"Whar' can the cap'n an' his mate hev got to?" cried Yardsley.
For a moment he forgot all about the thieves, in his great anxiety regarding the young hunters.
"Powerful—powerful bad," he went on. "Wouldn't hev had this happen fur no money."
He raised his gun and fired in the air, Dick Travers following his example.
Shielding themselves as best they could against the violent wind and blinding snow, they awaited a response. But none came.
"Big surprise ter me," said Yardsley. "I don't see how no sich thing could happen."
"What in the world can have become of them?" cried Sam Randall, in the utmost apprehension. "Great Scott! They will never be able to find their way back."
"This is awful," put in Dick, with a strong effort to make himself heard.
Yardsley stared fixedly in the direction from which they had come.
"It's all my fault!" he exclaimed, regretfully. "Powerful wrong ter ask you fellers ter come on sich a trip. An' I kep' straight ahead, never lookin' back. Yardsley, you're a reg'lar dub."
"The trail must be lost completely by this time," said Sam Randall, a moment later. "You can't even see it right back of the sled."
"I know this here place purty well," was Yardsley's response. "I kin foller the route back all right. Thar's one thing," he added, brightening up a bit.
"What's that?" asked Sam.
"The cap'n's got a good head, on good, square shoulders. He ain't no fool. An' that long-legged chap is full of grit."
"But this is an awful storm," said Sam Randall, and his moody tone indicated how apprehensive he felt.
Disconsolately, the trio pushed along, shouting and firing by turns.
"There's a chance that they may have gone back to camp," said Dick Travers, at length.
"But we don't want to give up until everything is done to find them," added Randall.
"Right you are, mate. John Yardsley would give all his winter's work ter see them chaps afore him."
But, as time went on, the utter hopelessness of the search became apparent. Buffeted and battered by the chilly blasts, scarcely able to see for the flying snow and almost exhausted, the two boys bravely kept up, until Yardsley, fearing that they might suffer ill effects from the exposure, sorrowfully decided that it would be necessary to return.
"It's no use—an' powerful sorry I am ter say it," he announced. "We'd best git back ter camp, an' trust that the cap'n an' mate pull through all right."
"Do you think they found their way back to camp?" asked Sam, hopefully.
"There's always a chance; an' if they didn't, the two will take keer of themselves—depend upon it."
Yardsley was far from feeling as sanguine as his words indicated, but he strove to encourage the others, and possibly, in so doing, lightened his own fears.
Disconsolately, therefore, the search was abandoned.
Sam and Dick followed the trapper closely. To them, the task of finding the camp would have been hopeless, but Yardsley went straight ahead, stopping only occasionally to look about him.
"How do you know which way to go?" asked Sam, curiously.
"Bless you, mates, a man can't live as I do, in the woods, an' lose his bearin's. I've traveled hereabouts 'til I can find my way in the dark."
"Wonder how Nat Wingate and the other fellows are faring?" said Dick.
"The camp is kinder sheltered, but them fellers across the lake—" Yardsley paused, and a strange expression came over his bronzed face. "H'm—powerful singular, I call it."
"What is?" asked Sam.
The trapper nodded, as if in answer to some thought of his own. They were standing by the side of a huge boulder, and partially sheltered from the wind.
"Well, mates, I don't like ter accuse no one, but ain't it powerful suspicious that them chaps should hev called you over this mornin'?"
As if half sorry that he had uttered his thoughts, the trapper stopped short, and glanced questioningly at the others.
"By George! It is rather funny!" cried Dick, impulsively. "And don't you remember, Sam, Robson said the whole crowd was expected to come over?"
"And it might have been all a bluff, too, about the others going out hunting."
"An' him as they call Piper was a-wantin', so he said, ter buy furs t'other day. Ridiculous figger, too. I don't like ter say nothin', but it's powerful singular," and Yardsley nodded vigorously. "Can't say I ever took to 'em, neither," he went on. "Oily kind of feller that Piper, an' very techy."
"And they knew just where your skins were kept?"
"Sartin! As sure as you're a-standin' here, they did."
"Wouldn't be surprised if they should turn out to be guilty," admitted Dick.
"Mind, I don't say it's them, but it looks powerful bad, an' I'm goin' ter find out. John Yardsley ain't the man ter be done this way."
"We must do some detective work," put in Sam.
"If the cap'n was only with us. A bright feller, the cap'n—he'll come out all right. The snow's growin' a bit less, mates."
"So it is," said Dick.
"Now if you fellers keep yer eyes open, ye may find out something."
"You can count on us," returned Dick, to whom the prospect of detective work was especially alluring.
But little was said during the rest of the journey.
"'Tain't fur now," remarked the trapper at length. He turned to the right, and was soon standing before a sign-post similar to the one the boys had seen near Lake Wolverine.
Partridge Holler.
But it can't be heard.
Lake Wolverine one mile.
"As I tole you afore, it's a little failin' I have," he chuckled. "You may strike more of 'em around these parts."
Yardsley soon relapsed into a moody silence. The fear that Bob Somers and his companion might be in danger, and his loss drove all other thoughts from his mind.
At length, they toiled up another hill, with the snow falling thickly about them, and the boys suddenly discovered by a familiar tree that their camp was close at hand.
"Hurrah!" cried Sam, and with renewed spirit he pushed along.
Soon the two huts came into view. Then several shadowy figures uttered loud cheers and came pressing forward.
"Hello, there!" cried Nat Wingate; "what luck?"
Then, as he was informed of the unaccountable disappearance of the two boys, he stared blankly at Dave Brandon and Tom Clifton. "What! Hacky and Bob Somers lost?" he exclaimed. "That's a nice fix to be in!"
"We thought they might have found their way back," said Sam, disconsolately. "This is a fierce storm for any one to be out in, eh, Chub?"
"Those chaps are pretty good at taking care of themselves," replied Dave, reflectively.
"But what will they do for a shelter to-night?" put in Tom Clifton, in a frightened voice. "Cracky! What awful luck!"
"The cap'n's got a good head, an' Hackett's full of grit. The wust of it is, we can't do nothin'."
"No use looking on the worst side," commented the poet laureate, in positively cheerful tones. "Don't get scared until you have to. See what we've done, fellows." He pointed toward the huts.
"Cleared away a lot of snow, eh? That's great," commented Dick. "Lucky that it's sheltered here, or we might have been snowed up pretty badly. Some big drifts, as it is. Looks different, doesn't it?"
"Whew, fellows, this wind is too much," said Dave; "it's the hut for me."
The boys all crowded inside, followed by the trapper. A lantern hung from the roof, brightly illuminating the small interior, and making a cheerful contrast to the growing darkness outside.
"A purty snug little place, mates," observed Yardsley, seating himself on an empty box.
The light played fantastically over his rugged features, ruthlessly bringing out the wrinkles and hollows formed by conflict with the elements. His strong, bony hands clasped his knee, and, leaning back, he gazed moodily at the floor, now and then half starting when a particularly violent gust of wind shook the hut.
"It will soon be as dark as pitch," declared Tom Clifton, pulling aside the canvas flap and looking out. "Snow still coming down pretty lively, too. We'll have another job clearing it away in the morning."
"Where in the world can Hacky and Somers be, I wonder?" spoke up Nat.
"Don't worry, mates. They will turn up to-morrow, sure," said Yardsley. Then, to relieve his own feelings, he began to talk on other subjects.
"I say, fellows," broke in Dick Travers, suddenly, "there was something mighty suspicious about those fellows across the lake calling us over this morning."
"What do you mean?" asked the poet laureate, quickly.
"It looks as though they wanted to have an eye on us. Queer, too, that Robson should have been alone."
Dave Brandon seemed somewhat startled, and reflected for a moment. "I can't believe those chaps would do anything of that sort," he said, with a decided shake of his head. "Story Robson told seemed straight to me. Nice fellows, I think."
"Best ter say nothin' more about it," observed the trapper. "Guess I done wrong ter 'rouse yer s'picions."
Nat Wingate leaned back and stuffed his hands in his pocket. "Did Robson act as if he had a headache, Chub?" he inquired.
"He didn't look very spry, that's certain."
"An' I guess it was true 'nough 'bout them wolves," put in Yardsley, and he contracted his brow until two deep lines appeared.
"My idea, too," added Dave.
"Oh, you are easy, Chub," said Nat, rather scornfully. "For my part, I think those chaps took the furs, and we're going to find out before very long.”