"It hurts!" he said. "Get it off!"
Jack was the first to get down and look at the struggling boy.
"A trap!" he announced. "Easy! Don"t pull it, Ned."
"More things than trees and lost girls in the Maine woods," exclaimed Nat. "Gee whiz! I wonder what we"ll strike next."
"Just take a strike at this trap," begged Ned. "Seems to me it takes--oh! be careful, Jack, that hurts!"
"Let me!" suggested Dorothy. "I can open it, without hurting him," and she stooped over her cousin. "Oh, you poor boy! It has cut right through your shoe. Now, Jack, just hold the end of the chain so that it cannot slip back," she ordered. "Cologne, dear, can you unlace this shoe?"
"Oh, of course," growled Nat, "it takes a girl!"
"Any objections?" asked Ned, getting back to his good humor. "Now if this were Nat it would take a whole boarding school of girls."
Dorothy and Cologne very gently helped the boys get the steel trap free from the shoe. It took some time to do it without pressing the jaws still farther in through the leather, but they succeeded.
"Now, you must go back in the boat," decided Dorothy. "We cannot run the risk of having your foot poisoned."
"Never!" declared Ned. "I have often had worse than this, and have gone on after the game."
He got to his feet, but limped as he walked The foot had been lacerated.
"What foolish hunters ever put that trap there?" he asked.
"I would not be surprised if it were the man who shot the deer,"
replied Dorothy, as if the others knew of that happening.
"Shot a deer! At this season!" exclaimed Jack.
"Oh, I think he was an Indian. I saw him as I came along in the canoe," replied Dorothy. "I thought at the time it was against the law. Can you walk, Ned? I do wish you would go back."
"Seems to me we ought to separate," interposed Ralph. "We can never make any headway by searching all together."
"Well, I will not leave Dorothy," declared Cologne, stoutly. "I left her once----"
"No, I left _you_ once," corrected Dorothy, in her own way of always taking the blame. "I think, however, Ralph is right. Suppose the boys keep along the water, and Cologne and I go farther in."
"Then I go with you," said Ralph gallantly. "It is not altogether safe in the deep woods. There might be lunatics----"
"Or muskrat traps," groaned Ned, who walked with difficulty.
At this they separated.
For some time they heard nothing more than their own voices calling back and forth.
"Isn"t it awful?" sighed Cologne. "Dorothy, I think it is utterly useless. I am afraid she is--dead."
"I know she is not," declared Dorothy, "and I am not going to give up until I have searched every inch of this wood. Now I am going to shout!"
"Tavia! Tavia!" she yelled, and her clear voice struck an echo against the hills. "Tavia! Tavia!" she called again.
"Hark!" said Cologne. "Didn"t I hear----"
"I heard something!" declared Dorothy, and the sound came from back of the hill. "Boys! Boys!" she shouted, but they were now too far away to answer promptly. "Don"t try to follow, Cologne. I feel that I can run like the wind. I heard Tavia"s voice, and I heard it--right--over--there!"
As she flew through the woods Cologne, in distress, tried to summon the boys. She feared Dorothy would fall again, over some rock or cliff. But there was no use trying to stop her. She had heard Tavia"s voice, and that was enough.
CHAPTER XXVII
ONE KIND OF CAMP
"Oh, Tavia! Where are you?"
It was Dorothy who jumped from rock to stone, and over bush and bramble, through that deep dark wood, which now, in the shadow of sunset, threatened again to bring anguish to our young friends. "I heard you," she called. "Answer again!"
But this time there was no response.
"Oh, what can have happened?" wailed Dorothy. "Surely she is--not too ill--when she called and whistled just now."
She was talking, but no one was at hand to hear her.
Cologne was doing her best to reach Dorothy, but she had made a turn to notify the boys, and was really too surprised, and frightened, to make anything like the progress that her friend was able to make through the rough forest.
Dorothy stopped and listened. She had reached a cleared spot, where the branches of a beautiful fir stood out over a greensward, like a natural tower. Without hesitating a moment, Dorothy easily scaled the strong branches, and presently could see from the height of the fir tree a spot--ideal! Yes, and there was something white on it!
"Cologne!" she called. "I see a tent!"
By this time Cologne had reached Dorothy.
"Oh, do come down," she begged. "If you should slip----"
"But I shall not slip. There was no use in running wild through the woods, when I could get a distinct view from here. It may be a gypsy camp. Where are the boys?"
"They seem to have gotten away, somehow," sighed Cologne. "Oh, what shall we do? We cannot go alone to that camp."
"Indeed I am going," declared Dorothy. "I heard Tavia"s voice, and now I see a tent. If she is held there, we must go to her at once."
Cologne was terrified, but the experience through which Dorothy had pa.s.sed in the last few days seemed to make all other fears look insignificant.
She had slid down the tree, and was now making her way in the direction of the tent. It was near the edge of a natural bank, that stood like a wind-shield against the rocks.
This shelf made a covering for the spot, so that only from some elevation such as from the tree could it be seen for any distance.