It was the crackling sound made by a dead stick stepped upon, or a sapling broken down.

Either meant the bear.
Dropping the towel, he unbuttoned the flap to the holster of his revolver, took a peep to see how long he could leave the water before it would boil, and stepped cautiously in the direction of the sound.

A dozen paces beyond the bulwark of rocks he came upon a fairly well-worn moose trail; surveying its direction from the top of a boulder, he made up his mind that the bear was dining on mountain-ash berries where he saw one of the huge crimson splashes of the fruit a hundred yards away.
He went on quietly.

Under the big ash tree there was no sign of a feast, recent or old.

He proceeded, the trail turning almost at right angles from the ash tree, as if about to bury itself in the deeper forest.