"Don't force the pace at first, boys," Fred warned his companions.
"Remember, we've a long way to go."
As the expert skater, he had taken the leading end of the drag-rope.
His advice was hard to follow. The ice was in perfect condition; the
toboggan ran almost without friction on its steel shoes, and in that
sparkling air it seemed that it would be easy to skate a hundred miles
without ever once resting.
For a little way the river was bordered with stumpy clearings; then the
dark hemlock and jack-pine woods closed down on the shores. The
skaters had reached the frontier; it might well be that there were not
a dozen cultivated fields between them and the North Pole.
Here the river was about a hundred feet wide, the long ice road that
Fred had imagined. Comparatively little snow had yet fallen, and that
little seemed to have come with high winds, which had swept the ice
clear. More, however, might be looked for any day.
But for that day they were safe. They rushed ahead, forcing the pace a
little, after all, in a swinging single file, with the toboggan gliding
behind. In great curves the river wound through the woods and frozen
swamps, and only twice that day had they to go ashore to get round
roaring, unfrozen rapids. Each of those obstructions cost the boys
half an hour of labor before they could get the toboggan through the
dense underbrush that choked the portage. But they had counted on such
delays.
Not a breath of wind stirred, and the forest was profoundly still.
Full of wild life though it undoubtedly was, not a sign of it was
visible, except now and then a chain of delicate tracks along the shore.
Evening comes early in that latitude and season. At sunset Macgregor
estimated that they had covered thirty miles.
"Time to camp, boys!" he shouted from the rear. "Look out for a good
place--shelter and lots of dry wood."
Two or three miles farther on they found it--a spot where several large
spruce trees had fallen together, and lay dry and dead near the shore.
They drew up the toboggan and exchanged their skating-boots for
moccasins. Maurice began to cut up wood with a small axe; the others
trampled down the snow in a circle.
Dusk was already falling when the fire blazed up, making all at once a
spot of almost home-like cheerfulness. Fred chopped a hole in the ice
in order to fill the kettle, and while it was boiling, they cut down a
number of small saplings, and placed them in lean-to fashion against a
ridgepole. The balsam twigs that they trimmed off they threw inside,
until the snow was covered with a great heap of fragrant boughs. On it
they spread the sleeping-bags to face the fire.
They supped that night on fried bacon, dried eggs, oatmeal cakes, and
tea--real _voyageur's_ tea, hot and strong, flavored with brown sugar
and wood smoke, and drunk out of tin cups.
Leaning back on the balsam couch, they made merry over their meal,
while the stars came out white and clear over the dark woods. There
was every prospect now of their reaching the trappers' cabin in two
days more, at most. There were only the two serious dangers--a
snowstorm might spoil the ice, and Macgregor might not be able to hit
upon the right place.
The boys were tired enough to be drowsy as soon as they had finished
supper. Little by little their conversation flagged; the chance of
finding diamonds ceased to interest them, and presently they built up
the fire and crawled into their sleeping-bags. It was a cold night,
and except for the occasional cry of a hunting owl or lynx, the
wilderness was silent as death.
The boys were up early the next morning; smoke was rising from their
fire before the sun was well off the horizon. The weather seemed
slightly warmer, and a wind was rising from the west, but it was not
strong enough to impede them.
After breakfast, they repacked the kit on the toboggan. The spot had
been home for a night; now nothing was left except a pile of crushed
twigs and a few black brands on the trampled snow.
The travelers were fresh again; now they settled down to a long, steady
stroke that carried them on rapidly. Three times they had to land to
pass round open rapids or dangerous ice, but about eleven o'clock
Macgregor saw what he had been looking for. It was a spot where
several trees had been cut down on the shore. A rather faint trail
showed through the cedar thickets. It was the beginning of the main
portage that ran three miles northwest, straight across country to the
Abitibi River. They had been mortally afraid of overrunning the spot.
They boiled the noon kettle of tea to fortify themselves for the long
crossing. Then they unshipped the runners from the toboggan, put on
their moccasins and snowshoes, and started ashore across a range of
low, densely wooded hills.
The trail was blazed at long intervals, but not cleared, and it was
hard, exasperating work to get the toboggan through the snowy tangle.
After two hours they came out on the crest of a hill overlooking a
great river that ran like a gleaming steel-blue ribbon far into the
north.
"The Abitibi!" cried Macgregor.
They had come a good seventy miles from Waverley. At that rate, they
might expect to reach their destination the next day; and, greatly
encouraged, they coasted on the toboggan down to the ice, and set out
again on skates.
During the tramp the sky had grown hazy, and the northwest wind was
blowing stronger. For some time it was not troublesome, for it came
from the left, but it continued to freshen, and the clouds darkened
ominously.
Late in the afternoon the travelers came suddenly upon the second of
the known landmarks. From the west a smaller river, nameless, as far
as they knew, poured past a bluff of black granite into the Abitibi,
making a fifty-yard stretch of open water that tumbled and foamed with
a hoarse uproar among ice-bound boulders. Here they had to change
their course, for according to Macgregor's calculation, it was about
fifty miles up this river that the cabin stood.
Again they went ashore, and after struggling through two hundred yards
of dense thickets reached the little nameless river from the west.
The change in their course brought them squarely into the eye of the
wind, and they felt the difference instantly. The breeze had risen to
half a gale; the whole sky had clouded. It was only an hour from
sunset, but no one mentioned camping; they were resolved to go on while
the light lasted. And suddenly Fred, struggling on with bent head
against the wind, saw that the front of his blue sweater was growing
powdered with white grains.
"We're caught, boys!" he exclaimed; and they stopped to look at the
menacing sky.
Snow was drifting down in fine powder, and glancing over the ice past
their feet. Straight down from the great Hudson Bay barrens the storm
was coming, and the roar of the forest, now that they stopped to
listen, was like that of the tempestuous sea.
"'Snow meal, snow a great deal,'" Macgregor quoted, with forced
cheerfulness.
"Let's hope not!" exclaimed Maurice.
And Fred added: "Anyhow, let's get on while we can."
On they went, skating fast. As yet the snow was no hindrance, for it
spun off the smooth ice as fast as it fell. It was the wind that
troubled them, for it roared down the river channel with disheartening
force.
It was especially discouraging to be checked thus on the last lap, but
none of them thought of giving up. They settled doggedly to the task,
although it took all their strength and wind to keep going. But all
three were in pretty good training, and they stuck to it for more than
an hour. The forest was growing dark, and the snow was coming faster.
Then Maurice, rather dubiously, suggested a halt.
"Nonsense! We're good for another ten miles, at least!" cried Peter,
who seemed tireless.
They shot ahead again. Evening settled early, with the snow falling
thick. The ice was white now; skates and toboggan left black streaks,
immediately obliterated by fresh flakes. Just before complete darkness
fell, the boys made a short halt, built a fire, and boiled tea. No
more was said of camping. They had tacitly resolved to struggle on as
long as they could keep going, for they knew that they would have no
chance to use their skates after that night.
It grew dark, but never pitch dark, for the reflection from the snow
gave light enough for them to see the road. Even yet the snow lay so
light that the blades cut it without an effort.
The wind, however, was hard to fight against. In spite of his amateur
championship, Fred was the first to give out. For some time he had
felt himself flagging, dropping behind, and then recovering; but all at
once his legs gave way, and he collapsed in a heap on the ice, half
unconscious from fatigue.
Macgregor and Stark bent over him.
"Got to put him on the toboggan," declared the Scotchman.
Maurice felt that it was madness for two of them to try to haul the
greater load, but without protest he helped to roll the dazed youngster
in the blankets, and to strap him on the sledge. The next stage always
seemed to him a sort of waking nightmare; he never quite knew how long
it lasted. The wind bore against him like a wall; the drag of the
toboggan seemed intolerable. Half dead with exhaustion and fatigue, he
fixed his eyes on Macgregor's broad back, and went on with short,
forced strokes, with the feeling that each marked the extreme limit of
his strength.
Suddenly his leader stopped. A great black space seemed to have opened
in the white road ahead.
"Another portage!" Macgregor shouted in Maurice's ear.
A long, unfrozen rapid was thundering in the gloom. With maddening
difficulty, Maurice and Macgregor hacked a road through willow thickets
and got the toboggan past.
Again they were on the ice, with the rapid behind them. It seemed to
Maurice that the horror of that exertion would never end; then suddenly
the night seemed to turn pitch black, and he felt himself shaken by the
shoulder.
"Get on the toboggan, Maurice! Come, wake up!" Macgregor was saying.
"Wake up!"
Dimly he realized that he was sitting on the ice--that they had
stopped--that Fred was up again. Too stupefied to question anything,
he rolled into the blanket out of which Fred had crawled, and instantly
went sound asleep.
It seemed only a moment until he was roused again. Drunk with sleep,
he clutched the towrope blindly, while Fred, who was completely done
this time, again took his place on the sledge. Only Macgregor seemed
proof against fatigue. Bent against the gale, he skated vigorously at
the forward end of the line, and his strong voice shouted back
encouragements that Maurice hardly heard.
The snow was now growing so deep on the ice that the skates ploughed
through it with difficulty. Still the boys labored on, minute after
minute, mile after mile. Maurice felt numb with fatigue and half
asleep as he skated blindly, and suddenly he ran sharply into
Macgregor, who had stopped short. There was another break just
ahead--a long cascade this time, where snowy pocks showed like white
blurs on the black water.
"Going to portage?" mumbled Maurice.
"No use trying to go any farther," replied the medical student, and his
voice was hoarse. "Fred's played out. Snow's getting too deep,
anyway. Better camp here."
Maurice would have been glad to drop where he stood. But they dragged
the toboggan ashore somehow, caring little where they landed it. Peter
rolled Fred off into the snow. The boy groaned, but did not waken, and
they began to unpack the supplies with stiffened hands.
"Got to get something hot into us quick," said Peter thickly. "Help me
make a fire."
Probably they were all nearer death than they realized. Maurice wanted
only to sleep. However, in a sort of daze, he broke off branches,
peeled bark, and they had a fire blazing up in the falling snowflakes.
The wind whirled and scattered it, but they piled on larger sticks, and
Macgregor filled the kettle from the river. When the water was hot he
poured in a whole tin of condensed milk, added a cake of chocolate, a
handful of sugar and another of oatmeal, too stiffened to measure out
anything.
Maurice had collapsed into a dead sleep in the snow. Peter shook him
awake, and between them they managed to arouse Fred with great
difficulty. Still half asleep they swallowed the rich, steaming mess
from the kettle. It set their blood moving again, but they were too
thoroughly worn out to think of building a camp. They crept into their
sleeping-bags, buttoned the naps down over their heads and went to
sleep regardless of consequences.
Fred awoke to find himself almost steaming hot, and in utter darkness
and silence. All his muscles ached, and he could not imagine where he
was. A weight held him down when he tried to move, but he turned over
at last and sat up with an effort. A glare of white light made him
blink. He had been buried under more than two feet of snow.
It was broad daylight. All the world was white, and a raging snowstorm
was driving through the forest. The tree-tops creaked and roared, and
the powdery snow whirled like smoke. Fred felt utterly bewildered.
There was no sign of the camp-fire, nor of the toboggan, nor of any of
his companions, nothing but a few mounds on the drifted white surface.
Finally he crawled out of his sleeping-outfit and dug into one of these
mounds. Two feet down he came upon the surface of a sleeping-bag, and
punched it vigorously. It stirred; the flap opened, and Macgregor
thrust his face out, blinking, red and dazed.
"Time to get up!" Fred shouted.
Mac crawled out and shook off the snow, looking disconcerted.
"Snowed in, with a vengeance!" he remarked. "Where's the camp--and
where's Maurice?"
After prodding about they located the third member of their party at
last, and dug him out. As for the camp, there was none, and they could
only guess at where the toboggan with their stores might be buried.
"This ends our skating," said Maurice. "It'll have to be snowshoes
after this. Good thing we got so far last night."
"No thanks to me!" Fred remarked. "I was the expert skater; I believe
I said I'd set the pace, and I was the first to cave in. I hope I do
better with the snowshoes."
"Neither snowshoes nor skates to-day," said Peter. "We can't travel
till this storm blows over. Nothing for it but to build a camp and sit
tight."
After groping about for some time they found the toboggan, unstrapped
the snowshoes, and used them as shovels to clear away a circular place.
In doing so they came upon the black brands of last night's fire, with
the camp kettle upon them where they had left it. Fred ploughed
through the snow and collected wood for a fresh fire, while Peter and
Maurice set up stakes and poles and built a roof of hemlock branches to
afford shelter from the storm. It was only a rude shed with one side
open to face the fire, but it kept off the snow and wind and proved
fairly comfortable. Fred had coffee made by this time, and it did not
take long to fry a pan of bacon. They seated themselves on a heap of
boughs at the edge of the shelter and ate and drank. They all were
stiff and sore, but the hot food and coffee made a decided improvement.
"What surprises me," remarked Maurice, "is that we didn't freeze last
night, sleeping under the snow. But I never felt warmer in bed."
"It was the snow that did it. Snow makes a splendid nonconductor of
heat," replied Macgregor. "Better than blankets. I remember hearing
of a man who was caught by a blizzard crossing a big barren up north
with a train of dogs. The dogs wouldn't face the storm; he lost his
directions; and finally he turned the sledge over and got under it with
the dogs around him, and let it snow. He stayed there a day and a
half, asleep most of the time, and wouldn't have known when the storm
was over, only that a pack of timber wolves smelt him and tried to dig
him out. They ran when they found out what was there, but he bagged
two of them with his rifle."
"I don't believe even timber wolves would have wakened me this morning.
I never was so stiff and used up in my life," Maurice commented on this
tale of adventure.
"Yes, we need the rest," said Mac. "We overdid it yesterday, and we
couldn't have gone far to-day in any case."
"But meanwhile that man at the cabin may be dying," exclaimed Fred.
"If he's dead it can't be helped," responded the Scotchman. "We're
doing all that's humanly possible. But if he's alive, don't forget
that he can't get away while this storm lasts, any more than we can."
"Well, it looks as if the storm would last all day," said Fred, gazing
upwards.
The blizzard did last all that day, reaching its height toward the
middle of the afternoon, but it was not extremely cold, and the boys
were fairly comfortable. They lounged on the blankets in the shelter
of the camp, and recuperated from their fatigue, discussing their
chances of still reaching the cabin in time to do any good. None of
them could guess accurately how far they had come in that terrible
night, but at the worst they could not think the cabin more than forty
miles farther. This distance would have to be traveled on snowshoes,
however, not skates, and none of the boys were very expert snowshoers.
It would be certainly more than one day's tramp.
Toward night the wind lessened, though it was still snowing fast. The
boys piled on logs enough to keep the fire smouldering all night in
spite of the snowflakes, and went to sleep under cover of the hemlock
roof. Maurice awoke toward the middle of the night, and noticed
drowsily that it had stopped snowing, and that a star or two was
visible overhead.
Next morning dawned sparkling clear and very cold, with not a breath of
wind. Everything was deep and fluffy with the fresh snow, and when the
sun came up the glare was almost blinding. It would be good weather
for snowshoe travel, and the boys all felt fit again for another hard
day.
After breakfast, therefore, they packed the supplies upon the toboggan,
unscrewed the steel runners, and put on the new snowshoes.
"We'd better stick to the river," Peter remarked. "It may make it a
little farther, but it gives us a clear road, and if we follow the
river we can't miss the cabin."
"No danger of going through air-holes in the ice?" queried Fred.
"Not much. An air-hole isn't generally big enough to let a snowshoe go
through. We'll pull you out if you do. Come along."
Off they went again. But they had not gone far before discovering that
travel was going to be less easy than they had thought. The snow was
light and the snowshoes sank deep. They moved in a cloud of puffing
white powder, and the heavy toboggan went down so that it was difficult
to draw it. Without the smooth, level road of the river they could
hardly have progressed at all.
They braced themselves to the work and plodded on, taking turns at
going first to break the road. The sun shone down in a white dazzle.
There was no heat in it, but the glare was so strong that they had to
pull their caps low over their eyes for fear of snow-blindness--the
most deadly enemy of the winter traveler in the North. During the
forenoon they thought they made hardly more than ten miles, and at noon
they halted, made a fire and boiled tea.
The hot drink and an hour's rest made them ready for the road again.
Twice that afternoon they had to make a long détour through the woods
to avoid unfrozen rapids, and once the brush was so dense that they had
to cut a way for the toboggan with the axe. Once, too, the ice
suddenly cracked under Fred's foot, and he flung himself forward just
in time to avoid the black water gushing up through the snowed-over
air-hole.
The life of the wilderness was beginning to emerge after the storm.
Along the shores they saw the tracks of mink. Once they encountered a
plunging trail across the river where several timber wolves must have
crossed the night before, and late in the afternoon Maurice shot a
couple of spruce grouse in a thicket. He flung them on the toboggan,
and they arrived at camp that night frozen into solid lumps.
It was plainly impossible to reach the cabin that day. Peter, who was
keenly on the lookout, failed to recognize any of the landmarks.
"We'd better camp early, boys," he said. "We can't make it to-day, and
there's no use in getting snowshoe cramp and being tied up for a week."
They kept on, however, till the sun was almost down. A faint but
piercing northwest breeze had arisen, and they halted in the lee of a
dense cedar thicket close to the river. A huge log had fallen down the
shore, and this would make an excellent backing for the fire during the
night.
Drawing up the toboggan, the boys took off their snowshoes and began to
shovel out a circular pit for the camp. The snow had drifted deep in
that spot. Before they came to the bottom the snow was heaped so high
that the pit was shoulder-deep. It was all the better for shelter, and
they cut cedar poles and roofed one side of it, producing a most cozy
and sheltered nook.
Fred continued to pull cedar twigs for bedding, while Peter and Maurice
unpacked the toboggan and lighted the fire against the big log. Now
that it was laid bare this log proved to be indeed a monster. It must
have been nearly three feet in diameter, and was probably hollow, but
would keep the fire smouldering indefinitely. Fred plucked the frozen
grouse with some difficulty, cut them up and put them into the kettle
to thaw out and stew.
This consumed some time, and it was rather late when supper was ready.
A bitterly cold night was setting in. The icy breeze whined through
the trees, but the sheltered pit of the camp was a warm and cozy place,
casting its firelight high into the branches overhead.
Snowshoe cramp had attacked none of the boys, but the unaccustomed
muscles were growing stiff and sore. By Macgregor's advice they all
took off moccasins and stockings and massaged their calves and ankles
thoroughly, afterwards roasting them well before the fire. One side of
the big log was a glowing red ember now, and they piled fresh wood
beside it, laid the rifles ready, and crept into their sleeping-bags
under the shelter.
Fred did not know how long he had slept when he was awakened by a sort
of nervous shock. He raised his head and glanced about. All was still
in the camp. His companions lay motionless in their bags. The fire
had burned low, and the air of the zero night cut his face like a
knife. He could not imagine what had awakened him, but he felt that he
ought to get up and replenish the fire and he was trying to make up his
mind to crawl out of his warm nest when he was startled by a sort of
dull, jarring rumble.
It seemed to come from the fire itself. Fred uttered a scared cry that
woke both the other boys instantly.
"What's the matter? What is it?" they both exclaimed.
Before Fred could answer, there was a sort of upheaval. The fire was
dashed aside. Smoke and ashes flew in every direction, and they had a
cloudy glimpse of something charging out through the smoke--something
huge and black and lightning quick.
"Jump! Run!" yelled Peter, scrambling to get out of his sleeping-bag.
At the shout and scramble the animal wheeled like a flash and plunged
at the side of the pit, trying to reach the top with a single leap. It
fell short, and came down in a cloud of snow.
Fred had got clear from the encumbering bag by this time, and
floundered out of the pit without knowing exactly how he did it. He
found Maurice close behind him. Peter missed his footing and tumbled
back with a horrified yell, and Maurice seized him by the leg as he
went down and dragged him back bodily.
Before they recovered from their panic they bolted several yards away,
plunging knee-deep in the drifts, and then Peter stopped.
"Hold on!" he exclaimed. "It isn't after us!"
"But what was it?" stammered Maurice, out of breath.
Looking back, they could see nothing but the faint glow from the
scattered brands. But they could not overlook the whole interior of
the camp, where the intruder must be now lying quiet.
Trying to collect himself, Fred told how he had been awakened.
"It came straight out of the fire!" he declared.
"Out of the log, I guess," said Peter. "Here, I know what it must be.
It's simply a bear!"
"A bear!" ejaculated Fred.
"Yes, a bear, that must have had his winter den in that big log. He
was hibernating there, and our fire burned into his den and roused him
out. That's all."
"Quite enough, I should think," said Maurice. "Bears are ugly-tempered
when they're disturbed from their winter dens, I've heard. He's got
possession of our camp, now. What'll we do?"
"We'll freeze if we don't do something pretty quick," Fred added.
In fact the boys were standing in stockinged feet in the snow, and the
night was bitterly cold. All looked quiet in what they could see of
the camp.
"I don't see why one of us hadn't the wit to grab a gun!" said Peter
bitterly.
He turned and began to wade back cautiously toward the camp. The other
boys followed him, till they were close enough to look into the pit.
No animal was in sight.
"Perhaps he's bolted out the other side," muttered Peter. "Who's going
to go down there and find out?"
Nobody volunteered. If the bear was still in the camp he must be under
the roofed-over shelter, and, in fact, as they stood shivering and
listening they heard a sound of stirring about under the cedar poles of
the roof.
"He's there!" exclaimed Fred.
"And eating up our stores, as like as not!" cried Maurice.
This made the case considerably more serious.
"We must get him out of that!" Macgregor exclaimed.
How to do it was the difficulty, and, still more, how to do it with
safety. Both the rifles were still lying loaded under the shelter,
probably under the very feet of the bear.
"Well, we've got to take a chance!" declared Macgregor at last. "Talk
about cold feet! We'll certainly have them frozen if we stand here
much longer. Scatter out, boys, all around the camp. Then we'll
snowball the brute out. Likely he's too scared to want to fight.
Anyhow, if he jumps out on one side, the man on the opposite side must
jump into the camp and grab a rifle."
It looked risky, to provoke a charge from the animal in that deep snow,
where they could hardly move, but they waded around the camp till they
stood at equal distances apart, surrounding the hollowed space.
"Now let him have it!" cried Peter.
Immediately they began to throw snowballs into the camp, aiming at that
dark hole under the cedar roof where the animal was hidden. But the
snow was too dry to pack into lumps, and the light masses they flung
produced no effect. Peter broke off branches from a dead tree and
threw them into the shelter, without causing the bear to come out.
Finally Fred, who happened to be standing beside a birch tree, peeled
off a great strip of bark and lighted it with a match.
"Hold on! Don't throw that!" yelled Peter.
He was too late. Fred had already cast the flaming mass into the camp,
too close to the piles of cedar twigs. The resinous leaves caught and
flashed up. There was a glare of smoky flame--a wild scramble and
scurry under the shelter, and the bear burst out, and plunged at the
snowy sides of the pit on the side opposite Fred's position.
He fell back as he had done before, but floundered up with a second
leap. Maurice, who was nearest, gave a shrill yell and tried to dash
aside, but he stumbled and went head-long in the deep snow.
Fred instantly leaped into the camp. The shelter was full of smoke and
light flame, but he knew where the rifles lay, and snatched one.
Straightening up, he was just in time to see the bear vanishing with
long leaps into the darkness, ploughing up clouds of snow.
He fired one shot wildly, then another, but there was no sign of the
animal's being stopped, and the next instant it was out of sight.
"Quick! Stamp out this fire!" exclaimed Peter at his shoulder.
They tore down the flaming branches and beat them out in the snow. The
light flame was easily put out, but it left the camp a chaos of
blackened twigs and ashes.
"Well, we turned him out," said Maurice, who had hastened in to help.
"Did you hit him, do you think?"
"I wish I'd killed him!" said Fred. "He's ruined our camp. But I
don't believe I touched him. He was going too fast."
Peter had raked the camp-fire together and thrown on fresh wood. A
bright blaze sprang up, and by its light they took off their stockings
and looked for the dead white of frozen toes. But it was only Maurice
who had suffered the least frost-bite, and this yielded to a little
snow-rubbing. The heavy woolen stockings, and perhaps the depth of the
snow itself had protected the rest of them.
Putting on his moccasins Fred then went to look for results from his
shots, but came back reporting not a drop of blood on the snow. The
bullets had missed cleanly, and the animal was probably miles away by
that time.
"What do you suppose he'll do for the rest of the winter?" Maurice
asked.
"Oh, he'll find some hole to crawl into, or perhaps he'll just creep
under a log and let the snow bury him," said Peter. "He'll have to
look a long time to find another snug nest like this one, though."
The big log was hollow, as they had thought, and the fire had burned
well into the cavity. They could see the nest where the bear had lain,
soft with rotted wood and strewn with black hairs. It seemed a pity to
have turned him out of so cozy a sleeping-place.
The boys' own sleeping-place was in a complete state of wreck. The
cedar roofing had fallen in, and everything was littered with snow and
burned brush. The fire had been too light and too quickly extinguished
to do any damage to the stores, however, and they were relieved to find
that the bear had eaten none of the bacon or bread. Probably the
animal had been merely cowering there for shelter, afraid to come out.
They did not attempt to rebuild the shelter roof, but cleared away the
snow and ashes, and sat in their sleeping-bags by the fire. After all
the excitement none of them felt like sleeping. They were hungry,
though, and finally they boiled tea and cooked a pan of bacon and dried
eggs. Even after this they lay talking for a long time, and it was
between midnight and dawn when they finally fell asleep.
This was the reason why it was long after sunrise when they awoke,
feeling rather as if they had had a bad night. It was another clear,
bright day, though still very cold, and they felt it imperative that
they should reach the cabin before nightfall.
That forenoon they made all the speed they could, halted for only a
brief rest at noon, and pushed on energetically through the afternoon.
The cabin could not be far, unless Macgregor had mistaken the way.
Look as he would, he could not make out any landmarks that he could
remember; but he had been through only by canoe in the summer, and the
woods have a very different appearance in the winter.
As the afternoon wore on they began to grow anxious. At every turning
they looked eagerly ahead, but they saw nothing except the unbroken
forest. It was nearly sunset when Maurice suddenly pointed forward
with a shout of excitement.
They had just rounded a bend of the river. A hundred yards away,
nestling in a hemlock thicket, stood a squat log hut. But no trail led
to its door, no smoke rose from its chimney, the snow had drifted
almost to its eaves, and it looked gloomy and desolate as the darkening
wilderness itself.