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.
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