"You're right! Let's get to work."
Bob soon had the rabbit skinned and dressed. Then he scraped aside a pile of glowing coals.
A sharpened stick was used as a spit, and this being laid across two short logs, the rabbit began to broil.
"I could eat almost anything," said Bob.
"Just let me get a chance at it," observed Hackett.
"Hope the other fellows are all right," said Bob, anxiously.
"They have Yardsley with 'em. If anybody had to get lost, it was a good thing we did," continued Hackett. "Dick and Sam—well, they're not up in the woods game like we are. It kind of comes natural to me, and you ain't bad at it, either."
Bob laughed. "Thanks, Hacky, old man," he said.
The snow sifted down from above, but not enough to cause any great discomfort. Seated on a log, the boys began to grow cheerful again. Their aching limbs had eased considerably, and but for the dismal prospect of spending the night without shelter, neither would have minded the experience.
At length, the rabbit was cooked, or at least sufficiently cooked, for they could wait no longer.
"It's half burnt, scorched and raw in spots, but it tastes good just the same," commented Bob.
"You're right it does," replied Hackett. Then, after a pause, he added, "Somers, I believe it's letting up a little."
"It can't stop too soon for me. Hello—what's that sound?"
A series of doleful barks rose faintly above the roar of the wind.
"Wolves! I'll bet a hat on it!" cried Hackett, in a tone of alarm; "and sounds like a regular pack of 'em."
"I believe you're right."
Straining their ears, the boys again heard the cries, now growing louder, then lost in the moaning of the wind.
"Wolves, sure enough, Somers," repeated Hackett excitedly. He seized his gun, and peered anxiously around, while Bob began to feed the fire until great tongues of flame shot upward.
For some moments, there was no repetition of the cries, and both began to hope that they might be unmolested.
But suddenly a dismal medley of yelps and snarls, close at hand, filled the air. Several shadowy forms darted into view, circled around, approached, retreated, then, emboldened, came forward again, while the boys, with their hearts thumping painfully, held their guns ready for instant use.
"We are in for a fight, that's sure," said Bob, in a low voice. "Don't waste a shot."
"DON'T WASTE A SHOT!"
"DON'T WASTE A SHOT!"
"DON'T WASTE A SHOT!"
The animals, probably half famished, circled nearer and nearer, snapping and snarling, and occasionally uniting their voices in a volume of howls which made the two boys shiver. Now their gleaming teeth could be seen. Their jaws seemed to snap, as if in anticipation of a feast.
"More than a dozen of 'em, Somers!" exclaimed Hackett, in a strained, tense voice. "Did you ever see such ugly beasts?"
"Keep cool, and we'll be all right."
Hackett started to add more fuel to the fire, then stopped short and uttered an exclamation of dismay. He realized that their supply would soon be exhausted.
"Somers," he said, "Somers—what do you think of this? The fire won't last much longer!"
"And a fellow can't chop wood with those beasts around. They are getting bolder every moment."
All the fuel within reach was piled on the fire, and, keeping it between themselves and the savage, hungry animals, the boys awaited the outcome of the siege with nerves set at the keenest tension.
The gray, gaunt creatures scurried around, sometimes approaching so near that the two were on the point of firing, then, with dismal snarls, retreating until their courage reasserted itself.
"No use to shoot until we are certain," observed Bob. "If we happened to wound one without disabling it, I'll bet the beast would pounce right down on us."
"With the rest following at its heels," added Hackett.
Once or twice the slim boy raised his rifle, only to lower it. The indistinct forms, darting hither and thither amidst the driving snow, were difficult to aim at.
Meanwhile, the fire began to die down.
"We're in for it now," said Bob. "Look lively, and don't waste a shot."
A few minutes passed. Then, like a flash, one of the wolves darted toward them.
Bob Somers, with arms that trembled for an instant, raised his gun. He saw the wide-open, savage mouth, the glaring eyes—then he pulled the trigger.
A howl of agony followed the report. The animal rose on its hind legs and pitched forward in the snow.
"Hurrah! and with only one charge!" cried Bob, his eyes bright with excitement.
The loud report and flash of fire from the gun sent the other wolves back a few paces, but it was only for a moment.
"There's but one thing to be done, and that mighty quickly!" exclaimed Bob. "Wonder we didn't think of it before."
"What's that?"
"Climb the cliff. Once out of their reach, it will be easy to pick them off."
"Guess you are right. But they won't give us much chance to get up. If a fellow should slip—" Hackett shuddered.
"I'll stand 'em off. When I fire, you start to climb."
"Oh, no!" returned Hackett, quickly; "my repeating rifle is worth half a dozen of your guns. Be ready to move fast. In a second you'll hear a fierce racket. Here goes—one—two—three."
Hackett fired, then quickly followed with two more shots.
Bob Somers had slung his gun over his shoulder, and taking advantage of the opportunity, grasped a projecting rock, and began to scale the steep side of the cliff. Footholds were numerous, and, as little snow had found lodgment, he managed to reach a ledge well out of reach of their foes.
Hackett's shots and the cries of their wounded companions had sent the wolves quickly retreating, to spread out in a half-circle.
"Now's your time, Hackett," yelled Bob. "Quick!"
Hackett hastily turned, and began to scramble upward.
As he did so, a gray form shot out from amidst its fellows and made a dash straight for him.
"Whar' can the cap'n an' his mate hev got to?" cried Yardsley.
For a moment he forgot all about the thieves, in his great anxiety regarding the young hunters.
"Powerful—powerful bad," he went on. "Wouldn't hev had this happen fur no money."
He raised his gun and fired in the air, Dick Travers following his example.
Shielding themselves as best they could against the violent wind and blinding snow, they awaited a response. But none came.
"Big surprise ter me," said Yardsley. "I don't see how no sich thing could happen."
"What in the world can have become of them?" cried Sam Randall, in the utmost apprehension. "Great Scott! They will never be able to find their way back."
"This is awful," put in Dick, with a strong effort to make himself heard.
Yardsley stared fixedly in the direction from which they had come.
"It's all my fault!" he exclaimed, regretfully. "Powerful wrong ter ask you fellers ter come on sich a trip. An' I kep' straight ahead, never lookin' back. Yardsley, you're a reg'lar dub."
"The trail must be lost completely by this time," said Sam Randall, a moment later. "You can't even see it right back of the sled."
"I know this here place purty well," was Yardsley's response. "I kin foller the route back all right. Thar's one thing," he added, brightening up a bit.
"What's that?" asked Sam.
"The cap'n's got a good head, on good, square shoulders. He ain't no fool. An' that long-legged chap is full of grit."
"But this is an awful storm," said Sam Randall, and his moody tone indicated how apprehensive he felt.
Disconsolately, the trio pushed along, shouting and firing by turns.
"There's a chance that they may have gone back to camp," said Dick Travers, at length.
"But we don't want to give up until everything is done to find them," added Randall.
"Right you are, mate. John Yardsley would give all his winter's work ter see them chaps afore him."
But, as time went on, the utter hopelessness of the search became apparent. Buffeted and battered by the chilly blasts, scarcely able to see for the flying snow and almost exhausted, the two boys bravely kept up, until Yardsley, fearing that they might suffer ill effects from the exposure, sorrowfully decided that it would be necessary to return.
"It's no use—an' powerful sorry I am ter say it," he announced. "We'd best git back ter camp, an' trust that the cap'n an' mate pull through all right."
"Do you think they found their way back to camp?" asked Sam, hopefully.
"There's always a chance; an' if they didn't, the two will take keer of themselves—depend upon it."
Yardsley was far from feeling as sanguine as his words indicated, but he strove to encourage the others, and possibly, in so doing, lightened his own fears.
Disconsolately, therefore, the search was abandoned.
Sam and Dick followed the trapper closely. To them, the task of finding the camp would have been hopeless, but Yardsley went straight ahead, stopping only occasionally to look about him.
"How do you know which way to go?" asked Sam, curiously.
"Bless you, mates, a man can't live as I do, in the woods, an' lose his bearin's. I've traveled hereabouts 'til I can find my way in the dark."
"Wonder how Nat Wingate and the other fellows are faring?" said Dick.
"The camp is kinder sheltered, but them fellers across the lake—" Yardsley paused, and a strange expression came over his bronzed face. "H'm—powerful singular, I call it."
"What is?" asked Sam.
The trapper nodded, as if in answer to some thought of his own. They were standing by the side of a huge boulder, and partially sheltered from the wind.
"Well, mates, I don't like ter accuse no one, but ain't it powerful suspicious that them chaps should hev called you over this mornin'?"
As if half sorry that he had uttered his thoughts, the trapper stopped short, and glanced questioningly at the others.
"By George! It is rather funny!" cried Dick, impulsively. "And don't you remember, Sam, Robson said the whole crowd was expected to come over?"
"And it might have been all a bluff, too, about the others going out hunting."
"An' him as they call Piper was a-wantin', so he said, ter buy furs t'other day. Ridiculous figger, too. I don't like ter say nothin', but it's powerful singular," and Yardsley nodded vigorously. "Can't say I ever took to 'em, neither," he went on. "Oily kind of feller that Piper, an' very techy."
"And they knew just where your skins were kept?"
"Sartin! As sure as you're a-standin' here, they did."
"Wouldn't be surprised if they should turn out to be guilty," admitted Dick.
"Mind, I don't say it's them, but it looks powerful bad, an' I'm goin' ter find out. John Yardsley ain't the man ter be done this way."
"We must do some detective work," put in Sam.
"If the cap'n was only with us. A bright feller, the cap'n—he'll come out all right. The snow's growin' a bit less, mates."
"So it is," said Dick.
"Now if you fellers keep yer eyes open, ye may find out something."
"You can count on us," returned Dick, to whom the prospect of detective work was especially alluring.
But little was said during the rest of the journey.
"'Tain't fur now," remarked the trapper at length. He turned to the right, and was soon standing before a sign-post similar to the one the boys had seen near Lake Wolverine.
Partridge Holler.But it can't be heard.Lake Wolverine one mile.
"As I tole you afore, it's a little failin' I have," he chuckled. "You may strike more of 'em around these parts."
Yardsley soon relapsed into a moody silence. The fear that Bob Somers and his companion might be in danger, and his loss drove all other thoughts from his mind.
At length, they toiled up another hill, with the snow falling thickly about them, and the boys suddenly discovered by a familiar tree that their camp was close at hand.
"Hurrah!" cried Sam, and with renewed spirit he pushed along.
Soon the two huts came into view. Then several shadowy figures uttered loud cheers and came pressing forward.
"Hello, there!" cried Nat Wingate; "what luck?"
Then, as he was informed of the unaccountable disappearance of the two boys, he stared blankly at Dave Brandon and Tom Clifton. "What! Hacky and Bob Somers lost?" he exclaimed. "That's a nice fix to be in!"
"We thought they might have found their way back," said Sam, disconsolately. "This is a fierce storm for any one to be out in, eh, Chub?"
"Those chaps are pretty good at taking care of themselves," replied Dave, reflectively.
"But what will they do for a shelter to-night?" put in Tom Clifton, in a frightened voice. "Cracky! What awful luck!"
"The cap'n's got a good head, an' Hackett's full of grit. The wust of it is, we can't do nothin'."
"No use looking on the worst side," commented the poet laureate, in positively cheerful tones. "Don't get scared until you have to. See what we've done, fellows." He pointed toward the huts.
"Cleared away a lot of snow, eh? That's great," commented Dick. "Lucky that it's sheltered here, or we might have been snowed up pretty badly. Some big drifts, as it is. Looks different, doesn't it?"
"Whew, fellows, this wind is too much," said Dave; "it's the hut for me."
The boys all crowded inside, followed by the trapper. A lantern hung from the roof, brightly illuminating the small interior, and making a cheerful contrast to the growing darkness outside.
"A purty snug little place, mates," observed Yardsley, seating himself on an empty box.
The light played fantastically over his rugged features, ruthlessly bringing out the wrinkles and hollows formed by conflict with the elements. His strong, bony hands clasped his knee, and, leaning back, he gazed moodily at the floor, now and then half starting when a particularly violent gust of wind shook the hut.
"It will soon be as dark as pitch," declared Tom Clifton, pulling aside the canvas flap and looking out. "Snow still coming down pretty lively, too. We'll have another job clearing it away in the morning."
"Where in the world can Hacky and Somers be, I wonder?" spoke up Nat.
"Don't worry, mates. They will turn up to-morrow, sure," said Yardsley. Then, to relieve his own feelings, he began to talk on other subjects.
"I say, fellows," broke in Dick Travers, suddenly, "there was something mighty suspicious about those fellows across the lake calling us over this morning."
"What do you mean?" asked the poet laureate, quickly.
"It looks as though they wanted to have an eye on us. Queer, too, that Robson should have been alone."
Dave Brandon seemed somewhat startled, and reflected for a moment. "I can't believe those chaps would do anything of that sort," he said, with a decided shake of his head. "Story Robson told seemed straight to me. Nice fellows, I think."
"Best ter say nothin' more about it," observed the trapper. "Guess I done wrong ter 'rouse yer s'picions."
Nat Wingate leaned back and stuffed his hands in his pocket. "Did Robson act as if he had a headache, Chub?" he inquired.
"He didn't look very spry, that's certain."
"An' I guess it was true 'nough 'bout them wolves," put in Yardsley, and he contracted his brow until two deep lines appeared.
"My idea, too," added Dave.
"Oh, you are easy, Chub," said Nat, rather scornfully. "For my part, I think those chaps took the furs, and we're going to find out before very long."
Scrambling desperately, John Hackett strove to pull himself beyond the reach of the wolf.
Bob Somers, standing upon an insecure ledge above, and at imminent risk of taking a tumble, fired point-blank. The animal, with a howl of mingled fury and pain, stopped—then went limping away, while Hackett, with another strenuous effort, managed to gain a position of safety.
"Thanks, Somers, old man," he managed to exclaim. "He came pretty near giving me a good snip. My eye! We'll attend to those ugly brutes now. Just look at 'em."
"We were lucky to get up here, eh?"
"Yes, and that concert is going to stop—mighty quick, too."
Hackett slipped a round of cartridges into his rifle, and taking a firm stand, raised it to his shoulder.
His aim was true. Without a cry, one of the beasts toppled over in a heap.
"Hurrah! Maybe 'Mushroom' could do better than that!" cried the slim boy, exultingly. "Watch me again, Somers—wow!" Hackett, in his eagerness, almost slipped from his position.
"Gracious, Hacky—thought you were going down, sure."
"It was a close call. Fine, to be plumped right in among 'em," and Hackett gave a perceptible shiver.
Awaiting favorable opportunities, both kept on firing, and with each report, came yelps of rage and pain. The baffled animals scurried away, then slowly returned to the base of the cliff, where they trotted around, looking upward, their glistening teeth and red tongues giving them a most ferocious aspect.
"Only a few more left, now, Somers. Here goes another," and Hackett proved his assertion by a skilful shot. The blood-curdling screech that followed seemed to carry consternation into the hearts of the others. Hastily falling back, they circled around for a moment, then, dismally howling, leaped over the snow and disappeared from view behind the veil of falling flakes.
"My eye! That's great! We have done ourselves proud!" exclaimed Hackett. "Five of 'em! What will old Yardsley say to this, eh, Somers?"
"That we know how to look out for ourselves. Talk about being stiff and cold—my position is so cramped—"
"Let's get down, then."
"That's what I'm going to do just as soon as we're sure those beasts are not coming back."
After a considerable wait, when there was nothing to indicate that their savage foes were near, Bob Somers eased himself down, and, with a sigh of relief, stretched his aching limbs. By swinging his arms vigorously and dancing a jig, the circulation was quickly restored. Hackett followed his example.
"Gracious, what ugly looking beasts," exclaimed Bob as his eyes rested on their late besiegers.
"We'll take the tails along, to show the fellows," said Hackett. "There's a bounty for 'em, too. I knew I could do the trick. Made some pretty good shots, eh, Somers?" and Hackett smiled complacently.
"Yes, you did," returned Bob, with a faint grin. "But better let's pitch in, now, and get a pile of wood ready for the night. The wolves may take it into their heads to come back."
"To think of having to spend hours and hours in this gloomy place," grumbled Hackett. "It's fierce luck—nothing to eat, either. Say, we, too, have an account to settle with the fellows who stole old Yardsley's furs. I'd like to run across 'em. Wonder if he had any luck?"
"Not likely. The trail was 'most lost when we got separated."
No sign of the remaining wolves being seen, they boldly set to work, and in spite of their tired condition, kept at it until a great pile of fuel was gathered. Then the bodies of the dead wolves were tossed unceremoniously to one side.
The smouldering fire soon quickened into life, and by this time, darkness had settled over the scene, a pitchy darkness, which the fire lighted up for a short distance with a fantastic glare.
Conversation lagged. They gazed moodily at the crumbling logs sending up showers of sparks, at the ever-changing forms, so suggestive to imaginative minds of hobgoblins and elves, dancing and twisting into every conceivable shape, but nothing could make them forget their hunger.
Time wearily dragged on—hours and hours passed—then tired nature asserted itself.
"No use of two keeping watch, Hacky. Let's take turns on guard, or if you want to take a nap—"
"I'm not any more tired than you are. I can stand about as much as any fellow I know of."
"Certainly you can," laughed Bob. "We can settle it by drawing lots. If I win, you can bet I'll take a nap."
When the daylight began to show itself through a dull sky, patched with blue, the snow had stopped falling.
A flock of crows passed noisily overhead. Soon the frostwork in the forest was sparkling like diamonds, as the sun burst through a rift in the grayish clouds.
Bob jumped to his feet. "Morning, and a fine one, too," he exclaimed.
"You're right, Somers. Are you ready to skip?"
"You bet! Say, but I'm sore and stiff; and I'll starve, too, if I don't get something to eat pretty soon."
Snow-shoes were strapped on, and after cutting off the wolves' tails, a start was made.
"Which direction do you think the camp is, Somers?"
"About southeast. We ought not to have much trouble in striking Lake Wolverine, with the sun to help us."
"Guess you are right. It might be a good idea to climb a tree. I'll do that on top of the next hill."
Everywhere were evidences of the storm's ravages. Branches and limbs lay on all sides and occasionally small trees were found lying prostrate on the snow.
Through a heavily timbered section the boys forced their way, often confronted by huge snow-drifts.
On reaching the summit of a high hill, Hackett looked about him.
"There's a tree that will do, Somers," he said, pointing to one close at hand. "When I get my snow-shoes off, give me a boost."
In spite of little food and a very hard night, Hackett had not lost his agility. From branch to branch he climbed aloft, until a dizzy height was reached.
"I can see the upper end of the lake, Somers," he called, "but it's a good way off. We are headed all right, though," he added, beginning to descend.
"A couple of hours ought to see us at the camp," declared Hackett, when he stood on the ground once more.
"How far is the lake?"
"About three miles. Let's hustle."
Down the steep slope they went, and at the bottom found themselves in a forest of evergreens. The air was crisp and invigorating and the fragrant odor of the pines delightful.
The ground was again rising gently. A few paces further, Bob Somers suddenly seized Hackett by the arm. "Gracious alive—a deer," he whispered. "Don't make a sound."
"Where?" asked his companion, eagerly.
"Straight ahead," said Bob.
They had reached the top of a slight elevation. Below, with its back turned toward them, was a deer browsing upon cedar boughs.
"Sure enough! If this isn't the greatest piece of luck I ever heard of; and the wind is blowing in the right direction, too." Hackett's voice trembled with excitement. "Mind your eye, Somers," he continued, "and we'll get it. Let's circle around, and—" he paused, for the deer swung its head to one side, and both boys expected to see it dash off on the instant.
But, to their intense relief, the animal continued browsing, and, with the utmost caution, they moved along, eagerly peering between the masses of underbrush.
"It's still there," said Hackett, in scarcely audible tones. "A minute more, and I'm going to take a chance."
"Don't utter even a whisper," interrupted Bob, warningly.
In silence, the eager hunters, bending low, circled around.
A moment later, coming in full view of the deer between wide openings in the trees, Hackett raised his rifle, conquered the strange tremor which had seized him, and fired.
It was a thrilling moment. A wreath of bluish smoke slowly drifted upward, then the excited boys saw the animal plunge forward, and sink to its knees.
A hearty shout came from Hackett. "Knew I couldn't miss!" he cried, exultingly, as he dashed ahead.
The deer recovered its feet, and floundered through the snow. But the slim boy rapidly gained on the wounded animal, and, waiting until he was within easy range, fired again.
This time, the doe, struck in a vital part, dropped in her tracks and rolled heavily in the snow.
Hackett rushed forward in the greatest excitement. A cry of triumph came from his lips. The only great achievement of the trip had been his—already, he saw himself looked upon as a mighty hunter by the Kingswood boys.
But as he approached the body of the doe, a plaintive cry attracted his attention, so soft and faint as to almost pass unheard.
"What's that, I wonder?" muttered Hackett, in astonishment.
Looking quickly around, he saw a pair of large, pleading eyes, gazing into his own. Partially hidden by a mass of underbrush stood a young fawn.
The little creature seemed to be on the point of leaping off, but, as Hackett remained perfectly still, it apparently took courage, then gazed at the doe with such a mournful expression that the young hunter felt touched.
"Hang it all, Somers," he exclaimed, regretfully, "I wish I hadn't made such a corking good shot. I do—and no mistake."
"A fawn, by George! I thought I saw something moving along back of that bush," cried Bob Somers. "Come here," he said, coaxingly, holding out his hand.
But the small creature leaped lightly aside.
"My eye! I'll take him back with me," declared Hackett. "You bet I will."
"Catch him first," laughed Bob.
"I think we can manage it. See, he hasn't gone far. Leave it to me, Somers. It will be sporting up and down my father's lawn yet."
With an assortment of strange sounds, Hackett stepped forward. But as long as he was in motion the fawn kept moving away, showing no disposition, however, to go very far from the slain doe.
Hackett displayed a great deal of patience, and finally the fawn, apparently realizing that no harm was intended, allowed him to approach.
In the meantime, Bob Somers had made a noose out of a piece of cord, and when the slim boy finally succeeded in coaxing the animal to his side, they managed, by careful work, to slip it over the fawn's neck, and it was then a prisoner.
"It's the fellows, as sure as you live!" cried Dick Travers. "Whoop! Isn't that great, Chubby? Makes me feel like dancing for joy."
The faint report of a gun came over the frosty air, following a signal fired by Yardsley.
"Must be the cap'n an' mate," commented the trapper, with hope in his voice.
"Cracky, I only hope we're not going to be disappointed," put in Sam Randall, anxiously. "Shall we fire again?"
"'Tain't no use now," declared Musgrove, decidedly.
On reaching the top of a hill, the eager searchers were rewarded by seeing two figures slowly moving along in the valley below.
"Is it them?" asked Tim Sladder, earnestly.
"I'm sure it is," declared Dick Travers; "I'd know Hackett's thin figure a mile away."
"I don't even mind losin' them furs—if that's the cap'n an' mate, safe an' sound," exclaimed Yardsley, heartily. "Tell the truth, I ain't had a minute's rest fur thinkin' about 'em."
"Hi, hi—hey!" yelled Nat; "hello, Hacky—whoop!" and he waved his hand frantically in the air.
An answering call reached their ears.
"My goodness, but I'm glad," cried Sam Randall, enthusiastically. "This is the best moment of the trip."
"I knew they would turn up all right, though," commented Dave Brandon. But his shining eyes and tone indicated a feeling of the greatest relief. "What is that they have with them—a dog, or what?" he asked abruptly.
"Most likely a 'What,'" grinned Nat.
"Some four-legged critter, sure enough," put in Tim Sladder.
"Bless you," began Yardsley—he shaded his eyes—"what can it be? Youngsters," he added, in a surprised tone, "the cap'n an' mate's got a fawn. Did you ever hear the beat of it? Really—if I ain't surprised!"
"Christopher! They must be getting a menagerie together," observed Nat Wingate, wonderingly.
Swiftly the snow-shoes glided over the white surface of the slope, Yardsley leading the way, and soon they were within easy call.
A chorus of cheers floated over the air, and before the echoes had ceased lusty shouts came from the others.
"Ah, but it's good ter see 'em again," cried Yardsley. "An' they don't look none the wuss fur it, neither."
"Hurrah for the bounding brotherhood of deer catchers," yelled Nat, and above the din which followed was heard Billy Musgrove's loud laugh.
"Hello, fellows!"
"Hello, Nat, old man!"
Enthusiastic greetings, hand-shaking and exclamations followed. Questions, sharp, quick and to the point, were hurled back and forth. All spoke at once, and no one managed to get a clear idea of anything until Yardsley waved his hand for silence.
"Softly, youngsters," he exclaimed; "give 'em time."
"It strikes me you're right," agreed Sam Randall. "Quit that racket, fellows. What's that, Bob—wolves? Say—"
"Wolves!" echoed Hackett. "Did we have a fight?—Well!" the slim boy drew a long breath.
The tumult threatened to break out again, but the pause was well timed, and Hackett launched forth into a vivid description, which was punctuated at telling points by a chorus of "ah's and oh's" from his interested listeners.
"Boys, I'm proud of yer," declared the trapper, beamingly, as he extended his hand to each in turn. "Born hunters—both of yer. What d'ye think of it?" and he turned toward Sladder and Musgrove.
"Ain't bad, fur town fellers, but," and Musgrove grinned in his impudent fashion, "me an' Tim wouldn't think nothing of it. No, sir! Why—"
"But do tell us about the fawn," interposed Dick Travers, impatiently, as Hackett's eyes began to glare.
During the reunion, the small animal had made frantic efforts to escape. The sight of big, lumbering Bowser especially terrified it, but the dog, slowly walking forth and back, kept at a considerable distance, eying the newcomer askance, occasionally uttering a doleful bark.
"Brave dog of yours, Sladder," sneered Hackett. "Wonder it hasn't keeled over. It can hardly stand up now, for fright."
Tim grinned, then glanced, with a rather peculiar expression, at Yardsley. "He ain't never been hisself since he heard them awful screeches outside our shanty," he declared. "'Most had a spell then; but you ain't got money enough ter buy him."
"He's only good enough for the dog pound."
"Oh, but the fawn—do tell us about the fawn," put in Tom Clifton.
Hackett complied.
"Somers will tell you what a corking good shot it was. I'd like to see any one in this crowd beat it," he declared, decisively, as the story was concluded.
"Them fawns, if yer runs acrost 'em at the proper age, are easy tamed," said John Yardsley.
"What beautiful eyes," remarked Tom Clifton, admiringly.
"And pretty head," added Dick. "What are you going to do with it, 'Hatchet'?"
"It goes back to Kingswood, and will walk around my governor's lawn, larger than life."
"Are we going to stand here gabbing all day?" asked Bob, with a comical grimace. "Talk about feeling hungry—and tired—and cold."
"That's so! You sure had a fierce time of it!" exclaimed Yardsley, apologetically. "Come with me, an' I'll make a spread fur the hull crowd—that I will."
This arrangement was gladly acceded to, especially as the last spread had been one to be remembered.
Every one was glad when the cabin came in view, and still more glad when a fire was started. While Tom Clifton and Dick Travers assisted the hunter, the rest discussed the various events which had befallen them.
"No, I ain't seen them fellers 'crost the lake," snapped Billy Musgrove, in answer to a question. "Ain't pertic'lar 'bout it, neither. No, sir; Piker an' Jobson got too fresh. Say, what d'ye think Jobson says ter me?" A peculiarly injured expression crossed his face, and, for a moment, a pair of small eyes blinked angrily. "He says, 'Muzzy, yer got the biggest mouth I ever seen.' Honest, he did, Springate—them was his words."
"But you called him down all right, Billy," grinned Tim Sladder.
"Sure I did! What's that, Springate—you think they stole Pardsley's furs?"
"I didn't say anything to you, Musgrove," said Nat, annoyed that an unguarded remark had been overheard.
"I hearn you, though, that I did. Say, you don't know nothing about it. No, sir." Billy Musgrove leaned back on an empty soap box. "I ain't a-sayin' I like 'em," he went on, looking down on the floor, and slowly twirling his thumbs, "an' I don't know nothing about 'em, but—"
"I reckon we'll never l'arn who robbed me," broke in Yardsley.
"An' I don't keer," continued Billy Musgrove, calmly.
"An' I was going ter say," interposed the trapper, "that now the cap'n an' his mate's got back safely, I ain't a-kickin'."
"See here, Wardsley, what makes you call Scummers 'cap'n'?" asked Musgrove, with a grin and a wink. "D'ye think he's boss? If yer do, ask that long-legged chap."
"You make me think of a purp in a mud puddle—always stirring up things," remarked Hackett, half angrily. "Don't get too gay. I won't stand for it—no, sir. Ask me pal, Nat," and he mimicked Billy's voice so well that the boys fairly exploded with laughter.
"Want to go over with us to-morrow night, and see 'Piper' and the rest, Sladder?" asked Nat, when quiet was restored.
"What are you goin' fur?"
"Nothing special. Just to see how they are making out," answered Nat, evasively.
"Sure thing, we'll go," interrupted Musgrove. "Wouldn't hev 'em think they scared us none. To-morrow night, eh?—Suits me, all right."
"Wonder what luck they've had, anyway?" observed Sladder.
"Them chaps ain't no hunters. Ain't many hunters out here neither;" and at this very obvious insinuation Billy winked several times, and affected not to notice the dense silence which, for a moment, followed his words.
Appetizing odors soon filled the room, and the half-famished wanderers could scarcely wait until the steaming viands were placed on the long table near the window.
The meal was thoroughly enjoyed, and at its completion the poet laureate distinguished himself by promptly going to sleep.
"Let him be, mates," observed Yardsley. "And who's a-goin' with me ter fetch that there deer to camp?" he asked, a moment later.
"I will," said Dick Travers.
"Guess I'll go, too," added Randall.
"We'd best be going soon," continued Yardsley, "or we'll find that the varmints have made a meal of it."
When Yardsley and the two Ramblers started off after the deer, the others began to make their way toward the lake.
As the afternoon advanced, the clouds which still dotted the sky began to disappear, and before dark the last whitish patch had vanished behind a hill. Finally a glimmering light began to show in the northeast, and the moon rose against a steel blue sky sprinkled with stars.
Sam Randall and Dick Travers returned, and announced the success of their trip.
The rigor of a keen, cutting air was greatly lessened by a roaring fire, and the boys managed to make themselves comfortable.
Bob Somers and Hackett, however, thoroughly worn out, concluded to retire early, and while the figures of Sladder, Musgrove and Bowser were yet patches of dark against a snowy background, each was ready for his bed of fir brush.
"Here comes Sladder, Musgrove and the mighty Bowser," laughed Bob, when supper was finished next evening.
"There's a light in the cabin, so we might as well get ready," added Sam Randall, rising to his feet.
The Stony Creek hunters soon drew up alongside the blazing fire.
"Evenin'! You fellers goin' over now? Piker's gang is there," said Musgrove. "A bully night, too, fur skatin'," he added.
The full moon gleamed brightly from a cloudless sky, sending the shadows of the dark trees in a delicate tracery over the foreground. The huts were edged with light, while beyond stretched a pale, ghostly expanse of snow, broken here and there by dark patches of trees and underbrush. Overhead, a few bright stars sparkled upon the field of blue.
"Big crowd of us, isn't there?" said Tom Clifton, with a glance over his shoulder, as all started for the lake.
"Sure," replied Sladder; "with Bowser, it makes ten. Guess there won't be much room in that there cabin when all of us gits inside."
"Race, Wackett?" grinned Musgrove, as the crisp whirr of the steel rang out.
"Do you think I want to break my neck? A fellow might run across an air hole or thin spot somewhere. Daytime for me. And say, Mushroom"—Hackett's voice betrayed a trace of impatience—"you won't talk so much about racing after the next time."
"Huh—what's the reason I won't?"
"You'll find out. I'll have the Stony Creek championship dangling from my belt before long, eh, Nat?" and Hackett playfully poked his chum in the ribs.
The starlike point of light in the cabin grew larger and brighter, and finally the log structure could be faintly seen against the side of the hill.
"Hello—hi, hi!" yelled Hackett, and the chorus of shouts which followed soon brought a response.
The door was opened, sending a stream of light out upon the snow. Dark forms crowded the entrance, and Piper's voice was heard, inviting them to come in.
The snow-drifts along the shore and around the cabin were particularly heavy, but the boys quickly floundered through them.
"I'm glad to see you," said Piper, heartily, as the group approached. "Been wondering how you fared in the storm. Hello—you here?"
His eye had rested on the forms of Tim Sladder and Billy Musgrove, who stood in the full glare of light.
At this remark, the latter's face assumed its most impudent expression. He folded his arms and surveyed the speaker an instant before replying, "Certainly—an' why not?"
"Oh, well—didn't expect you—that's all."
Piper's voice grew sarcastic, his manner became frigid, while Robson, standing just inside, gave a short laugh. "Anyway, we don't want that Bowser in here," went on Piper. "A hundred pounds of dog would take up too much room."
"An' I suppose me an' me pal, Tim, ain't good 'nough ter come in, neither—eh?" growled Musgrove, compressing his lips.
"No use getting riled. Move lively, fellows—don't want to let in too much cold air."
For an instant the Stony Creek boys held back. Then Sladder whispered in his chum's ear, and the two slowly walked inside. Bowser, left out in the cold, set up a mournful howl and began scratching at the door.
"Sit on anything you can find, fellows," said Piper, with a pleasant smile. "It seems to me," he added, "that we ought to build an addition to this shack. What's the matter with that brute?"
"Don't you think a dog feels the cold jest like humans, Swiper?" interposed Musgrove.
"Seems to me it's more of a great big calf than a canine," laughed Piper. "Pretty heavy storm we had, eh? It was a job clearing away some of the snow-drifts. Seems to me I never worked so hard in my life. How did you fellows make out?"
"Well, Piper," replied Nat Wingate, sitting in an indolent fashion near the stove, "there was excitement on our side of the lake, and plenty of it, too."
"Bob Somers and Hackett had an awful time," ventured Tom Clifton. "Almost got chewed up by wolves."
"By wolves?" echoed Heydon, in surprise.
"Yes! We certainly had the fight of our lives—and no mistake," answered Hackett. "You see, Piper, it was this way—"
A particularly loud whine from the disconsolate Bowser interrupted him.
"We'll have to let the poor brute in," remarked Rex Heydon. "If we don't, the meeting will be disturbed too much."
"Seems to me," put in Piper, reflectively, "that I wouldn't own a dog like that."
"Don't say nothin' agin Bowser," protested Tim Sladder, warmly. He opened the door to admit the animal, which bounded in with a great demonstration of joy.
"Now spin your yarn," said Piper.
Nat Wingate, quite anxious to see if the trio displayed any evidence of guilt, quickly spoke up. "Yardsley had all his furs and skins stolen," he exclaimed, abruptly, and pausing to note the effect of his words, he glanced sharply at the three young men.
They seemed profoundly astonished.
"Had his furs stolen?" gasped Piper. "How—when?"
Nat proceeded to tell them, and when he had finished Hackett began his tale.
"Well, you fellows certainly had a strenuous day, all right," commented Robson with a long breath as he concluded. "Let's see—say, it happened just about the time I sent up the smoke signals, eh?"
Piper contracted his brow on hearing this, and stared reflectively at the floor. "It seems to me," he began.
"Can't you say nothin' else than 'it seems ter me'?" grinned Musgrove, impudently. "That's the ninth time yer said it. I counted 'em."
"Seems to me that you—"
"Makes ten!" Billy shifted his position and chuckled audibly, while Piper glared angrily for a moment, then resumed, "This is a pretty serious business, boys. Have you seen any one around lately?"
"No!"
"And doesn't Yardsley have any suspicions?"
An uncomfortable expression flitted across Nat Wingate's face, and slight as it was, Piper's quick eye detected it.
"Oh, ho!" put in the poet laureate, "it's all a mystery. Yardsley said yesterday that he never expected to find out who took them."
A sort of chuckle came from Billy Musgrove, which seemed to irritate Piper considerably. Heydon, too, looked over with a surprised air, remarking, "I'm sure I can't see what there is to amuse any one in an affair like this."
"I ain't said I was amused at the rob'ry," returned Musgrove with another chuckle.
"But at something—that's quite apparent," said Piper. For a moment he remained thoughtful, then, as an idea suddenly entered his mind, a slight flush crossed his face. "What is this, Wingate?" he asked, rather sharply. "What did old Yardsley say? Come, out with it. No need of any mystery."
"Brandon just told you," answered Nat, evasively.
"Oh, yes—but I'll be bound that wasn't all. Look at Musgrove—he can scarcely keep his face straight."
Silence followed this remark. It was broken by Rex Heydon, who observed, "I guess we can see through a wall when there's a hole in it. What are you afraid of?"
"Afraid?" Nat Wingate mechanically repeated the word, then came to a pause, looking considerably nonplussed.
Piper turned toward the smallest member of the Rambler Club and held up his finger. "Tom Clifton," he said, with a trace of anger in his voice, "I want to know exactly what that old trapper had to say!"
But Billy Musgrove interrupted. "What are you gittin' excited 'bout, Sniper?" he asked, the grin leaving his face. "Why do you want ter know what Pardsley says?"
"I'm not talking to you," snapped Piper.
"Come now—don't be scared, Tommy," he went on, encouragingly; "out with it. Wingate knows, but won't tell. Kind of lost his nerve, perhaps."
"You must think I lose my nerve pretty easily," laughed Nat.
"Well, it seems to me—that will do, Musgrove, if my English doesn't happen to please your scholarly mind, I can't help it—that you ought to be frank, Wingate. Your nature may be a little timid—some people are that way—and—"
"Can't say I like that," interrupted Nat, his eyes beginning to flash. "A little timid, eh? I guess you don't know me very well yet, Piper."
"Well, then, we'll test that a bit—of course no offense intended. Now it seems to me—"
A groan came from Musgrove. Piper cast an angry look in his direction, and continued, "Now—just show me how much nerve you have. I can tell that old Yardsley said something about us—don't deny it. Really doesn't make any difference, but—"
Nat Wingate half arose. He felt that all eyes were upon him and to be even mildly accused of lack of courage made the hot blood mount to his face. "Do you think I'd lose my nerve on your account?" he exclaimed,—"not much!"
"Come—come, fellows!" expostulated Dave Brandon, quietly; "there is no need of any trouble."
"The idea of him talkin' like that, when Springate's been insulted," chuckled Musgrove, in a hoarse whisper. "This is as good as a circus. But Sniper can't scare Springate none no, sir—not he."
"Piper," spoke up Robson, at this juncture, "you made a mistake in letting Muzz come in, after his impudence the other day."
"My imperdence?" Billy rose excitedly. "My imperdence?" he repeated, furiously. "If that don't beat all! I like that—of all the sassy fellers I ever run acrost, Sniper, you're the wust." Musgrove leaned forward—the light revealed a face purple with rage. "But yer can't scare me, or me pal, Tim—no, sir!"
"And I won't stand fur no sass, neither," asserted Sladder, taking a stand by the side of his chum. "We ain't lookin' fur trouble, but when it comes, we kin handle an awful lot."
Piper glared for a moment at the two boys, then arose. "You will have precious little opportunity for handling any around here," he observed, "or for making any, either."
"'Seems ter me,'" retorted Musgrove, also arising, "that it was you what's been makin' a fuss. I never seen sich a crowd."
Charlie Piper was thoroughly incensed. "Get out of this cabin, you grinning jackanapes," he cried, wrathfully. Then, walking to the door, he threw it open. "Take yourselves and that clumsy old brute out of here before my temper gets the best of me."
"Oh, we ain't pertic'lar anxious ter stay," sneered Musgrove, as he spitefully kicked over the box on which he had been sitting and edged away. "You're a nice one—a pertic'lar nice one—oh, yes! An' Springate ain't the feller I think he is, if he lets hisself be insulted. Imperdence, eh? Well, you know how ter hand it out, all right."
"An' I ain't standing fur no more of it, neither," added Tim Sladder. "Come on, Bowser!" And the Stony Creek boys stalked slowly and defiantly toward the door.
"Nice, pleasant evening," remarked Nat, dryly.
"Mean anything by that?" queried Piper.
"Come now, Charlie," interposed Heydon. "Those Stony Creek fellows have kind of spoiled things. Let it drop."
"If some one had had the courage to speak out in a manly fashion, this trouble could all have been avoided," returned the other. "Don't blame the whole thing on them."
"Boys!" exclaimed Heydon, with a deprecatory gesture. "No use taking that seriously. Call the thing ended. Won't you have a cup of coffee?"
"I think not," answered Nat, coldly, as he arose from his seat. "Guess I'll be going, too," he continued. "Hang it all—no matter what Yardsley said, it's no affair of ours."
"Might be better to change the subject now," said Fulmer Robson, with a forced laugh, "and begin—"
"I'll say good-night, fellows," continued Nat, as he took a step toward the door. "Coming along, Hackett?"
"Well, if you are in such a humor as that," snapped Piper, "I've nothing further to say. No doubt that fellow Yardsley thinks we stole his furs—I could read it in your face."
"We're not responsible for another person's opinion," observed Hackett, a little disappointed that the row had not assumed larger proportions.
"Still I notice that no one has the sand to let me know what he said." Piper spoke in a most sarcastic tone, and glanced from Hackett to Wingate.
Nat's brown eyes flashed. "You'll admit yourself, Piper," he blurted out, "that it looks mighty singular. Just at the time we are sent for, the furs happen to disappear. Anybody would be a fool not to—"
"That will do," interrupted Piper, harshly. "The whole crowd of you might as well get out. This isn't the end of the affair by a long shot!"
Hackett opened the door. "And you'll find out that we have as much sand as anybody," he growled. "Don't you forget it."
"It needs to be proven," retorted Piper, angrily. "If you are going, kindly shut the door. We don't care to be frozen out."
"If you want proofs," snapped Hackett, "you'll get them fast enough. This crowd doesn't take a back seat for anybody."
"Very good—but just remember that we're in no mood to be trifled with," was Piper's parting fling.
Almost before they realized it, the boys found themselves standing outside the cabin, wondering at the strange termination of their visit.
Meanwhile Tim Sladder and Billy Musgrove had not left the vicinity. They considered themselves grievously insulted, and Bowser, too, had been referred to in the most slurring manner. As the two conversed in low tones, their anger grew, rather than lessened.
In the full glare of moonlight, the Stony Creek boys stood, dark and mysterious against a background of silvery white snow, now and then turning toward the cabin to make a threatening gesture. Finally, instead of re-crossing the lake, and moving as if some momentous scheme was under way, they began to climb the hill back of the cabin. It was steep and partially bare of trees.
On reaching the top, Billy Musgrove chuckled—it was a particularly mirthful chuckle, and seemed to indicate that his wrathful feelings had been swallowed up in those of a more pleasant nature. Below, the cabin appeared as a dark patch, while a glimmer of pale yellow light spread over the snow from the window on the other side.
"We jest hit the right scheme, Tim," exclaimed Musgrove, cautiously. "'Bout here is the spot. We'll make a whopper, an' it oughter swoop down like a streak o' lightnin'. That 'seems ter me' feller will find out it ain't good ter insult us none."
Tim Sladder grinned. "I can hardly wait," he said. "Here you, Bowser—keep quiet. Guess it will surprise 'em some. Let's begin ter scoop it up. Plenty of big drifts jest in the right place."
"My, but Springate was mad with Sniper," chuckled Billy. "Hope they ain't gone when this here punk'n begins a-rollin'."
With an energy that would have done credit to a more worthy cause, the Stony Creek boys began to get together a pile of snow. A big mass was pounded and rolled together until it became firm and solid.
They watched the white ball growing into formidable dimensions with many stifled bursts of laughter, while old Bowser, taking a languid interest in the proceedings, gazed curiously as it was rolled from place to place gathering up more snow.
"Hello—believe them chaps is a-comin' out now," observed Sladder. "Ain't that Piper a-talkin' loud?"
"Guess you're right, Tim," chuckled Musgrove, listening intently. "Sounds like a scrap, don't it?"
"Wouldn't worry me none, if it was. But don't let 'em see you, Billy."
"This here huckleberry is 'most done an' ready ter roll. Git back a bit, Tim. I can see 'em hangin' around the door. Say—there's Scummers a-callin' us."
"Let 'im call. We ain't got no time ter gab. Important business on hand." Tim Sladder chuckled and peered cautiously over the edge of the declivity. An exclamation of impatience escaped him, as he saw several dusky figures wending their way toward the base of the hill. "By jingo, they must have heard us," he exclaimed. "Believe they're a-comin' up, too."
Consternation seemed to seize Musgrove. "An' we jest ready ter start the ball a-rollin'," he growled. "Quick, Tim—if they once gits up, they'll stop us, maybe. Shove the punk'n over, an' scoot."
The boys jumped toward the huge snowball. With an effort that taxed all their strength, they managed to roll it toward a mass of underbrush, then the two disappeared amidst the trees.
The sound of voices from below grew louder, and Musgrove, with the greatest caution, presently moved forward to a place where he could see over the edge of the hill.
"What are they a-doin'?" questioned Tim, eagerly.
"Tryin' ter mind our business, fur sure—the hull crowd is a-comin' up."
"Right this way?" asked Sladder, in alarm.
"No! Kinder circlin' around. Yer can yell yer head off, Scummers, but nobody ain't goin' ter answer."
"Can't we roll it over now?" put in Sladder, eagerly.
"Best wait." Billy drew back like a shot. "Thought sure they seed me that time," he whispered. "Lay low—get down, you Bowser."
Screening themselves behind a mass of underbrush, the boys kept their eyes on the others, who, climbing the hill some distance off, were occasionally lost to view behind the trees.
Hoping that they would soon be discouraged and give up the search, Sladder and Musgrove remained silent, but as the minutes flew by they saw the Kingswood boys pushing steadily up the hill.
"Ain't this the meanest luck?" growled Sladder, in scarcely audible tones. "But they ain't a-goin' ter stop us—no, sir—they ain't. Wow! They's a-comin' this way. Stir yourself, Billy!"
"They must have heerd us, or they wouldn't have been nosin' around fur fifteen minutes," returned Musgrove, disgustedly.
Throwing aside all caution, the latter straightened up, and with Sladder at his heels, boldly walked toward the huge snowball.
"Crickets, Billy, this is 'most as heavy as lead," puffed the latter, as he attempted to roll it.
"It's a whopper, all right—quick—them fellers is a-gittin' close't."
Putting their shoulders to the mass, they shoved it over to the brink of the hill.
Their presence had now been discovered, for Bowser, not understanding the necessity for silence, uttered a long, doleful bark.
"Get it headed straight, Tim," exclaimed Musgrove, breathing hard. "Jest a leetle this way. Aim fur them twigs in front, an' it'll land all right."
"Them fellers can't stop us now," said Sladder, with a grin of delight. "Everything ready, eh?—one—two—three!"
From the point where the two stood, there was a smooth, steep declivity, then a nearly level stretch leading to the cabin.
Chuckling loudly, the two boys gave the enormous ball a mighty shove.
"Mind your eye when Swiper an' Jobson come out. Won't they be wild? Oh, my, it's a-tearin' along, eh? Somethin' goin' ter bust, sure."
Eagerly they kept their eyes on the ball, which gathered speed every instant and was headed directly for the cabin.
With an irresistible rush it reached the bottom of the hill, dashed across the intervening stretch like a flash and brought up with a frightful bang against the side of the cabin. An ominous crashing of timbers followed, and gleams of light were seen issuing from the spot where it had struck. Then silence reigned.
It was but for an instant, however. With loud shouts of vengeance, three young men, wildly excited, issued from the door and made a bee-line for seven boys who had come to a stop at the summit of the hill.
Sladder, Musgrove and Bowser melted silently away into the sombre depths of the woods.