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 s.p.a.ce 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 appet.i.te 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 b.u.t.t 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 s.p.a.ce, thatched above by foliage. Removing one of his snowshoes, and utilizing it as a shovel, he cleared the s.p.a.ce 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 quant.i.ty 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 b.u.t.t, 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 quant.i.ty of the branches, adding them to his reserve supply of fuel.

Again using a snowshoe as a shovel, he cleared the snow from the b.u.t.t of the fallen tree, which he had decided should be the back log of his fire. This done, he split a quant.i.ty 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 a.s.sured.

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 circ.u.mstances 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 pa.s.sing. 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!