The three boys examined the paper with interest. It was about a foot square, and the lines had evidently been made with charcoal. This is the way it looked:
"A cryptogram!" exclaimed Bob.
"I wonder who left it?" added Dick.
"And what it means?" said Randall.
"Perhaps, if we work it out, it may tell us where to find our mysterious visitor," went on Bob Somers. "These things are getting more and more interesting."
"That was my idea!" exclaimed Nat Wingate.
"Maybe it's just a bit of foolishness," put in Tom.
"No, I think it has a meaning. This figure at the bottom may be one of our huts."
"And those funny-looking spots above?"
"They look like trees to me; eh, Chubby?"
The poet laureate lazily inclined his head.
"What's that queer-shaped thing to the left?"
"Don't know—got any ideas, 'Hatchet'?"
"Guess somebody has taken the crowd for a lot of chumps, and thinks they will be dunces enough to go off on a wild goose chase. It's only those duffers across the lake—but they can't fool me."
Bob laughed. "We'll study it out a bit, anyway. If we only knew in what direction to start, it wouldn't take long to find out something."
Dave Brandon leaned over and scanned the mysterious paper carefully.
"Looks easy to me," he drawled. "That's the door, eh?—well, from the back of the hut we must go off at an angle for a half mile. Then, if three trees in a row are found, I guess we'll be all right."
"A large head on large shoulders," grinned Nat.
"But say, fellows," observed Bob Somers, with a sudden thought, "of course you looked for tracks? I suppose the visitor wore snow-shoes, though, and sometimes they don't make much of a mark."
"We started right in to hunt for them," replied Dave Brandon. "Had a little better luck than this morning, but the tracks led to the lake and ended. We walked around a bit, didn't see anything, then gave it up."
"How do you know they weren't made by some of us?"
"Because none of the fellows have been off that way." Dave pointed out the direction.
"Guess you are right!"
"Well, there's no way of telling which way he went after reaching the lake. So we must try to follow the thing up from this mysterious drawing."
"All right, Chubby, we will."
"Makes a fellow feel kind of creepy when he thinks that some one was prowling around the camp early this morning," observed Tom Clifton. "If we only had a dog—"
"But not of the Bowser kind," laughed Bob. "I wish we could find out what it was that made those funny screeches," he added, reflectively.
"The mystery may be solved before our trip is over," said Dave Brandon, with a yawn. "I won't let it bother me."
"But we don't want to get chewed all to bits," broke in Tom Clifton, nervously. "Whew—hope we don't hear those awful yells again to-night."
When the boys finally turned in, more than one lay awake for some time, listening in nervous apprehension for any indications of the strange beast.
After breakfast next morning, Sladder and Musgrove put in an appearance.
The stuffed wildcat had been propped up in front of Bob Somers' hut, and, with its flattened head and glass eyes, wore a most ludicrous expression.
The Stony Creek boys looked at it in dumb amazement, and listened with open mouths as Nat Wingate, with many exaggerations, told about their early morning scare.
"Huh! Ain't that fierce?" exclaimed Musgrove. "Never heard nothing to beat it. Nobody wouldn't play no such game on me twicet. Was you skeered, Plackett?"
"Scared nothing!" returned John, with a flash in his eyes. "Say—my name is Hackett—H-a-c-k-e-t-t! How many more times must I tell you?"
"I ain't no good on rememberin' names. But this beats me—it does—you heard that critter again?" and Musgrove gave a perceptible shiver.
Bob Somers presently produced the rude scrawl and placed it before the visitors.
"Can you make anything out of that?" he asked, after explaining how it had come into their possession.
"Don't look like nothing to me," replied Tim Sladder, shaking his head.
"Search me," added Musgrove, with an equally puzzled expression.
In a few words, Bob gave their views on the subject.
When he had finished, both Sladder and Musgrove seemed to be greatly impressed.
All the members of the Rambler Club strapped on their snow-shoes, and at the last moment Hackett and Nat Wingate decided to accompany them.
Starting in a northwesterly direction, they began ascending the thickly timbered hill back of the huts. Down on the other side and over another ridge they went, until at length a third elevation rose above them.
"Must have gone a half mile already," said Hackett.
"We may see something from the top of this hill," replied Bob, "unless our reading of the thing was all wrong."
When, after another hard climb, the summit was reached, all looked eagerly around.
Below stretched a valley, hills enclosing it on three sides.
"Well, what did I tell you?" exclaimed Hackett, triumphantly, after an interval of silence. "If anybody can spot something, now's the time to speak up and earn a vote of thanks."
The silence continued.
"Joke number nineteen," went on Hackett, presently. "When it gets to be about two hundred and six, I hope you fellows will take a grand tumble. It's awful to see a crowd so easy."
"Suppose we try to estimate the right distance, before we do anything else," said Dave Brandon.
"Say—did anybody bring a tape measure?" remarked Hackett.
The boys took no notice of this speech, but began to compare notes regarding the distance covered. After some little discussion and strolling about from place to place, it was agreed that they were about half a mile from camp.
"The best plan, now, is to walk around in a circle," said Bob. "No use to be easy, as Hackett says, and give the thing up."
"All right—here we go," said Musgrove. "Come back, there, Bowser, an' don't get too frisky."
The group now started off at right angles to their former course.
"Keep your eyes open, fellows," said Hackett, grandly, "or you may miss gittin' fooled."
Musgrove gave the speaker a queer look, and his eyes snapped furtively. "Wackett," he said, "I'd be glad if it was you what got fooled on this. 'My eye' so I would."
A rather discouraging tramp followed. It was at length seen that the course they were taking would soon lead them out upon the lake.
"What are you stopping for?" cried Hackett, as the others came to a halt. "Keep right on—maybe it's in the next state."
The boys laughed, and, a few moments later, were retracing their steps. They reached and passed the place at the summit of the hill, always endeavoring to maintain as closely as possible the half mile distance from their camp.
"Look at that whopping big boulder down there!" exclaimed Dick Travers, at length.
"I'll bet that's the very thing marked on the paper," interposed Sam.
"Hurrah!" broke in Bob. "Don't you see three trees nearly in a row over there?"
"My eye, Scummers is right," declared Musgrove, peering earnestly in the direction indicated.
The boys were still on the edge of the valley, the boulder and three trees being several hundred yards down the slope.
Hackett did not make any funny remarks at this juncture.
"What number joke is this?" asked Musgrove, with a laugh, as the party began to make their way cautiously downward over the snow-covered ground. "'My eye!' Them is the trees."
Before long the boys approached three huge pines, which were standing almost in a row.
"We ought to find out something now," observed Dick Travers.
They struck off along the valley, moving rapidly over the snow in the direction indicated by the cryptogram.
"Hello!" exclaimed Sam, suddenly. "Smoke—rising above that copse of trees—see it?"
"Right you are," returned Bob. "What do you think, now, 'Hatchet'?"
"Tell you later," grinned John, not in the least abashed.
Between the trees, a glimpse of a cabin was caught, and when the boys reached a clearing, they saw before them a substantial log structure, with a single window. From a stovepipe issued a whirling column of smoke.
"Hurrah!" cried Bob. "We didn't get left after all."
As he spoke, the door of the cabin was thrown open, and a tall, wiry-looking man, with a tawny moustache and stubby beard, appeared on the threshold.
"Powerful glad to see you, boys!" he exclaimed, heartily. "Honest Injun, though—never thought you know'd enough or would take the trouble ter git here. I'm John Yardsley, hunter an' trapper, at your service."
The boys surveyed the speaker for a moment with great interest. His appearance was rugged and honest, and a kindly light beamed from a pair of keen, gray eyes. Open air life had bronzed his skin until it was almost as brown as an Indian's. He stooped slightly, but all his movements showed that a life amid danger had made him exceedingly active and alert.
"I'm John Yardsley, at your service," he repeated, "an' powerful glad ter see yer. Step inter my office," and he waved his hand toward the door.
"Well, Yardsley, we're glad to meet you, too," said Nat, with his old-time, easy familiarity. "We're the Bounding Brotherhood of Hunters—members, warble out your names."
"Ha, ha!" laughed John Yardsley. "Bounding Brotherhood, ha, ha! Did you do some bounding yisterday mornin'?"
He broke into a short laugh, and pushed the door open to its fullest extent, while the boys crowded in.
At one end of the interior, they saw a big stove, and near the window a long table. A bunk occupied one corner, while several rude stools were scattered around.
But what interested the visitors most of all were a number of stuffed animals and birds which rested on various shelves. Each was in a natural position and looked quite life-like with its yellow glass eyes.
"This your work, Yardsley?" asked Nat, forgetting, for the moment, that he had intended to hurl forth a lot of questions.
"Everything mine," answered the trapper, with a smile.
"And look at that moose's head over the door," said Bob, pointing to one with enormous antlers.
"Brung him down myself," said the trapper, "and after as pretty a tussle as you'd want ter see. That was long ago. And here's something else, young fellers."
He pointed to a corner of the room. The boys crowded over and saw a number of clay modelings of animals, which made them open their eyes in astonishment.
"My eye! A wildcat," cried John Hackett, "and natural as can be."
"A wolf, too," said Bob. "That certainly is great."
"Christopher, I wish I could do work like this," put in Nat Wingate.
The trapper smiled at their enthusiasm. "Why shouldn't I be able to make 'em?" he asked. "Ain't I seen them critters for years an' years? Ain't I shot 'em—an' trapped 'em? I ain't got none too much book learnin', mebbe, an' who has?" he went on, "but I can tell you a few things 'bout the woods, an' the wild critters in 'em. Know the things about yer, that's what I calls eddication."
The trapper spoke earnestly and continued to enlarge upon a theme which was evidently a favorite one with him. At length, however, he paused, and asked the boys to tell him how they had managed to read his message.
Bob complied with the request, explaining the matter briefly but clearly.
At his conclusion, the trapper nodded approvingly, and was about to make some remark, when Billy Musgrove suddenly blurted out, in his loud, impudent voice, "See here, old sport, you was the feller what put a stuffed cat in front of them chaps' huts, eh?"
John Yardsley began to smile.
"I've got one failin'," he admitted, "an' I can't help it."
"An' you fired snowballs at 'em?"
Yardsley chuckled.
"Well, see here!" Musgrove's face assumed an angry expression. "I don't like them jokes—no, sir—it's good that you didn't try 'em on me an' Tim Sladder—'cause we don't stand for nothing like that. No, sir!"
This very frank statement seemed to amuse the trapper hugely. He broke into a laugh. Then turning toward the others, he said, "I seen you fellers several times, I guess, when you didn't think no one was near. I can't help jokin'. I hope you don't take no offense, but I says to myself, 'A few little tricks an' them fellers will pack up an' git back to their own little firesides.'"
"Humph! You didn't think we had much sand, did you?" sniffed John Hackett.
"A feller without it ain't got no business out in the woods. I was only a-testin' of you."
"I'm glad you didn't do none of it on us," remarked Musgrove. "No, sir!—Lay down, Bowser."
"There's another thing we'd like to know," broke in Tom Clifton, rather timidly. "Have you heard any strange cries lately? Some animal was prowling around our camp, and—"
"Strange cries?" echoed the trapper. "What were they like?"
"Oh, awful—I can't describe 'em."
"Wust you ever listened to," observed Tim Sladder. "We heard 'em at our camp, too."
"An' it didn't sound like no animal, or humans, either," added Musgrove.
"Ah, ha! This is interesting."
Yardsley seemed to reflect.
"We heard the beast twice," said Hackett.
"Well, now," continued Yardsley, "kinder think I did hear something like that. Strange critter it must have been—jest wait a second."
He opened a door and walked into an adjoining room. Then the boys heard a peculiar click.
Just as the trapper emerged, with a broad smile on his face, a terrible series of wild, weird screeches, exactly like those they had heard before, filled the cabin.
His visitors jumped to their feet in astonishment, while the effect upon Bowser was magical. Whining and whimpering, the big dog flopped heavily upon the floor at his master's feet and looked intently into his face.
"Was it something like that?" asked Yardsley, innocently.
Sladder and Musgrove, with wildly staring eyes, looked toward the room as if fascinated, but upon all the others the truth instantly dawned, and they received it with varied feelings.
"A phonograph!" cried Bob.
"My eye! A—a—phonograph!" echoed Hackett.
Then Nat Wingate began to laugh, and all at once the absurdity of the whole thing appealed irresistibly to most of the boys, and a wild burst of merriment rang out.
Tim Sladder and Billy Musgrove remained ominously silent. There was a steely glitter in the latter's little blinking eyes, which seemed to say,—"Look out!"
"I'm powerful glad you fellers ain't took no offense," grinned John Yardsley. "I notice I come nigh to killin' that dorg. I met one of them scientific fellers oncet. You know the kind what can tell how many hairs a squirrel's got in its tail? He was an animalist; mebbe that ain't the word, but he know'd everything. He stayed out in the woods a spell with me, one winter; bunked right in here; an' he kinder took a fancy to yours truly.
"Well, I happened to run acrost him in town the next summer. 'Yardsley,' says he, 'you did play some awful jokes on me, out in the woods—it's a wonder my hair ain't gray.' An' he says, 'Yardsley, I've been having a lot of records took of different animals' voices. I want to give you one of a laughing hyena—it reminds me so much of you!'"
A titter went around the room.
The trapper continued, "'It would make me feel better, Yardsley,' he says, 'if you would take it an' kinder test it on some one out in the woods. I don't like ter feel I was the only one.'"
"An' that's jest what you done, eh, Pardsley?" broke in Musgrove, shaking his head vigorously. "An' me an' Tim didn't sleep a wink all night—an' all fer that, eh? An' Bowser most took a spell. Well, I like it; yes, sir, I do—for a fact." And Musgrove's expression indicated a state of feeling exactly the reverse of his words.
"I'm powerful glad ter hear you say that," remarked the trapper, with a sly wink at the others. "That's the way ter take them things, an'—"
"But don't never try no more, Bardsley," interrupted Musgrove, fiercely. "We won't stand fer it. No, sir, not me,—nor Tim, neither. No more jokin'—mind yer."
"All right!" responded Yardsley, with pretended meekness. "I like ter hear a feller speak right out in meetin'. And by the way," he continued, "do you know them fellers 'crost the lake?"
"They came over to see us once," replied Bob Somers.
"Wal, I don't know nothing about 'em. They was nosing around yesterday morning, kinder curious like, an' askin' if I had many furs—but I ain' tellin' my affairs ter strangers nohow."
"Been hunting and trapping long?" asked Nat.
"Wal, I guess! I come from down East, an' been at it off an' on for quite a spell."
"How do you like it out here?" asked Hackett.
"Powerful well, my slim young friend. Say, with them legs you oughter be a good runner."
"Maybe he's a good runner, but he can't skate with me," interposed Musgrove. "No, sir, I—"
"What!" exclaimed Yardsley, with an amused glance at the other's short stature. "He can't! Why—say, I don't believe—no offense, mind yer—that you could run with any feller in this crowd."
Billy Musgrove's face flushed—his little eyes blinked angrily.
"You talk like an idjit, Pardsley," he exclaimed. "I didn't say I could run, but I ain't skeered to try—no, sir—I ain't."
"Why not get up a little race? Them two," indicating Sladder and Musgrove, "can try it first between 'em."
"I don't mind," said Tim Sladder; "eh, Billy?"
"Suits me," grinned Musgrove.
"Might work up a little appetite fer lunch by having that race now," suggested the trapper, with a rather quizzical look. "What say? Or if Musgrove's kinder skeered, mebbe—"
"Skeered? I'll show you I ain't skeered, Bardsley. No, sir! Come on!" and Billy Musgrove strode toward the door.
"Good! That's the way ter feel about it. We'll hev a little fun."
Just beyond the cabin was a clear patch of level ground.
"A good place for our games," remarked Yardsley, rubbing his hands together. "See that there tree over there? Round it and back. Here's a line ter start from."
Grinning broadly, Tim Sladder and Billy Musgrove took their places, an expressive wink from the latter indicating his confidence.
"All ready! One—two—three—go!"
At the word, the Stony Creek boys were off. Musgrove, with all the vim and determination at his command, struggled through the snow, and despite Sladder's most desperate efforts, his longer legs seemed to give him but little advantage.
"Go it, Sladder!" yelled Hackett. "Hi, hi! He'll never make it."
"That he won't!" grinned the trapper.
And now the two dark figures were approaching the turning-point.
"Keep it up, Tim!" encouraged Hackett, at the top of his voice.
Suddenly the spectators were treated to a most unusual sight.
Both boys were seen to lurch forward, two wild yells floated over the air—then the contestants, frantically waving their arms, plunged head first into a great pit filled to the brim with snow.
This catastrophe was witnessed with much astonishment.
"Great Cæsar—look at that!" cried Bob Somers.
"My eye! Did you ever see such a tumble?" exclaimed Hackett.
Then, as Sladder and Musgrove, almost up to their necks in the white mass, floundered and kicked to regain an upright position, Hackett, Nat Wingate and several of the others burst forth into the most uproarious peals of laughter.
"Bring a derrick," roared Nat. "Stand up straight, Musgrove. Don't you know enough not to dive on land?"
"He thought he was in a swimming race!" cried Hackett.
"'Tain't right ter plague a feller that way," reproved Yardsley, mildly. "Powerful singular I didn't happen ter mention that pit, ain't it? I guess the race is over."
"Lay on your back, and you won't sink any further, Mushroom," shouted Hackett.
To all these remarks Sladder and Musgrove paid no attention. They were too busy extricating themselves from their unpleasant predicament. Bowser had ambled to the edge of the pit, and, evidently realizing that something was amiss, barked dolefully.
At length, after having slipped and fallen several times, the two boys managed to reach solid ground. They brushed their clothes and came slowly back.
The others had expected to see Musgrove explode with wrath, but besides a queer expression in his small, blinking eyes, his pudgy face gave no evidence of anger.
"Got ahead of us that time, Pardsley," he observed. "I ain't saying what I think of nobody—no, sir—don't want to start a free fight, but say"—Billy Musgrove paused, the queer look in his eyes deepened, "there's goin' ter be some fun 'round these diggin's 'fore I leave—an' don't you forgit it."
"Powerful glad ter hear that," declared the trapper. "You kinder tempted me, the way you talked, a spell back. It's a failin' I've got. Now I want all hands ter grub with me."
The boys were soon compelled to acknowledge that John Yardsley was certainly a good cook. Baked beans, roasted potatoes, and venison steak done to a crisp turn were set before them, besides steaming coffee and hard-tack. At the last, to their great satisfaction, came buckwheat cakes and maple syrup.
Under the cheering influence of the fire and a company of lively boys, John Yardsley began to grow confidential. He freely admitted his superiority in skill over the majority of hunters and trappers.
"I study it, an' make a business of it,—that is I do for the present," he said, rubbing his hands together and tilting back in his chair, "an' I ain't done bad this season."
"Got lots of furs and skins, Spardsley?" inquired Musgrove, taking time enough to look up from his plate.
"Mebbe—mebbe not."
"Ain't that jest what you said?"
"You're a keen youngster, ain't yer?"
"I'm smarter than some people."
"Powerful glad ter hear it. One of these days I'll take ye boys around when I visit my traps,—only one at a time, mind ye. A hull lot might scare the critters away fur a month. Who wants ter go?"
"I do," said Bob, quickly.
"Being as it's you who spoke fust, you're number one," returned the trapper, nodding toward him.
"Good! You'll find me ready any time."
After the meal, Yardsley exhibited a number of beaver, otter and mink skins stretched out tightly on boards to dry. He also called attention to a curious piece of furniture standing in one corner. A section of a tree had been hollowed out, and the interior fitted with a number of shelves, which contained various objects collected in the woods. There were butterflies, moths and dragon flies, besides a number of minerals and stones.
"As I said afore," remarked the trapper, seating himself, "I ain't got as much book learnin' as I'd like," he smiled curiously, "but ask me somethin' about trees, or birds, or animals, an' well—mebbe I could make some of your dandified professors look cheap, if they was here. Eddication, I call it, is l'arnin' about the things 'round you—varmints and sich like—an' my friend, the animalist, said so, too."
"There's one thing you can do, all right, Bardsley," interrupted Musgrove.
"What's that?"
"Talk a fierce streak—I never heard nothing like it."
Yardsley laughed good-naturedly. "It's another failin', mebbe," he admitted. "Now I'm goin' ter spin some yarns."
These proved so interesting, that it was not until the late afternoon that the boys took their leave.
"An' look here, Jardsley," remarked Musgrove, at parting, "don't try no funny tricks now. We won't stand for none—no, sir—not me—nor Tim, neither."
"You certainly bit easily on one joke, Mushroom," remarked Hackett, when Yardsley's hut was lost to view behind the trees.
"Huh! You needn't talk! I never slammed no glass-eyed cat!" retorted Billy, and for the rest of the way there was no further conversation between the two.
A week passed without special incident.
Piper, Robson and Heydon also made the acquaintance of the trapper, and all the hunters spent an evening in the cabin across the lake.
It became known that Yardsley had a fine collection of furs, which he intended to take to town very shortly. This fact had been ascertained by Charlie Piper, who, for purposes of speculation, wished to purchase a number of skins. But the price offered was too low to suit the trapper.
At the appointed time, Bob Somers tapped on the cabin door.
"Glad ter see you, cap'n!" exclaimed the woodsman, heartily, holding out his strong, sinewy hand. "In two shakes of a lamb's tail, I'll be ready."
"Think we'll have snow before long?" asked Bob.
Yardsley glanced out of the window at a sullen, lowering sky. "Snow—an' plenty of it," he announced. "An' lucky if it ain't a blizzard. Never seen one out here—eh, cap'n?—No?—Wal, a fair-sized northwester oughter satisfy yer fur a while—talk about wind and snow—it's fierce, an' no mistake."
"We might get snowed up."
"'Tain't at all unlikely."
Yardsley now rapidly led the way toward the creek which Bob and his companions had previously followed. Once there, he moved with more caution.
"Ter be a good trapper, a man has ter be powerful particular," he said. "Wild critters is certainly knowin'. Yer got ter understand 'em, an' l'arn their ways. I've got traps out fur minks, beavers, otter, muskrats an' foxes."
"Which are the hardest to catch?" asked Bob.
"Otter, p'r'aps! Minks is easier, bein' as they're sich hungry beasts, an' will take a chance when others might git scared off. Be careful, cap'n, we're comin' ter a trap, now."
At a convenient place, Yardsley led the way up the bank, avoiding with great skill the various obstacles with which the ground was strewn. Still keeping near the watercourse, they soon reached a confused heap of branches and logs.
"Right on that big log, cap'n."
"I don't see anything but a lot of twigs and bushes," said Bob.
"It's there, all right," chuckled Yardsley. "But it has ter be kep' out of sight. Wait here, cap'n."
The trapper went cautiously forward, stepping around the log, from the top of which the snow had been partly blown away.
"Nary a thing," he announced, after a moment's inspection.
"Better luck at the next one, perhaps," said Bob.
"I ain't a-worryin'—we'll git back on the ice."
They followed the winding stream for some distance, when Yardsley again slackened his pace.
"Easy, cap'n!" he exclaimed. "'Round here is regular otterville. See that there hole in the ice? Well, the critters has used it ter come out on shore. So I sinks my trap, an'—"
"And what?"
"Wal—I'll show yer in a minute—if I've struck luck."
From back of a mass of underbrush close by, Yardsley pulled a stout stick curved at the end. This he pushed through the hole in the ice, and a grunt of satisfaction escaped his lips.
With a couple of vigorous pulls, he brought to the surface a fine large otter.
"How's that fur one?" he remarked, as he disengaged the animal from the trap and laid it in the ice.
"It's a whopper," said Bob, enthusiastically, "and what a beautiful bluish gray coat. Don't they kill lots of fish, John?"
"A powerful number, cap'n. An' brings 'em ashore ter eat. The little rascal is awful wasteful, too, sometimes leavin' 'em 'most untouched."
The trapper rebaited the trap, which was attached by means of a chain to a stone, and lowered both in the water again.
"Where are we going now?" asked Bob.
"Follow the stream fur a piece. I've got more traps along here."
John Yardsley returned the stick to its hiding-place, then, as they started off, began to talk about the habits of the various animals.
"Powerful knowin' critters," he observed. "Take beavers, which lives along rivers an' ponds, for instance. A hull lot of these critters will git together an' build houses of mud, stones an' sticks. Their teeth are very hard and sharp, an' they don't have much trouble cuttin' all the wood they want. Then, if the water ain't right, they dam it up with the same stuff as the huts is made of."
"Isn't the entrance under water?" asked Bob.
"Allus! So that other critters can't git at 'em. In the spring, they come out, an' ramble off; an' mebbe it's autumn before they says ter each other, 'It's time ter git back ter them huts of ourn an' fix 'em up fur the winter.'"
"Muskrats build places pretty much the same, only smaller," said Bob.
"Yes, but martens lives in the deepest parts of the woods, while fishers an' minks hang out along streams an' marshes. I've seen a fisher a-sittin' on a stone, lookin' in the water, an' waitin' fur his dinner ter pass by. All of a sudden, he went ker flump—there was a splash—an' yer can bet he got his fish."
After a short pause, Yardsley continued, "But here we are, cap'n, at another trap."
This proved to be along the bank, and cleverly concealed in the midst of a tangled growth. But although it had been sprung the animal had managed to get away.
The next one, however, held captive a good-sized mink.
"Not so bad, an' we may get some more yet," commented Yardsley. "I'm powerful afear'd we're goin' ter have some pretty tough weather," he added, with a look at the sullen sky.
"I say, John," asked Bob, with a sudden thought, "didn't you put up a sign over by Lake Wolverine?"
Yardsley grinned. "Jokin' is a little failin' I have, as I told you afore," he said. "You'll run acrost several of 'em 'round these parts. I'm powerful glad, cap'n, that you fellers didn't git mad."
"I thought Sladder and Musgrove would be wild when they got dumped into that pit," remarked Bob.
The trapper laughed as he recalled the scene. "If them kids hadn't been so sassy, I wouldn't have done it," he said. "I thought one of 'em needed a lesson, anyway."
"Here's the snow!" cried Bob, at length.
"Slow—very slow—an' sure," added the trapper.
They had reached the gloomy depths of a dense wood. Here and there were great boulders of odd shapes, and their rugged appearance added to the desolation of the scene.
As they passed one of these, a long, low growl suddenly caused them to turn. But a few paces distant stood a huge wildcat. Its paws rested on a partly devoured rabbit, and, angry at being disturbed, the animal crouched low, while its long tail moved slowly forth and back.
With flattened ears and glaring eyes, it presented a terrifying sight, and, thoroughly startled, Bob Somers involuntarily stepped backward.
"Leave it to me!" yelled Yardsley.
But as he spoke, the dull, tawny-colored animal, with a snarl, sprang directly toward Bob Somers.
"Oh, ho, what are we going to do, fellows?" asked Dave Brandon, lazily, to Dick Travers and Tom Clifton, as they sat warming themselves before a cheerful fire.
"I don't think we ought to stray very far from camp," said Tom Clifton. "Looks as if there was going to be a big snow-storm."
"An 'undeniable fact,'" put in Dick, with a grin.
"And if it's anything like the kind that Riggs, Junior, spoke about, Tom is right," said Dave. "For my part, I'd sooner sit by a nice, big fire, anyway, than trot around over a lot of barren hills."
"You don't have to tell us that, Chubby," laughed Dick.
"No, I suppose not." The stout boy yawned and shifted his position slightly. "I haven't been able to write a single bit since I came out here," he grumbled, more to himself than to the others.
"Why not?" asked Tom.
"Too cold—and, whenever I begin, Billy Musgrove's face seems to bob right up in front of me."
"What has that to do with it?"
"See here, Dick Travers," observed Dave, with mock severity, "could any one have an inspiration and think of Billy Musgrove's face at the same time?"
Dick grinned. "It kind of takes the poetry out of the scene," he suggested.
"Exactly. Hello—"
"Looks like smoke signals across the way. Wonder if anything's up?"
The three boys stared intently toward the cabin, a mere brownish spot against the background of trees.
Sure enough. A cloud of grayish smoke, in a rather solid mass, rose lazily in the air, light against the firs and dark as it emerged into the expanse of sky above.
"There goes another!" exclaimed Tom, in some excitement.
"Sure as you live, it's a signal," put in Dick, as a third slowly appeared. "Guess we'll have to skip over. Something may have happened."
"Certainly we will," grumbled Dave. "And just as I thought of getting a nice rest by the fire. Hello—gun signals, too," he added, as a faint report came from the distance.
"Hurry up, fellows! Strap on your skates!" cried Dick, excitedly. "We must see about this. Somebody hurt, do you think?"
"It isn't far across, and we'll soon know," replied Dave.
Down to the lake the trio quickly made their way, and then, with long, swinging strides, began to skim swiftly over the frozen surface. As they approached the cabin, many eager looks were cast toward it.
"There's somebody at the door now," panted Dave Brandon.
A dark figure had appeared, and an instant later a hail reached their ears, which was answered by a lusty chorus from the skaters.
"I hope I haven't put you fellows to any inconvenience, or given you a scare," said Fulmer Robson, as the trio breathlessly approached.
"Nothing has happened, I hope?" panted Tom.
"No—nothing serious. But come inside, boys, and I'll tell you all about it."
The interior of the cabin had been made comfortable and cozy. In one corner was a stove, while several rude seats were distributed around. Against one wall stood a long table.
"Make yourselves comfortable," said Robson, drawing a stool alongside the stove, which was sending forth a pleasant heat. "I would have come over to your camp," he added, "but I have a bad headache. What I wanted you for is this. There's a pack of wolves around the neighborhood, and I thought you ought to know it."
"Wolves?" echoed Tom Clifton, paling a trifle.
"Yes! We had a sight of them yesterday afternoon—not far from here, too. A pack of the brutes were after a deer. Heydon and I had reached the top of a hill when we discovered them, and, as we had a field-glass, we saw the whole thing."
"What happened?" asked Tom, eagerly.
"It looked as if the wolves had chased the deer for a long distance, for he seemed 'most played out. Three of the brutes flung themselves upon him at once, and—well, you can guess the rest."
"How far away was this?" asked Dave.
"Not more than two miles."
"We are certainly much obliged to you," put in Dick Travers. "It wouldn't do to be unprepared, if they happen to come along."
"I should say not. Wolves are bad customers at this time of the year. I suppose," added Robson, with a smile, "you thought something terrible had happened?"
"Yes, we did," admitted Dick. "Where are the other fellows—how did you manage to make that signal alone?"
"They just left, a short time ago," answered Robson. "The weather looks pretty threatening, doesn't it? Well, we concluded that it would be best to get in as much game as possible."
"Do you think it's going to be as bad as all that?" asked Tom Clifton, anxiously.
"It's hard to say; after all, it may be nothing worse than an ordinary snow-storm. But we got caught once, and don't propose to let such a thing happen again. I expected the whole crowd of you," he added, with a questioning glance.
Dave explained the situation.
"Oh, that's it," remarked Robson, reflectively. "On your way back, you might tell Sladder and Musgrove about the wolves. And by the way," he added, "I haven't much use for those fellows. Frankly, I don't like either."
"They always treated us well," replied Dave, evasively.
"Oh, I don't want you to say anything against 'em," laughed Robson, "but Billy Musgrove by all odds is the most impudent chap I ever ran across. We had a scrap the other day—he kept calling me 'Bobson,' and Piper, 'Swiper.' We got kind of sore, and Billy then fired off, sassing all three of us right and left."
"Musgrove never gets names straight," observed Dick, with a grin.
"It's beginning to snow," broke in Tom, "and the wind is coming up, too."
The sky was unusually dark and threatening; it seemed almost like approaching twilight.
An anxious expression came into Dick Travers' face, and Tom, too, surveyed the scene apprehensively, but the poet laureate's round features seemed only to reflect content, as he resumed his place before the fire.
"I'll bet it will be a howler," said Tom Clifton.
"And that we get snowed up for a week," grumbled Dick.
"Why not add a visit or two from wolves, while you are about it?" put in Robson, with a laugh.
"Nothing like looking at things all around," yawned Dave. "I feel uncommonly sleepy."
"You'd better have lunch with me," proposed Robson. "It will make my head feel better. Only wish the rest of your crowd was here," he added. "Fall to, boys, and give me a hand."
At length, however, the thought that the other boys might have returned induced the three members of the Rambler Club to bring their visit to a close.
"Oh, ho, I'm afraid we'll have to go, fellows," said Dave Brandon, with a grimace. "Just think of having to face that wind."
"Sorry you have to leave," observed Robson.
"Not half so sorry as we are," drawled Dave, with a dubious look outside.
Once out upon the lake, a succession of furious gusts swept toward them, accompanied by whirling clouds of fine, needle-like particles. Presently, they were in the thick of it, and found themselves, for the moment, compelled to turn their backs to the storm.
"Whew! This is certainly fierce," panted Dick. "We ought to get there pretty soon, however."
The storm did not increase, as the boys' fears led them to expect. Instead, the fall of snow soon began to lessen, and only where there happened to be irregularities in the ice did the flakes find a resting-place.
"Hurrah, I see the shore," burst forth Dick, at length. "Let's make a spurt."
This the trio proceeded to do, and they were soon tramping over the snow toward the camp.
Startling news awaited them.
Taken altogether by surprise, Bob Somers was, for an instant, almost incapable of motion. He saw the long, lithe body spring forward and heard the harsh, rasping snarl. Then, with a strong effort, he recovered his wits—like a flash his rifle was raised and fired.
Blending with the report came a terrific cry of fury and pain.
But the wildcat was only wounded. In his haste and alarm, Bob had not been able to reach a vital spot. The animal fell, but almost instantly rose.
"Give me a chance!" yelled Yardsley. "Skip around that there rock, an' I'll finish 'im."
But before the boy could comply, the wildcat, with an infuriated screech, sprang forward again.
Taking his gun by the barrel, Bob Somers swung it with all his strength. The animal, dealt a glancing blow, was checked—just long enough for Bob to dart around the rock. Almost at his heels came the snarling wildcat.
In and out among the trees the two went, while Yardsley followed, unable to shoot for fear of hitting his companion.
With a glance over his shoulder, Bob once more jumped aside, and again his gun rose and fell.
John Yardsley, leaping over the snow, reached the spot where the wildcat, scarcely stunned by Bob Somers' last blow, was preparing to make another spring.
"I've got 'im!" he cried.
A sharp report rang out. Rising to his haunches, in a last desperate effort, the wildcat lurched over, and fell at full length motionless in the snow.
"Hurrah!" cried Bob. "Thanks, John," and he clasped the hunter's big hand. "Ugh I Thought he had me." He shivered, as his eyes rested upon the savage head and dangerous-looking claws.
"Powerful bad critters when they get their dander up," commented Yardsley, giving the beast a shove with his toe. "What's ter be did with the varmint?"
"Don't you want it?" Bob's voice still trembled with excitement.
"I reckon not."
"Then I'll have him stuffed," said Bob. "Won't that be great? Only wish I'd got him myself," he added, half regretfully.
"You orter be glad he didn't get you," observed the trapper, dryly. "Now, I'll make a drag. Twenty-five or thirty pounds of cat meat would be a little too much ter carry."
Yardsley strode forward, and selecting an ash of suitable thickness—of course it was a mere sapling—quickly felled and trimmed it. Then he cut it into two pieces of equal length.
"Pitch in an' get me some short bits fur the cross-bars, cap'n," he said, handing Bob the hatchet. "We'll have it fixed in a minute."
As soon as Bob Somers had complied with his request, the trapper laid the two pieces of ash parallel on the ground, then three cross-bars were quickly fastened in place.
"Want anything better than that?" he demanded, with a grin. "I'll jest cut them 'ere ends, so's ter make 'em lift off the snow like runners."
"Have you a rope to pull it with?" asked Bob.
"Catch John Yardsley a-comin' out unprepared? I reckon not. Guess we'd better hit the trail fur camp," he added.
The wildcat, otter and other game were securely attached to the drag, which was not difficult to pull over the snow-crusted ground.
After making a long circuit, the winding stream was again reached, and, at length, the cabin in the valley came into view.
"Reckon you air powerful glad ter git back, cap'n?" observed the trapper. "I'll fix the skin of that there critter, an'—"
Yardsley suddenly paused, and gazed intently toward the cabin, while a puzzled, alarmed expression passed over his rugged features.
"I'm sartin sure—" he began.
"Sure of what?" asked Bob, surprised at his companion's manner.
"That I shut the door of that storehouse. Sure as guns is guns, I did, an'—"
Yardsley did not finish the sentence, but fairly tore over the snow, while Bob, leaving the sled, followed close at his heels.
At one end of the log house a small addition had been built for the purpose of storing furs and skins. There was an entrance on the outside, and it was this which now stood slightly open.
"As sure as guns is guns," repeated the woodsman, excitedly, "I shut that 'ere door, an' shut it tight."
He hastily entered the storehouse, and at a glance his worst fears were realized.
"Gone—every blessed one!" he groaned. "Not a thing left!"
"Robbed?" gasped Bob Somers. "How many did you have?"
"A powerful number, cap'n."
Yardsley stood perfectly still and gazed around with a dazed air.
"Every blessed one," he repeated. "An' I was 'most ready ter take 'em ter town." His arms dropped to his side, and he looked toward Bob Somers in the utmost dejection.
"Well, we can't do any good standing here," cried Bob. "Let's investigate and get after 'em."
"That's the idea!" exclaimed Yardsley, his look of dismay giving place to one of intense anger.
"Jest let me come up with them rascals, that's all." He made an expressive motion, then darted outside, his eyes roving over the ground.
"Carted 'em away on a big sled," he exclaimed. "See, cap'n—tracks as plain as the nose on yer face. An' the rascals was on snow-shoes."
"I'll skip over to camp and get some of the fellows!" cried Bob. "Then the whole crowd can follow."
"Good, cap'n, an' John Yardsley won't forgit it. By the time yer gits back I'll hev a bite ter eat. With a storm a-comin', an' no tellin' what may be afore us, 'twouldn't do by no means ter go off on an empty stummick."
But Bob Somers had not waited to hear his last words. Although the morning's tramp had been a rather long one, he moved over the ground at a rapid rate, and, panting from his exertions, at length reached the camp just as the others came in.
"What's the matter, Somers, you look scared—any fierce rabbits get after you?" asked Nat Wingate, winking at Hackett.
"Yardsley's been robbed of his furs," said Bob. "Not one of 'em left!"
"Robbed?" echoed Nat, in astonishment. "How—when?"
"Whew! That's mighty funny!" exclaimed Sam Randall. "Robbed? I can hardly believe it."
"It's true!—Who wants to come along and help us trail the thieves?"
"Well now!" Hackett paused and a fierce expression came into his eyes. "After amusing himself at our expense, he's got a fine nerve to ask us to help him—still," he went on, "speak your little piece, Somers, and we'll decide."
This Bob did, briefly, and at its conclusion Hackett again spoke up. "I feel sorry for the old man," he announced. "I'll go. There's a chance for some excitement, too."
"So will I," added Sam Randall, eagerly. "Here come Chubby and the rest. Won't they be surprised?"
Dave Brandon and his companions were seen making their way toward the camp.
As they came up, Hackett shouted out the news.
Dick Travers gave a whistle of astonishment, while Tom, believing that some joke was intended, began to laugh.
But Bob Somers quickly told his story again, and the astonished boys were given a chance to decide what they wanted to do. The question was almost immediately settled.
In brief, Nat Wingate, Dave Brandon and Tom Clifton concluded that their services were not required. The others hastily prepared to take their departure. Bob, who had already been helping himself to everything eatable in sight, drank a cup of coffee which had fortunately been left over, filled his pockets with crackers, and followed the already retreating forms of Hackett, Randall and Travers.
"Come on!" cried the slim boy. "The snow isn't falling half as fast as it was."
The three who stood by the fire gazed after them in a disconsolate fashion.
"I wonder what is going to happen now?" said Nat Wingate, as the four figures were lost to view.
Bob and his companions found the hunter pacing up and down the cabin in a state of great agitation.
"I was jest about gittin' off," he exclaimed. "Thought you'd never come. Them rascals will give us the slip yit."
"Who could have robbed you, Yardsley?" demanded Hackett. "It's pretty tough luck, eh?"
"Bless you—yes! When I seed that door open, I know'd something had happened. An' I could hev sold them skins ter Piper, too. Never heard the beat of it."
"Have you seen any suspicious characters around?"
"Nary one!"
"It's mighty queer that somebody should happen along just while you were out. They must have been watching the place pretty closely, eh?"
"Most likely!"
"My eye! There's the wildcat. Why, it's a whopper, Somers—"
"Come on, cap'n an' mates," interrupted Yardsley, impatiently. "Let's be off!"
In a few minutes, the party, with the trapper in the lead, were swiftly following the trail which led across the valley.
"Them tracks is purty fresh," said Yardsley, "an' we oughter gain on 'em fast. Every blessed pack of furs gone."
"You haven't lost 'em altogether yet," put in Hackett. "If this snow-storm doesn't turn into a blizzard, there's a chance of getting the whole bunch back."
"A blizzard's jest what I am afear'd of," commented the other. "It's blowin' purty fresh now."
Up-hill and down, scarcely slackening their pace, they kept along, the tracks of the sled being plainly visible. They were sunk to an unusual depth, showing how heavily it had been laden.
The snow was again coming down thicker, and in that steady fashion which indicated a deep fall. In through a dense pine woods the trail led, then turned abruptly toward the lake.
"The rascals will give us a purty chase," grumbled Yardsley. "Gittin' tired, boys?"
"I don't know about the others, but I'm not," replied Hackett. "I can give you ten feet start, and catch up, any time."
"Good for you," and Yardsley, bending forward, increased his pace.
Everybody had expected that the tracks would lead directly to Lake Wolverine, but this did not prove to be the case. About a quarter of a mile from the shore, they veered off sharply in a northwesterly direction, and, unfortunately, this made traveling all the more difficult.
Whirling clouds of snow dashed in their faces and gusts of wind bore down upon them, but none uttered a word of complaint, as they plunged doggedly along, straining eyes and ears to catch any signs of the thieves.
"It's turnin' inter a reg'lar blizzard," groaned Yardsley. "Them tracks is gittin' lost a'ready."
"Keep it up," urged Bob.
"Don't fear, cap'n. You'll never ketch me a-givin' up while thar's the slightest chance."
"If it would only hold up for a few minutes, even," panted Dick Travers, as they paused for a moment in a deep ravine.
"It's going to be worse before it's better, Dick," said Hackett. "Whew! Listen to the wind in those trees."
"And we can't see very far ahead, now," broke in Sam. "It's getting thicker every minute."
"That it is, mate. Never calc'lated it would be ragin' like this so soon," and there was a tone in the trapper's voice which seemed to indicate that he had begun to have little hope of success.
On the crest of another hill, they could scarcely stand against the terrific blasts which swept along, carrying with them clouds of feathery particles. It was bitterly cold and the darkness unusual, even for a heavy winter storm. The valley was entirely lost to view.
Enveloped in the whirling masses, the boys followed the trapper, whose form loomed up dimly in front. Now and then, he stooped to examine the trail, and occasionally encouraged them to renewed exertions, but the disheartening fact that the deep impressions must be speedily lost was apparent to all.
Faint as his hope was, however, Yardsley kept swinging along. Sure-footed, and accustomed to the woods, he got around the underbrush and fallen limbs in a manner that the others could not imitate.
Half blinded by the flakes, battered by the violent wind, they struggled along. Several times the wind veered sharply around and the boys no longer had an accurate idea of their direction. Every minute found them facing more discouraging conditions. Branches and twigs frequently came rattling about them and their progress was greatly impeded. Thus the pursuit continued for a long time.
Yardsley at length redoubled his efforts, pushing steadily forward, with great strides, so as to take advantage of the few minutes which remained before the trail would be entirely obliterated.
Suddenly Dick Travers pointed ahead, and uttered an exclamation.
Scarcely visible through the driving snow was an object which had neither the shape of a rock, stump, nor anything usually seen in the woods.
"The sled!—I'll bet it's the sled!" roared Dick.
"That's what I think," shouted Sam. "They've had to abandon it."
Close at his heels, the two boys pressed.
Sure enough, there was a sled—but empty.
"They had time ter git away with the stuff, after all," groaned Yardsley. "Nary a thing—all gone."
"Do you think they could have hidden it somewhere?" yelled Dick. Then, without waiting for an answer, he turned quickly around.
"Hello!" he exclaimed. "Where are Bob Somers and John Hackett? I thought they were right back of us."
"So did I," put in Sam.
"Great Scott! Whar' did they git ter?" roared Yardsley, with a look of apprehension on his bronzed face.
"Hi, hi—hello, cap'n!" he yelled at the top of his voice.
"Hi, hi, hey, hey!" chorused the others.
But no sounds came back to them.
Again they shouted, their united voices rising above the roar of the winds. Still there was no response.
Yardsley did not attempt to conceal his anxiety. "Lost!" he exclaimed; "an' in this blizzard!"
"Lost!" echoed Sam Randall and Dick Travers, as they looked at each other in alarm.
John Hackett's snow-shoe had caught upon a projecting log, and sent him sprawling. In his descent, his head brought up sharply against a low-hanging branch, and for a moment he lay stunned.
"Great Cæsar!" cried Bob. He stooped over and placed his hand upon Hackett's shoulder. "Hurt, Hacky?" he asked, anxiously.
"I hit my head an awful whack," replied Hackett, faintly.
Aided by his companion, he slowly rose to a sitting posture, but the blow had dazed him to such an extent that he remained almost motionless, while Bob Somers rubbed his forehead with snow.
"Feeling better now?"
"Yes—a little. My eye! I saw about fifty-six stars. It took all the strength out of me. Is there any mark, Somers?"
"A red spot—that's all."
"Wonder it didn't make a dent an inch deep."
Hackett accepted Bob's hand, struggled to his feet, and leaned heavily against a tree.
"I'm awfully sorry, Hacky," said Bob, compassionately.
"I'll have to take a few minutes' rest. Where are the other fellows, Somers?"
"They can't be far ahead."
"Better be going now, or we may get separated," said Hackett, presently. "Can you see the tracks still?"
"Yes, but they are very faint."
Hackett rubbed his forehead. "I'm getting all right, now; sail ahead."
"Bother the snow," said Bob. "It's so thick a fellow can't see more than a few feet."
"My eye! I don't like this," declared Hackett, nervously; "Yardsley is the only one who can find his way back to camp in this storm."
"And I can scarcely make out the trail any more."
A few rods further, and Bob stopped short. Then he walked back slowly, with his eyes fixed upon the surface of the snow.
"Have you lost it?" queried Hackett, bending over.
"No—thought I had. It's pretty faint, though. Come on."
Slowly they pushed ahead, now losing the trail, then finding it again. Drifts had settled over it in places, while generally it was becoming so faint as to be almost obliterated.
"I say, Somers," shouted Hackett, at length, as he turned his back to an unusually fierce blast, "unless some one has taken the trouble to look back, it means that we are left away behind."
"That's so! Yardsley was going at a pretty fast clip, while we've just poked along."
Hackett's face began to wear an angry expression. "Did you ever hear of such fierce luck?" he shouted, scarcely able to make himself heard above the roar of the storm.
"What chumps we were not to yell for them in the first place."
Hackett started ahead, shouting with all the strength of his lungs. "Hello, Sam—hello!" he called.
"No answer, eh?" said Bob. "Whew! This is a nice fix to be in. We'd better fire our guns."
Two reports rang out in quick succession.
"They ought to hear that," exclaimed Bob.
Straining their ears, the boys listened intently, but there was no sound of an answering shot.
"Try it again," suggested Hackett, with an anxious look.
Quickly reloading, Bob Somers and Hackett repeated their signal, but with no better success.
This was due to a combination of unfortunate circumstances. Not only was the storm raging with a violence which greatly lessened the range of the sound, but the wind was blowing in the wrong direction. Then, too, the trapper and the boys accompanying him had found it necessary to keep their ears well protected. Under these circumstances, it is not surprising that the shots passed unheard.
"Now we're in a pretty mess!" exclaimed Hackett, blankly. "Lost, as sure as guns. And the storm is getting worse all the time."
The possible seriousness of their situation came upon the boys with full force, and they looked at each other in dismay.
"We can tell what direction to go by the wind," said Bob, presently.
But this proved to be impossible. Due partially to the formation of the land, which was hilly and rugged, they were surrounded by so many eddying swirls that the wind afforded almost no guide.
In silence, with all senses alert, they kept on, amidst a thick group of evergreens, whose rich green boughs drooped beneath the weight of snow.
"No use," panted Hackett, at length. "Not a ghost of a show, Somers. Let's try and make a break for camp."
"Which way do you think it is?"
"Don't know, I'm sure. Bad as finding a pin in a ton of snow. But we have to keep on moving, and might as well go in the direction it seems to be."
But the boys' ideas on this important point did not agree, and both finally concluded that at the very first sheltered place it would be wiser to call a halt.
"My eye!" cried Hackett, suddenly. "What's that?" He stopped short and grasped his companion by the arm.
Above the roar of the wind came a crashing sound, which grew louder and louder.
"Look!" shouted Bob, pointing toward the right.
Dimly, through the driving snow, they saw a pine crashing downward. Gathering speed, it snapped off limbs and branches from the surrounding trees, and struck the ground about twenty feet away with a sullen thud. Several rabbits suddenly appeared, leaping wildly over the snow.
Almost mechanically, Bob Somers raised his gun, and taking quick aim, fired both barrels. At the second report, one of the animals fell back in the snow.
"Glad I borrowed Tom Clifton's gun," said Bob. "With a rifle might have missed him." Then he added, as he walked over and picked up the rabbit, "It's blowing hard to carry down a tree like that."
"Another danger we have to look out for," yelled Hackett. "My eye! Suppose we had been in the way!"
Bob glanced apprehensively at the swaying trees, from which now and then a branch would snap off, to come hurtling through the air.
"I'm nearly frozen," growled Hackett, "and can hardly see." He struggled slowly ahead, occasionally forced to turn his back to the icy blasts. "We are in a bad fix, Somers," he went on. "What are we going to do?"
"Keep a stiff upper lip. It might be a great deal worse."
"I don't see it. Just as likely, we are going directly away from camp, and we can't stay out all night."
The boys slowed up and looked anxiously around, in an effort to make out their surroundings.
"We'll have to trust to luck, Somers, and keep moving," said Hackett.
"Right you are!" replied Bob, with an effort at cheerfulness. "Don't get scared, and—"
"Who said I was scared?" cried Hackett, bristling up.
The thought of his courage being questioned seemed to put new life into him, and he moved ahead again with more spirit.
Before them was a level stretch, which they soon discovered was bordered by rugged hills. Here the full force of the storm was escaped, and, at length, to their great joy, beneath a sullen, beetling cliff, a spot was found partially free from snow and sheltered from the wind. Strewn about, not far from the nearest snow-drifts, were numerous limbs and branches carried there by the heavy gusts.
"My eye! But this is a find!" cried Hackett. "It's great to get away from that wind. If we can only start a fire—got any matches, Somers?"
"Of course!" replied Bob, in a tone of great relief. "Whew! I don't believe I could have stood it out there much longer."
He shook the snow from his clothing and swung his arms. Then after a moment's rest, took out his hatchet and began chopping away on a branch. Hackett, too, set to work, and within a quarter of an hour, a fire was started.
Beyond the shelter of the crag, the blizzard continued with unabated force. The wind howled and whistled, while scarcely anything could be seen through the mass of falling flakes.
"We certainly were lucky to get such a place as this, Hacky," commented Bob.
"And to crack that rabbit, too," said Hackett. "If we only had a little salt and pepper—"
"What do you say to this?" And Bob triumphantly brought forth a small can of each.
"My eye! Are you a walking grocery store?"
Bob laughed. "Wasn't a bad idea, eh?"