“Might have. There’s nothing to prove he did or didn’t. Snow’s too hard to leave footprints and there’s no other sign.”
“Seems queer, doesn’t it? Not a hundred rods from our camp.”
“Question is,” said Jennings, “whoever he may be, where has he gone? If he’s a stranger he may have looted our tent by now.”
“That’s right,” said Joe, greatly disturbed.
“Let’s get out on the edge of the bushes and see if Ginger doesn’t pick up his trail.”
The old leader did pick up a trail at once. The trail led away from their camp. They were tired and hungry, but for all that, so eager were they to find some trace of Curlie and to solve this new mystery that they cached the meat in the tops of some stout willows and supperless turned their faces to the trail.
It was growing dark but since there was nothing to be done save to follow the dog leader, they marched on over hill and valley in silence.
At last they found they were approaching a second clump of willows. Involuntarily Joe reached for his rifle.
“May be camped there,” he whispered. “May be all right; may not. In a wilderness like this you never can tell.”
They approached the clump of bushes in silence. It was a small clump, soon searched. It was empty. They were about to leave it in disgust when Joe suddenly exclaimed: