As Chet Havens and Digby Fordham mounted into the hills, the country about them became wilder and quite free from signs of man’s habitation. Even the behaviour of the birds and the squirrels was different from their conduct nearer town. “I could knock the head off that fellow,” Dig declared, referring to a big grey squirrel that flirted his tail and chattered in a tall hemlock not far off the trail, “if I only had my little rifle. This thing is a reg’lar elephant gun, Chet,” and he shifted the heavy rifle to his other shoulder. “Knock the head off it, hey?” repeated Chet. “Not a very sportsmanlike way to get a squirrel.” “Huh! I’m not so particular how I get my game, as long as I get it. I don’t claim to be a fancy shot like you, Chet.” “If you were like Davy Crockett, you’d say a squirrel didn’t count in a game score if it wasn’t shot in the eye,” chuckled Chet. “Of course, anybody can shoot the head off a squirrel.” “Whew!” ejaculated Dig. “Do you s’pose Davy always shot his squirrels in the eye? When a fellow wants a mess of squirrel pot-pie I don’t believe he is going to trouble about which end he kills his squirrel at.” “He was a great shot, though,” Chet remarked admiringly. “My grandfather saw him shoot in a match once, and he said Davy Crockett carried off every prize.” “I suppose all the yarns they tell about him are true,” said Digby, his eyes twinkling; “but I always liked that one about his shooting the coon the best.” “What is that?” asked his chum innocently. “Why,” said Dig, “when the coon saw Davy Crockett aiming at him, he sang out: “‘Hol’ on, Mars’ Crockett! Don’ shoot! I’ll come down!’” “That’s a yarn, Dig,” laughed Chet. “But it’s a good one. Come on! Here’s a straight piece of road. I’ll race you.” “Hold on!” exclaimed Dig. “I’ve shaken down my breakfast enough already. Do you see those raspberries, Chet?” “Cracky! what a lot of them!” cried Chet. “Let’s have a mess of them,” his chum said eagerly, and leaped down from his saddle. “Here! here!” called Chet. “Hitch your horse, old man. We don’t want to be chasing Poke all over the pasture.” “All right. And hang your tinware on the saddle,” urged Dig, slipping the strap of his own rifle over the cantle after hitching Poke. He raced to the nearest clump of raspberry bushes as though he thought they would mysteriously disappear if he did not reach there in a minute. Chet climbed more slowly after him out of the well-defined trail into the rocky berry pasture. Both boys were unarmed save for the knives in their belts, for even their revolvers were in their saddle holsters. The bushes hung heavy with the ripe fruit and Dig, who was inordinately fond of the berries, at once filled both hands and began to cram the fruit into his mouth. “Look out! you’ll choke yourself,” his chum admonished him. “Don’t you worry, old boy,” mumbled Dig, still eating greedily. “It would be a lovely way of dyin’—”