s from
the hut, trying to guess just where the returning hunter would pass.
It was very still, and they would be able to hear his footsteps for a
long way.

But they waited for nearly half an hour, and the woods were dusky when
at last their strained ears caught the regular creak, crunch, and
shuffle of snowshoes in the distance. They were posted too far to the
right, and they had to run fifty yards in order to cross the man's
path. There they crouched behind the hemlocks, in great fear lest
their enemy had heard their steps. But in another minute they caught
sight of him. The man was alone, muffled in a great _capote_, carrying
a rifle over his shoulder, and something on his back--possibly his
game. His face was indistinguishable, but he looked like one of the
French Canadians.

On he came with a steady stride, now in sight, and now concealed by the
thickets. He passed within ten feet of the ambush where the boys
crouched palpitating.

"Now! Tackle him!" Macgregor cried.

CHAPTER VII

The three boys plunged at the man together. He stopped short, and made
a motion to lower his rifle; but he was too late. The boys had
fastened on him as wolves fasten on a deer. He uttered a single,
stifled cry; then they all went down together in a mass of kicking
snowshoes and struggling limbs. The hunter's efforts were feeble, and
the boys had no trouble in over-powering him. Fred pinioned his arms,
and Maurice sat on his legs.

Macgregor peered into the man's face. "Why, this isn't one of that
gang!" he cried.

It had grown almost dark. Fred bent forward to look at the man.

"It's my brother!" he cried. "It's Horace!"

"What? It can't be!" cried Peter and Maurice together. They let go
their hold on their prisoner in order to look closer.

"I declare, I believe it is!" said Macgregor, stupefied.

It really was Horace Osborne, but he was almost unrecognizable in his
muffling _capote_, long hair, and a three months' growth of beard. He
had no idea who had thus attacked him, and he was in a towering rage.

"What do you mean by all this? Who are you, anyway?" he exclaimed,
sitting up in the snow. Then he looked more closely at his brother,
who was trying to say something, inarticulate, half laughing and half
crying.

"Fred!" he cried, in amazement. "Is that you? What on earth are you
doing here? Who's that with you? Peter Macgregor--and Maurice Stark!"

"We thought you might be dead!" Fred c