SOMEONE ELSE IN THE CABIN
“What was it?” asked Buster Billings, involuntarily reaching for his
rifle.
“Grab the flashlight, Lanky! You fellows get your guns,” commanded
Frank instantly, as he leaped from his folds of blanket. “We’ll see
what that was!”
In a trice all four of the boys were making their way toward the spot
where Lanky and Frank had seen the pair of fiery balls.
“There are the tracks,” ejaculated Lanky Wallace, as he pointed to the
snow, where they could see the tracks of an animal very plainly.
They followed the tracks for a short distance, seeing red spots here
and there, but nothing of the beast itself.
Back to the camping place they walked when they saw it would be useless
to follow further, and here they discussed the matter, deciding that a
guard had to be placed for the night.
“How did you know it wasn’t a man?” asked Paul Bird of Frank.
“I didn’t, except that the eyes were so bright. But I believe I would
have fired anyhow, because if it were a man he had no business at this
hour of the night lurking around a camp when the fire is dying out and
we could be plainly seen.”
They drew lots, and Buster Billings lost, but Frank, looking at his
watch and seeing that the hour was only eleven, decided that the
watches should be short, this decision causing a second drawing, the
lot falling to Lanky Wallace.
Paul started the watch by building up the fire with branches from one
of the near-by bushes, and Lanky did the same when it came his turn to
take the watch, Paul calling him at three o’clock in the morning. The
two boys stood whispering awhile before Paul wrapped up for his sleep.
During the early morning the snowstorm abated, and when the first
streaks of dawn came Lanky awakened the other boys, after having built
the fire into a roaring one. No snow was falling, and there was promise
of a bright sun.
Frank’s first thought when he awoke was about the animal. He asked both
Paul and Lanky whether there had been any more prowling around.
“Neither of us saw anything,” said Lanky Wallace, speaking for both.
The boys gathered about the roaring fire, and then got out their food
packs, making ready for breakfast.
As the sun’s rays fell across the peaks of the mountains, the boys sat
and ate their meal, chatting and laughing as carefree as boys could be.
“For a bunch of fellows who are lost in these mountains, we’re taking
things mighty easy,” laughed Lanky.
“Yes,” rejoined Frank, “when we know we’re not really lost. We know we
can go back the way we came. But we don’t know that we can go where we
wish to go.”
Around the old hut they went, peeping in to see what was inside, then
made their way the short distance up to the peak where the trail
divided.
“There’s smoke!” called Buster, as he reached the top first and looked
out over the hills.
“Well, let’s start for the smoke,” said Lanky.
“According to my guess we ought to follow that trail on the left side,
then,” said Frank. “The trouble is we don’t know whether it’s a trail,
but it surely does look as if one led down that way,” he continued,
pointing in the direction he intended.
Away they started, optimistic because of the bright, sunny day, and
also because they had plenty of rest and were much refreshed.
“Look at that!” called Paul Bird before they had gone more than half
the distance down the declivity to the valley below, pointing off to
their right.
There, in plain view, with a little red spot marking its last resting
place, lay a medium-sized timber wolf.
All thought of the trail was forgotten as the boys left it and went to
where the body lay on top of the Snow.
“You surely hit it fair enough,” remarked Lanky, turning the dead
animal over so that the head could be plainly seen.
A dull blotch below the eyes showed where the bullet had plowed its way
through.
“Took it a long time to die,” said Frank.
“Well, maybe the bullet hit a bone and glanced in so that the brain
wasn’t hurt immediately,” suggested Lanky. “In the papers you read
sometimes of a man who is struck by a bullet in what seems a vital spot
and yet who lives three or four hours.”
“How far are we right now from that hut?”
“Not more than half a mile,” sad Frank, trying to measure by the
difference in angles which they had pursued.
“Well, we did better than we did with the cotton-tail, anyhow,” said
Frank as he turned from the wolf and led the party back to the trail.
“I’m going to get a picture of it,” Paul Bird commented, going back to
where the animal lay, getting out his small camera. “Just proves what
we did, doesn’t it?”
Back on the trail they turned their attention to finding their way
out, and, having gone to the valley they saw where they had made the
mistake the day previous. They had been balked by the appearance of the
valley, it seeming to show no way out, whereas, in reality, a turn past
a small bunch of evergreens showed them that a narrow way led between
the next two hills in front of them, and when they followed this, they
saw it turn sharply to the right and incline upward.
Suddenly there came the whir of bird wings, and all the boys turned
quickly to see what they were.
“Partridges! And the hunting season is on yet!” cried Frank.
“Let’s leave the packs here so we can find our way again, and go after
them!” suggested Lanky Wallace.
Whereupon packs were thrown to the ground, guns were slung across their
arms, and they stole forward in the direction taken by the birds.
The partridges had come to earth in a small thicket of leafless brush
about an eighth of a mile off to the left.
But Frank and Lanky were not very well armed for bird hunting. Rifles
intend no scattering of shot, but demand that a close bead shall be
drawn, for only a single shot will reach the prey.
The boys realized this, but they were intent on the fun of taking the
chance. Besides, they wanted to see what Paul and Buster could do.
Creeping more slowly and more stealthily, they were close to the brush
when there came a whir, and the covey arose from the ground.
Three quick shots sounded one after the other. Then----
Bang! A single shot followed the other three, and one of the partridges
fluttered in the air, seemed to stumble on wing, and then dropped
quickly to the ground.
“Fine shot!” called Frank, turning to see who it was. Paul’s lucky shot
had brought down the only bird.
Paul ran forward and picked up the only partridge that had been dropped
from the covey.
“Shall we follow them around?” asked Frank, noting that the covey had
come to ground again in another thicket. The boys were for it at once,
and they started to steal forward.
This kept up for an hour, until they had circled the little valley and
were almost back to the starting point, three birds having been dropped
from a total of about thirty shots.
They decided the birds would make a partial lunch for them when the
noon hour came, provided they had not yet reached the Parsons’ camp.
Back again to the arduous task of making the trail, though with enough
food for conversation for two long hours.
“There’s a lake!” yelled Paul as they reached the top of a hill in
the trail and saw a level, frozen, snow-covered plain. “That can’t be
anything else, can it?”
“Must be Old Moose Lake,” decided Frank at once. “We have gone
about the right distance. And look! Over there is smoke beyond that
hill--there’s a camp there!”
The boys stood looking across the hills to this spot, and seeing the
lake stretch away into the distance and lost to view without the
opposite bank being seen.
A half-hour more along the trail and they were at the edge of the lake,
where they could see two islands--for they stood out of the level plain
with trees growing thereon, while no trees or growth were on the plain
itself.
Along the edge of the lake they trudged, heading toward the spot where
the smoke rose from among some trees.
Ten minutes brought them to a cabin near the lake shore and they
hallooed from the outside to attract attention.
The heavy log door opened and a man’s head poked out.
“Is this Old Moose Lake?” Frank asked.
The man answered in the affirmative.
“Will you please tell us where the Parsons’ camp is?” Frank continued.
“Sure, boys! Just follow the trail along the lake until you come to a
big camp, a bungalow. Then turn sharp to the right, go up between two
hills, and follow that trail for about a mile. It’s plain going one
way, but it ain’t so plain coming back, ’cause there’s a fork beyond
those hills.”
The man came out of the cabin meanwhile, and was pointing in the
direction the boys should take.
“You boys ain’t old man Parsons’ boys, are you?” he asked.
Whereupon Frank vouchsafed the information that they were given
permission to camp at the place by Mrs. Parsons, and after thanking the
man they continued on their way.
“I guess we followed directions all right,” remarked Lanky Wallace.
“Only we didn’t know we were doing quite so well.”
“You’re right, Lanky,” laughed Frank.
The bungalow was a strong, staunch-looking place out here in the wilds,
and the boys were attracted to it, wondering whose it was.
Following directions implicitly, they turned and climbed the trail
between the hills, then over a small divide, down through a glen, or
small valley, and out again to a smooth place along the lake shore.
Once again the lake stretched away before them, and they stood admiring
it.
“And we are seeing just what we were told we would see. That bungalow
is in the spot where we were told it would be, so the next is our
place,” remarked Frank.
Up a slight incline they went, through a clump of hemlocks and firs,
with brush abounding, and then they looked again.
In a clear place ahead of them stood a modern house of rather large
size, though a single story, one large chimney at the center of it,
smoke issuing in volume from that chimney!
“Some one is in the place right now!” exclaimed Frank.
“That’s mighty funny! It seems to me Mrs. Parsons told us no one was up
here,” said Paul Bird.
“But some one is there!” exclaimed Frank. “The next thing is this: Does
he, or they, belong there? And does this mean trouble?”