“Here’s where I first sighted the deer,” Bart explained when he reached the place. “By Jinks! I wish I could have potted him, though! He was a beaut!”
“And where did you see our mysterious friend?” asked Frank.
“Not until I got to the spring. We’ll soon be up to it.”
But when they reached the spot, which, because of the warmth of the water, contained no trace of snow, though elsewhere the ground was white, there was, of course, no evidences of the man, save for blurred footprints.
“That’s right where he stood,” declared Bart, “and he went off in this direction.”
“Then it’s up to us to follow,” asserted Ned. “We can see his tracks. They’re pretty plain now, but they won’t be in a little while, for it’s going to snow more.”
They hurried on, trailing the man like officers of the law after a criminal. The footprints were plainly visible in the snow, being blurred occasionally by little drifts that had blown over them. They showed that the man had run a good part of the way, for the marks were far apart and irregular.
They had gone on for perhaps a mile, seeing no sign of their quarry, but loath to give up, when there was a sudden darkening of the atmosphere, the wind increased in violence, and then the air was again filled with flying flakes, so thick that the lads could not see ten feet ahead.
“Might as well give up now,” called Bart. “His tracks will be covered in five minutes.”
“Let’s wait a bit, and see if it stops snowing,” proposed Frank, and they did, standing in the shelter of some trees. But the white flakes showed no inclination to stop, and with something like despair in their hearts the four chums prepared to return to camp.