Part 7

Then he hurried on, for he must needs make good his boast that he would reach the spruce grove before David. No smoke could he see rising above the trees as he approached. David at least had not yet lighted the fire. Andy was jubilant and in high spirits to find that David was not there ahead of him, and had not been there since their visit the previous week.

It was a matter of a few minutes’ work to light a fire, and presently Andy had a cozy blaze. Then he broke an armful of spruce boughs, for a seat, and kicking off his snowshoes, settled himself comfortably before the fire to await David’s appearance.

“If I had th’ kettle, now, I’d put un over,” said Andy. “But Davy’ll soon be here.”

An hour passed, and David did not appear. Andy had traveled at such good speed that he had reached the rendezvous a half hour before midday, but David should not have been long behind him. Another hour passed. A northeast breeze had sprung up, and the sky had become overcast. Andy observed uneasily that a storm was brewing. He donned his snowshoes, replenished the fire, and walked out a little way in the direction from which David should come, and to the outer edge of the trees. He stood very still, and listened, but there was no sound, and David was nowhere to be seen.

Andy reluctantly returned to the fire to wait. He was growing anxious and concerned. Surely David should have appeared before this unless--and Andy grew frightened at the thought--unless some accident had happened to him.

During the next half hour Andy’s concern became almost panic. He began to picture David attacked and destroyed by a pack of wolves! Or perhaps his rifle had been accidentally discharged, and injured or killed him! Andy had heard of such accidents more than once. Whatever the reason for David’s delay, it was serious. No ordinary thing would have prevented him from keeping his appointment.

Andy could stand the suspense no longer. He arose, slipped his feet into his snowshoes, and at a half run set out upon the trail in the direction from which David should have come.

XII

ALONE IN THE STORM-SWEPT FOREST

As Andy ran he looked eagerly for signs of David. Snow had fallen during the preceding week, and fresh tracks would have been easily distinguishable. The accumulation of a single night’s rime would have sufficed for that. Therefore David could not have passed this way without leaving a boldly marked trail upon the snow, and in attending to the traps this was indeed the only route he could have taken.

In one of the traps a mile from the spruce grove was a handsome cross fox. Andy paused to kill it, and put it out of misery, then hurried on. Under ordinary circumstances he would have been elated at the capture of the fox, for it bore a valuable pelt. Now he scarcely gave it a thought, so great was his anxiety for David’s safety. In another trap was a dead rabbit, but he passed it without stopping.

Andy had followed the trail for upwards of three miles when, rounding a clump of willow brush he came suddenly upon David’s snowshoe tracks. An examination disclosed the fact that David had come to this point and then turned about and retraced his steps toward the tilt. This was peculiar, and Andy was perplexed, but a hundred yards farther on came the explanation, when he discovered the tracks of a band of caribou crossing the trail at right angles and leading in a northerly direction, with David’s tracks following them. The discovery lifted a load of anxiety from Andy’s heart. David was hunting caribou, and no doubt safe enough. There was no further cause for worry.

An examination of the trail disclosed the fact that there were seven caribou in the band. They had passed this way since early morning, for no rime had accumulated upon the tracks. David, upon encountering them had doubtless hurried on to summon Andy, but upon reconsideration had turned about to follow the caribou at once, rather than chance their escape through the delay that this would occasion. He had doubtless hoped to find them feeding near by. Indeed they could not have been far in advance of David.

With the relief of his anxiety for David’s safety, Andy felt keenly disappointed, if not resentful, that he had not been permitted to join David in the caribou hunt. This was an experience to which he had looked forward. It had been agreed that if signs of caribou were discovered they should hunt them together, and in his disappointment Andy felt quite sure that an hour’s delay would not have made much difference in the probabilities of success.

“Anyhow,” said he after a few minute’s indecision, “I’ll follow. If Davy’s killed un he’ll need me to help he, and if they’ve gone too far and he hasn’t killed un, I’ll meet he comin’ back.”

The trail made by David and the caribou led Andy in a winding course over the marsh for a distance of nearly two miles, and then plunged into the forest. The rising wind was shifting the snow in little rifts over the marsh, and before Andy entered the forest the first flakes of the threatened storm began to fall.

Under the shelter of the trees the snow was light and soft. Because of this traveling became more difficult, and Andy was forced to reduce his trot to a fast walk. For a time the trail continued to lead almost due north. Then it took a turn to the westward. At the point of the turn the caribou had stopped and circled about, and in taking their new course had traveled more rapidly. Something had evidently aroused their suspicions of lurking danger. The gait at which they had traveled, however, indicated that they were not yet thoroughly frightened, or else were uncertain of the direction in which the suspected danger lay.

“They got a smell of something that startled un,” observed Andy, “and ’tweren’t Davy. Th’ wind were wrong for that. They never could have smelled he with th’ wind this way.”

Snow was now falling heavily, but the trail was still plain enough. A half mile farther on the caribou tracks made another sharp turn, this time to the southward, turning about toward the marsh. There was no doubt now that they had been frightened. Their trail evidenced that here they had broken into a run.

“Whatever it were that scared un,” said Andy, “it scared un bad here, and they’ve gone where Davy could never catch up with un.”

Just beyond the place where the caribou had made the last turn, another trail came in from the north. Andy examined it carefully, and though the rapidly accumulating snow had now nearly hidden the distinguishing marks, he had no difficulty in recognizing the new trail as one made by wolves.

“That’s it!” he exclaimed. “’Twere wolves scared un! They didn’t get th’ scent rightly back there, but here they got un, and I hopes they’ll get away safe!”

A further examination disclosed the fact that David had stopped, too, and examined the tracks. He had doubtless concluded that continued pursuit of the caribou was useless, for his tracks, now nearly covered by the fresh snow, turned toward the marsh in a direction that would lead him back by a short cut to the point in the fur trail where he had left it to follow the caribou.

“He’s gone back to finish th’ last end of th’ trail,” said Andy. “He’ll be fearin’ something has happened t’ me when he don’t find me at th’ spruce trees. I’ll have t’ hurry.”

David’s tracks were becoming fainter and fainter with every step, and Andy had not gone far when the last trace of them was lost. He knew the general direction, however, that David would take, and was not greatly concerned or alarmed until he suddenly realized that darkness was settling. Until now he had lost all count of passing time.

He had also been too deeply engrossed in the caribou trail, and in overtaking David, to give consideration to the storm. Now, with the realization that night was falling, he also awoke to the fact that the wind had risen into a gale, and that with every moment the storm was gathering new strength. He could hear it roaring and lashing the tree tops overhead. A veritable Arctic blizzard was at hand.

In the cover of the thick spruce forest Andy was well protected from the wind, though even here snow fell so thickly that he could see but a few feet in any direction.

By the short cut Andy soon reached the edge of the timber, where trees gave way to the wide open space of the marsh. Here he was met by a smothering cloud of snow, and a blast of wind that carried him from his feet. He rose and tried again to face it, but was forced to turn about and seek the shelter of the trees.

The wind came over the marsh, now in short, petulant gusts, now in long, angry roars, sweeping before it swirling clouds of snow so dense that no living creature could stand before it. The storm was terrifying in its fury.

For a moment Andy was dazed and overcome by his encounter. Then came realization of his peril. To reach the tilt he must either cross the marsh or make a wide detour to the westward through the forest. The former was not possible, and if he attempted to make the detour darkness would certainly overtake him before he could attain half the distance. Impeded by the thick falling snow, any attempt to travel after night would certainly lead to disaster. He would probably lose his direction, and be overcome by exhaustion and the bitter, penetrating cold.

What was he to do? He was without other protection than the clothes he wore. There was no shelter nearer than the tilt. He had no food. He had eaten nothing since the early breakfast in the tilt, and his healthy young appetite was crying for satisfaction.

Andy was suddenly seized by panic, and he began to run, in a wild and frenzied hope that he might reach the tilt before darkness closed upon the wilderness. But he quickly became entangled in low hanging branches, and, sent sprawling in the snow, was brought to a sudden halt.

The shock returned him again to sane reasoning. Taking shelter under the thick overhanging limbs of a spruce tree, he stopped to think and plan. He could not run, and unless he ran he could not reach the tilt that night. He was marooned in the forest, that was plain. There was no course but to make the best of it until morning. It was also plain that he would perish with the cold unless he could devise some means of protection. The moment he ceased his exertions he felt a deadly numbness stealing over him.

“I must do something before dark, and I must have plenty o’ grit,” he presently said. “I must keep a stout heart like a man. Pop says there’s no fix so bad a man can’t find his way out of un if he uses his head and does his best, and prays th’ Lard to help he.”

And so Andy, in simple words and briefly, said a little prayer, and then he used his head and did his best to make the prayer come true.

XIII

A NIGHT IN THE OPEN

There was no time to be lost. The long northern twilight was already waning. Hastened by the storm, darkness would come early.

“The Injuns get caught out this way often enough, when they’re huntin’,” said Andy, by way of self-comfort. “They finds a way to make out. They just gets a place in th’ lee, where th’ wind can’t strike un, and puts on a good fire. That’s all they ever does. But,” he continued doubtfully, “they’re used to un, and I never stopped out without a tent, _what_ever.”

Bivouacking in a blizzard, with a thirty-degrees-below temperature and no blankets or other protection, was an emergency Andy had never before been called upon to meet. Now he turned to it uncertainly.

Reconnoitering he discovered, near at hand, a large fallen tree, partly covered by the snow. Close to the butt of the fallen tree stood a big, thickly foliaged spruce tree, the outer ends of its branches bending so low that the tips were enveloped by the deep snow.

“’Twill make a shelter, _what_ever!” exclaimed Andy, encouraged. “A little fixin’, and maybe ’twon’t be so bad, in under the branches. They’ll make a cover from the snow.”

With his ax he at once cut off the limbs of the spruce tree on the side next the fallen trunk. This made an opening that would serve as a door. Under the arching branches was a circular space, thatched above by foliage. Removing one of his snowshoes, and utilizing it as a shovel, he cleared the space of snow. Then donning his snowshoes again he cut several branches, which he thatched upon the overhanging limbs of the tree, thus increasing the protection of his cover from fresh drift. This done, he banked snow high against the branches around the entire circle, save at the opening facing the fallen tree.

Now breaking a quantity of boughs and arranging them as a floor for his improvised shelter, he made a comfortable bed.

The next consideration was wood, and fortunately there was no lack of this. Everywhere about, as is usual in primordial forests, were dead trees, that would burn readily. Andy selected three that were perhaps six inches thick at the butt, and not too large for him to handle easily. These he felled with his ax, trimmed off the branches, and cutting the logs into convenient lengths for burning, piled them at one side of the entrance to his shelter. He now chopped into small firewood a quantity of the branches, adding them to his reserve supply of fuel.

Again using a snowshoe as a shovel, he cleared the snow from the butt of the fallen tree, which he had decided should be the back log of his fire. This done, he split a quantity of small kindling wood. He now secured a handful of the long, hairy moss that hangs close to the limbs and trunks of spruce trees in the northern forest, and using it as tinder quickly lighted his fire against the back log. Leaning over it to protect it from falling snow until the carefully placed kindling wood was well ablaze, he added pieces of smaller branches, and finally sticks of the larger wood. Then, with a sigh of relief, Andy drew back under the cover of his shelter to test the efficiency of his efforts.

Almost immediately a genial warmth began to pervade the interior of the cave beneath the tree. The fire crackled and blazed cheerfully. The thick thatching of boughs proved an excellent protection from the snow and such wind as penetrated the depths of the forest. The success of the experiment was assured.

It was quite dark now, but Andy, for the present at least, was safe and comfortable enough. Quick planning, energetic action, and instinctive resourcefulness, had saved him from the terrible blizzard that was sweeping over the marsh and lashing through the tops of the forest trees with growing fury.

Andy sat lax and limp for a little while. He had worked with almost frenzied exertion. Now he felt like one who had but just, and barely, escaped a great peril. Presently he drew off his outer adiky, shook the snow from it, and drawing it on again proceeded to arrange himself comfortably.

“’Tis almost as snug as the tilt,” he said presently. “Pop were right when he says there’s no fix too big to get out of, if you goes about un right. If I’d kept scared, and hadn’t tried, I’d perished, and now I’m safe whilst I ’bides here. If I only had something t’ eat!”

Comfort is comparative. What might be a severe hardship under some circumstances might become the height of luxury and comfort under others. Andy’s retreat appealed to him now, after his battle with the storm, as most luxurious and comfortable. The wind howling and shrieking through the treetops brought to the lad’s ears a constant reminder of what might have been his fate, and served to add to the snugness of the shelter and cozy cheerfulness of the fire.

Now that he was safe from the storm for the time being, his thoughts turned to David. He did not know how far David was in advance of him. He had no doubt he had hurried on to the spruce grove, and not finding him there had set out for the tilt, but he could never have reached it before the storm broke.

This thought rendered Andy miserable. His imagination pictured David stark and frozen out on the storm beaten marsh. His misery grew almost to anguish until, in his better judgment, he reasoned that, like himself, David must have taken refuge in the forest, and that David knew better than he how to protect himself. Then he remembered Doctor Joe’s song, and accompanied by the roar of wind overhead, sang in a subdued voice:

“The worst of my foes are worries and woes, And all about troubles that never come true. And all about troubles that never come true.”

This comforted him, and when he had finished he said, decisively:

“There’s no use worrying about something that I don’t know has happened, and the most of th’ things we worries about never does happen. I’ll just think that Davy’s safe and sound in the tilt, or snug and safe somewhere in the green woods. And like as not, too, he’s worryin’ about me.”

With this determination Andy replenished the fire, and, with his feet toward it, stretched out upon the boughs to sleep. “The Lard took care o’ Davy and me last evenin’ when th’ wolves chased us,” he mused. “They were close t’ gettin’ us but th’ Lard made Davy’s rifle shoot th’ right time. _I’m_ thinkin’ now He didn’t just save us t’ leave Davy t’ perish in th’ snow. He’ll take care o’ Davy _what_ever.”

This was the logic of his simple faith. It soothed him and quieted his fears. Weary enough he was, for the day’s work had been hard and trying and presently he slept. Several times during the night he was awakened by the cold, when the fire burned low, and each time he huddled close to the blaze until his half congealed blood was warmed and the camp regained its comfort. Then he would lie down again to fall asleep with the shriek and roar of wind in his ears.

Finally he awoke to find that the wind had lost much of its force, and looking upward through the treetops he saw the glimmer of a star. The cold had grown more intense. His feet and hands were numb. He piled some of the small branch wood upon the coals and as it burst into flame added some of the larger sticks.

“It must be comin’ mornin’, and th’ storm’s about blown over,” he said thankfully, listening for the wind, when he sat down again. “I’m thinkin’, now, ’twill soon be clear of shiftin’ snow on th’ mesh, and soon as I’m warmed I’ll see how ’tis, _what_ever.”

Despite his resolution not to worry, Andy was far from satisfied of David’s safety. Now as he sat by the fire he began again to picture David lying out on the marsh somewhere, stark and dead. The longer Andy permitted his mind to dwell upon the possibility of such a tragedy having taken place, the more probable it seemed. The snow-clad forest had never been so grim and silent. A foreboding of some horrible tragedy was in his heart. He could restrain himself no longer.

The numbness was hardly yet out of his hands and feet when he hurriedly arose, put on his snowshoes, shouldered his rifle, and picking up his ax, rushed out into the dim-lit forest to grope his way through trees to the marsh.

Fitful gusts of wind were still blowing over the marsh, driving the snow in little swirling clouds. Light clouds lay in patches against the sky, and between them the stars shone with cold, metallic brilliance.

Andy could see clearly enough here. The wind was in his back, and taking a short cut, that would reduce the distance by nearly half, he swung out at a trot toward the tilt. He would look there first, and if David were not in the tilt he would follow the trail back to the spruce grove.

XIV

A MAN’S GAME

By the short cut over the marsh it was not far to the tilt. At the end of a half hour’s steady running Andy reached the woods that bordered the western side of the marsh. It was here, at the edge of the forest, that he and David had parted the previous morning.

The storm had obliterated every trace of their snowshoe tracks, but Andy stooped to hastily search, in the dim starlight, for some recent sign of David’s passing. There was no sign, and in feverish anxiety to reach the tilt he tried to run, but in the shadows of the trees he collided with overhanging limbs, and was compelled to pick his way more slowly. Presently his sharp eyes made out, through an opening, the stovepipe, rising above the drift which marked the position of the tilt.

It was now that silent, dark hour just before dawn. Andy was sure that if David was there he would be up, preparing to set out with the first hint of light. If he were up he would have a fire in the stove, and smoke would be issuing from the pipe. Between hope and fear Andy’s heart almost stopped beating. He peered intently, but could see no smoke. He hurried on, and a few steps farther the stovepipe was thrown out in silhouette against the sky, and rising from it was a thin curl. There was fire in the stove! David was there!

“Davy! Davy! Davy!” Andy shouted, half sobbing, with the break of the nervous strain.

The door of the tilt opened, and David, bareheaded and wildly excited, came rushing out.

“Oh, Andy! Andy! Is you safe?” he cried, passing his arm around Andy’s shoulder in a depth of affection and passionate relief, and drawing Andy into the warm tilt, while Andy made a brave effort to restrain his tears.

“Oh, Davy!” broke in Andy, half crying with joy. “I were fearin’ for you so! I were thinkin’ of you out there--in th’ mesh--dead! And oh, Davy, I were--afraid--afraid for you!”

“And I were afraid for you, Andy!” choked David. “I were never doubtin’ you were lost and perished! I couldn’t sleep for thinkin’ of un, and I couldn’t go to look for you with th’ drift and darkness! I just had t’ ’bide here till day broke! I tries and tries t’ go, but th’ drift drove me back, and I knows I’ll have t’ wait for day.”

While Andy removed his outer garments and David prepared breakfast, Andy described his experiences, and how he had made his shelter.

“Doctor Joe’s song helped me a wonderful lot,” said he. “It’s turned out t’ be a true song, too. We were both safe, and there wasn’t anything for either of us t’ worry about after all. And, Davy, I kept my grit, now, didn’t I?”

“That you did!” declared David admiringly. “Even Indian Jake or Pop couldn’t have fixed out a better place t’ ’bide till th’ storm passed.”

“Davy,” said Andy reverently, “I’m thinkin’ th’ Lard were lookin’ out for us, now, weren’t he, Davy? And--Davy--maybe Mother was lookin’ out for us, too!”

“Aye,” said David, “th’ Lard _were_ lookin’ out for us, and I’m not doubtin’ Mother was near, and helpin’ us, too.”

While they ate their breakfast David told of his own experiences.

“After I runs on th’ deer footin’ crossin’ th’ path,” he explained, “I sets right out t’ get you, Andy. But all at once I thinks that, th’ footin’ being fresh, th’ deer is like as not ’bidin’ right handy, and if I loses time goin’ for you I might miss un. So I turns back and goes after un.”

“I sees where they makes a turn and gets scared, but I weren’t thinkin’ o’ wolves, and I keeps hurryin’ on. I must have been right handy to un when I hears a wolf howl, and right after that I comes t’ th’ place where th’ deer turned down toward th’ mesh again and th’ wolf tracks came in. Then I knows they’re gone, and there’s no use keepin’ after un.

“I turns down then by a short cut t’ th’ next trap beyond where I leaves th’ trail t’ turn into th’ green woods. Snow were just beginnin’ t’ spit as I comes out on th’ mesh.”

“It were just beginnin’ t’ spit,” broke in Andy, “as I goes in th’ woods.”

“You must have turned into th’ woods t’ th’ westward of where I comes out, and that’s why I didn’t see you,” suggested David.

“When I gets t’ our trail I sees your footin’ comin’ this way. Th’ snow wasn’t enough yet t’ cover un, so I could tell ’twas fresh footin’. I says t’ myself, ‘Andy’s got hungry and tired waitin’ for me, and he’s gone back t’ th’ tilt. He’s tended th’ traps t’ th’ east’ard, and I’ll take a short cut.”

“I didn’t hurry, and before I gets out of th’ mesh snow was comin’ thick and th’ wind was rising, and it was gettin’ pretty nasty on th’ mesh.