At this crushing news, Fred left his post and went back with Maurice,
who explained what had happened.
They had found a good camping-ground, where wood was abundant, and had
tried to light a fire. But the remaining matches proved to have been
badly dampened; the heads were pasty or entirely soaked off. One by
one they fizzled and went out. As a last hope, Maurice had hurried
back to their night camp for fire, only to find that the wet log had
smouldered down and gone dead out.
The spot was about two thirds of a mile away, south from the river. A
great windrow of hemlocks and jack-pines had fallen together, and
afforded plenty of wood. On one of the logs sat Macgregor, with his
elbows on his knees, and his chin in his hands, the picture of despair;
and at his feet was a litter of bark and kindling, and a dozen burnt
matches.
They all sat down together in silence, and nobody found a word of
comfort.
It was a brilliantly clear day, but the temperature had certainly not
risen to zero, and a slight, cutting wind blew from the west. The sun
shone in an icy blue sky, but there was no heat in its rays.
"If we only had a cartridge," said Fred, "we might make a fire with the
gun flash."
They all made another vain search of their pockets, in the faint hope
of finding a cartridge or an overlooked match head.
"If we don't find some way to make a fire before sunset," said
Macgregor gloomily, "we'll have to attack the cabin to-night. I really
don't believe we could live through a night without fire, with nothing
to eat, especially as we had no sleep last night."
"Surely if we went up to the cabin, they'd give us some fire," Maurice
protested. "They wouldn't let us die in the snow."
"That's just what they count on us to do," said the Scotchman bitterly.
No one said anything about renewing the guard on the cabin. Nothing
seemed to matter much--nothing except the cold. The morsels of
half-raw food they had eaten that morning did not keep them from being
ravenously hungry again, and an empty stomach is poor protection
against Arctic cold.
Like the rest of them, Fred was heavily clad, but the cold seemed to
find his skin as if he were naked. He began to feel numb to the bone,
lethargic, incapable of moving. Then he realized his danger, forced
himself awake, and tried to think of some expedient for making a fire.
Flints could not be found under three feet of snow. A
burning-glass--if they only had one! It should have been included in
the outfit.
And then an idea flashed upon him. He jumped up suddenly.
"Wait here for me, fellows!" he cried.
He rushed off toward the river, and came back in a few minutes with a
piece of clear ice, almost as large as his palm, and an inch or two
thick. He slipped off his mittens, and began to rub it between his
hands, so as to melt it down with the heat of his skin.
"See what it is? Burning-glass!" he exclaimed.
"But you can't make a burning-glass of _ice_!" said Maurice.
"Why not? Anyhow, I'm going to try."
But before he had worked the ice long, he had to stop, for his hands
seemed freezing. While he beat and rubbed them, Maurice, incredulous
but willing, took the lump of ice, and shaped it down while the heat
lasted in his hands. He then passed it on to Macgregor, who in turn
handed it to Fred again. He finally succeeded in melting and curving
it roughly into the proper shape.
He tried it on the back of his hand. An irregular but small and
intensely hot spot of light concentrated itself there.
"I do believe it will work!" Peter cried.
They hastily collected a handful of fine, dry hair moss from the fir
branches, and peeled filmy shreds of birch bark. Fred brought the
"glass" to bear on the little heap. His numbed hands trembled so that
he could hardly hold it still. For some time there was no result.
Then a thin thread of smoke began to arise. The boys held their
breath. The hair moss suddenly sparkled and flamed. A shred of bark
caught. Peter interposed a large roll. It flared up.
"Hurrah! We've got it!" cried Macgregor. "Fred, you've saved our
lives, I do believe."
They piled on twigs, branches, and heavy lumps of wood, and soon had a
brisk fire going. Better still, they were now assured of having always
the means of making one--at least, whenever the sun shone.
The magical influence of the fire gave back to them a little of their
cheerfulness. They warmed themselves thoroughly, and then started to
have another look at the outlaws, and to see whether they could find
any small game. For now that they no longer suffered from the cold,
their stomachs cried loudly for food.
Leaving the empty rifles by the fire, they armed themselves with clubs
and poles for hunting, and had good hopes of being able to knock over a
partridge or a hare. But the grouse seemed to have turned wild. They
saw only two at a great distance. No hares showed themselves, nor
could they find any trace of porcupines on the trees.
Skulking within sight of the cabin, they perceived one of the Frenchmen
carrying in logs of wood for the fire--some of those that Fred himself
had cut. Mitchell stood by, smoking his pipe, with a rifle under his
arm. Fred fancied he could smell frying venison as the door was opened.
Plainly the outlaws were on the alert still. The boys crouched, unseen
and unheard, among the hemlocks; but if they had been armed, they could
easily have picked off the two men at the door. And they had come to
such a state of rage and desperation that they would very likely have
done it.
They found no comfort in the fact that the robbers showed no
inclination to leave the place. The boys were perplexed at their
staying, but probably the men had no reason to hurry, and, finding
themselves comfortably placed, had decided to remain where they were
while the extreme cold snap lasted.
In spite of the cold, the boys remained on watch for some time after
the men had gone indoors. Suddenly Peter laid his hand on Fred's
shoulder, and nodded backward.
A deer had come out of the thickets within thirty yards of where they
lay,--a fine, fat buck,--and stood looking uneasily, sniffing, and
cocking its ears in their direction. Then, without showing any
particular alarm, it walked on, and passing within twenty yards of
them, disappeared again.
They had to let it go; it was perhaps the cruelest moment they had
lived through.
Deer might be out of the question, but if they were to keep alive, it
was absolutely necessary that they should find something, and they
separated in order to look for small game.
In the course of an hour or two they all straggled back to the camp
fire, half frozen and empty-handed. Macgregor indeed had seen a
partridge, but his muscles had been so benumbed that he missed his
throw.
After warming themselves, they made another expedition--all but
Maurice, who had neuralgic pains in his face, and who remained by the
fire. But again Peter and Fred came back without game.
The sun had set by this time, and it was hopeless to try again. A
hungry night was inevitable, but they tried so to arrange matters that
at any rate they would be warm. They gathered all the wood that they
could break off or lift. Then with their snowshoes they dug down to
the ground, heaping the snow up in a rampart behind them, and piled in
balsam twigs, and trusted that in this pit they would be able to sleep.
It grew dark rapidly, and the wind rose. The fire, flaring and
smoking, drove smoke and sparks into their faces until their eyes
streamed. It made the leeward side of the fire almost unbearable,
whereas the windward side was freezingly cold.
The temperature was perhaps not quite so low as the night before, but
the gale made it far more disagreeable. Regardless of smoke and
sparks, they had to sit as near the fire as they dared, or risk
freezing. Sleep was impossible.
All three of them were faint and sick with starvation, but the plight
of Maurice was the most wretched. His neuralgia had grown agonizing;
his face was badly swollen, and he sat with his head buried in his
arms, and his inflamed cheek turned to the heat.
Much as they sympathized with him, they could do nothing to relieve
him, except to try to keep up the fire. This task caused them endless
trouble. The high wind made it burn furiously fast, and the small
branches they had gathered were licked up like magic. They had thought
there was enough fuel for the night, but soon after midnight Fred and
Peter were foraging about in the deep snow and the storm for a fresh
supply.
Toward morning their endurance broke down. They piled on all the rest
of the wood, and went to sleep huddled up by the fire, reckless whether
they froze or not.
Fred was awakened from a painful and uneasy slumber by Peter's shaking
his arm.
"Your ears are frozen," the Scotchman was saying. "Rub them with snow
at once."
While asleep, Fred had fallen back beyond the range of heat. It was
broad daylight, and snowing fast. The fire was low. All of them were
covered with white, and Maurice was still asleep, sitting up, with his
head fallen forward on his knees.
Never in his life did Fred feel so unwilling to move. He did not feel
cold; he hardly felt anything. All he wanted was to stay as he was and
be let alone.
But Macgregor insisted on rousing him, dragged him up, protesting, and
rubbed snow on his ears. Fred was very angry, but the scuffle set his
blood moving again. His ears were not badly frozen, but the skin came
off as he rubbed them. They bled, and the blood froze on as it ran,
and made him a rather ghastly spectacle.
[Illustration: DRAGGED HIM UP, PROTESTING, AND RUBBED SNOW ON HIS EARS]
Maurice was awakened by the disturbance, and sat up stiffly. He
declared that his neuralgia was much better.
They built up the fire again, and sat beside it, shivering. Fred felt
utterly incapable either of action or of thought, and even his hunger
had grown numbed. Maurice obviously felt no better, and Macgregor, who
seemed to retain a little energy, looked at them both with a face of
the gravest concern. Presently he rose, put on his snowshoes, took a
long pole, and started away with an air of determination.
Maurice and Fred remained sitting by the fire in a sort of lethargy,
and exchanged hardly a word. Macgregor was gone almost an hour; then
he came back at a run, covered with snow, and carrying a dead hare. He
skinned the animal, cleaned it, cut it into pieces, and set it to
roast. At the odor of the roasting meat, the boys' appetites revived,
and they began to take the fragments from the spits before they were
half cooked. The scorched, unsalted meat was even more tasteless and
nauseating than that of the grouse, but they all bolted it voraciously,
and washed it down by eating snow.
Almost immediately afterward they were taken with distressing cramps
and vomiting, which left both Maurice and Fred in a state of weak
collapse. Macgregor suffered least, perhaps because he had eaten less
incautiously. He alone bore the burden of the rest of that day. He
brought wood, kept the fire up, and propped Fred and Maurice up on
piles of hemlock branches. There were some small pieces of the hare
remaining, and he finally made the boys chew them, and swallow the
juice. It seemed to do them good; at any rate, the nausea did not
return. Then the Scotchman spoke.
"Look here," he said, "we've got to do it this very night--get back
into the cabin, I mean. We've gone almost too far now, and by another
day we'll be too weak to move."
"But how'll we do it, Peter?" asked Fred weakly.
"There's only one way. We'll wait till after midnight, when they'll be
asleep, and then burst in the door, aim our rifles at them, and get
hold of their guns before they can recover their wits."
"They'll have the door barricaded. We'll be shot down before we can
break in."
"I know it's a long chance, but we're living by a succession of
miracles as it is. It can't last, and I'd as soon be shot as frozen to
death. I'm most afraid of the dogs. They'll make an awful uproar, and
probably spring at us as soon as we get in."
As far as Fred was concerned, he felt ready for the attempt, or rather,
perhaps, that it made no difference what he did. Maurice also
assented, but their force seemed a pitifully small one with which to
oppose four able-bodied, well-armed men.
It was then late in the afternoon. Peter began to work energetically
at gathering wood enough to last until they should try their desperate
chance, and Fred and Maurice tried to help him. It had stopped snowing
and had cleared. The night promised to be intensely cold.
Suddenly, faint and far, but very distinct, the sound of a rifle-shot
resounded through the trees. They listened, and looked at one another.
"One of those ruffians has gone hunting," Maurice remarked.
"So he has," said Peter. "And see here," he added, with a suddenly
brightening face, "this gives us a chance. Let's ambush that fellow as
he comes in. We'll knock him down and stun him. That'll make one less
against us, and we'll have his rifle and cartridges. Perhaps he'll
have something to eat on him. Boys, it doubles our chances."
The plan did look promising. At any rate, it would, if successful,
give them a firearm. The shot must have been fired fully a mile away;
but they put on their snowshoes at once, and hastened in the direction
of the cabin.
The light was failing fast as they stopped about two hundred yards 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.