"He's gone!" came from Sam.
"Well, don't go after him," panted Tom. "Let him go and welcome. I never
want to see him again."
"Nor I."
Both reloaded with all haste--having learned years before that it is
foolish to remain in the wilds with an empty firearm. Then they waited,
to see if the wolf would return.
"Hark!" cried Sam. "Did you hear that shot, Tom?"
"I did. I think it came from that direction." And Tom pointed with his
hand.
"I think so myself. It must be Dick or Mr. Barrow, firing."
"More than likely. Let us follow up the shot."
They listened, but no more shots followed, and then they went on, over a
stretch which was comparatively smooth and free from brushwood. But
though they covered a quarter of a mile they saw nothing either of the
river or of their lost companions.
"We're getting lost more than ever," groaned Sam. "I declare I haven't
the least idea where we are."
"I'm going to fire another shot," answered his brother, and proceeded to
do so.
Both listened with strained ears, and soon an answering shot came back,
slightly to the left of the path they had been pursuing.
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