Chapter XIX: The Capture

Towser had run off again, on one of his attempts to wiggle through a drift. A shrill whistle from Tom brought him back again, however, sneezing because some snow had gotten up his nose and into his mouth.

“Towser, you old rascal!” Tom exclaimed. “Why don’t you lead us back to camp?”

“Or to Sam Wilson’s,” added Bert. “That would be good enough on a pinch, until we get straightened out. Home, old fellow! Wilson’s farm! Lead the way!”

The dog barked and leaped about, but he did not show any inclination to take any particular direction through the snow-covered wilderness. He seemed to want to follow, rather than lead.

“I don’t believe he knows where Sam Wilson’s place is,” was Tom’s opinion, after watching the animal for a while.

“I guess he’s as badly lost as we are,” said Bert.

For a few seconds the boys stood there rather at a loss what to do. They had done their best, but they did not seem to be on the way to success. The storm was worse than when it first started. It still snowed hard, and the wind, while not as strong as it had been during the night, was still cold and cutting.

The boys turned their backs to it as they stood there huddled together, hardly knowing what to do next. Towser, finding he was not wanted immediately, to trail a bear or some other game, devoted his energies to burrowing in a snowbank.

“Well, I would like to know where we are,” said Tom at length.

“Wouldn’t it be a good idea to go back to the deserted cabin?” asked Jack.

“It might not be so bad, if we knew where it was,” agreed Tom.

“We could at least take that for a starting point, and try to head for Camp No. 2,” Jack went on. “I’d be satisfied with that, as long as we can’t locate No. 3.”

“Oh, I side with you there, all right, old man,” Tom said, “but _where_ does the old cabin lie?”

“Off there!” said Bert, pointing to the right.

“No, it’s over there,” was the opinion of George, and he indicated the left.

“It’s right behind you,” insisted Jack.

“And I should say it was in front of us,” spoke Tom. “So you see we each have a different opinion, and, as long as we can’t agree, what are we going to do about it?”

“That’s so,” admitted Jack. “But we can’t stay here doing nothing. We’ve got to get somewhere.”

“Somewhere is very indefinite,” was the remark George made. “It’s very easy to say it, but hard to find it. If we could only get back on the road, we could head in either direction, and some time or other we would get somewhere. But now we are in the woods and we may be heading right toward the middle of the forest instead of toward the edge. And these forests are no little picnic groves, either.”

“I should say not!” Tom exclaimed. “But where is the road? That’s the question.”

It was a question no one could answer, and they did not try. Eagerly and anxiously they scanned the expanse of snow for some indication that a road existed--even a rough, lumberman’s highway.

But all they could see, here and there, were little mounds of snow that indicated where stumps existed under the white covering. They were in a clearing, with woods all around them. If they advanced, they might be going toward the deeper forest instead of toward the place where civilization, in the shape of man, had begun to cut down the trees to make a town or village.

“Well, we sure have got to do something,” Tom said, and it was not the first time, either. “We’ll try each direction, fellows, and see where we come out. We may have to go the limit, and tramp a bit in each of four directions, and, again, it may be our luck to do it the first shot. But let’s get into action. It’s cold standing still.”

They had given up all hope of game now. Indeed, the snow was falling so thickly that they could not have seen a deer or bear until they were very close to it--too close it would be, in the case of the bear.

As for smaller game--rabbits, squirrels and partridges, none of those were to be seen. The snow had driven the smaller animals and the birds to cover.

“Bur-r-r-r-r! But this is no fun, on an empty stomach,” grumbled George, as he followed the others. The dog, having seen his friends start off, was following them. He seemed to have no sense of responsibility that he was expected to lead his friends in the right direction. “I sure am hungry!” George went on.

“Quit talking about it,” urged Tom. “That doesn’t do any good, and it makes all of us feel badly. Have a snow sandwich!”

“It makes you too thirsty,” interposed Jack. “If you want to drink, we’ll stop, make a fire of some fir branches, and melt snow in our tin coffee cups. If you start chewing flakes, you’ll get a sore mouth, and other things will happen to you. That’s what a fellow wrote in a book on Arctic travel.”

“If only we hadn’t eaten all the grub!” sighed Bert.

“Too late to think of that now,” Tom spoke. “Come on--let’s hike!”

Off they started. They decided to make an effort in each of the four cardinal points, first selecting that which one of the boys declared led back to Camp No. 2.

“If we go on for a mile or two, and find we’re wrong again, back we come and try the other side,” Tom explained. “But I can’t see why that sign says seven miles to Ramsen, when the road is so easy to lose yourself on.”

“It will take us the rest of the day to do that experimenting,” grumbled George.

“Well, suggest a better plan,” spoke Tom, quickly. “We’re lost, and if we don’t find the proper road soon, we’ll be more than all day in this pickle.”

George had no more to say.

The boys were now a little alarmed at their plight, for they were cold and hungry, and that is no condition in which to fight the wintry blast. But there was nothing they could do except keep moving. In a way, that was their only hope, for the exercise kept them warm, though it made them all the more hungry.

“Keep a lookout for game--even small kinds,” advised Tom, as they went on. “A rabbit or a squirrel wouldn’t come amiss now. We could manage to broil it over the coals of a fire, though it probably won’t be very nice looking.”

“Who cares for looks when you’re hungry?” demanded Bert.

But game did not show itself as the boys tramped on through the snow. They went on for some distance in the direction first decided on, but could see no familiar landmarks. Nor did they reach anything that looked like a road.

“Better go back,” Tom decided, and they did manage to find the little clearing again.

“Say!” cried Bert, as they stood irresolute as to which of the three remaining directions to select next, “aren’t we silly, though?”

“Why?” asked Tom.

“Why, because all we had to do was to follow our trail back in the snow. That would have led us to the old cabin.”

Tom shook his head.

“What’s the matter?” asked Bert.

“Our footprints are blown or drifted over three minutes after we make them, in this wind and shifting snow,” Tom said. “Look!”

He pointed over the route they had just come. Their earlier footprints were altogether gone. The expanse of snow was white and unbroken.

“Well, we go this way next,” said Jack. “I remember because I saw that broken white birch tree. Head straight for that.”

They did so, but again were doomed to disappointment. That way led to a low, swampy place, though there was no water in it at present, it having been frozen and covered with snow.

“No road here,” Tom said. “Let’s try some other route.”

“Say!” cried Jack. “What’s the sense of all four of us going in the same direction all the while? Why not try four ways at once? The one who finds the road can fire two shots in quick succession. The rest of us will then come to where we hear the shots.”

“A good idea!” commented Tom. “We’ll try it. Scatter now, and don’t go too far. Oh, you’re coming with me, are you, Towser?” for the dog followed him, evidently considering Tom his master.

The four boys now set off in different directions, and soon were lost to sight of one another in the storm. Tom was sure he was going the route that would take him to the road. He pressed on eagerly.

The dog ran on ahead, and disappeared.

“He’s fond of taking a lot of exercise,” was Tom’s mental comment. Then he saw some bushes, just ahead of him, being agitated and he went on: “No, he’s coming back. Maybe he’s found something.”

Suddenly the bushes back of Tom parted with a crackling of the dry twigs. The lad thought perhaps it was some animal stirred up by the dog, and he was advancing his gun, to be in readiness, when he felt, all at once, something cover his head. He was in blackness, but he could tell by the smell that a bag had been thrust over his eyes.

“Here. Quit that! Stop!” yelled Tom, and then his voice ended in a smothered groan. Something like a gag had been thrust between his lips and he was thrown heavily.

For a moment Tom’s senses seemed to leave him. He could see nothing, but he felt that he was being mauled. He had a momentary fear that it might be a bear. But, he reflected, bears do not throw sacks over one’s head, nor gag one. It must be men--but what men?

Vainly Tom struggled. He felt his hands being tied--his feet entangled in ropes. He fought, but was overpowered. Then he heard a voice saying:

“Well, we’ve captured him, anyhow.”

“Yes,” agreed another voice, and Tom vainly wondered where he had heard it before. “Yes, we have him, and now the question is, what to do with him.”