The opposite shore was in the full glare of the moonlight. There, close to the water’s edge, stood a little log hut, every detail of it standing out as clearly as in daylight. It was obviously old, but the roof had been repaired with new bark and poles and the door was shut, instead of sagging half open on broken hinges after the fashion of the doors of deserted cabins.
Blackstock slipped a leash from his pocket and clipped it onto Jim’s collar.
“I’m thinkin’, boys, we’ll git some information yonder about that bear, ef we go the right way about inquirin’. Now, Saunders, you go round the pond to the right and steal up along-shore, through the bushes, to within forty paces of the hut. You, Mac, an’ Big Andy, you two go round same way, but git well back into the timber, and come up behind the hut to within about the same distance. There’ll be a winder on that side, likely.
“When ye’re in position give the call o’ the big horned owl, not too loud. An’ when I answer with the same call twice, then close in. But keep a good-sized tree atween you an’ the winder, for ye never know what a bear kin do when he’s trained. I’ll bet Big Andy’s seen bears that could shoulder a gun like a man! So look out for yourselves. Long an’ Jim an’ me, we’ll follow the trail o’ the bear right round this end o’ the pond—an’ ef I’m not mistaken it’ll lead us right up to the door o’ that there hut. Some bears hev a taste in regard to where they sleep.”
As noiselessly as shadows the party melted away in opposite directions.
The pond lay smooth as glass under the flooding moonlight, reflecting a pale star or two where the moon-path grudgingly gave it space.
After some fifteen minutes a lazy, muffled hooting floated across the pond. Five minutes later the same call, the very voice of the wilderness at midnight, came from the deep of the woods behind the hut.
Blackstock, with Jackson close behind him and Jim pulling eagerly on the leash, was now within twenty yards of the hut door, but hidden behind a thick young fir tree. He breathed the call of the horned owl—a mellow, musical call, which nevertheless brings terror to all the small creatures of the wilderness—and then, after a pause, repeated it softly.
He waited for a couple of minutes motionless. His keen ears caught the snapping of a twig close behind the hut.
“Big Andy’s big feet that time,” he muttered to himself. “That boy’ll never be much good on the trail.”