CHAPTER XVI
THE VOICE FROM THE HILL
The shore of the lake was irregular, being a succession of rocky points between which narrow bays extended back to the foot of the ridge which grew higher and higher as the two progressed toward the upper end of the lake, where it terminated in a high hill upon the sides of which bold outcroppings of rock showed at intervals between thick patches of scrub timber.
It was well toward the middle of the afternoon when the two reached the head of the lake, a distance of some five or six miles from the starting point. All the steel traps had been set, and 'Merican Joe had constructed two deadfalls, which varied from those set for marten only by being more cunningly devised, and more carefully prepared.
"The other shore ain't so rough," said Connie, when the second deadfall was finished. "We can make better time going back."
'Merican Joe swept the flat, tundra-skirting eastern shore with a glance. "We ain' fool wit' dat shore. She too mooch no good for de fox. We go back to camp an' tomor' we hont de nudder lak!"
"Look, what's that?" exclaimed Connie pointing toward a rocky ledge that jutted from the hillside a few rods back from the lake. "It looks like a cache!"
'Merican Joe scrutinized the arrangement of weather-worn poles that supported a sagging platform, and with a non-committal grunt, led the way toward the ledge. The spot was reached after a short climb, and by ascending to another ledge close behind the first, the two were able to look down upon the platform, which was raised about eight feet from the floor of its rock-ledge.