“They did shoot a dog, it seems, Ethan!”
“How do you know?” continued the other, craning his neck to look.
“You can see it lying there over by the woodpile,” Phil told him.
“Great Cæsar! so it is, and with his feet up in the air. It’s a dead dog, Phil; no fooling about that.”
“Yes, and has been shot, but who did it we don’t know yet, Ethan.”
“Whew! I wonder if he bit that ugly red-faced sportsman you told us about, Phil? I don’t wish my worst enemy to meet with such a fate, it would seem as if it might be a judgment on that bully and railroad wrecker if he did get a good scare.”
“Queer where the rest of the party are?” continued Phil; “let’s creep along this way a bit. We may get to a place where we can glimpse them.”
“There may have been another dog that got away, and the rest are hunting for him in the bush right now?” suggested Ethan; but the supposition could not have struck Phil very strongly for he made no comment.
They made their way along as silently as they could. The soughing of the wind through the tops of the pines and the larches and the firs deadened any little scratching sound their snow-shoes may have made as they moved onward.
It was while they were making this change of base that suddenly without the slightest warning Phil laid his hand on the arm of his companion, and at the same time drew him down behind some bushes.