THE DESERTED CABIN
Bert’s words struck rather a chill to the hearts of his chums. Not that
they were cowards, for they were not, and they had faced danger before,
and were used to doing things for themselves.
But now they were in a strange, mountain wilderness, following an
unknown trail, and night was coming on rapidly. The storm had already
burst, and it was growing worse momentarily.
“Do you really think we are lost?” questioned Jack, looking about him
as well as he could in the maze of white.
“Don’t you?” responded Bert. “I can’t make out the least sign of a
trail in these woods, and we have to follow one to get to Camp No. 3,
you know.”
“Yes, that’s right,” put in George. “We are going it blind.”
“We’ve been going according to compass, since we gave up the hunt for
the bear,” commented Tom.
“Well, it will be more by good luck than good management if we find
either camp now,” said Bert. “But come on--we’ve got to do something.”
“Which way shall we go?” asked George. “We don’t want to get lost any
worse than we are.”
“We can’t!” spoke Bert, dryly--that is, as “dryly” as he could with
snow forcing itself into his mouth. “We’re as lost as we’ll ever be.
The thing now is to start finding ourselves.”
“Let’s try this way,” proposed Tom, indicating the left. “According to
my compass Camp No. 3 ought to lie off about there.”
“And how far away?” asked Jack.
“Not more than four miles--maybe five. But we can make that in about an
hour and a half, if we don’t get off the trail.”
“That’s the trouble,” commented Bert. “We can’t see any trail. We are
going it absolutely blind!”
And going it blind they certainly were. They were all a bit alarmed
now, for they had no shelter for the night, and they had eaten most of
their food.
Suddenly, as they tramped along over the snow, there came a crash in
the underbrush to one side.
“What’s that?” cried George, nervously.
“That bear----” began Bert, slinging around his gun.
“Don’t shoot!” cried Tom. “It’s our dog come back to us!”
And so it was. The intelligent and lonesome brute had abandoned the
bear’s trail, and had come back to join his human friends. He was
exhausted from long, hard running.
“Now he’ll lead us to one camp or another,” said Tom. “Welcome to our
city, Towser!”
“What happened to the bear?” asked Jack, as the dog leaped about
caressingly from one to the other.
“Evidently nothing,” Tom said. “I don’t believe the dog found him. His
name isn’t Towser though, by the way. I’ve forgotten what Sam did call
him, but it wasn’t Towser.”
“What makes you think he didn’t find the bear?” Bert wanted to know.
“He’d show some evidence of it if he had,” was the reply. “He’d have a
scratch or two. No, I think he gave up the chase soon after we did, and
came after us.”
“Well, now he’s here, let’s make some use of him,” suggested George.
“Do you really think he’ll lead us back to camp, Tom?”
“Well, there’s a chance of it,” Tom affirmed. “Let’s give him a trial.
Here, old boy!” he called to the dog, a beautiful specimen. “Home, old
fellow!”
The dog barked, wagged his tail, and set off on a run through the
driving snow. He barked loudly, turning now and then to see if any of
the four young hunters were following.
“That’s the idea!” cried Jack. “Come on, boys. He’ll lead us, all
right!”
“But _where_, is another question,” Tom put in. “My early education was
neglected. I never learned dog talk, though I can swim that fashion
pretty well.”
“Swimming isn’t going to do any good--not in this weather,” murmured
Bert, buttoning his mackinaw tighter about him, and beating his arms
at his sides, for they all had been standing still, and were rather
chilled.
“I could talk hog-Latin,” Jack said with a smile, “but I don’t believe
that is any good for a dog. Call him back, Tom. You seem to have more
influence over him than anyone else, and he’s getting too far ahead. I
wonder where he’s going, anyhow?”
“I don’t much care--Camp one, two, or three will suit me just about
now,” Tom remarked, as he turned his face to avoid a stinging blast of
snowflakes. “Surely the dog knows his way to all three of them, and,
if they are too far, he may lead us to Sam’s farm. That wouldn’t be so
bad.”
“Nothing would be bad where there was a warm fire and plenty of grub,”
commented Bert. “But call that dog back, Tom, or we’ll lose him again.
He’s off there somewhere, barking to beat the band!”
Tom whistled shrilly. A series of barks came in answer, and, a little
later the dog himself came bounding through the snow. His muzzle was
all whitened where he had been burrowing, perhaps after some luckless
rabbit. But his bright eyes were glowing as the boys could see in
the half-darkness that had fallen, and Towser, as they continued to
call him, for want of a better name, seemed delighted at something or
another. Whether it was the storm, the fun he had had trailing the
bear, or whether he was just glad to be with the boys, and happy over
the prospect of adventures to come, no one could say.
The dog barked, wagged his tail, ran on a little way, came back, barked
some more, ran on again, and then repeated the performance over and
over, getting more and more excited all the while.
“He wants us to follow him,” decided Tom. “All right, old man, I’m with
you,” he said. “Come on, boys. We’ll see what comes of it.”
Together the four hunters set off with the dog in the lead. Truth to
tell they did not feel very much like hunters that day, nor had they
had any luck. Matters seemed to be going against them. And in the storm
and darkness there was a distinct feeling of depression over everyone.
The dog was really the only cheerful creature there, and he had
spirits enough for all of them, could they but be transferred.
“Whew! This _is_ a storm!” cried Tom, as he bent his head to the blast.
It did seem to be getting worse. The wind had a keener cut and whirled
the sharp flakes of snow into one’s face with stinging force.
“It’s a young blizzard,” affirmed Jack.
“Well, if it does this in its youthful days, what will happen when it
grows up?” Bert wanted to know, as he paused and turned around to get
the wind out of his face while he caught his breath. No one took the
trouble to answer him.
The dog seemed impatient at the slow progress of the lads, for he was
now well ahead of them. They could only tell where he was by his barks,
and by an occasional flurry of snow as he burrowed in some drift and
then scrambled out again.
“Better call him back again, Tom,” suggested George. “He’ll get away
beyond us, and soon it will be so dark we can’t see our hands before
our faces.”
“Yes, I guess I will,” Tom assented. “I’d put a leash on him if I had a
bit of cord, and hold him back.”
“Here’s some,” Jack said, offering a piece. “I had it tied around the
package of sandwiches.”
“By the way--any of those same sandwiches left?” asked Tom.
“A few--why?”
“Because that may be all we’ll get to eat to-night.”
“What’s that?” cried Bert. “Aren’t we going toward camp?”
“That’s what I can’t say,” was Tom’s answer, as he whistled for the
dog. “We may, and then, again, we may not.”
“But where are we heading, then?” George wanted to know, as Tom
proceeded to tie the cord on Towser’s collar.
“That’s more than I can say,” Tom made answer. “We’re in the hands of
fate, as they say in books.”
“Well, I’d rather hang to Towser’s tail,” spoke Jack, with grim humor.
“I’m sorry I got you fellows into this mess,” went on Tom, as they
advanced again through the storm and darkness, this time keeping the
dog closer to them by means of the cord.
“What mess?” asked Bert.
“Getting lost, and all that.”
“Forget it!” advised Jack. “It wasn’t your fault at all. You wanted to
go back to No. 2 Camp, and the rest of us favored this move. I wish,
now, we had taken your advice.”
“Oh, well, mine was only a guess,” Tom said. “We might have been as
badly off had we gone the other way. We’ll just have to trust to luck.
Come on. But what I meant was that coming out to-day to hunt was my
proposition. I was afraid there was a storm coming.”
“We wouldn’t have stayed home on that account,” George asserted. “We’re
all in the same boat together, and we’ll have to sink or swim--or
skate,” he added, as the icy wind smote him.
It was now about six o’clock, but as dark as it would have been at
midnight. The moon was hidden behind dark clouds, but of course the
white snow made it lighter than otherwise would have been the case. But
in the dense woods even this did not add much to the comfort of our
friends, and its increasing depth made it harder to walk.
Almost before the boys knew it, they had emerged from the forest to a
road. They could tell that at once.
“Hurray!” cried Tom. “Now we’ll be all right. A good road to follow.”
“And a signpost, too, to tell us which way to go!” added Jack.
He pointed through the storm to where was evidently a crossroad, at the
intersection of which was a post with the familiar boards on it.
“What does it say?” asked Bert, as Tom stood at the foot of it.
“Have to get out the electric light,” Tom said, producing a pocket
flashlight. By its powerful tungsten gleam, he read:
SEVEN MILES TO RAMSEN
“That’s the ticket!” he cried. “Ramsen is the way we want to go. Camp
No. 3 lies in that direction. Now we’re all right, boys!”
“Good old signpost!” murmured Jack.
But, had he only known it, the signpost was a “bad” one, though, as we
know, that was not the fault of the post itself.
Trudging along the road was easier now, and the boys made better time.
But it was tiresome work at that. And when, a little later, they saw a
building looming up at one side of the road, Bert cried:
“There’s our camp now!”
For a moment they thought it was, but a closer look showed that it was
not. It was an old deserted hut, almost in ruins, and as Tom flashed
his light within, a sorry sight was presented to the eyes of the boys.
“Let’s go inside,” was Tom’s proposal, and his chums looked at him in
some amazement.