Reaching the top, where the trails had seemed to divide, they studied the situation.
“I believe that one to the right is the plain one,” Frank nodded toward the one he meant. “It isn’t the way they told us to go, if these three are trails. On the other hand, if that over there is a trail, then the one right there is the correct one.”
The boys studied the problem over carefully, each one making sure that he would leave nothing out of consideration. Then they determined on the one which Frank had mentioned.
Another twenty minutes led them to an old tumble-down hut near a clump of hemlocks which had been out of sight from the top—and this trail proceeded no further.
“This thing is dangerous to enter. A little wind will knock it down,” Lanky leaned against the hut gingerly as if to push it gently over.
“Why enter it at all?” asked Paul Bird.
“Because it looks as if we might not get very much farther,” said Frank. “I don’t know how it looks to you fellows, but it is afternoon now, and we are not on the right track. Best thing we can do is to keep our bearings pretty well so we can come back to this place in case we have to.”
“Oh, it won’t come to that,” spoke up Buster Billings. “We can find our way all right. Let’s go back to the top, Frank, and go over the directions we were given.”
This was also Frank’s idea, and they trudged back through the almost blinding snow, not soft in its texture, but hard and packing as it fell. At the crest they very carefully talked over the instructions which they had been given. Then they decided on another apparent trail, and set off.
One hour passed, with the four boys fairly butting their way through the heavy snowstorm, hearing a bitter wind sweeping through the trees far above their heads.