"Don’t you fret, Phil," he said. "My heart was in my mouth, but my bullet didn’t miss. He’s hit hard, and we’ve got nothing to do but follow him by the plain trail he’ll leave. We’ll come to our breakfast in less than ten minutes." Phil soon saw that Breakstone was right. The trail on the other side of the salt spring was plain and red, and presently they found the great stag in a thicket, lying upon his side, stone dead, Bill Breakstone was an adept at cleaning and dressing, and soon the ugly work was over. They always carried matches, and Phil quickly lighted a fire of dry sticks that burned up rapidly and that soon made a fine heap of glowing coals. "Now," said Breakstone, "we’ll cook and eat, then we’ll cook and eat again, then we’ll cook and eat once more." "And I don’t care very much whether Comanches heard the rifle shot or not," said Phil. "It seems to me that when I eat as much as I want I can whip the whole Comanche nation." "I feel that way, too," said Bill Breakstone, "but the Comanches didn’t hear. I know it in my bones. Didn’t I tell you about that streak of luck? Luck’s coming our way now, and the streak will last for awhile." They cut long twigs, sharpened them at the ends, and fried over the coals strips of the deer, which gave out such a rich aroma as they sputtered that the two could scarcely restrain themselves. Yet they did it, they remained white men and gentlemen, and did not guzzle. "Phil," said Bill, before he took a single bite, "I remember about that dinner in New Orleans you were talking of so long ago. I remember about those beautiful oysters, those splendid fish from the gulf, the gorgeous Virginia ham, the magnificent Louisiana turkey; yes, I remember all those magnificent fripperies and frummeries, but it seems to me if they were all set down before us, spread on a service of golden plate, they wouldn’t be finer than what is now awaiting us." "Bill," said Phil with deep emphasis and unction, "you never spoke truer words in your life." "Then lay on, Macduff, and the first who cries ’hold, enough’--well, he won’t be much of a trencherman." They fell to. They did not eat greedily, but they ate long and perseveringly. Strip after strip was fried over the coals, gave out its savory odor, and disappeared. Phil occasionally replenished the fire, adding to the bed of coals, but keeping down the smoke. Bill, stretching his long body on the ground and then propping himself up on his elbow, concluded that it was a beautiful world. "Didn’t I tell you our luck would hold for awhile?" he repeated. "Since we got into the woods, things have come easy. A good bed put itself right in our way, then a deer walked up and asked to be eaten. "The deer It was here. One shot-- In our pot. "We haven’t any pot, but you can use things in a metaphorical sense in order to get your rhyme. That’s what poetry is for." "I’m beginning to feel satiated," said Phil.