Phil Bradley's Snow-shoe Trail Part 11

A fire is certainly the hunter's best friend, in winter time at least.

Without it how gloomy and cheerless would his surroundings appear, and what physical discomfort must he endure?

The two boys sat there for more than an hour, a friendly log serving them for a seat.

There was plenty of fuel to be had for the gathering; indeed, the site had been selected on that very account.

"I'm trying to make out just which way we ought to go so as to strike that little stream," Phil was saying, when the other asked what he was doing with a pencil and paper.

"Oh! you mean the one McNab called Cranberry Creek, and that has the beaver colony on it, somewhere like five miles from our lake; is that it, Phil?"

"Yes, and this is how I figure it," continued the other, showing what he had done in drawing a rough map on the paper. "Here is the camp on the lake; this is the way we got to where we are sitting now, having headed pretty generally into the north. This is the way the creek runs, so if we start from here and keep bending a little to the west we're likely to strike the stream."

"Looks good to me, Phil."

"Then let's call that our program," Phil wound up with saying.

"According to the way you figure how long a distance would you think we'd have to cover before we got to the creek?" asked Ethan.

"Oh! anywhere between half a mile, and three times as far," the other told him.

"And after we reach the frozen creek," continued Ethan, "all we have to do is to follow it down to the lake, hoping to run across the beaver village on the way."

"Just so, and since we've rested and feel in good trim again, suppose we make a start right away?"

Ethan had no objections. He liked to be on the move, and besides, there may have been a lingering hope still lodged in his mind that they might happen to come upon a n.o.ble bull moose before the tramp was over. If there was one of those animals wandering around that region why not others?

So as he strode along Ethan was careful to keep in condition for business. And if by good luck they did happen on game he meant to do his type of shooting even as Phil pressed the b.u.t.ton and featured the moose for admiring eyes at home to see.

They were heading pretty generally into the west, though it was Phil's idea to swing around gradually, and begin to aim more for the lake.

Ethan left all that to his chum. He never boasted of his ability to keep track of localities; in fact, on numerous occasions Ethan had lost himself. It was a weakness, he admitted it, and one so ambitious a hunter ought to be ashamed of; but somehow Ethan rather enjoyed the sensation of finding himself suddenly thrown on his own resources, and being compelled to find his way out of a labyrinth.

"I always did like to solve any old puzzle when I was a little kid," he used to say when Phil took him to task for his lack of forethought in this particular, "and when you wake up to the knowledge that you're really and truly without your bearings, seems like you had a new and intricate riddle to guess. And I haven't starved to death yet, you notice. Guess I'll always be able to _smell_ my way home, one way or another."

At the same time Ethan frankly confessed that his way was not the right one, and he did not advise any one else to copy after him. They might not enjoy the sensation like he did; or have that faculty for "smelling"

home, the instinct that causes a bee to start on a straight line for the hive after loading itself up with nectar from the blossoms, even when a mile distant from home.

The cold seemed to be getting worse, if anything, and Ethan predicted that they would have a bitter night of it.

"But then what do we care?" he added, with a laugh; "with plenty of good grub, a warm fire under a snug shelter, and blankets to wrap around us, we can afford to snap our fingers at the cold weather clerk. Let him order out one of those Canada blizzards we've heard so much about, if he wants to give the Mountain Boys a run for their money."

"We must have covered a whole mile after leaving the place where we sat on that log and ate our lunch," remarked Phil.

"And no creek yet, as far as I've seen, Phil!"

"Nothing doing," admitted the other; "so I think we'd better begin to swing around a little more to the southwest from now on."

"You'll try another half mile, you said, didn't you?" asked Ethan.

"That will be all I care to risk. If the old creek hasn't cropped up by then we might as well give it up for to-day. Another time I'll start up from where it flows into the lake."

"That would be the better way, Phil; you'd make sure then of finding the beaver colony, if it was still there. As we're going we may even strike the creek below the dam, and have all our extra walk for nothing."

The woods seemed very still. Even the crows had gone somewhere for the day to find their rations. Early in the morning the boys had seen flocks flying in a certain quarter, and Phil had given it as his opinion they were heading toward a large lake that would not be frozen up so early in the winter, and along the sh.o.r.es of which doubtless crows could pick up plenty of food.

"Looks like I wasn't going to be treated to that shot at a moose to-day, at any rate," half grumbled Ethan, who had been considerably disappointed because the animal they had tracked so persistently had failed to turn out to be a bull with towering horns, and a fit subject for his skill with the rifle.

"Other days coming," Phil told him, consolingly; "and we've had a fine tramp on our snow-shoes to boast of, even if I hadn't secured the snapshots I did."

"Excuse me for speaking in the way I did, Phil; I forgot myself that time. It's all in a day's work, I guess. And I want you to understand that it's a treat for me just to get out in the woods along with you."

"I thought I heard something just then," said Phil, quickly, swinging his camera around so as to be ready; while Ethan drew back the hammer of his rifle once more, his eyes sparkling with renewed antic.i.p.ation.

"Yes, I can get it, too, Phil," he whispered; "it sounds as if it might be over yonder in that thick patch of trees. Move a little to the left, so we can have a clear field in case it rushes out. Now let's advance slowly."

They kept on going ahead, and nothing burst into view. Still that queer sound came to their ears. It was not unlike a sob, Ethan thought; though he immediately took himself to task for imagining such a silly thing.

Picking up a stick he gave it a toss into the thicket. The sound stopped, it was true, but not a thing appeared.

Then a minute later and they heard it again. The two boys turned wondering eyes on each other.

"What in the d.i.c.kens can it be?" whispered Ethan, in a puzzled way.

"I give it up; let's push in and see. Be ready, if it's a cat, which is the only thing I can think of," said Phil.

With that they started ahead again, and gradually working into the thicket soon found themselves staring at a sight calculated to amaze them.

CHAPTER IX

THE WAIF OF THE SNOW FOREST

Ethan winked several times as though he could hardly believe his eyes, and little wonder; for there, half lying in the snow was a child, a st.u.r.dy looking little chap not over five years of age possibly, and uttering sounds that the boys now realized were pitiful moans.

Apparently the little fellow had actually tried to light a fire, for there were a few sticks gathered, and half burned matches that had been struck in the useless endeavor to ignite the wood, lay scattered on the surface of the snow.

"Look at the little make-believe popgun, Phil," said Ethan, in a quivering voice; "honest to goodness, I believe he's started out to hunt game just as his daddy is in the habit of doing, and got lost. But, Phil, he must be nearly frozen. Let's get a fire going and thaw him out in a hurry!"

Phil had already leaped forward. Forgotten was his camera at that moment, because his generous warm boyish heart was throbbing with sympathy for the poor little chap lying there.

"How about it?" asked Ethan, hovering close by while the other hurriedly examined the boy, who lay there with his eyes half open, seeing them, yet not appearing to notice what they were doing, with only that doleful little cry falling from his blue lips.

"No, he's not frozen yet, I believe," a.s.serted Phil; "but another hour would have done the business for him. I reckon he knew how to keep his arms going until he got tuckered out. Get a fire started, Ethan."

That was all the other was waiting to hear, and in all probability Ethan Allen excelled all his previous records for a quick blaze; because he worked with might and main.