Now, to a reader who has never been a woodsman, who has never penetrated
the silences that lie north of Fifty-three, the word “wolves” conveys a
distinct impression of uneasiness.
The cold fact is that the northern woodsman stands rather in contempt of
wolves. He has no use for them, but he does not fear them; and the
wolves for their part—except in some startling exceptions—leave
mankind alone.
The boys had been long enough in the Northland to share this feeling,
and it was not fear that brought them to a halt at the long, melancholy
ululation that told them of the “gray brothers” wishing each other “good
hunting.” It was quite another feeling: the sense of their isolation,
that the moaning cry had brought sharply home to them, the loneliness of
the solitudes about them, the possibly dangerous nature of their quest.
“Wow! but that sound always makes me shiver,” said Jack, glancing about
him, as if he expected to see a gray head pop out from behind the trees
at any moment.
“Yes, it never sounded very good to me, even when we were lying snugly
in our bunks on the good old _Yukon Rover_,” agreed Tom. “I wish we
could find some trapper’s shack or hut hereabouts. I wouldn’t mind
making a good camp with some company around, for to-night anyhow.”
“Why, you talk as if we might be a long time in the woods,” said Jack,
in rather dismayed tones.
“And so we may be, for it is up to us now to keep on that trail till we
find the man that made it, or else run it out.”
Jack did not make any reply to this. His spirits had been good all day,
and he had looked upon the chase rather in the light of an enjoyable
adventure than anything else.
But now the twilight desolation, the fading line of light in the west
and the long howl of hunting wolves, which ever and anon swelled and
died out in the distance as they stood there, combined to give him a
sense of forboding and creepiness.
Tom’s cheery voice aroused him.
“We can push on a way yet, anyhow,” his elder brother was saying; “even
half a mile farther will be better than nothing, and who knows that we
may not come on some Indian camp or trapper’s shack, where we can get a
hot supper and find, maybe, some news of our visitor.”
Jack, thus admonished, roused himself. By an effort he put aside his
gloomy thoughts. Side by side through the trees the two young
adventurers forged ahead. But Jack soon began to sag behind. It was
plain that he was beginning to get fagged. It was small wonder. They had
come thirty-five miles that day, as Tom’s speedometer showed, which is a
fair journey for a grown man, let alone boys. A seasoned woodsman can
make fifty miles a day on snowshoes and pull up with no feeling but a
huge appetite. But, although the boys were well muscled and used to
following the trail, they could not hope to compete with the lifelong
rangers of the forest in endurance.
Tom was just thinking of making camp right where they then were, in a
grove of hemlocks and stunted spruces, when he gave a sudden cry of joy.
“Hurray! Jack, old boy! Talk about luck!”
“What’s up?”
“Don’t you know yet?”
“I do not.”
“Then you are a worse woodsman than I thought you.”
“You might explain. Have you gone crazy?”
“Not just yet. Don’t you smell anything?”
“Um—a-h-h-h! Yes, I do. Smoke.”
“Wood smoke, Jack, and wood smoke means a fire, and fire means a human
being.”
“Yes, and a human being may—mean—may mean——”
“Well?”
“A human being that may make us a lot of trouble; for instance, the man
who stole that skin!”
“Cracky! It may be he! Wait right here till I creep ahead a little.”
Dodging here and there behind tree trunks, Tom stole cautiously forward.
He made not a sound as he went except when now and again the snow
creaked under his feet. As he moved, he was doing some rapid thinking.
All day long they had been striving with all their strength to get near
the man of the long trail who had stolen their black fox skin. Yet now
that he might be at hand, almost within earshot of them, Tom found his
heart pounding in a most uncomfortable way. What kind of a man might he
be? Perhaps some desperado who could easily overpower them. Perhaps
there were even a gang of them.
All these discomforting thoughts kept popping into Tom’s mind as he made
his way onward as cautiously as a scout. But suddenly, as he bent
forward, his rifle that he carried slung by a bandolier over his
shoulders bumped his back. It was like a dose of magic elixir and
brought his courage back in a flash.
“Well,” he thought, “if that rascal wants trouble, he can——”
He came to a quick halt.
“Here’s the end of the trail!” he gasped.
Before him, not ten rods away and just over a slight rise, which had
prevented his seeing it before, was a small log hut.
It stood on the brink of a little lake, the latter, of course, frozen
many inches thick. About it was a clearing where the logs to build it
had been felled. But what brought Tom up with a round turn was the sight
of sleigh tracks leading up to the door.
From the chimney a thin wisp of bluish smoke was curling, undoubtedly
the subtle aroma they had sensed at a distance. Tom stood as still as a
graven image for a minute, listening intently. Over everything about him
hung the hush of the wilderness at nightfall.
For a space he stood thus, and then, giving his rifle a quick hitch so
that it would be in readiness to his hand, he strode forward on his
snowshoes with long, certain strides.