The Scouts of the Valley

by Joseph A. Altsheler

  CHAPTER XVIII. HENRY'S SLIDE

  Henry Ware, lingering at the edge of the clearing, his body hiddenbehind one of the great tree trunks, had been watching the scene witha fascinated interest that would not let him go. He knew that his workthere was done already. Everything would be utterly destroyed by theflames which, driven by the wind, leaped from one half-ruined buildingto another. Braxton Wyatt and his band would have enough to dosheltering themselves from the fierce winter, and the settlements couldrest for a while at least. Undeniably he felt exultation as he witnessedthe destructive work of his hand. The border, with its constant strugglefor-life and terrible deeds, bred fierce passions.

  In truth, although he did not know it himself, he stayed there to pleasehis eye and heart. A new pulse beat triumphantly every time a timber,burned through, fell in, or a crash came from a falling roof. He laughedinwardly as the flames disclosed the dismay on the faces of the Iroquoisand Tories, and it gave him deep satisfaction to see Braxton Wyatt, hisgaudy little sword at his thigh, stalking about helpless. It was whilehe was looking, absorbed in such feelings, that the warrior of the alerteye saw him 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 their snowshoespreparatory to the search through the forest for shelter. Severalbullets were fired, but he was too far away for a good aim. He heard onego zip against a tree, and another cut the surface of the ice near him,but none touched him, and he sped easily on his snowshoes through thefrozen forest. But Henry was fully aware of one thing that constitutedhis greatest danger. Many of these Iroquois had been trained alltheir lives to snowshoes, while he, however powerful and agile, wascomparatively a beginner. He glanced back again and saw their duskyfigures running among the trees, but they did not seem to be gaining. Ifone 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 thepresent it was not needed. He pressed it closely, almost lovingly, tohis side, this best friend of the scout and frontiersman.

  He had chosen his course at the first leap. It was southward, towardthe lake, and he did not make the mistake of diverging from his line,knowing that some part of the wide half circle of his pursuers wouldprofit by it.

  Henry felt a great upward surge. He had been the victor in what hemeant to achieve, and he was sure that he would escape. The cold wind,whistling by, whipped his blood and added new strength to his greatmuscles. His ankles were not chafed or sore, and he sped forward on thesnowshoes, straight and true. Whenever he came to a hill the pursuerswould gain as he went up it, but when he went down the other side itwas he who gained. He passed brooks, creeks, and once a small river,but they were frozen over, many inches deep, and he did not notice them.Again it was a lake a mile wide, but the smooth surface there merelyincreased his speed. Always he kept a wary look ahead for thicketsthrough which 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 prove fatal,the slipping of the thongs on his ankles or the breaking of a runnerwould end his flight, and in a long chase such an accident might happen.It might happen, too, to one or more of the Iroquois, but plenty of themwould be left. Yet Henry had supreme confidence in his snowshoes. He hadmade them himself, he had seen that every part was good, and every thonghad been fastened with care.

  The wind which bad been roaring so loudly at the time of the fire sankto nothing. The leafless trees stood up, the branches unmoving. Theforest was bare and deserted. All the animals, big and little, had goneinto their lairs. Nobody witnessed the great pursuit save pursuers andpursued. Henry kept his direction clear in his mind, and allowed theIroquois to take no advantage of a curve save once. Then he came to athicket so large that he was compelled to make a considerable circle topass it. He turned to the right, hence the Indians on the right gained,and they sent up a yell of delight. He replied defiantly and increasedhis speed.

  But one of the Indians, a flying Mohawk, had come dangerously near-nearenough, in fact, to fire a bullet that did not miss the fugitive much.It aroused Henry's anger. He took it as an indignity rather than adanger, and he resolved to avenge it. So far as firing was concerned, hewas at a disadvantage. He must stop and turn around for his shot, whilethe Iroquois, without even checking speed, could fire straight at theflying target, ahead.

  Nevertheless, he took the chance. He turned deftly on the snowshoes,fired as quick as lightning at the swift Mohawk, saw him fall, thenWhirled and resumed his flight. He had lost ground, but he had inspiredrespect. A single man could not afford to come too near to a marksman sodeadly, and the three or four who led dropped back with the main body.

  Now Henry made his greatest effort. He wished to leave the foe farbehind, to shake off his pursuit entirely. He bounded over the iceand snow with great leaps, and began to gain. Yet he felt at last theeffects of so strenuous a flight. His breath became shorter; despitethe intense cold, perspiration stood upon his face, and the straps thatfastened the snowshoes were chafing his ankles. An end must come even tosuch strength as his. Another backward look, and he saw that the foe wassinking into the darkness. If he could only increase his speed again, hemight leave the Iroquois now. He made a new call upon the will, andthe body responded. For a few minutes his speed became greater. Adisappointed shout arose behind him, and several shots were fired. Butthe bullets fell a hundred yards short, and then, as he passed over alittle hill and into a wood beyond, he was hidden from the sight of hispursuers.

  Henry knew that the Iroquois could trail him over the snow, but theycould not do it at full speed, and he turned sharply off at an angle.Pausing a second or two for fresh breath, he continued on his newcourse, although not so fast as before. He knew that the Iroquois wouldrush straight ahead, and would not discover for two or three minutesthat they were off the trail. It would take them another two or threeminutes to recover, and he would make a gain of at least five minutes.Five minutes had saved the life of many a man on the border.

  How precious those five minutes were! He would take them all. He ranforward some distance, stopped where the trees grew thick, and thenenjoyed the golden five, minute by minute. He had felt that hewas pumping the very lifeblood from his heart. His breath had comepainfully, and the thongs of the snowshoes were chafing his anklesterribly. But those minutes were worth a year. Fresh air poured into hislungs, and the muscles became elastic once more. In so brief a space hehad recreated himself.

  Resuming his flight, he went at a steady pace, resolved not to do hisutmost unless the enemy came in sight. About ten minutes later he hearda cry far behind him, and he believed it to be a signal from some Indianto the others that the trail was found again. But with so much advantagehe felt sure that he was now quite safe. He ran, although at decreasedspeed, for about two hours more, and then he sat down on the upthrustroot of a great oak. Here he depended most upon his ears. The forest wasso silent that he could hear any noise at a great distance, but therewas none. Trusting to his ears to warn him, he would remain there a longtime for a thorough rest. He even dared to take off his snowshoes thathe might rub his sore ankles, but he wrapped his heavy blanket about hisbody, lest he take deep cold in cooling off in such a temperature afterso long a flight.

  He sat enjoying a half hour, golden like the five minutes, and then hesaw, outlined against the bright, moonlit sky, something that told himhe must be on the alert again. It was a single ring of smoke, like thatfrom a cigar, only far greater. It rose steadily, untroubled by winduntil it was dissipated. It meant "attention!" and presently it wasfollowed by a column of such rings, one following another beautifully.The column said: "The foe is near." Henry read the Indian signsperfectly. The rings were made by covering a little fire with a blanketfor a moment and then allowing the smoke to ascend. On clear days suchsignals could be seen a distance of thir
ty miles or more, and he knewthat they were full of significance.

  Evidently the Iroquois party had divided into two or more bands. One hadfound his trail, and was signaling to the other. The party sending upthe smoke might be a half mile away, but the others, although his trailwas yet hidden from them, might be nearer. It was again time for flight.

  He swiftly put on the snowshoes, neglecting no thong or lace, folded theblanket on his back again, and, leaving the friendly root, startedonce more. He ran forward at moderate speed for perhaps a mile, when hesuddenly heard triumphant yells on both right and left. A strong partyof Iroquois were coming up on either side, and luck had enabled them tocatch him in a trap.

  They were so near that they fired upon him, and one bullet nicked hisglove, but he was hopeful that after his long rest he might again stavethem off. He sent back no defiant cry, but, settling into determinedsilence, ran at his utmost speed. The forest here was of large trees,with no undergrowth, and he noticed that the two parties did not join,but kept on as they had come, one on the right and the other on theleft. This fact must have some significance, but he could not fathomit. Neither could he guess whether the Indians were fresh or tired, butapparently they made no effort to come within range of his rifle.

  Presently he made a fresh spurt of speed, the forest opened out, andthen both bands uttered a yell full of ferocity and joy, the kind thatsavages utter only when they see their triumph complete.

  Before, and far below Henry, stretched a vast, white expanse. He hadcome to the lake, but at a point where the cliff rose high like amountain, and steep like a wall. The surface of the lake was so far downthat it was misty white like a cloud. Now he understood the policy ofthe Indian bands in not uniting. They knew that they would soon reachthe lofty cliffs of the lake, and if he turned to either right or leftthere was a band ready to seize him.

  Henry's heart leaped up and then sank lower than ever before in hislife. It seemed that he could not escape from so complete a trap, andBraxton Wyatt was not one who would spare a prisoner. That was perhapsthe bitterest thing of all, to be taken and tortured by Braxton Wyatt.He was there. He could hear his voice in one of the bands, and then thecourage that never failed him burst into fire again.

  The Iroquois were coming toward him, shutting him out from retreatto either right or left, but not yet closing in because of his deadlyrifle. He gave them a single look, put forth his voice in one great cryof defiance, and, rushing toward the edge of the mighty cliff, sprangboldly over.

  As Henry plunged downward he heard behind him a shout of amazement andchagrin poured forth from many Iroquois throats, and, taking a singleglance backward, he caught a glimpse of dusky faces stamped with awe.But the bold youth had not made a leap to destruction. In the passageof a second he had calculated rapidly and well. While the cliff atfirst glance seemed perpendicular, it could not be so. There was a slopecoated with two feet of snow, and swinging far back on the heels ofhis snowshoes, he shot downward like one taking a tremendous slide ona toboggan. Faster and faster he went, but deeper and deeper he dug hisshoes into the snow, until he lay back almost flat against its surface.This checked his speed somewhat, but it was still very great, and,preserving his self-control perfectly, he prayed aloud to kindlyProvidence to save him from some great boulder or abrupt drop.

  The snow from his runners flew in a continuous shower behind him as hedescended. Yet he drew himself compactly together, and held his rifleparallel with his body. Once or twice, as he went over a little ridge,he shot clear of the snow, but he held his body rigid, and the snowbeyond saved him from a severe bruise. Then his speed was increasedagain, and all the time the white surface of the lake below, seen dimlythrough the night and his flight, seemed miles away.

  He might never reach that surface alive, but of one thing lie was sure.None of the Iroquois or Tories had dared to follow. Braxton Wyatt couldhave no triumph over him. He was alone in his great flight. Once aprojection caused him to turn a little to one side. He was in momentarydanger of turning entirely, and then of rolling head over heels likea huge snowball, but with a mighty effort he righted himself, andcontinued the descent on the runners, with the heels plowing into theice and the snow.

  Now that white expanse which had seemed so far away came miles nearer.Presently he would be there. The impossible had become possible, theunattainable was about to be attained. He gave another mighty dig withhis shoes, the last reach of the slope passed behind him, and he shotout on the frozen surface of the lake, bruised and breathless, butwithout a single broken bone.

  The lake was covered with ice a foot thick, and over this lay frozensnow, which stopped Henry forty or fifty yards from the cliff. There helost his balance at last, and fell on his side, where he lay for a fewmoments, 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 good time. Hisdeerskin clothing was much torn, particularly on the back, where he hadleaned upon the ice and snow, but the folded blanket had saved him to aconsiderable extent. One of his shoes was pulled loose, and presently hediscovered that his left ankle was smarting and burning at a great rate.But he did not mind these things at all, so complete was his sense ofvictory. He looked up at the mighty white wall that stretched above himfifteen hundred feet, and he wondered at his own tremendous exploit.The wall ran away for miles, and the Iroquois could not reach him by anyeasier path. He tried to make out figures on the brink looking down athim, but it was too far away, and he saw only a black line.

  He tightened the loose shoe and struck out across the lake. He was faraway from "The Alcove," and he did not intend to go there, lest theIroquois, by chance, come upon his trail and follow it to the refuge.But as it was no more than two miles across the lake at that point, andthe Iroquois would have to make a great curve to reach the other side,he felt perfectly safe. He walked slowly across, conscious all thetime of an increasing pain in his left ankle, which must now be badlyswollen, and he did not stop until he penetrated some distance among lowbills. Here, under an overhanging cliff with thick bushes in front, hefound a partial shelter, which he cleared out yet further. Then withinfinite patience he built a fire with splinters that he cut from deadboughs, hung his blanket in front of it on two sticks that the flamemight not be seen, took off his snowshoes, leggins, and socks, and baredhis ankles. Both were swollen, but the left much more badly than theother. 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 hands andwith snow, until they felt better. Then he replaced his clothing, leanedback against the faithful snowshoes which had saved his life, howevermuch they had hurt his ankles, and gave himself up to the warmth of thefire.

  It was very luxurious, this warmth and this rest, after so long andterrible a flight, and he was conscious of a great relaxation, onewhich, if he yielded to it completely, would make his muscles so stiffand painful that he could not use them. Hence he stretched his arms andlegs many times, rubbed his ankles again, and then, remembering that hehad venison, ate several strips.

  He knew that he had taken a little risk with the fire, but a fire he wasbound to have, and he fed it again until he had a great mass of glowingcoals, although there was no blaze. Then he took down the blanket,wrapped himself in it, and was soon asleep before the fire. He sleptlong and deeply, and although, when he awoke, the day had fully come,the coals were not yet out entirely. He arose, but such a violent painfrom his left ankle shot through him that he abruptly sat down again. Ashe bad feared, it had swollen badly during the night, and he could notwalk.

  In this emergency Henry displayed no petulance, no striving againstunchangeable circumstance. He drew up more wood, which he had stackedagainst the cliff, and put it on the coals. He hung up the blanket oncemore in order that it might hide the fire, stretched out his lame leg,and calmly made a breakfast off the last of his venison. He knew he wasin a plight that might appall the bravest, but he kept himself inhand. It was li
kely that the Iroquois thought him dead, crushed into ashapeless mass by his frightful slide of fifteen hundred feet, and hehad little fear of them, but to be unable to walk and alone in an icywilderness without food was sufficient in itself. He calculated thatit was at least a dozen miles to "The Alcove," and the chances were ahundred to one against any of his comrades wandering his way. He lookedonce more at his swollen left ankle, and he made a close calculation.It would be three days, more likely four, before he could walk upon it.Could he endure hunger that long? He could. He would! Crouched in hisnest with his back to the cliff, he had defense against any enemy inhis rifle and pistol. By faithful watching he might catch sight of somewandering animal, a target for his rifle and then food for his stomach.His wilderness wisdom warned him that there was nothing to do but sitquiet and wait.

  He scarcely moved for hours. As long as he was still his ankle troubledhim but little. The sun came out, silver bright, but it had no warmth.The surface of the lake was shown only by the smoothness of its expanse;the icy covering was the same everywhere over hills and valleys. Acrossthe lake he saw the steep down which he had slid, looming white andlofty. In the distance it looked perpendicular, and, whatever itsterrors, it had, beyond a doubt, saved his life. He glanced down at hisswollen ankle, and, despite his helpless situation, he was thankful thathe had escaped so well.

  About noon he moved enough to throw up the snowbanks higher all aroundhimself in the fashion of an Eskimos house. Then he let the fire dieexcept some coals that gave forth no smoke, stretched the blanket overhis head in the manner of a roof, and once more resumed his quiet andstillness. He was now like a crippled animal in its lair, but he waswarm, and his wound did not hurt him. But hunger began to trouble him.He was young and so powerful that his frame demanded much sustenance.Now it cried aloud its need! He ate two or three handfuls of snow, andfor a few moments it seemed to help him a little, but his hunger sooncame back as strong as ever. Then he tightened his belt and sat in grimsilence, trying to forget that there was any such thing as food.

  The effort of the will was almost a success throughout the afternoon,but before night it failed. He began to have roseate visions of Long Jimtrying venison, wild duck, bear, and buffalo steaks over the coals. Hecould sniff the aroma, so powerful had his imagination become, and,in fancy, his month watered, while its roof was really dry. They weredaylight visions, and he knew it well, but they taunted him and made hispain fiercer. He slid forward a little to the mouth of his shelter, andthrust out his rifle in the hope that he would see some wild creature,no matter what; he felt that he could shoot it at any distance, and thenhe would feast!

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

  He drew back into his lair, and the darkness came down. Despite hishunger, he slept fairly well. In the night a little snow fell at times,but his blanket roof protected him, and he remained dry and warm. Thenew snow was, in a way, a satisfaction, as it completely hid his trailfrom the glance of any wandering Indian. He awoke the next morning toa gray, somber day, with piercing winds from the northwest. He did notfeel the pangs of hunger until he had been awake about a half hour, andthen they came with redoubled force. Moreover, he had become weaker inthe night, and, added to the loss of muscular strength, was a decreasein the power of the will. Hunger was eating away his mental as well ashis physical fiber. He did not face the situation with quite the sameconfidence that he felt the day before. The wilderness looked a littlemore threatening.

  His lips felt as if he were suffering from fever, and his shoulders andback were stiff. But he drew his belt tighter again, and then uncoveredhis left ankle. The swelling had gone down a little, and he could moveit with more freedom than on the day before, but he could not yet walk.Once more he made his grim calculation. In two days he could certainlywalk and hunt game or make a try for "The Alcove," so far as his anklewas concerned, but would hunger overpower him before that time? Gainingstrength in one direction, he was losing it in another.

  Now he began to grow angry with himself. The light inroad that faminemade upon his will was telling. It seemed incredible that he, sopowerful, so skillful, so self reliant, so long used to the wildernessand to every manner of hardship, should be held there in a snowbank bya bruised ankle to die like a crippled rabbit. His comrades could not bemore than ten miles away. He could walk. He would walk! He stood uprightand stepped out into the snow, but pain, so agonizing that he couldscarcely keep from crying out, shot through his whole body, and he sankback into the shelter, sure not to make such an experiment again foranother full day.

  The day passed much like its predecessor, except that he took down theblanket cover of his snow hut and kindled up his fire again, more forthe sake of cheerfulness than for warmth, because he was not sufferingfrom cold. There was a certain life and light about the coals and thebright flame, but the relief did not last long, and by and by he let itgo out. Then be devoted himself to watching the heavens and the surfaceof the snow. Some winter bird, duck or goose, might be flying by, or awandering deer might be passing. He must not lose any such chance. Hewas more than ever a fierce creature of prey, sitting at the mouth ofhis den, the rifle across his knee, his tanned face so thin that thecheek bones showed high and sharp, his eyes bright with fever and thefierce desire for prey, and the long, lean body drawn forward as if itwere about to leap.

  He thought often of dragging himself down to the lake, breaking a holein the ice, and trying to fish, but the idea invariably came only to beabandoned. He had neither hook nor bait. In the afternoon he chewed theedge of his buckskin hunting shirt, but it was too thoroughly tannedand dry. It gave back no sustenance. He abandoned the experiment and laystill for a long time.

  That night he had a slight touch of frenzy, and began to laugh athimself. It was a huge joke! What would Timmendiquas or Thayendanegeathink of him if they knew how he came to his end? They would put himwith old squaws or little children. And how Braxton Wyatt and hislieutenant, the squat Tory, would laugh! That was the bitterest thoughtof all. But the frenzy passed, and he fell into a sleep which was onlya succession of bad dreams. He was running the gauntlet again amongthe Shawnees. Again, kneeling to drink at the clear pool, he saw in thewater the shadow of the triumphant warrior holding the tomahawk abovehim. One after another the most critical periods of his life were livedover again, and then he sank into a deep torpor, from which he did notrouse 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 fatal leftankle. It had improved greatly. He could even stand upon it, but when herose to his feet he felt a singular dizziness. Again, what he had gainedin one way he had lost in another. The earth wavered. The smooth surfaceof the lake seemed to rise swiftly, and then to sink as swiftly. The farslope down which he had shot rose to the height of miles. There was apale tinge, too, over the world. He sank down, not because of his ankle,but because he was afraid his dizzy head would make him fall.

  The power of will slipped away again for a minute or two. He was ashamedof such extraordinary weakness. He looked at one of his hands. It wasthin, like the band of a man wasted with fever, and the blue veins stoodout on the back of it. He could scarcely believe that the hand was hisown. But after the first spasm of weakness was over, the precious willreturned. He could walk. Strength enough to permit him to hobble alonghad returned to 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 the blankettightly about his body, and lay still for a long time. He was preparingboth mind and body for the supreme effort. He knew that everything hungnow on the surviving remnants of his skill and courage.

  Weakened by shock and several days of fasting, he had no great reservenow except the mental, and he used that to the utmost. It was proo
f ofhis youthful greatness that it stood the last test. As he lay there,the final ounce of will and courage came. Strength which was of the mindrather than of the body flowed back into his veins; he felt able to dareand to do; the pale aspect of the world went away, and once more he wasHenry 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 left ankle,despite its great improvement, would not stand the strain. He mustbreak his way through the snow, which was a full three feet in depth.Fortunately the crust had softened somewhat in the last two or threedays, and he did not have a covering of ice to meet.

  He pushed his way for the first time from the lair under the cliff, hisrifle held in his ready hands, in order that he might miss no chance atgame. To an ordinary observer there would have been no such chance atall. It was merely a grim white wilderness that might have been withoutanything living from the beginning. But Henry, the forest runner, knewbetter. Somewhere in the snow were lairs much like the one that he hadleft, and in these lairs were wild animals. To any such wild animal,whether panther or bear, the hunter would now have been a fearsomeobject, with his hollow cheeks, his sunken fiery eyes, and his thin lipsopening now and then, and disclosing the two rows of strong white teeth.

  Henry advanced about a rod, and then he stopped, breathing hard, becauseit was desperate work for one in his condition to break his way throughsnow so deep. But his ankle stood the strain well, and his courageincreased rather than diminished. He was no longer a cripple confinedto one spot. While he stood resting, he noticed a clump of bushes abouthalf a rod to his left, and a hopeful idea came to him.

  He broke his way slowly to the bushes, and then he searched carefullyamong them. The snow was not nearly so thick there, and under thethickest clump, where the shelter was best, he saw a small roundopening. In an instant all his old vigorous life, all the abounding hopewhich was such a strong characteristic of his nature, came back to him.Already he had triumphed over Indians, Tories, the mighty slope, snow,ice, crippling, and starvation.

  He laid the rifle on the snow and took the ramrod in his right hand. Hethrust his left hand into the hole, and when the rabbit leaped for lifefrom his warm nest a smart blow of the ramrod stretched him dead at thefeet of the hunter. Henry picked up the rabbit. It was large and yetfat. Here was food for two meals. In the race between the ankle andstarvation, the ankle had won.

  He did not give way to any unseemly elation. He even felt a momentarysorrow that a life must perish to save his own, because all these wildthings were his kindred now. He returned by the path that he had broken,kindled his fire anew, dexterously skinned and cleaned his rabbit,then cooked it and ate half, although he ate slowly and with intervalsbetween each piece. How delicious it tasted, and how his physical beinglonged to leap upon it and devour it, but the power of the mind wasstill supreme. He knew what was good for himself, and he did it.Everything was done in order and with sobriety. Then he put the rest ofthe rabbit carefully in his food pouch, wrapped the blanket about hisbody, leaned back, and stretched his feet to the coals.

  What an extraordinary change had come over the world in an hour! He hadnot noticed before the great beauty of the lake, the lofty cliffs on thefarther shore, and the forest clothed in white and hanging with icicles.

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

  It was not will now, but actuality, that made him feel the strengthreturning to his frame. He knew that the blood in his veins had begunto sparkle, and that his vitality was rising fast. He could have goneto sleep peacefully, but instead he went forth and hunted again. Heknew that where the rabbit had been, others were likely to be near, andbefore he returned he had secured two more. Both of these he cleaned andcooked at once. When this was done night had come, but he ate again,and then, securing all his treasures about him, fell into the best sleepthat he had enjoyed since his flight.

  He felt very strong the next morning, and he might have started then,but he was prudent. There was still a chance of meeting the Iroquois,and the ankle might not stand so severe a test. He would rest in hisnest for another day, and then he would be equal to anything. Few couldlie a whole day in one place with but little to do and with nothingpassing before the eyes, but it was a part of Henry's wildernesstraining, and he showed all the patience of the forester. He knew,too, as the hours went by, that his strength was rising all the while.To-morrow almost the last soreness would be gone from his ankle andthen he could glide swiftly over the snow, back to his comrades. Hewas content. He had, in fact, a sense of great triumph because he hadovercome so much, and here was new food in this example for futureefforts of the mind, for future victories of the will over the body. Thewintry sun came to the zenith, then passed slowly down the curve, butall the time the boy scarcely stirred. Once there was a flight of smallbirds across the heavens, and he watched them vaguely, but apparently hetook no interest. Toward night he stood up in his recess and flexed andtuned his muscles for a long time, driving out any stiffness that mightcome through long lack of motion. Then he ate and lay down, but he didnot yet sleep.

  The night was clear, and he looked away toward the point where he knew"The Alcove" lay. A good moon was now shining, and stars by the scorewere springing out. Suddenly at a point on that far shore a spark of redlight appeared and twinkled. Most persons would have taken it for somelow star, but Henry knew better. It was fire put there by human hand fora purpose, doubtless a signal, and as he looked a second spark appearedby the first, then a third, then a fourth. He uttered a great sigh ofpleasure. It was his four friends signaling to him somewhere in the vastunknown that they were alive and well, and beckoning him to come. Thelights burned for fifteen or twenty minutes, and then all went outtogether. Henry turned over on his side and fell sound asleep. In themorning he put on his snowshoes and started.