Late in October, when one of the last boats was stopping at Reed’s Landing, Barker and Tatanka were watching the boat from a small window in the store.

“Look, brother,” the Indian whispered; “there is the bad white man.”

On deck stood Hicks with two companions talking and gesticulating. Hicks evidently wanted to get off the boat, but the other two men persuaded him to stay on board.

The steamer stopped only a few minutes to take on cargo and passengers before it proceeded on its way to St. Louis.

“He has hunted for us in Minnesota a long time,” Barker laughed. “Now, I think we are rid of him for a while. I suppose he has made up his mind that we have gone on to Vicksburg and he is going to follow us. Well, let him go. By this time the parents of the boys must have the letters which the boys and I sent them through a friend in a Missouri regiment, and they will not be worried by any lies Hicks may tell them. But I would just like to find out why he was so anxious to keep these boys in Minnesota and expose them to the scalping-knives of the Indians.”

After the men had completed their purchases, they returned to their camp, but they said nothing to the boys about Hicks and his companions.

The southward flight of ducks and geese and other water fowl was now at its height, and the campers had added a liberal supply of wild ducks to their store of smoked fish.

The first ducks to go south were the blue-winged teals, small birds which whizzed over the camp in immense flocks at the rate of sixty or more miles an hour. A little later, the northern ducks, blue-bills, and mallards had come down in immense flocks. But Tatanka and Barker were waiting for still larger game.

“We ought to get some geese,” the Indian suggested, and one evening as they were watching the flight of a long line of great honking geese, they saw two or three hundred of them settle on a long sandbar a mile below their camp. “Yon and Bill must rise early,” said the Indian. “Perhaps you can get some of them.”

Long before daybreak next morning, Barker awakened the soundly sleeping boy.

“Get up, Bill!” he called. “We’ll have a cup of coffee and then we’ll try our luck at the geese.”

Very quietly, without waking Tim, the two hunters slipped out of camp and got into their boat.

Soon they glided silently down stream. A mist was hanging over the river and large drops of moisture were falling off the trees along shore. Bill was shivering with cold and excitement.

“My, but it is dark and the water looks awfully cold and gloomy,” whispered Bill. “I would be afraid to go down the river alone. Listen!” he said under his breath, “I think I heard a wolf howl.”

“No,” the trapper quieted him, “the big wolves have left this country. Listen again.”

The sounds were nearer now. “Oh, it is a big hoot-owl. Several of them. They are answering each other.

“They make a noise like ghosts,” he continued, as a deep guttural, “Whoo-who-whooo,” came from a maple thicket close by. “My hair is trying to stand up under my cap, though I know they never attack anything but rabbits and woodchucks.”

The two hunters were now paddling along a side-channel which entered the main river near the point where they expected to find the geese.

“Be very quiet,” Barker cautioned the boy. “Geese not only have sharp eyes, but their hearing is very acute. If they hear any suspicious sounds there will be a grand flapping of wings and the whole flock will be off to some other place.”

The wind was coming from the south, and for that reason the hunters had landed north of the sandbar.

“Mr. Barker,” asked the boy, “can geese and ducks smell the hunter!”

“I don’t know,” replied the trapper. “I never thought of it and never heard it said that they could. Moose and deer and wolves can smell a man a mile off, and they can hear a man’s talk a quarter of a mile away; but I don’t think that birds are guided by scent at all.”

“Do the sleeping geese put somebody on guard!” the lad inquired.

“I don’t think they have any system of guards, but some of them are always standing with their heads up, and the old ganders are most watchful. If one goose becomes alarmed, they all go.

“You must only whisper now. I think we are getting pretty close to them. Step carefully, so you don’t break any sticks. All wild creatures take alarm at the snapping of sticks. I suppose they think a wolf or some other beast of prey is after them.”

The trapper went cautiously to the edge of the timber and looked down stream.

“I can’t see the sandbar yet,” he told his companion. “We must creep along a little farther. We have to be ready at daybreak, for soon after they will all go to feed on some shallow water, or most likely on some stubble-field beyond the bluff.

“These Canada geese feed much like tame geese, they like to pick the ears of grain out of the stubble and they like all kinds of young green stuff. In early spring they are very fond of grazing on young winter wheat and rye.”

“Couldn’t you tame them?” asked the boy.

“Yes, very easily,” the trapper told him, “but they don’t breed till they are at least two years old, and they will fly away in the fall unless their wings are clipped.

“Mallard ducks are easily tamed, too, but they will also fly away in fall if their wings are not clipped. I think most of our tame ducks came from wild mallards, a long time ago.”

“Is it true,” the boy wanted to know, “that ducks and geese cannot fly in August?”

“Yes, that’s no foolish tale. Ducks and geese lose all their big wing-feathers at the same time, so that for about two weeks in August they cannot fly. I have come upon a flock of a thousand ducks that spattered about like mud-hens. But their big feathers grow very fast, and they have remarkably strong muscles. I think at this time of the year, in October, they can fly a thousand miles without resting.”

For some time, the hunters continued to pick their way slowly and silently, now through the tall dripping sawgrass, then in the dark shadow of dense river-bottom maples.

Again the trapper crept out into the open, while Bill held his breath waiting for the return of his friend.

“I can’t see them yet,” the old man reported, “but I can hear them cackle. We had better wait here till it is light enough to shoot.”

Daylight seemed a very long time coming, but at last the stars began to fade behind the Wisconsin bluffs, while the woods on the Minnesota hills began to stand out like long black streaks.

“Now,” whispered Barker, “look at your gun. It is time to begin our stalk. Don’t shoot blindly into the flock, but aim at your bird and take it from below or behind. We must not drop any bird crippled, and let it get away. That is poor sportsmanship.”

Without another word, the two hunters crept along for a hundred yards. Barker stepped slowly behind a willow-bush and motioned the boy to follow him.

A large flock of big dark birds were sitting and standing within easy range. Many were still asleep with their heads under-their wings, some were preening their feathers and half a dozen stood watchful with their long necks erect.

One big old gander became restless. He seemed to be looking and listening in the direction of the hunters. He stood still a few seconds. Then he uttered a loud honk and with a great thunderous flapping of their big wings, the while flock rose in the gray morning air.

Both hunters fired twice, and four of the big birds dropped before they could get under way. Three fell on the sand dead, but the fourth turned and fell into the brush some hundred yards below them.

“Mark the spot,” ordered Barker, “and load your gun. Be quick, or we’ll lose it.”

They hurried to the spot where the goose had dropped into the bushes. A few scattered feathers were there, but no bird.

“Now we must circle around to find that goose,” Barker told his companion. “It can’t have gone far.”

For half an hour they searched the whole neighborhood with the greatest care, but not a trace did they discover of the wounded bird.

“I reckon we have to give it up,” the trapper said at last. “It beats me how a wild creature can hide itself. Perhaps the goose got back into the water and is now swimming down the river.

“I have known a wounded duck to dive and bite itself fast to some bottom weeds and die without coming up.”

Tatanka had a big breakfast ready when the hunters reached camp and after breakfast Bill and Barker dressed and smoked their game.

“We had better keep this meat for winter,” the trapper suggested, “for until it freezes up, we can get all the fresh meat we want.”

Tim, who used to amuse himself for hours at a time by playing with Meetcha, was in great anxiety, because the pet raccoon had once more mysteriously disappeared.

Bill and Barker and the Indian looked in every place, where Meetcha was accustomed to dig for grubs or hunt for frogs, but he was not to be found.

“He has gone to find a sleeping-place for the winter,” Tatanka told his friends. “He feels that it is growing cold.”

Tatanka’s guess proved true, for on the second day, Meetcha was found curled up and fast asleep in a hollow log a quarter of a mile from camp.

“We’ll fix him,” said Tatanka, as he cut off the branches of the hollow basswood.

Meetcha woke up, but recognizing his friends, did not come out of the log.

“Now help me carry the log home.”

Tim clapped his thin hands with joy when the three coon-hunters arrived at camp and laid the log down in a sheltered spot.

One end of the log was naturally closed, and Tim filled the other end with dry leaves. In this way Meetcha followed the custom of his tribe and went into winter quarters.

On warm days he came out again, but whenever the weather turned cold and stormy, he crawled back into his hollow log.