For answer the dog uttered a long, dismal howl and dashed away into the woods, his nose held high against the wind. For some time his excited yelps could be heard ringing through the forest. Finally they died away in the distance as he ran out of hearing.
“Well, there’s no use waiting for him,” said Bill. “He’s gone the other way.”
Once more they resumed the journey, though the boys would have lingered there in the hope that Moze might drive something to them. Farther on they came to the fresh trail of what Bill declared was a large lynx. They wondered if it was this animal that had enticed Moze into a chase.
Just beyond, Bill was much surprised to find fresh moccasin tracks headed in the direction he and the boys were traveling. The unknown footprints soon branched off to follow some deer tracks, and the trapper wondered who the mysterious hunter might be.
Suddenly they heard a rifle-shot, far to the right, and a second one a moment afterward. They halted at once, and the boys turned to Bill for an explanation.
“Whoever that is has got his deer, I reckon,” he said, when the echo of the reports had subsided. “There’s nobody hunts this country except Ben and me; not unless it’s Indian Pete.”
“Indian Pete?” chorused the lads, thoroughly interested by the possibilities of such a name.
“Yes, he’s an old Indian trapper who wanders down here from the north. Pretty good old fellow, too. Did me a big favor once.”
“Are there Indians near here?” inquired George.
“No; he’s the last of a tribe that lived north of here a long time ago. Most of them died off, or went to a reservation, which is about the same thing; but Pete did some jobs for the State and stayed here. When he became too old to work he built himself a little shack, and lives by hunting and trapping. If it’s Pete, we’ll probably find him at the cabin, ’cause he and Ben are great friends.”