Henry Ware, lingering at the edge of the clearing, his body hidden
behind one of the great tree trunks, had been watching the scene with
a fascinated interest that would not let him go. He knew that his work
there was done already. Everything would be utterly destroyed by the
flames which, driven by the wind, leaped from one half-ruined building
to another. Braxton Wyatt and his band would have enough to do
sheltering themselves from the fierce winter, and the settlements could
rest for a while at least. Undeniably he felt exultation as he witnessed
the destructive work of his hand. The border, with its constant struggle
for-life and terrible deeds, bred fierce passions.
In truth, although he did not know it himself, he stayed there to please
his eye and heart. A new pulse beat triumphantly every time a timber,
burned through, fell in, or a crash came from a falling roof. He laughed
inwardly as the flames disclosed the dismay on the faces of the Iroquois
and Tories, and it gave him deep satisfaction to see Braxton Wyatt, his
gaudy little sword at his thigh, stalking about helpless. It was while
he was looking, absorbed in such feelings, that the warrior of the alert
eye saw him and gave the warning shout.
Henry turned in an instant, and darted away among the trees, half
running, half sliding over the smooth, icy covering of the snow.
After him came warriors and some Tories who had put on their snowshoes
preparatory to the search through the forest for shelter. Several
bullets were fired, but he was too far away for a good aim. He heard one
go zip against a tree, and another cut the surface of the ice near him,
but none touched him, and he sped easily on his snowshoes through the
frozen forest. But Henry was fully aware of one thing that constituted
his greatest danger. Many of these Iroquois had been trained all
their lives to snowshoes, while he, however powerful and agile, was
comparatively a beginner. He glanced back again and saw their dusky
figures running among the trees, but they did not seem to be gaining. If
one should draw too near, there was his rifle, and no man, white or red,
in the northern or southern forests, could use it better. But for the
present it was not needed. He pressed it closely, almost lovingly, to
his side, this best friend of the scout and frontiersman.
He had chosen his course at the first leap. It was southward, toward
the lake, and he did not make the mistake of diverging from his line,
knowing that some part of the wide half circle of his pursuers would
profit by it.
Henry felt a great upward surge. He had been the victor in what he
meant to achieve, and he was sure that he would escape. The cold wind,
whistling by, whipped his blood and added new strength to his great
muscles. His ankles were not chafed or sore, and he sped forward on the
snowshoes, straight and true. Whenever he came to a hill the pursuers
would gain as he went up it, but when he went down the other side it
was he who gained. He passed brooks, creeks, and once a small river,
but they were frozen over, many inches deep, and he did not notice them.
Again it was a lake a mile wide, but the smooth surface there merely
increased his speed. Always he kept a wary look ahead for thickets
through which he could not pass easily, and once he sent back a shout of
defiance, which the Iroquois answered with a yell of anger.
He was fully aware that any accident to his snowshoes would prove fatal,
the slipping of the thongs on his ankles or the breaking of a runner
would end his flight, and in a long chase such an accident might happen.
It might happen, too, to one or more of the Iroquois, but plenty of them
would be left. Yet Henry had supreme confidence in his snowshoes. He had
made them himself, he had seen that every part was good, and every thong
had been fastened with care.
The wind which bad been roaring so loudly at the time of the fire sank
to nothing. The leafless trees stood up, the branches unmoving. The
forest was bare and deserted. All the animals, big and little, had gone
into their lairs. Nobody witnessed the great pursuit save pursuers and
pursued. Henry kept his direction clear in his mind, and allowed the
Iroquois to take no advantage of a curve save once. Then he came to a
thicket so large that he was compelled to make a considerable circle to
pass it. He turned to the right, hence the Indians on the right gained,
and they sent up a yell of delight. He replied defiantly and increased
his speed.
But one of the Indians, a flying Mohawk, had come dangerously near-near
enough, in fact, to fire a bullet that did not miss the fugitive much.
It aroused Henry's anger. He took it as an indignity rather than a
danger, and he resolved to avenge it. So far as firing was concerned, he
was at a disadvantage. He must stop and turn around for his shot, while
the Iroquois, without even checking speed, could fire straight at the
flying target, ahead.
Nevertheless, he took the chance. He turned deftly on the snowshoes,
fired as quick as lightning at the swift Mohawk, saw him fall, then
Whirled and resumed his flight. He had lost ground, but he had inspired
respect. A single man could not afford to come too near to a marksman so
deadly, and the three or four who led dropped back with the main body.
Now Henry made his greatest effort. He wished to leave the foe far
behind, to shake off his pursuit entirely. He bounded over the ice
and snow with great leaps, and began to gain. Yet he felt at last the
effects of so strenuous a flight. His breath became shorter; despite
the intense cold, perspiration stood upon his face, and the straps that
fastened the snowshoes were chafing his ankles. An end must come even to
such strength as his. Another backward look, and he saw that the foe was
sinking into the darkness. If he could only increase his speed again, he
might leave the Iroquois now. He made a new call upon the will, and
the body responded. For a few minutes his speed became greater. A
disappointed shout arose behind him, and several shots were fired. But
the bullets fell a hundred yards short, and then, as he passed over a
little hill and into a wood beyond, he was hidden from the sight of his
pursuers.
Henry knew that the Iroquois could trail him over the snow, but they
could not do it at full speed, and he turned sharply off at an angle.
Pausing a second or two for fresh breath, he continued on his new
course, although not so fast as before. He knew that the Iroquois would
rush straight ahead, and would not discover for two or three minutes
that they were off the trail. It would take them another two or three
minutes to recover, and he would make a gain of at least five minutes.
Five minutes had saved the life of many a man on the border.
How precious those five minutes were! He would take them all. He ran
forward some distance, stopped where the trees grew thick, and then
enjoyed the golden five, minute by minute. He had felt that he
was pumping the very lifeblood from his heart. His breath had come
painfully, and the thongs of the snowshoes were chafing his ankles
terribly. But those minutes were worth a year. Fresh air poured into his
lungs, and the muscles became elastic once more. In so brief a space he
had recreated himself.
Resuming his flight, he went at a steady pace, resolved not to do his
utmost unless the enemy came in sight. About ten minutes later he heard
a cry far behind him, and he believed it to be a signal from some Indian
to the others that the trail was found again. But with so much advantage
he felt sure that he was now quite safe. He ran, although at decreased
speed, for about two hours more, and then he sat down on the upthrust
root of a great oak. Here he depended most upon his ears. The forest was
so silent that he could hear any noise at a great distance, but there
was none. Trusting to his ears to warn him, he would remain there a long
time for a thorough rest. He even dared to take off his snowshoes that
he might rub his sore ankles, but he wrapped his heavy blanket about his
body, lest he take deep cold in cooling off in such a temperature after
so long a flight.
He sat enjoying a half hour, golden like the five minutes, and then he
saw, outlined against the bright, moonlit sky, something that told him
he must be on the alert again. It was a single ring of smoke, like that
from a cigar, only far greater. It rose steadily, untroubled by wind
until it was dissipated. It meant “attention!” and presently it was
followed by a column of such rings, one following another beautifully.
The column said: “The foe is near.” Henry read the Indian signs
perfectly. The rings were made by covering a little fire with a blanket
for a moment and then allowing the smoke to ascend. On clear days such
signals could be seen a distance of thirty miles or more, and he knew
that they were full of significance.
Evidently the Iroquois party had divided into two or more bands. One had
found his trail, and was signaling to the other. The party sending up
the smoke might be a half mile away, but the others, although his trail
was yet hidden from them, might be nearer. It was again time for flight.
He swiftly put on the snowshoes, neglecting no thong or lace, folded the
blanket on his back again, and, leaving the friendly root, started
once more. He ran forward at moderate speed for perhaps a mile, when he
suddenly heard triumphant yells on both right and left. A strong party
of Iroquois were coming up on either side, and luck had enabled them to
catch him in a trap.
They were so near that they fired upon him, and one bullet nicked his
glove, but he was hopeful that after his long rest he might again stave
them off. He sent back no defiant cry, but, settling into determined
silence, ran at his utmost speed. The forest here was of large trees,
with no undergrowth, and he noticed that the two parties did not join,
but kept on as they had come, one on the right and the other on the
left. This fact must have some significance, but he could not fathom
it. Neither could he guess whether the Indians were fresh or tired, but
apparently they made no effort to come within range of his rifle.
Presently he made a fresh spurt of speed, the forest opened out, and
then both bands uttered a yell full of ferocity and joy, the kind that
savages utter only when they see their triumph complete.
Before, and far below Henry, stretched a vast, white expanse. He had
come to the lake, but at a point where the cliff rose high like a
mountain, and steep like a wall. The surface of the lake was so far down
that it was misty white like a cloud. Now he understood the policy of
the Indian bands in not uniting. They knew that they would soon reach
the lofty cliffs of the lake, and if he turned to either right or left
there was a band ready to seize him.
Henry's heart leaped up and then sank lower than ever before in his
life. It seemed that he could not escape from so complete a trap, and
Braxton Wyatt was not one who would spare a prisoner. That was perhaps
the bitterest thing of all, to be taken and tortured by Braxton Wyatt.
He was there. He could hear his voice in one of the bands, and then the
courage that never failed him burst into fire again.
The Iroquois were coming toward him, shutting him out from retreat
to either right or left, but not yet closing in because of his deadly
rifle. He gave them a single look, put forth his voice in one great cry
of defiance, and, rushing toward the edge of the mighty cliff, sprang
boldly over.
As Henry plunged downward he heard behind him a shout of amazement and
chagrin poured forth from many Iroquois throats, and, taking a single
glance backward, he caught a glimpse of dusky faces stamped with awe.
But the bold youth had not made a leap to destruction. In the passage
of a second he had calculated rapidly and well. While the cliff at
first glance seemed perpendicular, it could not be so. There was a slope
coated with two feet of snow, and swinging far back on the heels of
his snowshoes, he shot downward like one taking a tremendous slide on
a toboggan. Faster and faster he went, but deeper and deeper he dug his
shoes into the snow, until he lay back almost flat against its surface.
This checked his speed somewhat, but it was still very great, and,
preserving his self-control perfectly, he prayed aloud to kindly
Providence to save him from some great boulder or abrupt drop.
The snow from his runners flew in a continuous shower behind him as he
descended. Yet he drew himself compactly together, and held his rifle
parallel with his body. Once or twice, as he went over a little ridge,
he shot clear of the snow, but he held his body rigid, and the snow
beyond saved him from a severe bruise. Then his speed was increased
again, and all the time the white surface of the lake below, seen dimly
through the night and his flight, seemed miles away.
He might never reach that surface alive, but of one thing lie was sure.
None of the Iroquois or Tories had dared to follow. Braxton Wyatt could
have no triumph over him. He was alone in his great flight. Once a
projection caused him to turn a little to one side. He was in momentary
danger of turning entirely, and then of rolling head over heels like
a huge snowball, but with a mighty effort he righted himself, and
continued the descent on the runners, with the heels plowing into the
ice and the snow.
Now that white expanse which had seemed so far away came miles nearer.
Presently he would be there. The impossible had become possible, the
unattainable was about to be attained. He gave another mighty dig with
his shoes, the last reach of the slope passed behind him, and he shot
out on the frozen surface of the lake, bruised and breathless, but
without a single broken bone.
The lake was covered with ice a foot thick, and over this lay frozen
snow, which stopped Henry forty or fifty yards from the cliff. There he
lost his balance at last, and fell on his side, where he lay for a few
moments, weak, panting, but triumphant.
When he stood upright again he felt his body, but he had suffered
nothing save some bruises, that would heal in their own good time. His
deerskin clothing was much torn, particularly on the back, where he had
leaned upon the ice and snow, but the folded blanket had saved him to a
considerable extent. One of his shoes was pulled loose, and presently he
discovered that his left ankle was smarting and burning at a great rate.
But he did not mind these things at all, so complete was his sense of
victory. He looked up at the mighty white wall that stretched above him
fifteen hundred feet, and he wondered at his own tremendous exploit.
The wall ran away for miles, and the Iroquois could not reach him by any
easier path. He tried to make out figures on the brink looking down at
him, but it was too far away, and he saw only a black line.
He tightened the loose shoe and struck out across the lake. He was far
away from “The Alcove,” and he did not intend to go there, lest the
Iroquois, by chance, come upon his trail and follow it to the refuge.
But as it was no more than two miles across the lake at that point, and
the Iroquois would have to make a great curve to reach the other side,
he felt perfectly safe. He walked slowly across, conscious all the
time of an increasing pain in his left ankle, which must now be badly
swollen, and he did not stop until he penetrated some distance among low
bills. Here, under an overhanging cliff with thick bushes in front, he
found a partial shelter, which he cleared out yet further. Then with
infinite patience he built a fire with splinters that he cut from dead
boughs, hung his blanket in front of it on two sticks that the flame
might not be seen, took off his snowshoes, leggins, and socks, and bared
his ankles. Both were swollen, but the left much more badly than the
other. He doubted whether he would be able to walk on the following day,
but he rubbed them a long time, both with the palms of his hands and
with snow, until they felt better. Then he replaced his clothing, leaned
back against the faithful snowshoes which had saved his life, however
much they had hurt his ankles, and gave himself up to the warmth of the
fire.
It was very luxurious, this warmth and this rest, after so long and
terrible a flight, and he was conscious of a great relaxation, one
which, if he yielded to it completely, would make his muscles so stiff
and painful that he could not use them. Hence he stretched his arms and
legs many times, rubbed his ankles again, and then, remembering that he
had venison, ate several strips.
He knew that he had taken a little risk with the fire, but a fire he was
bound to have, and he fed it again until he had a great mass of glowing
coals, although there was no blaze. Then he took down the blanket,
wrapped himself in it, and was soon asleep before the fire. He slept
long and deeply, and although, when he awoke, the day had fully come,
the coals were not yet out entirely. He arose, but such a violent pain
from his left ankle shot through him that he abruptly sat down again. As
he bad feared, it had swollen badly during the night, and he could not
walk.
In this emergency Henry displayed no petulance, no striving against
unchangeable circumstance. He drew up more wood, which he had stacked
against the cliff, and put it on the coals. He hung up the blanket once
more in order that it might hide the fire, stretched out his lame leg,
and calmly made a breakfast off the last of his venison. He knew he was
in a plight that might appall the bravest, but he kept himself in
hand. It was likely that the Iroquois thought him dead, crushed into a
shapeless mass by his frightful slide of fifteen hundred feet, and he
had little fear of them, but to be unable to walk and alone in an icy
wilderness without food was sufficient in itself. He calculated that
it was at least a dozen miles to “The Alcove,” and the chances were a
hundred to one against any of his comrades wandering his way. He looked
once more at his swollen left ankle, and he made a close calculation.
It would be three days, more likely four, before he could walk upon it.
Could he endure hunger that long? He could. He would! Crouched in his
nest with his back to the cliff, he had defense against any enemy in
his rifle and pistol. By faithful watching he might catch sight of some
wandering animal, a target for his rifle and then food for his stomach.
His wilderness wisdom warned him that there was nothing to do but sit
quiet and wait.
He scarcely moved for hours. As long as he was still his ankle troubled
him but little. The sun came out, silver bright, but it had no warmth.
The surface of the lake was shown only by the smoothness of its expanse;
the icy covering was the same everywhere over hills and valleys. Across
the lake he saw the steep down which he had slid, looming white and
lofty. In the distance it looked perpendicular, and, whatever its
terrors, it had, beyond a doubt, saved his life. He glanced down at his
swollen ankle, and, despite his helpless situation, he was thankful that
he had escaped so well.
About noon he moved enough to throw up the snowbanks higher all around
himself in the fashion of an Eskimos house. Then he let the fire die
except some coals that gave forth no smoke, stretched the blanket over
his head in the manner of a roof, and once more resumed his quiet and
stillness. He was now like a crippled animal in its lair, but he was
warm, and his wound did not hurt him. But hunger began to trouble him.
He was young and so powerful that his frame demanded much sustenance.
Now it cried aloud its need! He ate two or three handfuls of snow, and
for a few moments it seemed to help him a little, but his hunger soon
came back as strong as ever. Then he tightened his belt and sat in grim
silence, trying to forget that there was any such thing as food.
The effort of the will was almost a success throughout the afternoon,
but before night it failed. He began to have roseate visions of Long Jim
trying venison, wild duck, bear, and buffalo steaks over the coals. He
could sniff the aroma, so powerful had his imagination become, and,
in fancy, his month watered, while its roof was really dry. They were
daylight visions, and he knew it well, but they taunted him and made his
pain fiercer. He slid forward a little to the mouth of his shelter, and
thrust out his rifle in the hope that he would see some wild creature,
no matter what; he felt that he could shoot it at any distance, and then
he would feast!
He saw nothing living, either on earth or in the air, only motionless
white, and beyond, showing but faintly now through the coming twilight,
the lofty cliff that had saved him.
He drew back into his lair, and the darkness came down. Despite his
hunger, he slept fairly well. In the night a little snow fell at times,
but his blanket roof protected him, and he remained dry and warm. The
new snow was, in a way, a satisfaction, as it completely hid his trail
from the glance of any wandering Indian. He awoke the next morning to
a gray, somber day, with piercing winds from the northwest. He did not
feel the pangs of hunger until he had been awake about a half hour, and
then they came with redoubled force. Moreover, he had become weaker in
the night, and, added to the loss of muscular strength, was a decrease
in the power of the will. Hunger was eating away his mental as well as
his physical fiber. He did not face the situation with quite the same
confidence that he felt the day before. The wilderness looked a little
more threatening.
His lips felt as if he were suffering from fever, and his shoulders and
back were stiff. But he drew his belt tighter again, and then uncovered
his left ankle. The swelling had gone down a little, and he could move
it with more freedom than on the day before, but he could not yet walk.
Once more he made his grim calculation. In two days he could certainly
walk and hunt game or make a try for “The Alcove,” so far as his ankle
was concerned, but would hunger overpower him before that time? Gaining
strength in one direction, he was losing it in another.
Now he began to grow angry with himself. The light inroad that famine
made upon his will was telling. It seemed incredible that he, so
powerful, so skillful, so self reliant, so long used to the wilderness
and to every manner of hardship, should be held there in a snowbank by
a bruised ankle to die like a crippled rabbit. His comrades could not be
more than ten miles away. He could walk. He would walk! He stood upright
and stepped out into the snow, but pain, so agonizing that he could
scarcely keep from crying out, shot through his whole body, and he sank
back into the shelter, sure not to make such an experiment again for
another full day.
The day passed much like its predecessor, except that he took down the
blanket cover of his snow hut and kindled up his fire again, more for
the sake of cheerfulness than for warmth, because he was not suffering
from cold. There was a certain life and light about the coals and the
bright flame, but the relief did not last long, and by and by he let it
go out. Then be devoted himself to watching the heavens and the surface
of the snow. Some winter bird, duck or goose, might be flying by, or a
wandering deer might be passing. He must not lose any such chance. He
was more than ever a fierce creature of prey, sitting at the mouth of
his den, the rifle across his knee, his tanned face so thin that the
cheek bones showed high and sharp, his eyes bright with fever and the
fierce desire for prey, and the long, lean body drawn forward as if it
were about to leap.
He thought often of dragging himself down to the lake, breaking a hole
in the ice, and trying to fish, but the idea invariably came only to be
abandoned. He had neither hook nor bait. In the afternoon he chewed the
edge of his buckskin hunting shirt, but it was too thoroughly tanned
and dry. It gave back no sustenance. He abandoned the experiment and lay
still for a long time.
That night he had a slight touch of frenzy, and began to laugh at
himself. It was a huge joke! What would Timmendiquas or Thayendanegea
think of him if they knew how he came to his end? They would put him
with old squaws or little children. And how Braxton Wyatt and his
lieutenant, the squat Tory, would laugh! That was the bitterest thought
of all. But the frenzy passed, and he fell into a sleep which was only
a succession of bad dreams. He was running the gauntlet again among
the Shawnees. Again, kneeling to drink at the clear pool, he saw in the
water the shadow of the triumphant warrior holding the tomahawk above
him. One after another the most critical periods of his life were lived
over again, and then he sank into a deep torpor, from which he did not
rouse himself until far into the next day.
Henry was conscious that he was very weak, but he seemed to have
regained much of his lost will. He looked once more at the fatal left
ankle. It had improved greatly. He could even stand upon it, but when he
rose to his feet he felt a singular dizziness. Again, what he had gained
in one way he had lost in another. The earth wavered. The smooth surface
of the lake seemed to rise swiftly, and then to sink as swiftly. The far
slope down which he had shot rose to the height of miles. There was a
pale tinge, too, over the world. He sank down, not because of his ankle,
but because he was afraid his dizzy head would make him fall.
The power of will slipped away again for a minute or two. He was ashamed
of such extraordinary weakness. He looked at one of his hands. It was
thin, like the band of a man wasted with fever, and the blue veins stood
out on the back of it. He could scarcely believe that the hand was his
own. But after the first spasm of weakness was over, the precious will
returned. He could walk. Strength enough to permit him to hobble along
had returned to the ankle at last, and mind must control the rest of his
nervous system, however weakened it might be. He must seek food.
He withdrew into the farthest recess of his covert, wrapped the blanket
tightly about his body, and lay still for a long time. He was preparing
both mind and body for the supreme effort. He knew that everything hung
now on the surviving remnants of his skill and courage.
Weakened by shock and several days of fasting, he had no great reserve
now except the mental, and he used that to the utmost. It was proof of
his youthful greatness that it stood the last test. As he lay there,
the final ounce of will and courage came. Strength which was of the mind
rather than of the body flowed back into his veins; he felt able to dare
and to do; the pale aspect of the world went away, and once more he was
Henry Ware, alert, skillful, and always triumphant.
Then he rose again, folded the blanket, and fastened it on his
shoulders. He looked at the snowshoes, but decided that his left ankle,
despite its great improvement, would not stand the strain. He must
break his way through the snow, which was a full three feet in depth.
Fortunately the crust had softened somewhat in the last two or three
days, and he did not have a covering of ice to meet.
He pushed his way for the first time from the lair under the cliff, his
rifle held in his ready hands, in order that he might miss no chance at
game. To an ordinary observer there would have been no such chance at
all. It was merely a grim white wilderness that might have been without
anything living from the beginning. But Henry, the forest runner, knew
better. Somewhere in the snow were lairs much like the one that he had
left, and in these lairs were wild animals. To any such wild animal,
whether panther or bear, the hunter would now have been a fearsome
object, with his hollow cheeks, his sunken fiery eyes, and his thin lips
opening now and then, and disclosing the two rows of strong white teeth.
Henry advanced about a rod, and then he stopped, breathing hard, because
it was desperate work for one in his condition to break his way through
snow so deep. But his ankle stood the strain well, and his courage
increased rather than diminished. He was no longer a cripple confined
to one spot. While he stood resting, he noticed a clump of bushes about
half a rod to his left, and a hopeful idea came to him.
He broke his way slowly to the bushes, and then he searched carefully
among them. The snow was not nearly so thick there, and under the
thickest clump, where the shelter was best, he saw a small round
opening. In an instant all his old vigorous life, all the abounding hope
which was such a strong characteristic of his nature, came back to him.
Already he had triumphed over Indians, Tories, the mighty slope, snow,
ice, crippling, and starvation.
He laid the rifle on the snow and took the ramrod in his right hand. He
thrust his left hand into the hole, and when the rabbit leaped for life
from his warm nest a smart blow of the ramrod stretched him dead at the
feet of the hunter. Henry picked up the rabbit. It was large and yet
fat. Here was food for two meals. In the race between the ankle and
starvation, the ankle had won.
He did not give way to any unseemly elation. He even felt a momentary
sorrow that a life must perish to save his own, because all these wild
things were his kindred now. He returned by the path that he had broken,
kindled his fire anew, dexterously skinned and cleaned his rabbit,
then cooked it and ate half, although he ate slowly and with intervals
between each piece. How delicious it tasted, and how his physical being
longed to leap upon it and devour it, but the power of the mind was
still supreme. He knew what was good for himself, and he did it.
Everything was done in order and with sobriety. Then he put the rest of
the rabbit carefully in his food pouch, wrapped the blanket about his
body, leaned back, and stretched his feet to the coals.
What an extraordinary change had come over the world in an hour! He had
not noticed before the great beauty of the lake, the lofty cliffs on the
farther shore, and the forest clothed in white and hanging with icicles.
The winter sunshine was molten silver, pouring down in a flood.
It was not will now, but actuality, that made him feel the strength
returning to his frame. He knew that the blood in his veins had begun
to sparkle, and that his vitality was rising fast. He could have gone
to sleep peacefully, but instead he went forth and hunted again. He
knew that where the rabbit had been, others were likely to be near, and
before he returned he had secured two more. Both of these he cleaned and
cooked at once. When this was done night had come, but he ate again,
and then, securing all his treasures about him, fell into the best sleep
that he had enjoyed since his flight.
He felt very strong the next morning, and he might have started then,
but he was prudent. There was still a chance of meeting the Iroquois,
and the ankle might not stand so severe a test. He would rest in his
nest for another day, and then he would be equal to anything. Few could
lie a whole day in one place with but little to do and with nothing
passing before the eyes, but it was a part of Henry's wilderness
training, and he showed all the patience of the forester. He knew,
too, as the hours went by, that his strength was rising all the while.
To-morrow almost the last soreness would be gone from his ankle and
then he could glide swiftly over the snow, back to his comrades. He
was content. He had, in fact, a sense of great triumph because he had
overcome so much, and here was new food in this example for future
efforts of the mind, for future victories of the will over the body. The
wintry sun came to the zenith, then passed slowly down the curve, but
all the time the boy scarcely stirred. Once there was a flight of small
birds across the heavens, and he watched them vaguely, but apparently he
took no interest. Toward night he stood up in his recess and flexed and
tuned his muscles for a long time, driving out any stiffness that might
come through long lack of motion. Then he ate and lay down, but he did
not yet sleep.
The night was clear, and he looked away toward the point where he knew
“The Alcove” lay. A good moon was now shining, and stars by the score
were springing out. Suddenly at a point on that far shore a spark of red
light appeared and twinkled. Most persons would have taken it for some
low star, but Henry knew better. It was fire put there by human hand for
a purpose, doubtless a signal, and as he looked a second spark appeared
by the first, then a third, then a fourth. He uttered a great sigh of
pleasure. It was his four friends signaling to him somewhere in the vast
unknown that they were alive and well, and beckoning him to come. The
lights burned for fifteen or twenty minutes, and then all went out
together. Henry turned over on his side and fell sound asleep. In the
morning he put on his snowshoes and started.