Twelve miles were gone when the foreglow--the first cold dawn-light
showed, and shining across his path ahead was a mighty rolling stream.
Guided by the now familiar form of Goodenow Peak he made for this, the
Hudson's lordly flood. There was his raft securely held, with paddle and
pole near by, and he pushed off with all the force of his young vigour.
Jumping and careening with the stream in its freshet flood, the raft and
its hardy pilot were served with many a whirl and some round spins, but
the long pole found bottom nearly everywhere, and not ten minutes passed
before the traveller sprang ashore, tied up his craft, then swung and
tramped and swung.
Over the hills of Vanderwhacker, under the woods of Boreas. Tramp,
tramp, splash, tramp, wringing and sopping, but strong and hot, tramp,
tramp, tramp, tramp. The partridge whirred from his path, the gray deer
snorted, and the panther sneaked aside. Tramp, tramp, trot, trot, and
the Washburn Ridge was blue against the sunrise. Trot, trot, over the
low, level, mile-long slope he went, and when the Day-god burnt the
upper hill-rim he was by brown Tahawus flood and had covered eighteen
miles.
By the stream he stopped to drink. A partridge cock, in the pride of
spring, strutted arrogantly on a log. Rolf drew his pistol, fired, then
hung the headless body while he made a camper's blaze: an oatcake, the
partridge, and river water were his meal. His impulse was to go on at
once. His reason, said “go slow.” So he waited for fifteen minutes. Then
again, beginning with a slow walk, he ere long added to his pace. In
half an hour he was striding and in an hour the steady “trot, trot,”
that slackened only for the hills or swamps. In an hour more he was
on the Washburn Ridge, and far away in the east saw Schroon Lake that
empties in the river Schroon; and as he strode along, exulting in his
strength, he sang in his heart for joy. Again a gray wolf cantered on
his trail, and the runner laughed, without a thought of fear. He seemed
to know the creature better now; knew it as a brother, for it gave
no hostile sound, but only seemed to trot, trot, for the small joy of
running with a runner, as a swallow or an antelope will skim along by
a speeding train. For an hour or more it matched his pace, then left as
though its pleasant stroll was done, and Rolf kept on and on and on.
The spring sun soared on high, the day grew warm at noon. Schroon River
just above the lake was in his path, and here he stopped to rest. Here,
with the last of his oatcake and a little tea, he made his final meal;
thirty eight miles had he covered since he rose; his clothes were torn,
his moccasins worn, but his legs were strong, his purpose sure; only
twenty-two miles now, and his duty would be done; his honours won. What
should he do, push on at once? No, he meant to rest an hour. He made a
good fire by a little pool, and using a great mass of caribou moss as a
sponge, he had a thorough rub-down. He got out his ever-ready needle
and put his moccasins in good shape; he dried his clothes and lay on his
back till the hour was nearly gone. Then he girded himself for this the
final run. He was weary, indeed, but he was far from spent, and the iron
will that had yearly grown in force was there with its unconquerable
support.
Slowly at start, soon striding, and at last in the famous jog trot of
the scout he went. The sky was blackened with clouds at length, and the
jealous, howling east wind rolled up in rain; the spindrift blurred the
way; the heavy showers of spring came down and drenched him; but his
pack was safe and he trotted on and on. Then long, deep swamps of alder
barred his path, and, guided only by the compass, Rolf pushed in and
through and ever east. Barely a mile an hour in the thickest part
he made, but lagged not; drenched and footsore, warm and torn, but
doggedly, steadily on. At three he had made a scant seven miles; then
the level, open wood of Thunderbolt was reached and his stride became a
run; trot, trot, trot, at six-mile gait, for but fifteen miles remained.
Sustained, inspired, the bringer of good news, he halted not and
faltered not, but on and on.
Tramp tramp, tramp tramp--endless, tireless, hour by hour. At five he
was on Thunder Creek, scarce eight miles more to the goal; his limbs
were sore, his feet were sore; bone tired was he, but his heart was
filled with joy.
“News of battle, news of victory” he was bringing, and the thought lent
strength; the five mires passed, the way was plain with good roads now,
but the runner was so weary. He was striding, his running was done, the
sun was low in the west, his feet were bleeding, the courier was brain
worn and leg worn, but he strode and strode. He passed by homes but
heeded them not.
“Come in and rest,” called one who saw nothing but a weary traveller.
Rolf shook his head, but gave no word and strode along. A mile--a short
mile now; he must hold out; if he sat down he feared he could not rise.
He came at last in sight of the fort; then, gathering all his force, he
broke into a trot, weak, so weak that had he fallen, he could scarcely
have got up, and slow, but faster than a walk: and so, as the red sun
sank, he passed the gate. He had no right to give tidings to any but the
general, yet they read it in his eyes. The guard broke into a cheer,
and trotting still, though reeling, Rolf had kept his word, had made his
run, had brought the news, and had safely reached his goal.