“Let’s get dressed, and have a look around,” said Fenn. But though they searched for some time they could not find the intruder, even if his footsteps were plainly visible, leading off into the forest.
“We’ll get breakfast and trace him up,” suggested Frank. “Might as well do that as anything else.”
“Let’s look and see if he’s taken anything,” suggested Fenn.
“No need to do that, Stumpy,” was Bart’s opinion. “You can tell by his tracks that he wasn’t near enough to our camp to have stolen anything. Even the bear meat is safe,” and he looked to where it was suspended on a tree limb, by means of a long rope, a precaution taken to keep it out of the way of prowling animals.
With their guns in readiness for any game, the four chums set out after breakfast on the trail of the unknown, midnight visitor. The marks were easy to follow, for very little snow had fallen after Bart had replenished the wood in the stove.
“Say, do you notice which way he’s heading?” asked Fenn, excitedly, when they had gone on about a mile.
“Not particularly,” said Frank. “Why?”
“He’s gone to the mud volcano—that’s where he’s gone, fellows!” declared the stout youth. “I wonder what he wants there? Maybe he’s after mud turtles. Maybe he’s the same man who wrote to me.”
“He might be almost anybody, Stumpy,” was Ned’s opinion. “We can’t tell until we see him. Get a move on.”
The footsteps were becoming fainter now, for the wind had drifted the snow across them in a number of places, but they were sufficiently visible to indicate that the man had kept on in the direction of the boiling spring.