“No, it doesn’t,” Westy forced himself to say. “Because what right did you have to do that? Gee, I don’t say you wanted to leave the deer suffering, I don’t say that.” He had been fully prepared to charge the offender with that but now that he was face to face with him, he found it hard to do so. He put the whole responsibility for his purpose on his conservation badge, in which Meadows seemed rather interested. “What’s that thar next one?” he asked. “That’s the pathfinder’s badge,” said Westy. “Yer a pathfinder, huh?” “Yes, I am,” said Westy, “but I guess maybe I’m not as good at it as you are. But anyway, if you know all about those things—shooting and the woods and all that—jiminies, you ought to know enough not to shoot game out of season. Maybe that deer was a very young one, or maybe——” “Haow ’baout my young un?” Meadows asked calmly. “How ’baout that li’l gal yer seed?” “Well, what about her?” demanded Westy angrily. CHAPTER XI WESTY MARTIN, SCOUT “What makes yer say maybe I’m good at that sort of thing?” asked Luke Meadows. “I don’t know,” said Westy; “just sort of you seem that way. But anyway, that hasn’t got anything to do with what _I_ have to do, has it? I got that merit badge by passing six tests, if anybody should ask you. And the last one of those tests is doing something that helps enforce the game laws, and you can bet I’m going to keep on doing that too. You’ll have to pay a fine, that’s what you’ll have to do, and it serves you right.” “Yer goin’ ter tell ’em in Chandler haow yer found my gun near the spot?” “Yes, I am and it serves you right,” said Westy. “You broke the law and you made me shoot—— Do you think it was fun for me to do that?” he flared up angrily. “Waal, I reckon that’ll be enough fer ’em,” said Meadows. “It’ll cook my goose. They’ve got the knife in me, as you easterners say.” He sat down on the top step of his miserable home and seemed to meditate. “Mis Ellis over yonder, I reckon she’ll look out fer the kid,” he said. “’Tain’t been nuthin but carnsarned trouble ever sence we come from Cody. If I could get one—_jes one_—good aim—_jes—one—good—shot_—at the man that told me ter come east and work in that thar busted up factory! The wife, she worked in it till she got the flu last winter and died. And here we are, me ’n’ the kid—stranded like play-actin’ folk. I can’t shoot them factory people nor that thar loon I run into in Cody, so I get off in the woods ’n’ shoot. Yer can get ten dollars fer a deerskin if yer kin get through without them game sharks catchin’ yer. Yer a pretty likely sort o’ youngster, yer are. Never had that thar flu, did yer?” He said no more, only sat with his hands on his knees, occasionally spitting. And for a few moments there was silence. “Is Cody a town?” Westy asked. “In Wyoming,” Meadows answered. And again there was silence. “That’s where Yellowstone Park is,” said Westy.