Spring came on with the magical swiftness of the North. Leaves sprang from the trees. The snow water left the river, trout began to rise, and Tom got out his fishing-tackle and secured a welcome variation of diet. He needed it, for the last of Charlie’s flour and sugar went quickly, and at last he was absolutely driven to make the long-projected trip to Oakley. It was a wearisome tramp and worse still on the return; for he came back on the fourth day, carrying thirty pounds on his shoulders—bacon, tea, salt, flour, sugar, a saw and hammer. After his solitude, Oakley had seemed almost metropolitan, and the village was indeed unusually astir, for a big dam was to be built there for a paper-pulp factory, and the place was full of imported laborers.
The old clearing looked almost like home when he got back. He found four trapped muskrats and a mink. Nothing had disturbed his possessions. The grass was beginning to sprout in the old beaver meadow, and the determination grew in him that he would never give the place up. He felt sure that nobody would claim it now, and in a few months he could file homestead papers for it himself. In the autumn he could return to Toronto and continue his collegiate work during the winter. He would plant more grain and clear more land. If Oakley should happen to boom into an industrial town, the claim might become very valuable.
He continued his improvements upon the old barn till it had some suggestion of real comfort. He tended his traps assiduously, making the most of the short remainder of the season. He lived roughly and worked hard, living on flour cakes, meat, and fish, and drinking water. He was a poor cook; he grew very sick of this monotonous diet, and there were times when he would have traded the best of his mink pelts for an apple-pie. There were dreary days of cold spring rain—once of flurrying snow—days that held him idle indoors, when he grew half mad with loneliness and discouragement.
The trapping season came to an end. For some time he had noticed that the fur was deteriorating. He had not done quite so well as he had hoped, but he had seven minks, sixteen muskrats, two raccoons, and a fox pelt. With a little luck he might have had a bearskin, for he caught sight of the animal in plain view within fifty yards, but his rifle happened to be back at the cabin.
He had grown thin, wiry, brown, and bright-eyed. He had never been in such training before, and when he started to Oakley with his fur he had no difficulty in making the journey in a little more than a day. The local storekeeper took advantage of the fact that Tom’s furs were all not thoroughly dried to drive a hard bargain; but the boy finally secured $180, most of which he was expected to take in trade. Goods were what he needed, however, and he laid in a stock of food, ammunition, a new ax, a spade, and a number of miscellanies, together with what few books he could pick up. It was far too much to pack back to his farm, and he invested another twelve dollars in a second-hand canoe—a very dilapidated and much-patched Peterboro, which looked sound enough for all practical purposes.
In this craft he made the trip back a great deal more quickly and comfortably than he had come down. It was late in the afternoon when he turned up into the little river, now much shrunken, paddled up to his trapping ground, put the canoe ashore, and struggled over the ridges with his load of supplies. The old barn stood as he had left it, but when he approached the door he received a shock.
Some one had been there—indeed, more than one person. The door, which he had left closed, was half open, and there were fresh footmarks all about the place. Tom hastily glanced over his possessions. They showed traces of having been disturbed, but so far as he could see nothing was missing. The tracks, going and coming, pointed toward the lake, and at least two persons had made them. He could detect one moccasin track, and one showing the print of leather heels.
It was growing dusk by that time, and Tom was too tired to follow up the trail. After satisfying himself that nothing had been stolen, he unpacked his fresh supplies and reëstablished himself, cooked his supper, and went to his blankets early.
Being tired, he slept later than usual, and on arising his mind at once recurred to his late visitors. He got through breakfast hurriedly and, taking his rifle, started to follow up the trail toward the lake.
It was hard to follow, for the weather had been dry and the ground was hard. The carpet of pine and spruce leaves under the trees left little sign, but Tom got the general direction of the trail, picked it up at intervals, and finally came out on the shore. Some distance down the beach he caught a faint curl of smoke. Hastening that way, he came upon the camp.