All was almost absolutely silent. Occasionally a winter bird circled
through the air, or a frightened squirrel ran from a tree branch to his
hollow, and twice they caught a fair view of a bunch of rabbits, nibbling
at some tender shoots of brushwood. The young hunters could have shot the
rabbits with ease, but now they were after larger game, and they knew
better than to fire shots which would most likely drive the elk for miles,
were the beast within hearing distance.

"How far do you calculate the elk is from here?" asked Dave, after a good
mile had been covered.

"That's no easy question to answer, Dave," returned Sam Barringford. "He
may have gone two miles and he may have gone ten. We'll have to trust to
luck to catch up to him. I don't calkerlate he went far in this deep snow."

Another mile was covered, and they came to a spot where the snow was kicked
up in several directions. A rough-barked tree was near by, and on this it
was plain to see that the elk had rubbed himself vigorously.

"Thet proves he ain't gone far," said Barringford, almost in a whisper. "He
stopped to scratch himself an' then dropped into a walk. Go slow now and
keep quiet, an' we may come up to him before you know it."

The old frontiersman's advice was followed, and they turned along the
newly-made trail, which now led up to the top of another hill. Here was a
good-sized clearing, and Barringford motioned for the others to keep back
until he could reconnoiter. They stepped behind some brushwood and each
looked to the priming of his musket and to the flint.

Presently Barringford held up his hand and motioned for them to advance,