Within a few feet of the hut, motionless upon a fallen tree, stood an enormous wildcat. Its large yellow eyes were glaring steadily toward them, and, as if transfixed by sight of the group of pale faces which suddenly appeared, it made not the slightest move.
"Look at those blazing eyes!" cried Sam.
"It's going to spring—watch out, fellows!" shouted Hackett.
"I knew a wildcat was making those awful cries," chattered Dick.
Hackett, with a look of determination, raised his gun, Nat following suit.
The cries had ceased. As if in sullen defiance, the animal glared toward the hut.
"By Jingo, I never saw anything stand so still," exclaimed Sam Randall.
Hackett's arms trembled in his eagerness and excitement, as he pulled the trigger. Two deafening reports blended into one.
Without a cry, the wildcat toppled off the tree trunk, and fell with a thud in the snow, where it lay motionless and stretched out in a strangely stiff position.
With loud shouts of exultation, Hackett and Nat Wingate leaped forward. Clutching his still smoking gun by the barrel, the former swung it with telling force on the animal's head.
"Hurrah, hurrah!" he cried. "I've settled him. Don't be scared, Somers and the rest—wow—"
Hackett suddenly paused, the light of excitement faded from his eyes and he began to stare. A dreadful suspicion that everything wasn't as it should be had entered his head.
Nat, too, was staring, and so were all the others.
The wildcat had a most unusual appearance. Its head was flattened to a most extraordinary degree by Hackett's blow, and its four legs stuck up in the air, stiff and straight, like pokers.
A discovery was made—an amazing discovery—the wildcat was stuffed. One yellow glass eye had dropped out and lay upon the snow.
There was a moment of silence. Then Hackett, with an angry exclamation, delivered an energetic kick, which lifted the stuffed animal in the air and sent it tumbling to the ground several feet away. As it fell, a long rent appeared, from which flew an abundant supply of pine-needles.
A storm of merriment burst forth. The boys danced around, holding their sides, while Hackett, his color rising, glared from one to the other with an expression of the greatest disgust.
"Oh, this is the richest joke I ever heard of," shouted Nat Wingate. "Hacky settled him with that crack on the head. 'Look out, he's going to spring.' Oh, those 'blazing eyes.'" Almost convulsed with laughter, the ex-leader of the Nimrods sent the stuffed specimen once again flying through the air.
Then followed a scene suggestive of the football field. Between rushes could be seen glimpses of a sadly kicked and battered object rising and falling and hurtling back and forth.
"Twenty-five doctors wouldn't have done me as much good as this," declared Nat. "Cheer up, Hacky—you look so sad."
"Never mind what I look like," returned Hackett, fiercely. "Stop your giggling, Tommy Clifton. I owe you one, and—"
"Oh, ho!" exclaimed Dave Brandon. "Such is life in the wilderness. There's somebody around here with a sense of humor."
"It would have turned to sadness, if I'd met him," said John Hackett. "I believe it's those fellows across the lake. Smoke signals—all in my eye—they just came over to see the lay of the camp."
"How about Sladder and Musgrove?" asked Dick Travers.
"They haven't brains enough."
"And those awful cries?"
"Well, what do you suppose I know about 'em, Travers?" snapped John Hackett. "I wouldn't mind if they were to start up right now."
"Are we going to try and find out where this beast came from?" inquired Bob.
Hackett glanced toward the strange-looking wildcat with a savage scowl.
"Well, I should say so!" he exclaimed.
"Oh, ho, why not look for tracks, fellows?" proposed Dave Brandon. "The only thing I'm mad about is getting awakened so early in the morning," he went on. "Some one is having great fun at our expense, and if we work quietly there's a chance of finding out who it is."
"Not much use of looking for tracks," growled Hackett. "The snow's been trampled too much for that. Wish I'd caught that fellow in the act."
"This looks like a print made by a snow-shoe!" exclaimed Bob, suddenly.
"That's just what it is," agreed Dave Brandon, leaning over and examining an impression which Somers pointed out.
"And here's another," put in Sam Randall.
In the course of a quarter of an hour distinct tracks were discovered leading around the base of the hill. The boys followed these gleefully for a short distance, then the trail was lost. It was some time, however, before they became discouraged and abandoned the search.
"Wish we could find out who has been playing all these tricks," said Nat, reflectively.
"We're going to—and that pretty soon."
"How shall we do it, Hacky?"
"Leave it to me. Nobody is going to make an easy mark of John Hackett."
During breakfast, the boys continued to discuss the mysterious affair, the majority agreeing that Hackett was right.
"Stuffed wildcats and funny screeches won't prevent me from going on that hunting trip to-day," declared Bob, "and right after breakfast, too."
"When you get back, we may have a little game to show you ourselves," remarked Hackett, dryly.
It had been agreed by the boys that it was better to divide into two parties, as so many tramping together would be apt to scare off game.
In a short time Bob Somers, Sam Randall and Dick Travers had strapped on their snow-shoes and were ready. Each was plentifully supplied with ammunition and had a substantial lunch reposing in the bottom of his game-bag.
They followed the course of the creek, discovered the day before. Its banks were lined with underbrush and overhanging trees, while huge drifts of snow glistened in the early morning light. Finally the creek became so winding that it was abandoned, and the boys began to climb the steep sides of a pine-clad hill.
"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."
"It's pretty heavy. How shall we carry it?" asked Sam.
"Easy enough. Cut a sapling, tie the fox to it, let one end drag in the snow and the other rest on your shoulder. Taking turns, it ought not to be hard work."
Bob quickly felled a sapling and trimmed off the branches. Then he tied the fox's legs in pairs, pushed the pole between and fastened the body with a short piece of rope in such a manner as to prevent it from slipping down.
"Capital, Bob!" observed Dick. "But say—suppose we don't get any others—whose fox is this?"
"The only fair way is to divide it into thirds," laughed Sam. "I'll take the head."
"My scheme is better than that."
"What is it?"
"Present the fox to Professor Hopkins. He will be delighted."
"Oh, that's the idea!" said Dick. "Well, I agree to it. How about you, Sam?"
"It's the best way to settle the matter."
The ground now sloped down to a dark, gloomy ravine, with steep, slippery sides.
"A pretty deep gully, eh, fellows?" remarked Bob.
"How are we going to get across, I wonder?" spoke up Sam.
"There may be a place a bit further along."
"Hello, here's just the thing!" exclaimed Dick, a few moments later. "A piece of luck, I call it."
He pointed toward a tree straight ahead, which a storm had evidently sent crashing earthward. It formed a natural bridge across the chasm.
"Couldn't be better," observed Bob. "We'll get over in a jiffy."
Dick Travers unstrapped his snow-shoes and tossed them over to the opposite side.
"Here goes number one," he said, with a grin.
Carefully, Dick began making his way across.
But a few feet separated him from the brink, when an ominous cracking sound rose sharply on the air. The tree began to sag in an alarming manner.
With an exclamation of dismay, Dick let his gun drop, then, as he felt the support slipping from under him, gave a flying leap.
As he did so, the trunk, split in twain, crashed to the bottom of the gully. Dick's startled companions saw him frantically grasp hold of a low-hanging branch which projected over the brink of the chasm. Bending beneath his weight, it held him suspended in mid-air.
"Great Cæsar!" cried Sam. "If that breaks, he'll get an ugly tumble."
"Hang on tight!" yelled Bob, encouragingly.
But Dick's strong hands were holding with a firm grasp, and after the first moment of fear had passed, he glanced at the bottom of the gully, and, with a long breath, started to swing himself hand over hand to safety.
The strain proved to be too much for the elastic branch. It began to bend, carrying the dangling boy in a graceful curve downward. Presently it snapped, with a resounding crack, and Dick found himself crashing through the twigs and branches of the prostrate tree.
The fall was but short, and being thus broken resulted in no harm. Dick immediately extricated himself.
"All right, Dick?" called Bob, anxiously.
"Sound as a dollar. That tree must have lain there for ages—it's nothing but punk."
The bank was too steep to admit of climbing it, so Dick, after a moment's consideration, picked up his gun and began walking slowly along the bottom of the gully.
It was a most unpleasant necessity. Huge snow-drifts barred his way, and occasionally he floundered along almost waist-deep. However, the gully soon widened out and its sides became less steep.
A short distance further found the boys at a place where all were able to reach the far side of the ravine. They were then obliged to go back for Dick Travers' snow-shoes. After a brief halt for lunch, the three young hunters continued their march.
"Guess we won't get a shot at any deer to-day," remarked Bob.
"We haven't seen any of those wolves that Piper spoke about either," said Dick.
"No—and I'm too hungry to care anything about them now," observed Sam. "How many miles do you suppose we have come, anyway?"
"More than I care to think about. We'll have to turn back pretty soon, or it may mean a nice, cold night out in the woods."
In a short time they emerged from amidst the timber and stood on the brink of a steep hill, which rounded somewhat like the sides of a huge amphitheatre.
"Hello, here's a lake!" exclaimed Bob, as he saw an expanse of ice far below.
"Don't I wish it was Lake Wolverine?" sighed Sam.
"Perhaps we have made a big circle," said Dick, hopefully.
"It might be," admitted Bob. "But there are a good many lakes in this part of the country. Anyway, let's take a look at it."
They began to descend the slope of the hill, when an object to the left and some distance off attracted Bob's attention.
He drew forth his field-glass and took a long look.
"By jingo, if that doesn't look like a sign-board, I'm mistaken," he exclaimed.
"A sign-board out in this wilderness?" said Sam, incredulously.
"That's what I said, Sam; see for yourself."
"If it isn't one, it's the nearest thing to it I ever saw," admitted Sam, after a moment's survey. "It won't take long to find out."
"As sure as I live, it's a sign," exclaimed Dick, as they approached the object.
Upon the top of a stout upright, a crosspiece had been nailed. On the latter, in rude, black letters, was painted this surprising notice:
LAKE WOLVERINE
Coasting, skating or falling down this hill more than forty miles an hour prohibited.
Picnic parties must keep off the grass.
No dogs allowed to run at large—wolves take notice.
"By all that's wonderful, we're right at our lake," cried Bob, joyously. "Isn't that great?"
"Hurrah!" added Sam. "We did circle around, after all."
"Think of that tramp we're saved," put in Dick, with shining eyes.
The strange wording of the sign-post was, for a moment, forgotten in the joy of their discovery. Then Bob began to laugh.
"This must be jokers' paradise," he exclaimed. "Nice country for a picnic, eh?"
"The man who wrote that is certainly a backwoods wit," grinned Sam. "Say," he continued, abruptly, "I wonder if he's the fellow who has been playing all those jokes on us."
The boys skirted along the edge of the hill until a favorable place for descending was found. Light-hearted at their unexpected good fortune, rapid progress was made and within a few minutes the lake was reached.
"We never saw this spot before, fellows," observed Bob, with a glance around.
"That's another 'undeniable fact,'" replied Sam, as he started off, with long, swinging strides.
In half an hour, the scenery again became familiar, and the sight of the cabin across the lake cheered them on.
"Splendid luck, I call it," panted Dick. "Thought we had miles and miles to go, and here's the camp—just back of that ridge."
"Hope the fellows have got something started," said Bob. "Hurrah," he cried, as the point was rounded, "the whole gang seems to be on deck, and there's a jolly big fire to warm a fellow up."
"Hello—hello!" hailed the others, when they caught a glimpse of the returning hunters.
"Christopher—a fox!" exclaimed Nat Wingate, as they came up.
"Bully for you, fellows," said Hackett, approvingly. "We got a few things, too," and he pointed to several rabbits and a brace of squirrels which lay on the snow.
"Another funny thing has happened, Bob," put in Tom Clifton.
"What is that?"
For an answer, Tom walked over and picked up a sheet of common brown paper which rested near the huts. On it was a rude drawing.
"When we got back, this was standing alongside of Hackett's owl.”