The dog sniffed at the trail, gave another hostile growl, and reluctantly followed his master back. Blackstock made him smell the boot-print again. Then he said with emphasis, “Black Dan, Jim, it’s Black Dan we’re wantin’. Seek him, boy. Fetch him.”
Jim started off on the same manœuvres as before, and at the same point as before he again gave a growl and a yelp and bounded forward.
“Jim,” shouted the Deputy angrily, “come back here.”
The dog came limping back, looking puzzled.
“What do you mean by that foolin’?” went on his master severely. “What’s bears to you? Smell that!” and he pointed again to the boot-print. “It’s Black Dan you’re after.”
Jim hung upon his words, but looked hopelessly at sea as to his meaning. He turned and gazed wistfully in the direction of the bear’s trail. He seemed on the point of starting out for it again, but the tone of Blackstock’s rebuke withheld him. Finally, he sat down upon his dejected tail and stared upwards into a great tree, one of whose lower branches stretched directly over his head.
Blackstock followed his gaze. The tree was an ancient rock maple, its branches large but comparatively few in number. Blackstock could see clear to its top. It was obvious that the tree could afford no hiding-place to anything larger than a wild-cat. Nevertheless, as Blackstock studied it, a gleam of sudden insight passed over his face.
“Jim ’pears to think Black Dan’s gone to Heaven,” remarked Saunders drily.
“Ye can’t always tell what Jim’s thinkin’,” retorted Blackstock. “But I’ll bet it’s a clever idea he’s got in his black head, whatever it is.”
He scanned the tree anew and the other trees nearest whose branches interlaced with it. Then, with a sharp “Come on, Jim,” he started towards the knoll, eyeing the branches overhead as he went. The rest of the party followed at a discreet distance.