What should he do next—go on or search the immense snowdrift for his father's body?
He deliberated for several minutes, then moved onward.
"I must see if he is alive," he reasoned. "I can always come back for his body later—if I have to."
The edge of the fir forest gained, Dave paused once more. Here was a track in the snow, but whether made by a human being or a wild animal he could not tell. Then he uttered a sharp cry and rushed forward to pick something up.
It was a box that had contained rifle cartridges. It was empty and practically new. Had his father possessed that and discarded it?
Suddenly he thought of something new, and pulling out his pistol fired it off as a signal. The last echo had hardly died out when an answering shot came back. His face lit up with joy, then grew sober again.
Perhaps the shot had come from above, from Granbury Lapham or the others up there. But no, it had seemed to be further down—beyond the line of firs which confronted him. At the risk of wasting too much ammunition he fired again. But this time no signal came back.
"If it was father he'll want to save his shots—especially if his cartridge box is empty," thought Dave. Then he resolved to push on through the timber, calling his parent in the meanwhile.