At midnight Oscar was tired enough to go to bed. He slept soundly until eight o’clock the next morning; and then awoke, to find that the fire had nearly gone out, that the breakfast that had been prepared for him was cold, and that the guide was missing. “He’s gone out to set some of his traps,” said Oscar to himself, as he drew on his boots and went out to get an armful of wood from the pile in front of the cabin. “He told me last night that that was what he was going to do to-day. Well, I have three or four hours more of hard work before me; and, when it is done, I’ll take a stroll down the valley and see what I can find to shoot at.” In a very few minutes the fire was burning brightly; and, after he had washed his hands and face, and brushed his hair in front of a small mirror that hung on the wall (he never neglected such little things as these simply because he was a hunter, and a hundred miles away from everybody except his guide), Oscar placed the coffee-pot and frying-pan on the coals, and laid the table for his breakfast. He had brought with him a good many things in the way of supplies that Big Thompson had never seen in a hunter’s camp before, such as condensed milk, pressed tea, sugar, self-leavening flour, canned fruits, pickles, onions, beans, and desiccated potatoes. It was just as easy, he thought, to live well, even in that remote region, as it was to keep himself neat in appearance; and he intended to do both. Having eaten a hearty breakfast and set things in order in the cabin, Oscar resumed work upon his specimens; and, by twelve o’clock, the skins of the sheep, as well as those of the wolves, were packed snugly away in one corner, surmounted by the horns he intended to present to his friend, Sam Hynes. This done, he buckled on his cartridge-belt, thrust a hatchet into it, and, taking his rifle down from its place over the door, set out for a hunt by himself. Before deciding on his course, he stopped to see which way the wind was blowing. On glancing at the boughs of the evergreens behind the cabin, he observed that they hung motionless; there did not seem to be a breath of air stirring; but the boy, knowing that there is always more or less motion in the atmosphere, took a hunter’s way of finding out which direction the breeze came from. This he did by moistening his finger in his mouth and holding it above his head. The back of his finger was toward the upper end of the valley; and, as it grew cold almost instantly, Oscar knew that what little wind there was, came from the mountains. He knew, too, that experienced hunters, while seeking for game, always travel against the wind; so, without further hesitation, he shouldered his rifle and started up the valley.