"Here's where we begin to blaze a trail," said Bob, as he took a small hatchet from his belt.
The top of the ridge was soon reached. Beyond extended a picturesque valley, on the far side of which rose a steep, rugged hill, partly bare of timber. The weather still continued threatening.
"Look there!" cried Dick, abruptly, in his excitement almost shouting the words.
The boys quickly turned. A couple of grayish animals had darted from behind a mass of underbrush.
"Foxes!" exclaimed Bob, excitedly.
In an instant, three reports reverberated from the opposite hills. The foremost fox leaped high in the air and fell motionless in the snow, while the other, with a flying leap, cleared a bush and disappeared from view.
"We got one, anyway!" cried Bob, exultantly. "Make sure he's finished, fellows," he added, as they ran toward their prize; "a fox can give a pretty nasty bite."
"This fellow never will!" exclaimed Dick. "What a beauty—a silver gray fox, too; that kind is rare."
"Guess we all shot at the same one," commented Bob. "Like 'Hatchet's' owl, this fellow ought to be stuffed," he added, meditatively.
"That's the idea," agreed Dick, enthusiastically. "We'll only need a couple more to go around."