He rose to his feet in great excitement.
Sparwick neither denied nor affirmed the assertion. He drew hard at his pipe, and looked contemplatively across the meadow for nearly a minute of silence. Then an eager look flashed suddenly upon his face, and he held up one hand.
“Listen!” he whispered, hoarsely. “Thar’s someone comin’ through the woods.”
The boys pricked up their ears and looked anxiously around. Yes, Sparwick was right. Behind the camp, and to the north of the spruce thicket, two sounds rose clearly on the crisp air, the slight patter of snowshoes and the rustling and snapping of bushes. The unknown traveler seemed to be heading directly toward the camp.
“It ain’t a crowd of three,” whispered Sparwick. “There’s only one, from the sound. He don’t know we’re here, I reckon.”
“Mebbe it’s Brick,” replied Jerry. “He might have escaped.”
“Mebbe it ain’t,” observed Sparwick. “Nothin’ like bein’ on the safe side. Drop behind that log, you fellers, an’ have your weapons ready.”
The boys quickly obeyed. Sparwick threw a handful of snow on the dying embers of the fire. Then he snatched a rifle, and threw himself down beside his companions.
From this safe cover they commanded a view of the edge of the spruce thicket in both directions. The brisk tread of snowshoes and the threshing of bushes came nearer and nearer. Now the thicket was seen to quiver a few feet to the left of the camp. An instant later, to the amazement of the hidden watchers, Silas Raikes stepped into view.
The man carried a rifle in one of his mittened hands. He paused on the edge of the meadow, and looked around. A gleam of surprise and fear flashed into his eyes as he noted the sleds, the lean-to, the charred embers of the fire. But it was too late to retreat. Sparwick’s tall figure rose before him, and a rifle-barrel sloped into his face.