Nor did he let the undergrowth rustle, as he slipped through it, and Ross regarded him with silent approval.

"A born woodsman," he said to himself.
A mile from the camp they stopped at the crest of a little hill, thickly clad with forest and undergrowth, and looked down into the glade beyond.
Here they saw several deer grazing, and as the wind blew from them toward the hunters they had taken no alarm.
"Pick the fat buck there on the right," whispered Ross to Henry.
Henry said not a word.

He had learned the taciturnity of the woods, and leveling his rifle, took sure aim.

There was no buck fever about him now, and, when his rifle cracked, the deer bounded into the air and dropped down dead.

Ross, all business, began to cut up and clean the game, and with Henry's aid, he did it so skillfully and rapidly that they returned to the camp, loaded with the juicy deer meat, by the time the fire and everything else was ready for them.
Henry and Paul ate with eager appetites and when supper was over they wrapped themselves in their blankets and lay down before the fire under the trees.