Chapter XVIII. Henry's Slide

by Joseph A. Altsheler

　　Henry Ware, lingering at the edge of the clearing, his bodyhidden behind one of the great tree trunks, had been watching thescene with a fascinated interest that would not let him go. Heknew that his work there was done already. Everything would beutterly destroyed by the flames which, driven by the wind, leapedfrom one half-ruined building to another. Braxton Wyatt and hisband would have enough to do sheltering themselves from thefierce winter, and the settlements could rest for a while atleast. Undeniably he felt exultation as be witnessed thedestructive work of his hand. The border, with its constantstruggle for-life and terrible deeds, bred fierce passions.

　　In truth, although he did not know it himself, he stayed there toplease his eye and heart. A new pulse beat triumphantly everytime a timber, burned through, fell in, or a crash came from afalling roof. He laughed inwardly as the flames disclosed thedismay on the faces of the Iroquois and Tories, and it gave himdeep satisfaction to see Braxton Wyatt, his gaudy little sword athis thigh, stalking about helpless. It was while he was looking,absorbed in such feelings, that the warrior of the alert eye sawhim and gave the warning shout.

　　Henry turned in an instant, and darted away among the trees, halfrunning, half sliding over the smooth, icy covering of the snow.After him came warriors and some Tories who had put on theirsnowshoes preparatory to the search through the forest forshelter. Several bullets were fired, but he was too far away fora good aim. He heard one go zip against a tree, and another cutthe surface of the ice near him, but none touched him, and hesped easily on his snowshoes through the frozen forest. ButHenry was fully aware of one thing that constituted his greatestdanger. Many of these Iroquois had been trained all their livesto snowshoes, while he, however powerful and agile, wascomparatively a beginner. He glanced back again and saw theirdusky figures running among the trees, but they did not seem tobe 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. Hepressed it closely, almost lovingly, to his side, this bestfriend 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 divergingfrom his line, knowing that some part of the wide half circle ofhis pursuers would profit by it.

　　Henry felt a great upward surge. He had been the victor in whathe meant to achieve, and he was sure that he would escape. Thecold wind, whistling by, whipped his blood and added new strengthto his great muscles. His ankles were not chafed or sore, and hesped forward on the snowshoes, straight and true. Whenever hecame to a hill the pursuers would gain as he went up it, but whenhe went down the other side it was he who gained. He passedbrooks, creeks, and once a small river, but they were frozenover, many inches deep, and he did not notice them. Again it wasa lake a mile wide, but the smooth surface there merely increasedhis speed. Always he kept a wary look ahead for thickets throughwhich he could not pass easily, and once he sent back a shout ofdefiance, which the Iroquois answered with a yell of anger.

　　He was fully aware that any accident to his snowshoes would provefatal, the slipping of the thongs on his ankles or the breakingof a runner would end his flight, and in a long chase such anaccident might happen. It might happen, too, to one or more ofthe Iroquois, but plenty of them would be left. Yet Henry hadsupreme confidence in his snowshoes. He had made them himself,he had seen that every part was good, and every thong had beenfastened with care.

　　The wind which bad been roaring so loudly at the time of the firesank to nothing. The leafless trees stood up, the branchesunmoving. The forest was bare and deserted. All the animals,big and little, had gone into their lairs. Nobody witnessed thegreat pursuit save pursuers and pursued. Henry kept hisdirection clear in his mind, and allowed the Iroquois to take noadvantage of a curve save once. Then he came to a thicket solarge that he was compelled to make a considerable circle to passit. He turned to the right, hence the Indians on the rightgained, and they sent up a yell of delight. He replied defiantlyand increased his speed.

　　But one of the Indians, a flying Mohawk, had come dangerouslynear-near enough, in fact, to fire a bullet that did not miss thefugitive much. It aroused Henry's anger. He took it as anindignity rather than a danger, and he resolved to avenge it. Sofar as firing was concerned, he was at a disadvantage. He muststop and turn around for his shot, while the Iroquois, withouteven checking speed, could fire straight at the flying target,ahead.

　　Nevertheless, he took the chance. He turned deftly on thesnowshoes, fired as quick as lightning at the swift Mohawk, sawhim fall, then Whirled and resumed his flight. He had lostground, but he had inspired respect. A single man could notafford to come too near to a marksman so deadly, and the three orfour who led dropped back with the main body.

　　Now Henry made his greatest effort. He wished to leave the foefar behind, to shake off his pursuit entirely. He bounded overthe ice and snow with great leaps, and began to gain. Yet hefelt at last the effects of so strenuous a flight. His breathbecame shorter; despite the intense cold, perspiration stood uponhis face, and the straps that fastened the snowshoes were chafinghis ankles. An end must come even to such strength as his.Another backward look, and he saw that the foe was sinking intothe darkness. If he could only increase his speed again, bemight leave the Iroquois now. He made a new call upon the will,and the body responded. For a few minutes his speed becamegreater. A disappointed shout arose behind him, and severalshots 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, butthey could not do it at full speed, and he turned sharply off atan angle. Pausing a second or two for fresh breath, he continuedon his new course, although not so fast as before. He knew thatthe Iroquois would rush straight ahead, and would not discoverfor two or three minutes that they were off the trail. It wouldtake them another two or three minutes to recover, and he wouldmake a gain of at least five minutes. Five minutes had saved thelife 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 feltthat he was pumping the very lifeblood from his heart. Hisbreath had come painfully, and the thongs of the snowshoes werechafing his ankles terribly. But those minutes were worth ayear. Fresh air poured into his lungs, and the muscles becameelastic once more. In so brief a space be had recreated himself.

　　Resuming his flight, he went at a steady pace, resolved not to dohis utmost unless the enemy came in sight. About ten minuteslater he heard a cry far behind him, and he believed it to be asignal from some Indian to the others that the trail was foundagain. But with so much advantage he felt sure that he was nowquite safe. He ran, although at decreased speed, for about twohours more, and then he sat down on the upthrust root of a greatoak. Here he depended most upon his ears. The forest was sosilent that he could hear any noise at a great distance, butthere was none. Trusting to his ears to warn him, he wouldremain there a long time for a thorough rest. He even dared totake off his snowshoes that he might rub his sore ankles, but hewrapped his heavy blanket about his body, lest he take deep coldin cooling off in such a temperature after so long a flight.

　　He sat enjoying a half hour, golden like the five minutes, andthen he saw, outlined against the bright, moonlit sky, somethingthat told him he must be on the alert again. It was a singlering of smoke, like that from a cigar, only far greater. It rosesteadily, untroubled by wind until it was dissipated. It meant"attention!" and presently it was followed by a column of suchrings, one following another beautifully. The column said: " Thefoe is near." Henry read the Indian signs perfectly. The ringswere made by covering a little fire with a blanket for a momentand then allowing the smoke to ascend. On clear days suchsignals could be seen a distance of thirty miles or more, and heknew 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. Theparty sending up the smoke might be a half mile away, but theothers, although his trail was yet hidden from them, might benearer. 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 friendlyroot, started once more. He ran forward at moderate speed forperhaps a mile, when he suddenly heard triumphant yells on bothright and left. A strong party of Iroquois were coming up oneither side, and luck had enabled them to catch him in a trap.

　　They were so near that they fired upon him, and one bullet nickedhis glove, but he was hopeful that after his long rest he mightagain stave them off. He sent back no defiant cry, but, settlinginto determined silence, ran at his utmost speed. The foresthere was of large trees, with no undergrowth, and he noticed thatthe two parties did not join, but kept on as they had come, oneon the right and the other on the left. This fact must have somesignificance, but he could not fathom it. Neither could he guesswhether the Indians were fresh or tired, but apparently they madeno 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, thekind that savages utter only when they see their triumphcomplete.

　　Before, and far below Henry, stretched a vast, white expanse. Hehad come to the lake, but at a point where the cliff rose highlike a mountain, and steep like a wall. The surface of the lakewas so far down that it was misty white like a cloud. Now heunderstood the policy of the Indian bands in not uniting. Theyknew that they would soon reach the lofty cliffs of the lake, andif he turned to either right or left there was a band ready toseize him.

　　Henry's heart leaped up and then sank lower than ever before inhis life. It seemed that he could not escape from so complete atrap, and Braxton Wyatt was not one who would spare a prisoner.That was perhaps the bitterest thing of all, to be taken andtortured by Braxton Wyatt. He was there. He could hear hisvoice in one of the bands, and then the courage that never failedhim burst into fire again.

　　The Iroquois were coming toward him, shutting him out fromretreat to either right or left, but not yet closing in becauseof his deadly rifle. He gave them a single look, put forth hisvoice in one great cry of defiance, and, rushing toward the edgeof the mighty cliff, sprang boldly over.

　　As Henry plunged downward he heard behind him a shout ofamazement and chagrin poured forth from many Iroquois throats,and, taking a single glance backward, he caught a glimpse ofdusky faces stamped with awe. But the bold youth had not made aleap to destruction. In the passage of a second he hadcalculated rapidly and well. While the cliff at first glanceseemed perpendicular, it could not be so. There was a slopecoated with two feet of snow, and swinging far back on the heelsof his snowshoes, he shot downward like one taking a tremendousslide on a toboggan. Faster and faster he went, but deeper anddeeper he dug his shoes into the snow, until he lay back almostflat against its surface. This checked his speed somewhat, butit was still very great, and, preserving his self-controlperfectly, he prayed aloud to kindly Providence to save him fromsome great boulder or abrupt drop.

　　The snow from his runners flew in a continuous shower behind himas he descended. Yet he drew himself compactly together, andheld his rifle parallel with his body. Once or twice, as he wentover a little ridge, he shot clear of the snow, but he held hisbody rigid, and the snow beyond saved him from a severe bruise.Then his speed was increased again, and all the time the whitesurface of the lake below, seen dimly through the night and hisflight, seemed miles away.

　　He might never reach that surface alive, but of one thing lie wassure. None of the Iroquois or Tories had dared to follow.Braxton Wyatt could have no triumph over him. He was alone inhis great flight. Once a projection caused him to turn a littleto one side. He was in momentary danger of turning entirely, andthen of rolling head over heels like a huge snowball, but with amighty effort he righted himself, and continued the descent onthe runners, with the heels plowing into the ice and the snow.

　　Now that white expanse which had seemed so far away came milesnearer. Presently he would be there. The impossible had becomepossible, the unattainable was about to be attained. He gaveanother mighty dig with his shoes, the last reach of the slopepassed behind him, and he shot out on the frozen surface of thelake, bruised and breathless, but without a single broken bone.

　　The lake was covered with ice a foot thick, and over this layfrozen snow, which stopped Henry forty or fifty yards from thecliff. 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 sufferednothing save some bruises, that would heal in their own goodtime. His deerskin clothing was much torn, particularly on theback, where he had leaned upon the ice and snow, but the foldedblanket had saved him to a considerable extent. One of his shoeswas pulled loose, and presently he discovered that his left anklewas smarting and burning at a great rate. But he did not mindthese things at all, so complete was his sense of victory. Helooked up at the mighty white wall that stretched above himfifteen hundred feet, and he wondered at his own tremendousexploit. The wall ran away for miles, and the Iroquois could notreach him by any easier path. He tried to make out figures onthe brink looking down at him, but it was too far away, and hesaw only a black line.

　　He tightened the loose shoe and struck out across the lake. Hewas far away from "The Alcove," and he did not intend to gothere, lest the Iroquois, by chance, come upon his trail andfollow it to the refuge. But as it was no more than two milesacross the lake at that point, and the Iroquois would have tomake a great curve to reach the other side, he felt perfectlysafe. He walked slowly across, conscious all the time of anincreasing pain in his left ankle, which must now be badlyswollen, and he did not stop until he penetrated some distanceamong low bills. Here, under an overhanging cliff with thickbushes in front, he found a partial shelter, which he clearedout yet further. Then with infinite patience he built a firewith splinters that he cut from dead boughs, hung his blanket infront of it on two sticks that the flame might not be seen, tookoff 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 handsand with snow, until they felt better. Then he replaced hisclothing, leaned back against the faithful snowshoes which hadsaved his life, however much they had hurt his ankles, and gavehimself up to the warmth of the fire.

　　It was very luxurious, this warmth and this rest, after so longand terrible a flight, and he was conscious of a greatrelaxation, one which, if he yielded to it completely, would makehis muscles so stiff and painful that he could not use them.Hence he stretched his arms and legs many times, rubbed hisankles again, and then, remembering that he had venison, ateseveral strips.

　　He knew that he had taken a little risk with the fire, but a firehe was bound to have, and he fed it again until he had a greatmass of glowing coals, although there was no blaze. Then he tookdown the blanket, wrapped himself in it, and was soon asleepbefore the fire. He slept long and deeply, and although, when heawoke, the day had fully come, the coals were not yet outentirely. He arose, but such a violent pain from his left ankleshot through him that he abruptly sat down again. As he badfeared, it had swollen badly during the night, and he could notwalk.

　　In this emergency Henry displayed no petulance, no strivingagainst unchangeable circumstance. He drew up more wood, whichhe had stacked against the cliff, and put it on the coals. Hehung up the blanket once more in order that it might hide thefire, stretched out his lame leg, and calmly made a breakfast offthe last of his venison. He knew be was in a plight thatmight appall the bravest, but be kept himself in hand. It waslikely that the Iroquois thought him dead, crushed into ashapeless mass by his frightful slide of fifteen hundred feet,and he had little fear of them, but to be unable to walk andalone 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 comradeswandering his way. He looked once more at his swollen leftankle, and he made a close calculation. It would be three days,more likely four, before he could walk upon it. Could he endurehunger that long? He could. He would! Crouched in his nestwith his back to the cliff, he had defense against any enemy inhis rifle and pistol. By faithful watching he might catch sightof some wandering animal, a target for his rifle and then foodfor his stomach. His wilderness wisdom warned him that there wasnothing to do but sit quiet and wait.

　　He scarcely moved for hours. As long as he was still his ankletroubled him but little. The sun came out, silver bright, but ithad no warmth. The surface of the lake was shown only by thesmoothness of its expanse; the icy covering was the sameeverywhere over hills and valleys. Across the lake he saw thesteep down which he had slid, looming white and lofty. In thedistance it looked perpendicular, and, whatever its terrors, ithad, beyond a doubt, saved his life. He glanced down at hisswollen ankle, and, despite his helpless situation, he wasthankful that he had escaped so well.

　　About noon he moved enough to throw up the snowbanks higher allaround himself in the fashion of an Eskimos house. Then he letthe fire die except some coals that gave forth no smoke,stretched the blanket over his head in the manner of a roof, andonce more resumed his quiet and stillness. He was now like acrippled animal in its lair, but he was warm, and his wound didnot hurt him. But hunger began to trouble him. He was young andso powerful that his frame demanded much sustenance. Now itcried aloud its need! He ate two or three handfuls of snow, andfor a few moments it seemed to help him a little, but his hungersoon came back as strong as ever. Then he tightened his belt andsat in grim silence, trying to forget that there was any suchthing as food.

　　The effort of the will was almost a success throughout theafternoon, but before night it failed. He began to have roseatevisions of Long Jim trying venison, wild duck, bear, and buffalosteaks over the coals. He could sniff the aroma, so powerful hadhis imagination become, and, in fancy, his month watered, whileits roof was really dry. They were daylight visions, and he knewit well, but they taunted him and made his pain fiercer. He slidforward a little to the mouth of his shelter, and thrust out hisrifle in the hope that be would see some wild creature, no matterwhat; he felt that be could shoot it at any distance, and then hewould feast!

　　He saw nothing living, either on earth or in the air, onlymotionless white, and beyond, showing but faintly now through thecoming twilight, the lofty cliff that had saved him.

　　He drew back into his lair, and the darkness came down. Despitehis hunger, he slept fairly well. In the night a little snowfell at times, but his blanket roof protected him, and heremained dry and warm. The new snow was, in a way, asatisfaction, as it completely hid his trail from the glance ofany wandering Indian. He awoke the next morning to a gray,somber day, with piercing winds from the northwest. He did notfeel the pangs of hunger until he had been awake about a halfhour, and then they came with redoubled force. Moreover, he badbecome weaker in the night, and, added to the loss of muscularstrength, was a decrease in the power of the will. Hunger waseating away his mental as well as his physical fiber. He did notface the situation with quite the same confidence that he feltthe day before. The wilderness looked a little more threatening.

　　His lips felt as if he were suffering from fever, and hisshoulders and back were stiff. But he drew his belt tighteragain, and then uncovered his left ankle. The swelling had gonedown a little, and he could move it with more freedom than on theday before, but he could not yet walk. Once more he made hisgrim calculation. In two days he could certainly walk and huntgame or make a try for "The Alcove," so far as his ankle wasconcerned, 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 thatfamine made upon his will was telling. It seemed incredible thathe, so powerful, so skillful, so self reliant, so long used tothe wilderness and to every manner of hardship, should be heldthere in a snowbank by a bruised ankle to die like a crippledrabbit. His comrades could not be more than ten miles away. Hecould walk. He would walk! He stood upright and stepped outinto the snow, but pain, so agonizing that he could scarcely keepfrom crying out, shot through his whole body, and he sank backinto the shelter, sure not to make such an experiment again foranother full day.

　　The day passed much like its predecessor, except that he tookdown the blanket cover of his snow hut and kindled up his fireagain, more for the sake of cheerfulness than for warmth, becausehe was not suffering from cold. There was a certain life andlight about the coals and the bright flame, but the relief didnot last long, and by and by he let it go out. Then be devotedhimself to watching the heavens and the surface of the snow.Some winter bird, duck or goose, might be flying by, or awandering deer might be passing. He must not lose any suchchance. He was more than ever a fierce creature of prey, sittingat the mouth of his den, the rifle across his knee, his tannedface so thin that the cheek bones showed high and sharp, his eyesbright 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 ahole in the ice, and trying to fish, but the idea invariably cameonly to be abandoned. He had neither hook nor bait. In theafternoon he chewed the edge of his buckskin hunting shirt, butit was too thoroughly tanned and dry. It gave back nosustenance. He abandoned the experiment and lay still for a longtime.

　　That night he had a slight touch of frenzy, and began to laugh athimself. It was a huge joke! What would Timmendiquas orThayendanegea think of him if they knew how he came to his end?They would put him with old squaws or little children. And howBraxton 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 baddreams. He was running the gauntlet again among the Shawnees.Again, kneeling to drink at the clear pool, he saw in the waterthe shadow of the triumphant warrior holding the tomahawk abovehim. One after another the most critical periods of his lifewere lived over again, and then he sank into a deep torpor, fromwhich he did not rouse himself until far into the next day.

　　Henry was conscious that he was very weak, but he seemed to haveregained much of his lost will. He looked once more at the fatalleft ankle. It had improved greatly. He could even stand uponit, 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. Theearth wavered. The smooth surface of the lake seemed to riseswiftly, and then to sink as swiftly. The far slope down whichhe 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, butbecause he was afraid his dizzy head would make him fall.

　　The power of will slipped away again for a minute or two. He wasashamed of such extraordinary weakness. He looked at one of hishands. It was thin, like the band of a man wasted with fever,and the blue veins stood out on the back of it. He couldscarcely believe that the hand was his own. But after the firstspasm of weakness was over, the precious will returned. He couldwalk. Strength enough to permit him to hobble along had returnedto the ankle at last, and mind must control the rest of hisnervous system, however weakened it might be. He must seek food.

　　He withdrew into the farthest recess of his covert, wrapped theblanket tightly about his body, and lay still for a long time.He was preparing both mind and body for the supreme effort. Heknew that everything hung now on the surviving remnants of hisskill and courage.

　　Weakened by shock and several days of fasting, he had no greatreserve now except the mental, and he used that to the utmost.It was proof of his youthful greatness that it stood the lasttest. As he lay there, the final ounce of will and courage came.Strength which was of the mind rather than of the body flowedback into his veins; he felt able to dare and to do; the paleaspect 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 hisshoulders. He looked at the snowshoes, but decided that his leftankle, despite its great improvement, would not stand the strain.He must break his way through the snow, which was a full threefeet in depth. Fortunately the crust had softened somewhat inthe last two or three days, and he did not have a covering of iceto meet.

　　He pushed his way for the first time from the lair under thecliff, his rifle held in his ready hands, in order that he mightmiss no chance at game. To an ordinary observer there would havebeen no such chance at all. It was merely a grim whitewilderness that might have been without anything living from thebeginning. But Henry, the forest runner, knew better. Somewherein the snow were lairs much like the one that he had left, and inthese lairs were wild animals. To any such wild animal, whetherpanther or bear, the hunter would now have been a fearsomeobject, with his hollow cheeks, his sunken fiery eyes, and histhin lips opening now and then, and disclosing the two rows ofstrong white teeth.

　　Henry advanced about a rod, and then he stopped, breathing hard,because it was desperate work for one in his condition to breakhis way through snow so deep. But his ankle stood the strainwell, and his courage increased rather than diminished. He wasno longer a cripple confined to one spot. While be stoodresting, he noticed a clump of bushes about half a rod to hisleft, and a hopeful idea came to him.

　　He broke his way slowly to the bushes, and then he searchedcarefully among them. The snow was not nearly so thick there,and under the thickest clump, where the shelter was best, he sawa small round opening. In an instant all his old vigorous life,all the abounding hope which was such a strong characteristic ofhis nature, came back to him. Already he had triumphed overIndians, Tories, the mighty slope, snow, ice, crippling, andstarvation.

　　He laid the rifle on the snow and took the ramrod in his righthand. He thrust his left hand into the hole, and when the rabbitleaped for life from his warm nest a smart blow of the ramrodstretched him dead at the feet of the hunter. Henry picked upthe rabbit. It was large and yet fat. Here was food for twomeals. In the race between the ankle and starvation, the anklehad won.

　　He did not give way to any unseemly elation. He even felt amomentary sorrow that a life must perish to save his own, becauseall these wild things were his kindred now. He returned by thepath that he had broken, kindled his fire anew, dexterouslyskinned 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 toleap upon it and devour it, but the power of the mind was stillsupreme. He knew what was good for himself, and he did it.Everything was done in order and with sobriety. Then he put therest of the rabbit carefully in his food pouch, wrapped theblanket about his body, leaned back, and stretched his feet tothe 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 loftycliffs on the farther shore, and the forest clothed in white andhanging with icicles.

　　The winter sunshine was molten silver, pouring down in a flood.

　　It was not will now, but actuality, that made him feel thestrength returning to his frame. He knew that the blood in hisveins had begun to sparkle, and that his vitality was risingfast. He could have gone to sleep peacefully, but instead hewent forth and hunted again. He knew that where the rabbit hadbeen, others were likely to be near, and before he returned hehad secured two more. Both of these he cleaned and cooked atonce. When this was done night had come, but he ate again, andthen, securing all his treasures about him, fell into the bestsleep that he had enjoyed since his flight.

　　He felt very strong the next morning, and he might have startedthen, but he was prudent. There was still a chance of meetingthe Iroquois, and the ankle might not stand so severe a test. Hewould rest in his nest for another day, and then he would beequal to anything. Few could lie a whole day in one place withbut little to do and with nothing passing before the eyes, but itwas a part of Henry's wilderness training, and he showed all thepatience of the forester. He knew, too, as the hours went by,that his strength was rising all the while. To-morrow almost thelast soreness would be gone from his ankle and then he couldglide swiftly over the snow, back to his comrades. He wascontent. He had, in fact, a sense of great triumph because hehad overcome so much, and here was new food in this example forfuture efforts of the mind, for future victories of the will overthe body. The wintry sun came to the zenith, then passed slowlydown the curve, but all the time the boy scarcely stirred. Oncethere was a flight of small birds across the heavens, and hewatched them vaguely, but apparently he took no interest. Towardnight he stood up in his recess and flexed and tuned his musclesfor a long time, driving out any stiffness that might comethrough long lack of motion. Then he ate and lay down, but hedid not yet sleep.

　　The night was clear, and he looked away toward the point where heknew "The Alcove" lay. A good moon was now shining, and stars bythe score were springing out. Suddenly at a point on that farshore a spark of red light appeared and twinkled. Most personswould have taken it for some low star, but Henry knew better. Itwas fire put there by human hand for a purpose, doubtless asignal, and as he looked a second spark appeared by the first,then a third, then a fourth. He uttered a great sigh ofpleasure. It was his four friends signaling to him somewhere inthe vast unknown that they were alive and well, and beckoning himto come. The lights burned for fifteen or twenty minutes, andthen all went out together. Henry turned over on his side andfell sound asleep. In the morning he put on his snowshoes andstarted.