"Maybe in one of the other shacks, with some of the men."
Tom threw open the door. The snow-laden gale, sweeping in on him, nearly took away his breath. Then, after filling his lungs, he started resolutely for the nearest shack.
"Mr. Hazelton in here?" Tom called, swinging open the door.
"No, sir; thought he was with you."
Tom fought his way through the gale to the next shack. Here Tim
Walsh had news.
"We came in, sir, when the blizzard got too bad," Walsh explained, "but we found we'd left one of the teams behind in the woods. Mr. Hazelton said he'd go back and get the team. Half an hour later one of the boys here noticed that the team was standing up against the door of the stable shack. So I went out and put up the team."
"Didn't it occur to you to wonder where Mr. Hazelton was?" Tom asked, rather sharply.
"Why, no, sir; we thought he had gone to your shack."
"Mr. Hazelton wouldn't leave horses out in a storm like this one,"
Tom rapped out briskly. "As a matter of fact he isn't in camp.
You men get out lanterns and be ready to go into the woods.
We've got to find Mr. Hazelton at the earliest possible moment!"
Twenty minutes later the beams of light from lanterns carried by the men revealed the form of Harry Hazelton, in the woods and nearly covered with snow.