There was a big wood pile at one side of the hut, from which the owner
evidently drew for his fuel supply. Tom used this as a sort of screen to
conceal his advance, and, slipping behind it, gained a place where,
through a chink in the logs, he could gaze into the interior. It was
deserted. Of that he was sure immediately after his first glance, for
the shack consisted only of the one room.
Having made sure of this, he continued his way around to the front of
the place, and then discovered to his astonishment that the sled tracks
went straight onward through the snow. It was easy for him to guess that
the man they were pursuing had camped for a short time in the hut,
cooked himself a meal and left the fire in the stove burning. When he
saw several brown-paper cigarette butts lying scattered on the snow in
front of the place, the identity of the visitor to the lonely hut became
a certainty.
The problem of a place to pass the night was thus solved, for it is the
rule of the waste places that the benighted traveler may make himself at
home whenever he happens to come across a shelter. Tom gave a loud
“Hullo!” and there came back an answering hail from Jack. In a few
minutes the younger of the Bungalow Boys was at Tom’s side.
“Well, here’s our hotel, all ready and fixed up for us, even the fire
lighted in readiness for us,” laughed Tom as Jack came up.
“But what does the owner say about it?”
“Not being at home just at present, he hasn’t anything to say; however,
our friend of the black fox skin stopped here, rested his bones, fed his
dogs, to judge from all the litter around, and then passed on.”
“But isn’t there a chance that he may come back?”
Jack spoke rather timidly. He was tired and a little nervous, and the
thought that the fellow who had robbed them might be prowling about
somewhere rather scared him.
“No danger of that. I wish he would. Then we could end this thing up
right here.”
“Been inside yet?” asked Jack, by way of changing the subject.
“No; I waited for you. Come on, let’s go in and see what sort of a place
it is and who lives in it. I guess it belongs to a trapper, all right,
from the looks of it.”
An inspection of the big room inside proved the correctness of Tom’s
surmise. Traps of all sorts and sizes were littered about the room or
hanging on nails. A rough table, chairs formed out of boxes, the stove,
whose smoke had first caught their attention, and some pots, pans and
other equipment completed the furnishings. In one corner was a rough
bunk containing dirty bedding.
One thing caught Tom’s eye immediately, and that was a barrel in one
corner of the place. All about it several small skins such as beaver,
marten and weasel were scattered on the floor. Closer inspection showed
that the barrel contained some more of the same kind of pelts. It looked
as if somebody had hastily rummaged through the barrel of skins and
selected what he wanted.
“I’ll bet that rascal who stole the black fox has been on a raiding
expedition here, too,” cried Tom indignantly. “What a shame!”
“Yes, looks as if he’d helped himself,” agreed Jack, unstrapping his
pack and taking off his snowshoes.
They spread their provisions out on the table, got in plenty of wood and
water, and lighted a coal-oil lamp which they found on a shelf. When the
door was shut and secured by a big wooden bar which was adjusted from
within, they set about getting supper. In the yellow lamplight, with the
kettle singing on the stove and some jerked meat bubbling in a sort of
stew Tom had fixed up, the place looked quite cosy and homelike.
“Wonder how poor old Sandy is getting along?” said Jack, as they sat
down to eat.
“Oh, he’ll be all right,” replied Tom. “Of course, he’ll be lonesome and
all that, but he’s quite safe unless some other fellow takes it into his
head to come a-raiding.”
“Well, lightning never strikes twice in the same place,” responded Jack,
“and it is hardly likely that a second thief would come along so soon.”
“Just what I think,” agreed Tom.
Having finished their supper, they washed up the dishes and set about
preparing to make everything snug for the night. From time to time they
could hear the distant howling of the wolves, bur that only made the hut
seem more snug and secure.
“I wonder what the owner would say if he found us making ourselves so
very much at home?” said Jack, as he inspected the none too clean
bedding.
“Oh, he would be glad to see us, I guess,” replied Tom. “Visitors are
welcome in this wilderness, and as for making ourselves at home that is
the right of every traveler in the woods when he needs hospitality and
the host happens to be out.”
“Still, I don’t imagine the hospitality includes helping yourself to
skins, like that rascal we’re trailing did.”
“I hardly should think so,” rejoined Tom dryly. “Fellows like that don’t
have a bed of roses when they are caught. It is as bad as horse stealing
in the West.”
“I know I can think of a good many punishments fitting for the rascal
who stole our black fox.”
“So can I, without straining my imaginative powers, either.”
Both lads were thoroughly exhausted by their labors of the day, and
after a little more talk they made up a good roaring fire to keep the
hut warm through the night, and turned into the bunk. For some little
time they lay awake, listening to the crackling of the blaze and the
sighing of the wind which was stirring outside.
From time to time, too, they could still hear the howling of the wolf
pack, and occasionally the night air would ring with the sharp cry of
some small animal pounced upon by a great snow owl or a weasel. But both
lads were well used to these sounds of the northern night, and it was
not long before their senses began to swim and they dropped off into
sound and refreshing sleep.
Just what time it was when they both awakened together they did not
know, but the cause of their sudden arousing was a startling one. Borne
to their ears there had come a strange sound, a long, low, howling sort
of moan.
“Wow-ow! Ow-hoo-ha-hoo-wow-w-w-w-w-w!”
That is about as nearly as the sound can be indicated in print.
Both boys sat bolt upright, wide-eyed with alarm. Jack felt the skin on
the back of his scalp tighten as he listened. The lamp had been left
alight, although it was turned low, and in the dim light each lad could
read fear and perplexity in the other’s countenance.
“Wh-wh-what is it?” gasped out Jack.
“I der-der-don’t know,” stuttered Tom, equally at a loss and almost as
badly disturbed by the weird nature of the wailing cry.