“I’m certain it’s Moonshine Sam now,” Dick breathed. “His tracks show how crazily he was going, blinded by the storm.”
Hastening on, the boys presently came to fresher footprints, made, obviously, after the wind had laid. The tracks were now sunken in deep snow, revealing how, from lack of snowshoes, the man had floundered along.
They had followed the fresher tracks for about half a mile, when to their surprise another trail, made by snowshoes, joined and followed the first.
“I wonder who that could be,” Sandy spoke.
“Well, it’s only one man, so it can’t be the policemen, unless they’ve divided up. I hardly think they’d do that.”
“Maybe it’s Mistak or some of his men,” was Sandy’s conjecture. “Don’t you think we’d better go back?”
“Not on your life we’re not going back!” Dick said determinedly. “We’ve been lucky enough to strike a hot trail, and believe me, we’re going to stick to it. But I do wish we could get in touch with the policemen. Look around, Sandy, and see if you can’t see someone.”
But a careful scanning of the bleak snowfields failed to disclose any sign of life.
“We’ll have to keep on alone I guess,” Dick said finally.
Once more they started out on the double trail, their senses on the alert for a sight or sound of those they followed.