"I know him," answered the trapper. "Him an' Useless had more'n one race last winter. You found his trail down by that little creek that runs through that deep hollow."
"An' lost it up here in the woods but two mile back."
"An' that's the way you'll keep doin' as often as you chase him. You can't ketch him. He's an ole one in these parts, an' I guess he'll stay here till he dies a nat'ral death."
"No, I'll be shot if he does," said Archie, decidedly, as he deposited his gun on a couple of pegs in one corner of the cabin, and began to divest himself of his overcoat. "I've got a dog that was never fooled yet. There was a fox that used to live on Reynard's Island, a short distance from Lawrence, and he had been chased by all the best dogs in the country; but the first time he got Sport on his trail, he was a gone sucker. I'm going to start out early to-morrow and try that black fox again, and if I don't catch him the first day, I'll try him the next, and keep it up till I do succeed. I don't mean to leave these woods without him."
"Then you'd better send home for plenty of grub," said the trapper, "for you'll have to stay here all winter."
"Supper's ready," said Frank; and this announcement cut short the conversation.
After supper, the hunters stretched themselves out on their blankets around the fire; but the usual evening conversation was omitted. Their day's work had fatigued them all, and soon their regular breathing told that sleep had overpowered them.
About midnight Frank, who slept away from the fire, and almost against the door, was aroused by a slight noise outside the cabin, like the stealthy tread of some animal in the snow. He had begun to acquire something of a hunter's habits, and the noise, slight as it was, aroused him in an instant. The dogs had also heard it, for they stood looking at the door, with every hair sticking toward their heads, but without uttering a sound. Frank reached for his gun, which hung on some pegs just above his head, and at that moment he heard a sound resembling the "wheeze" of a glandered horse.
"Bars and buffaler!" exclaimed Dick, suddenly arousing from a sound sleep, and drawing his long hunting-knife, which he always carried in his belt; "there's a painter around here somewhere--I'm sartin I heered the sniff of one."