But the old Indian shook his head.
“Heap big tracks. No seen um before.”
“Nor I,” Bob agreed. “I never heard of an animal in Maine, or anywhere else for that matter, that would make a mark like that.”
“Mebby that’s the bug that swiped my gun,” Jack suggested.
“Mebby um eat up Sicum, one mouthful,” Kernertok joined in.
“I reckon it could do it,” Jack asserted. “Just see how far apart they are: all of five feet, and that means some beast for size.”
For nearly two hours they hunted for the lost dog but not a trace of him could they find. Time and time again the Indian sent through the forest the peculiar whistle with which he was wont to summon him.
“He ought to hear that if he’s within ten miles,” Rex declared.
Finally they were obliged to give over the search and reluctantly began to pack the things in the canoe. There was but little talk each being busy with his own thoughts. All, including the Indian, sensed a mystery in the air which seemed unexplainable. Both Bob and Jack knew that Kernertok was in the depths of despair, not only because of the loss of his beloved dog but because something had happened in the woods for which he could give no accounting. It was a severe blow to the old man’s pride.
“Do you think that those cries we heard in the night had anything to do with it?” Jack whispered to Bob, Rex and Kernertok being a short distance off.