“What’s that track, Tom?” asked Fred, curiously, pointing to a light, skipping track in the snow.
“Deer. Say, can’t you tell a deer’s track, Fred? Oh, look! Somethin’s been chasing that deer. See those deep, round holes right behind? The deer was running hard, too; he was being chased, all right, and knew it, too. Wonder what it was. I don’t seem to know those deep, round tracks.”
“Say, s’pose it was a bear, Tom?”
“Nope. Too far apart. Whatever it was, it wasn’t shuffling along stirring up the snow in long tracks, like a bear does. It took great, long leaps. Look there,” and Tom pointed to the strange tracks in the snow.
“Say, Tom, perhaps it was a catamount,” announced Fred, suddenly.
“Why, I never thought about a catamount; perhaps it was,” and then Tom clutched the gun a trifle closer at the mere thought of that awful, wild yell, which he had never forgotten.
It was growing late in the afternoon when the boys bagged their last brown cottontail rabbit, but Tom had scared up a covey of partridges, and eager to bag a few, the boys pressed back again, following the tracks of their old trail back through the spruces.
“Say, Fred, did you notice our old tracks back there in the spruces where we branched off?” asked Tom, suddenly. “Well, look here. Here they are again; and say, that thing, whatever it is, is following us now. See its tracks right here again. Say, Fred, we’re being tracked, and I believe by a catamount,” exclaimed Tom, excitedly.
“What’ll we do now, Tom Kinney? Look, it’s almost past sunset now,” and Fred pointed with slightly shaky hand at the yellow glow of the sunset and the fast darkening mountainsides. Soon darkness would be down upon them, and they could not possibly go back over the Ridge and into camp before dark. Already they had tarried too long, and they knew it. For, as if scenting an approaching peril, the yellow hound suddenly lifted his muzzle and gave a long, dismal bay while his yellow hide arose in deep ridges upon his back.
“Tell you what let’s do,” suggested Tom. “We won’t try for camp; we’ll strike for Uncle Peter’s old, abandoned shack. It’s straight around the ledge here. We shan’t be long reaching it; we can make it before dark. I guess we don’t want to be out on the mountain to-night with a catamount or two loose, and chasing us. Why, he might jump down on us any minute from a ledge. Canada Joe said he saw one jump off a terrible steep ledge once and land on a deer’s back, and he says they never miss anything they jump for, either.”