Then Hal caught one with a swoop of the landing net. It was a beautiful fish, and it did have a blue tail. Pepe could not name it, nor could Ken classify it, so Hal was sure he had secured a rare specimen. When the boat drifted round a bend to enter another long, wide, shallow rapid, the boys demurred a little at the sameness of things. The bare blue bluffs persisted, and the line of gray-veiled cypresses and the strange formation of stream-bed. Five more miles of drifting under the glaring sun made George and Hal lie back in the boat, under an improvised sun-shade. The ride was novel and strange to Ken Ward, and did not pall upon him, though he suffered from the heat and glare. He sat on the bow, occasionally kicking the boat off a rock. All at once a tense whisper from Pepe brought Ken round with a jerk. Pepe was pointing down along the right-hand shore. George heard, and, raising himself, called excitedly: “Buck! buck!” Ken saw a fine deer leap back from the water and start to climb the side of a gully that indented the bluff. Snatching up the .351 rifle, he shoved in the safety catch. The distance was far--perhaps two hundred yards--but without elevating the sights he let drive. A cloud of dust puffed up under the nose of the climbing deer. “Wow!” yelled George, and Pepe began to jabber. Hal sprang up, nearly falling overboard, and he shouted: “Give it to him, Ken!” The deer bounded up a steep, winding trail, his white flag standing, his reddish coat glistening. Ken fired again. The bullet sent up a white puff of dust, this time nearer still. That shot gave Ken the range, and he pulled the automatic again--and again. Each bullet hit closer. The boys were now holding their breath, watching, waiting. Ken aimed a little firmer and finer at the space ahead of the deer--for in that instant he remembered what the old hunter on Penetier had told him--and he pulled the trigger twice. The buck plunged down, slipped off the trail, and, raising a cloud of dust, rolled over and over. Then it fell sheer into space, and whirled down to strike the rock with a sodden crash. It was Ken’s first shooting on this trip, and he could not help adding a cry of exultation to the yells of his admiring comrades. “Guess you didn’t plug him!” exclaimed Hal Ward, with flashing eyes. Wading, the boys pulled the boat ashore. Pepe pronounced the buck to be very large, but to Ken, remembering the deer in Coconino Forest, it appeared small. If there was an unbroken bone left in that deer, Ken greatly missed his guess. He and Pepe cut out the haunch least crushed by the fail. “There’s no need to carry along more meat than we can use,” said George. “It spoils overnight. That’s the worst of this jungle, I’ve heard hunters say.” Hal screwed up his face in the manner he affected when he tried to imitate old Hiram Bent. “Wal, youngster, I reckon I’m right an’ down proud of thet shootin’. You air comin’ along.”