“There they are!” declared Ben. “Just what I expected. They’re doing exactly what I’ve told you about. Wait till we see which way they’re going.”
Standing beneath the snow-burdened evergreens, they heard the ringing cry of the wild hunting pack. It echoed through the woods, now clear and distinct, and again faint and far away, as the hounds topped a rise or descended into an intervening valley.
“Isn’t that the direction Pete went?” inquired Ed, rather uneasily.
“Yes; and if he hasn’t passed, they ought to run right across his trail,” replied Ben, listening intently.
Then the report of a rifle rang sharply through the forest. Another shot quickly followed, and then two more, with scarce a pause between them.
“Come on!” cried Ben, making off at top speed. “The fight’s on; Pete has run into them, sure!”
As they hurried along they noticed that the noise from the pack had subsided. Ben led them toward the spot where they had last heard the wild baying. Soon they came to Pete’s trail, and the guide at once turned into it.
Again the noise sounded forth, this time to the left of the trail they were following. Ben held to his course, however, believing it would bring them to Pete and the pack sooner than he could go by forsaking it.
Hot and panting in their rapid pace, they finally came to the spot where the Indian had his chance at the pack. The trailers saw where he had jumped behind a small hemlock, to hide, when he heard the outlaw band approaching. About fifty yards farther along the dogs had crossed, and two great black hounds lay dead on the snow.
Ben and the boys stopped for a moment to examine them, and were surprised at their resemblance to wolves. There was no evidence of a battle, and the guide thought Pete had despatched the dogs from ambush.