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
