Chapter XV: Lost in a Storm

Either the bear was a better traveler than the boys gave the brute credit for being, or the trail was not as fresh as Bert had supposed. For though they went on and on, they did not see the black ungainly form of Bruin looming up before them.

They were traveling through a rather thin part of the forest then, making good time, for the snow was not so deep here. Occasionally they thought they had glimpses of the animal they sought, but it always proved to be nothing but a shadow, or a movement in the bushes, caused by the passage of some big rabbit.

“There he goes!” suddenly cried George, pointing to the left.

“Yes, that’s him!” eagerly agreed Jack.

Tom and Bert also agreed that they saw something more substantial, this time, than a shadow. But a moment later the black object, for such it had been, was lost sight of.

“Come on!” cried Tom, as enthusiastic as any of his chums. “We’ve got him now.”

They raced forward, until they came to the place where they had seen the black object, and then they noticed a curious thing. For there were two sets of marks--human footprints, and the broad-toed tracks of the bear.

“Look at that!” cried Jack. “Was that a man we saw, or the bear?”

No one could say for certain. But this much was sure. The bear’s tracks led in one direction, and the man’s in another.

Was the bear chasing the man, or was the man hunting the bear, was another phase of the question.

“Look here!” said Tom, who had been carefully examining the two sets of impressions in the snow. “Here’s how I size this up. The bear’s tracks go in a straight line, or nearly so, as you can easily see. But the man’s tracks are in the form of a letter V and we are at the angle right here. The angle comes up right close to the trail of the bear, too.

“Now I think the man was walking through the woods, approaching the bear. He didn’t know it until he was almost on the beast and then the man saw it. Of course he turned away at once and ran back. You can tell that the footprints that approach the bear’s trail are made more slowly than the others--going away. In the last case the man was running away from the bear. But the bear wasn’t afraid, and kept straight on, paying no attention to the man.”

“That’s good argument,” observed Bert.

“Can you tell us who the man was?” demanded George.

“I’m not detective enough for that,” Tom confessed. “But I don’t believe the man was a hunter with a gun.”

“Why not?” Jack wanted to know.

“Because if he had a gun, he would have fired at the bear, and we’d have seen some change in the bear’s trail. Bruin would either have run at the shot, or attacked the man, provided the bullet didn’t kill at once. And you can see for yourselves that nothing like that happened. So I argue that the man had no gun.”

“Then he was Skeel, or one of his two partners,” said George.

“What makes you think that?” asked Bert, curiously.

“Because we never saw either of them with a gun.”

“That doesn’t prove anything,” Tom said. “There are lots of men in these woods who haven’t guns. It might have been Sam Wilson.”

“Can you tell anything by the footprints?” asked Bert.

“No. The star mark isn’t there, but that’s nothing. Well, whoever he was he got away, and we didn’t get close enough to make out who he was.”

“I tell you where you’re wrong in one thing, though, Tom,” spoke Jack.

“How’s that?”

“You said the man came up to the bear and ran away, turning off at an angle. I don’t believe he saw the bear, because we were watching the man, and we would have seen the bear if he had seen him, too. For it was right here we lost sight of the man.”

“Well, maybe I am wrong about that part of it,” admitted Tom, “but at least the man didn’t cross the bear’s trail. Something turned him back when he saw the marks of the paws in the snow.”

That seemed reasonable enough.

“Well, let’s follow the dog,” suggested Bert. “He’s after the bear, anyhow.”

This was so, for the dog had not even paused at the prints of the man’s feet in the snow. He evidently preferred Bruin for game.

But now it was getting so dark that it was difficult for the boys to see, even with the whiteness caused by the covering of snow on the ground.

“I say,” Tom spoke, when they had gone on a little farther. “I think we’d better turn back. It will be night before we realize it, and we’re a long way from either camp. It’s a question in my mind whether we hadn’t better start back for Camp No. 2, and let three wait for a day or so. It’s going to snow too, soon, if I’m any judge.”

“Why, we’re probably as near to No. 3 as we are to No. 2,” observed Jack. “Why not keep on? We haven’t been to Camp No. 3 yet, and I want to see what it’s like.”

“Well, we’ll leave it to a vote,” decided Tom, who never tried to “run” things where his chums were concerned. “One place is as good as another to me, but we’ve got to do something--and that pretty soon.”

“We’d better give up the bear, at least for to-night,” spoke Bert, and there was regret in his voice. “But we can take up the trail to-morrow.”

“Whistle back the dog,” suggested George. “And then we’ll decide what to do.”

But the dog did not want to come back. They could hear him baying in the depths of the now dark forest, but whether he was in sight of the bear, or was giving tongue because the trail was getting fresher, was impossible to say.

At any rate, the dog did not come back in response to the whistles shrilly emitted in his direction.

“Well, let him go,” said Bert. “He’ll find his way to one camp or another, I guess, if he doesn’t go home to Sam. He said the dog often stayed out in the woods all night, and came back in the morning.”

“All right--let him go,” assented Tom. “And now what shall we do about ourselves? Here comes the snow!” he cried a moment later, for the white flakes began falling in a swirl all about them.

“In for a blizzard!” commented Jack.

“Oh, not as bad as that,” murmured Bert.

“Do they have blizzards up here? How long do they last? Does it get very cold? How much snow----”

“That’ll do, Why!” exclaimed Tom. “We’ve got something else to do besides answering questions. Now, fellows, what is it to be--Camp No. 3 or Camp No. 2? We’ve got to decide.”

“I say No. 3,” called out Bert.

“Same here,” echoed Jack.

“I’m with you,” was the remark of George.

“Well, I don’t agree with you, but I’ll give in,” assented Tom. “The majority rules. But I think it would be better to go back to No. 2 Camp.”

“Why?” asked Jack.

“Because we know just where it is, and we know we can be sure of a warm place, and plenty to eat.”

“Can’t we at No. 3?” asked George.

“Maybe, and then again, maybe not. We certainly will have to hunt for it, and it’s only a chance that it may have wood and food stored there.”

“Sam said it had,” observed Bert.

“Yes, I know. But there have been men roaming about these woods that I wouldn’t trust not to take grub from an unoccupied cabin,” went on Tom. “However, we’ll take a chance, but I think it’s a mistake.”

They turned about, and headed in as straight a line as they could for Camp No. 3. They knew the general direction, and had some landmarks to go by.

The storm grew more and more fierce. The snow was almost as impenetrable as a fog, and there was a cold, biting wind. It stung the faces of the boys and made walking difficult. It was constantly growing darker.

“I say!” called Bert, after a bit. He stopped floundering about in a drift, and went on: “I say, does anyone know where we are?”

“On the road to Ramsen,” suggested Tom.

“I don’t believe we are,” Bert resumed. “I think we’re off the trail--lost!”

“Lost!” echoed George.

“Yes, lost, and in a blinding snowstorm,” went on Bert.