“Sh!” exclaimed Hope-Jones, suddenly, then—“Drop down, fellows!”
“Look over there, in that clump of trees.”
They saw something moving under the branches, then a form stood still.
“It’s a deer. I suppose it’s the Peruvian taruco. Can you bring it down at this distance, Ferguson? If we go nearer, we shall probably see our supper bound away.”
“I’ll try, but it’s a good range; almost six hundred yards, don’t you think?”
“Then I’ll adjust the sights for seven hundred.”
He threw himself flat on the grass, pushed his rifle before him, resting the barrel on a stone, took aim for a minute, then fired. The deer sprang into the open, gave a second bound, rising from all four hoofs, and, twisting convulsively, fell dead.
“Bravo! At the first shot!” yelled Hope-Jones, and jumping up, he ran forward, closely followed by the others.
“Fortunately I hunted quite a little when a lad in the States,” said Ferguson, whipping out a long knife and cutting the animal’s throat. “In a half hour we can skin it,” he added.
“Say, fellows, I have an idea. What better place can we camp than here?” asked Hope-Jones.
They were near a grove of tall trees, the bark of which was white, and in marked contrast with the dense green foliage. These were the palo de sangre, or blood-wood of the upper Marañon, from which is taken timber of a red color that is fine-grained, hard, and receives a good polish. The trees were not many in number, but they arched over a little brook, and tall grass grew between the trunks.
“It’s a splendid spot,” replied Ferguson, “and I have another plan to add as an amendment to yours.”
“No; I think we should gain thereby. I confess that I’m dead tired. The first day’s tramp always tells the most. Besides, we had a wearisome trip on the railroad, and for a week before leaving Callao we were continually on the jump. So a day’s rest from tramping will do us all good; but I don’t mean to idle away the time, for we can find plenty to do.”
“Cut up that deer and smoke some strips of the flesh to carry with us. We may not always be so lucky, and smoked venison isn’t at all bad when one’s hungry.”
The amendment was accepted, and they at once went into camp.
It lacked two hours of sundown. The air was pleasant and warm, and the sweet odor from flowers was carried to their nostrils by a light breeze. Hope-Jones cleared a space for the tent and cut props for the canvas. Harvey fetched water from the brook and gathered firewood; and Ferguson, rolling up his sleeves, commenced to skin the deer, then cut a large steak from the loin. In an hour a bed of live coals was glowing, and, using a ramrod for a spit, the Ohioan commenced to broil the venison. Soon savory odors rose, and Hope-Jones and Harvey stood quite near, smacking their lips.