The Essential Edward Stratemeyer Collection. Stratemeyer Edward
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try it, anyway."
The passageway was dangerous, being covered with ice, and he had to move literally an inch at a time. Once he slipped, but caught fast to a ridge of ice just in time to save himself. It made his heart leap into his throat, yet he kept on. He was so eager to gain the object of his quest that no peril, no matter how great, could have daunted him. Surely "blood is thicker than water" every time.
Having gained the bottom of the hollow inside of the cliff, he turned to where a streak of light showed. Here was a narrow slit leading to the greater hollow outside of the cliff. It was so small that the youth squeezed through with difficulty and had even more trouble getting his knapsack on the other side.
He now stood where there was a gentle slope leading to the firs growing at the foot of the cliff. Here there was a great drift of snow, in some spots fifteen and twenty feet high.
"I wonder if father came down in that?" he mused. "If he did he wouldn't be apt to break any bones. But he might get smothered before he could find his way out, especially if the fall took his breath away."
He gazed around in the drift and saw a spot where it looked as if the snow had been disturbed. Then he saw what looked to be footprints further on, leading among the firs.
"Hello! hello!" he called, with all the strength of his lungs. "Mr. Porter! Where are you?"
His voice echoed along the rocks and beyond, and he waited with bated breath for a reply, but, as before, none came.
What should he do next--go on or search the immense snowdrift for his father's body?
He deliberated for several minutes, then moved onward.
"I must see if he is alive," he reasoned. "I can always come back for his body later--if I have to."
The edge of the fir forest gained, Dave paused once more. Here was a track in the snow, but whether made by a human being or a wild animal he could not tell. Then he uttered a sharp cry and rushed forward to pick something up.
It was a box that had contained rifle cartridges. It was empty and practically new. Had his father possessed that and discarded it?
Suddenly he thought of something new, and pulling out his pistol fired it off as a signal. The last echo had hardly died out when an answering shot came back. His face lit up with joy, then grew sober again.
Perhaps the shot had come from above, from Granbury Lapham or the others up there. But no, it had seemed to be further down--beyond the line of firs which confronted him. At the risk of wasting too much ammunition he fired again. But this time no signal came back.
"If it was father he'll want to save his shots--especially if his cartridge box is empty," thought Dave. Then he resolved to push on through the timber, calling his parent in the meanwhile.
CHAPTER XXVIII
A JOYOUS MEETING
Dave had proceeded a distance of fifty yards into the patch of firs when he came to a halt. A peculiar sound to his left had caught his ears. He had never heard such a sound before and he wondered what it was.
"Must have been some bird--or a wild animal," he murmured, after he had listened for some time. "There ought to be many kinds of small wild animals in a place like this."
He proceeded on his way again, but a dozen steps further came to another halt. Something lay in the snow at his feet. It was a fur glove. He picked it up, looked it over, and then, in his agitation, dropped it.
The glove was stained with blood!
"Can that be father's glove?" he thought. "And if it is, how does it happen that it is covered with blood?"
A shiver ran down his backbone that was not caused by the cold, and for the minute he could hardly move. He tried to call once more, but his throat was so dry he could scarcely make a sound. Again from a distance came that peculiar noise, low and muttering. He now recognized it as a growl, but whether of a dog or a wild beast he could not determine. He brought out the pistol he had placed in his pocket and held it ready for use.
"Footprints!" The word came from his lips involuntarily. He had reached a spot where the snow was only a few inches deep, and here the footprints of a man were plainly to be seen. They led through the belt of firs and then towards the jagged rocks at the base of a high cliff.
Again that suspicious growl reached him, and now Dave saw a dark object just as it disappeared around a corner of rock close to some brushwood.
"Was that a beast or a man crawling in the snow?" he asked himself. "That sound came from an animal, but the thing didn't look like a beast."
He went on, more cautiously than ever. Then he heard a sudden cry that made every nerve in his body tingle:
"Get back there! Get back, you brute!"
It was a man's voice, weak and exhausted, trying to keep off some wild beast. Then came a low growl, followed by the discharge of a pistol, and a few seconds later there came running toward Dave a full-grown bear, growling savagely and wagging its shaggy head from side to side. The youth was surprised but not taken off his guard, and as the animal came closer he leveled his weapon, took aim, and pulled the trigger. The bear had raised up on its hind legs and the bullet took it straight in the breast, inflicting a bad but not a mortal wound. Then Dave started to fire a second time, but in a twinkling the bear leaped over a low rock and disappeared in the brushwood. Listening, Dave heard it lumbering away, growling with rage and pain as it went.
"Hello!" came a faint voice. "Is that you, Lapham?"
"No, it is somebody else," answered Dave. He could scarcely speak, he was so agitated. "Where are you?"
"Here, near the cliff. I am wounded, and I--I----" The voice died out completely.
"I'm coming!" shouted Dave. "Just let me know where you are."
For a minute there was no answer, and Dave continued to call. Then came what was half call and half moan. With ears on the alert, the boy followed up the sounds and quickly came in sight of a man, wrapped up in a fur overcoat and crouched in a heap between two rocks at the base of the cliff. He held a pistol in his hand, but the weapon was empty.
For the instant man and boy faced each other--the former too weak to speak and the latter too agitated to do so. Dave's heart was beating like a trip-hammer and for the time being his surroundings were completely forgotten.
"Are you--are you----" he began. "Are you David Porter?" he blurted out.
"Yes," was the gasped-out reply. "Yo--you----"
"And you don't know me! Oh, father!"
"Eh? What's that?" asked the man, rising up slightly.
"You don't know me? But of course you don't--if you didn't get the letters and telegrams. I am your son, Dave Porter."
"My son? Wha--what do you mean? I--er--have no son. I had one, years and years ago, but----" Mr. Porter was too weak to go on. He sat staring at Dave in bewilderment.
"You lost him, I know. He was stolen from you. Well, I am that son. I have been looking for you for months. I found Uncle Dunston first, and then we sent letters and cablegrams to you, but no answer came back. Then I started out to hunt you up--and here I am." Dave was on his knees and holding his father's blood-stained hand in his own. "I see you are hurt; I'll----"
"My son? My son?" queried Mr. Porter, like one in a dream. "Can this be true?" He gazed unsteadily at Dave. Then he closed his eyes and went off into a dead faint. The youth was startled, for he saw that his parent might be dying. His hand was hurt and he had scratches on his ear, and one knee of his trousers was blood-stained.
"I must help him--he must not die!" thought