“That’s where he came through.”
From the break in the fence a wide path, which looked as if it had been plowed by a small bulldozer, led up a slope into a grove of spruce trees.
“It won’t be much of a problem tracking him, will it?” Chris Hanson said.
Thorsen shrugged. “It depends. We’re protected from the wind in the valley. Farther up in the mountains, the trail may be covered over by now. It’s been two days.”
Professor Stern swung down off his horse and knelt to examine the bear’s footprints, which had been almost obliterated by blowing snow. He brushed away some of the fine, white powder with his mitten. Abruptly, he looked up at the rancher. “Did any one of your hands take a shot at this fellow?”
Thorsen frowned. “Certainly not. Why?”
Stern pointed to faint, rust-colored streaks in the snow between the imprints of the bear’s foot pads. “Looks like blood to me. Probably a wound, high on the leg, and the blood trickled down between the toes.”
“Maybe he hurt himself when he broke through the fence,” Sandy suggested.
“That’s possible,” Stern conceded. He walked back and inspected the broken logs carefully. Finally, he shook his head. “No sign of blood here. I’m afraid our bear has been the victim of a careless hunter.”
Thorsen scowled fiercely and muttered something in a guttural foreign tongue. Then he exploded in English. “I would like to get my hands on that filthy pig!”