Sandy’s nightmare had the effect of keeping him awake, save for spells
of uneasy dozing, for the remainder of the night. It was one that he
never forgot. There were times when he sank into a half waking stupor
and allowed the fire to die low. Then, waking up, he would see crouching
in the dark corners of the rift all sorts of fantastic shapes. At such
times he hastened to hurl on more wood, and then, as the bright flames
crackled up, the shadows fled away and he breathed more freely again.
Sometimes he would creep to the mouth of the rift and gaze down upon the
snowy flat beneath. Each time he had a faint hope in his heart that the
dark shapes that he knew were the watching wolves might have abandoned
the siege and gone away.
But every time he was disappointed. Every fresh inspection showed him
the dark forms massed beneath him. They were gazing upward at the glow
of fire proceeding from the rift. Once Sandy hurled down a red-hot brand
among them. With yelps and cries those whom it touched loped away from
the main body, but they soon joined them again. As for the others, they
never moved. There was something uncanny in this immobility. It
expressed a calm determination to see the matter through to the bitter
end, be that what it might, which was far from comforting to one in
Sandy’s predicament.
At last, somehow, the night wore itself out. In the east, on one of his
visits to the entrance of his hiding place, Sandy descried a faint gray
light.
The coming of the day inspired him with a fresh hope. Perhaps with the
light of day the wolves would betake themselves elsewhere. Night is
their favorite hunting time and they do not usually go much abroad till
at least the afternoon.
But as the light grew stronger, Sandy saw that hope, too, fade away. Far
from expressing any intentions of deserting their posts, the wolves
greeted the slow rise of the sun with a howl that echoed up to the
heavens. It sent a shudder through Sandy as he stood there looking down
upon the massed gray backs and the hungry upturned faces.
“Is this the end?” he found himself thinking.
But just then something occurred to divert his thoughts. Across the snow
came winging, in full flight, a flock of fine, plump snow-grouse. The
plumage of these birds changes in winter from its summer russet and
brown to a snowy white. Except when in flight it is almost impossible to
distinguish them against a white background.
The flight of the birds inspired Sandy with a sudden interest. And it
was no wonder that it did, for grouse are excellent food and not wild or
hard to shoot. If they landed upon his rocky fortress he was reasonably
sure of being able to get one or two of them.
The wolves, too, saw the coming of the grouse, and watched them with
almost equal interest. Wolves by no means despise grouse, and sometimes
stalk a flock miles in the snowy wastes, seeking a chance to pounce on
them. And so, as the flight came on, they were watched by the boy and
his besiegers with equal interest.
Sandy ran within his shelter so as not to frighten the birds from
alighting on the rocks, which appeared to be their intention. Some
stunted bushes, covered with a sort of hard, red berry must have
attracted them, so Sandy guessed, or perhaps the rocks were a regular
feeding ground on account of these same berries. From the mouth of his
rift Sandy could command a view of a patch of the berry-bearing bushes.
If only the grouse would alight in that particular patch he would be
sure of a good shot or two. But would they?
He watched their maneuvers with feverish interest. His very life might
depend upon their actions within the next few minutes. On came the
flock, and at last they were above the rock fort in which the boy had
taken refuge. With burning eyes and rifle in hand, Sandy watched them
from his place of concealment.
But they flew on over the mouth of the rift to alight in some other
feeding place. Sandy might have risked a shot as they passed over him.
But to hit a bird on the wing with a rifle is a feat so seldom performed
as to be noteworthy, and Sandy did not dare risk frightening them away
altogether by sending a useless shot among them.
After all, he conjectured, they would probably come to the patch he was
watching in the course of their wanderings about their feeding grounds.
Throughout a great part of the morning he watched for the birds, but
none appeared. Below, the wolves from time to time gave tongue. Sandy
would have liked to creep out and try the effect of a shot among them,
but he did not dare to risk showing himself for fear of alarming any of
the grouse that might be approaching.
All at once he noticed among the brush patch some white moving objects.
He knew that these must be the grouse. They had wandered around below
him without his seeing them and were now feeding in the patch upon which
he had his rifle sights trained.
But there was a long wait, severely trying to the patience, before the
grouse began to move upward, making their way toward the rift and
approaching a position in which it would be possible to fire at them
with a reasonable prospect of success. Sandy’s hands trembled with
excitement as the grouse fluttered and stepped daintily among the
berries, pecking them off right and left.
At last one of them, a fine, fat fellow, came into full view. Against
the dark brown of the dead brush his body made a splendid target. Sandy
set his teeth, steadied his aim and fired.
The grouse fluttered into the air and then fell back upon the snow,
dead. The boy had time for one more shot before the flock took wing.
He could not refrain from a cry of joy as he dashed down the rocks to
secure his game. For a time at least he could sustain life, even pent-up
as he was in his rocky prison.
[Illustration: With a hideous roar, the boulder crashed downward and
upon the trail.]