CHAPTER XVIII
WHO TOOK THE FURS?
Taken altogether by surprise, Bob Somers was, for an instant, almost incapable of motion. He saw the long, lithe body spring forward and heard the harsh, rasping snarl. Then, with a strong effort, he recovered his wits—like a flash his rifle was raised and fired.
Blending with the report came a terrific cry of fury and pain.
But the wildcat was only wounded. In his haste and alarm, Bob had not been able to reach a vital spot. The animal fell, but almost instantly rose.
"Give me a chance!" yelled Yardsley. "Skip around that there rock, an' I'll finish 'im."
But before the boy could comply, the wildcat, with an infuriated screech, sprang forward again.
Taking his gun by the barrel, Bob Somers swung it with all his strength. The animal, dealt a glancing blow, was checked—just long enough for Bob to dart around the rock. Almost at his heels came the snarling wildcat.
In and out among the trees the two went, while Yardsley followed, unable to shoot for fear of hitting his companion.
With a glance over his shoulder, Bob once more jumped aside, and again his gun rose and fell.
John Yardsley, leaping over the snow, reached the spot where the wildcat, scarcely stunned by Bob Somers' last blow, was preparing to make another spring.
"I've got 'im!" he cried.
A sharp report rang out. Rising to his haunches, in a last desperate effort, the wildcat lurched over, and fell at full length motionless in the snow.
"Hurrah!" cried Bob. "Thanks, John," and he clasped the hunter's big hand. "Ugh I Thought he had me." He shivered, as his eyes rested upon the savage head and dangerous-looking claws.
"Powerful bad critters when they get their dander up," commented Yardsley, giving the beast a shove with his toe. "What's ter be did with the varmint?"
"Don't you want it?" Bob's voice still trembled with excitement.
"I reckon not."
"Then I'll have him stuffed," said Bob. "Won't that be great? Only wish I'd got him myself," he added, half regretfully.
"You orter be glad he didn't get you," observed the trapper, dryly. "Now, I'll make a drag. Twenty-five or thirty pounds of cat meat would be a little too much ter carry."
Yardsley strode forward, and selecting an ash of suitable thickness—of course it was a mere sapling—quickly felled and trimmed it. Then he cut it into two pieces of equal length.
"Pitch in an' get me some short bits fur the cross-bars, cap'n," he said, handing Bob the hatchet. "We'll have it fixed in a minute."
As soon as Bob Somers had complied with his request, the trapper laid the two pieces of ash parallel on the ground, then three cross-bars were quickly fastened in place.
"Want anything better than that?" he demanded, with a grin. "I'll jest cut them 'ere ends, so's ter make 'em lift off the snow like runners."
"Have you a rope to pull it with?" asked Bob.
"Catch John Yardsley a-comin' out unprepared? I reckon not. Guess we'd better hit the trail fur camp," he added.
The wildcat, otter and other game were securely attached to the drag, which was not difficult to pull over the snow-crusted ground.
After making a long circuit, the winding stream was again reached, and, at length, the cabin in the valley came into view.
"Reckon you air powerful glad ter git back, cap'n?" observed the trapper. "I'll fix the skin of that there critter, an'—"
Yardsley suddenly paused, and gazed intently toward the cabin, while a puzzled, alarmed expression passed over his rugged features.
"I'm sartin sure—" he began.
"Sure of what?" asked Bob, surprised at his companion's manner.
"That I shut the door of that storehouse. Sure as guns is guns, I did, an'—"
Yardsley did not finish the sentence, but fairly tore over the snow, while Bob, leaving the sled, followed close at his heels.
At one end of the log house a small addition had been built for the purpose of storing furs and skins. There was an entrance on the outside, and it was this which now stood slightly open.
"As sure as guns is guns," repeated the woodsman, excitedly, "I shut that 'ere door, an' shut it tight."
He hastily entered the storehouse, and at a glance his worst fears were realized.
"Gone—every blessed one!" he groaned. "Not a thing left!"
"Robbed?" gasped Bob Somers. "How many did you have?"
"A powerful number, cap'n."
Yardsley stood perfectly still and gazed around with a dazed air.
"Every blessed one," he repeated. "An' I was 'most ready ter take 'em ter town." His arms dropped to his side, and he looked toward Bob Somers in the utmost dejection.
"Well, we can't do any good standing here," cried Bob. "Let's investigate and get after 'em."
"That's the idea!" exclaimed Yardsley, his look of dismay giving place to one of intense anger.
"Jest let me come up with them rascals, that's all." He made an expressive motion, then darted outside, his eyes roving over the ground.
"Carted 'em away on a big sled," he exclaimed. "See, cap'n—tracks as plain as the nose on yer face. An' the rascals was on snow-shoes."
"I'll skip over to camp and get some of the fellows!" cried Bob. "Then the whole crowd can follow."
"Good, cap'n, an' John Yardsley won't forgit it. By the time yer gits back I'll hev a bite ter eat. With a storm a-comin', an' no tellin' what may be afore us, 'twouldn't do by no means ter go off on an empty stummick."
But Bob Somers had not waited to hear his last words. Although the morning's tramp had been a rather long one, he moved over the ground at a rapid rate, and, panting from his exertions, at length reached the camp just as the others came in.
"What's the matter, Somers, you look scared—any fierce rabbits get after you?" asked Nat Wingate, winking at Hackett.
"Yardsley's been robbed of his furs," said Bob. "Not one of 'em left!"
"Robbed?" echoed Nat, in astonishment. "How—when?"
"Whew! That's mighty funny!" exclaimed Sam Randall. "Robbed? I can hardly believe it."
"It's true!—Who wants to come along and help us trail the thieves?"
"Well now!" Hackett paused and a fierce expression came into his eyes. "After amusing himself at our expense, he's got a fine nerve to ask us to help him—still," he went on, "speak your little piece, Somers, and we'll decide."
This Bob did, briefly, and at its conclusion Hackett again spoke up. "I feel sorry for the old man," he announced. "I'll go. There's a chance for some excitement, too."
"So will I," added Sam Randall, eagerly. "Here come Chubby and the rest. Won't they be surprised?"
Dave Brandon and his companions were seen making their way toward the camp.
As they came up, Hackett shouted out the news.
Dick Travers gave a whistle of astonishment, while Tom, believing that some joke was intended, began to laugh.
But Bob Somers quickly told his story again, and the astonished boys were given a chance to decide what they wanted to do. The question was almost immediately settled.
In brief, Nat Wingate, Dave Brandon and Tom Clifton concluded that their services were not required. The others hastily prepared to take their departure. Bob, who had already been helping himself to everything eatable in sight, drank a cup of coffee which had fortunately been left over, filled his pockets with crackers, and followed the already retreating forms of Hackett, Randall and Travers.
"Come on!" cried the slim boy. "The snow isn't falling half as fast as it was."
The three who stood by the fire gazed after them in a disconsolate fashion.
"I wonder what is going to happen now?" said Nat Wingate, as the four figures were lost to view.