Retracing their path by the buffalo trail, the boys were soon on the home journey again. Five prairie chicken were bagged on the way, and soon the hunters were once more at the camp-ground.
Of course Holden's first move was to strip, plunge into the river, and then robe himself in garments that were less like a rag-picker's bundle. Meantime, Arnold set to work lighting a fire and preparing the chicken for roasting on wooden spits, as their camping experience had taught them.
By midday the meal was in readiness. The birds were cooked, "biscuits" were baked in the camp-oven, the fragrant smell of coffee was issuing from a billy-tin, and all preparations completed to welcome the elder hunters.
But time went past, and there was no sign of a canoe on the river.
"I wonder if they have missed their way?" remarked Alf, to whom the waiting was a trial, considering inside calls and tempting odours.
"I don't think that's likely," said Bob. "Your dad and mine are both old backwoodsmen. I'm beginning to think something has happened——"
"An accident?"
"Possibly. But of course we can't tell. But it isn't like them to be late when they promised to be back by noon."
"But then, if an accident has happened to one, the other could always come back and let us know," Alf answered; and his chum returned—
"That's just what I've been thinking. I don't want to frighten you, old man, but I can't help thinking that something has gone wrong with both."