I can, and you’re the man to help me.”

“But, Mr. Thayor,” faltered the young woodsman.

“No—­there are no buts.  I am not buying timber land, you understand, in the ordinary way, to destroy it.  I want this beautiful country to be my own.  No,” he added smiling, “our own, Billy.  That’s the better way to put it.”

“I’ll do my best,” replied Holcomb simply, when he got his breath.  “It’s a big purchase and I must go slowly.”