Chapter XVIII. Henry's Slide

The Scouts of the Valley

by Joseph A. Altsheler

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

In truth, although he did not know it himself, he stayed there
to please his 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 laughed inwardly as the flames disclosed the dismay
on the faces of the Iroquois and Tories, and it gave him deep
satisfaction to see Braxton Wyatt, his gaudy little sword at his
thigh, stalking about helpless. It was while he was looking,
absorbed in such feelings, that the warrior of the alert eye saw him
and gave the warning shout.

Henry turned in an instant, and darted away among the trees,
half running, half sliding over the smooth, icy covering of the snow.
After him came warriors and some Tories who had put on their
snowshoes preparatory to the search through the forest for shelter.
Several bullets were fired, but he was too far away for a good aim.
He heard one go 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 the frozen forest. But Henry was fully aware of
one thing that constituted his greatest danger. Many of these
Iroquois had been trained all their lives to snowshoes, while he,
however powerful and agile, was comparatively a beginner. He glanced
back again and saw their dusky figures running among the trees, but
they did not seem to be 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.
He pressed it closely, almost lovingly, to his side, this best
friend 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 diverging from
his line, knowing that some part of the wide half circle of his
pursuers would profit by it.

Henry felt a great upward surge. He had been the victor in what
he meant to achieve, and he was sure that he would escape. The cold
wind, whistling by, whipped his blood and added new strength to his
great muscles. His ankles were not chafed or sore, and he sped
forward on the snowshoes, straight and true. Whenever he came to a
hill the pursuers would gain as he went up it, but when he went down
the other side it was 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 merely increased his speed. Always he kept a
wary look ahead for thickets through which he could not pass easily,
and once he sent back a shout of defiance, 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 runner would 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 them would be left. Yet Henry had supreme
confidence in his snowshoes. He had made them himself, he had seen
that every part was good, and every thong had been fastened with
care.

The wind which bad been roaring so loudly at the time of the
fire sank to nothing. The leafless trees stood up, the branches
unmoving. The forest was bare and deserted. All the animals, big
and little, had gone into their lairs. Nobody witnessed the great
pursuit save pursuers and pursued. Henry kept his direction clear in
his mind, and allowed the Iroquois to take no advantage of a curve
save once. Then he came to a thicket so large that he was compelled
to make a considerable circle to pass 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 increased his speed.

But one of the Indians, a flying Mohawk, had come dangerously
near-near enough, 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 a danger, and he resolved to avenge it. So far as firing
was concerned, he was at a disadvantage. He must stop and turn
around for his shot, while the Iroquois, without even checking speed,
could fire straight at the flying 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, then Whirled and resumed his flight. He had lost ground, but
he had inspired respect. A single man could not afford to come too
near to a marksman so deadly, 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
far behind, to shake off his pursuit entirely. He bounded over the
ice and snow with great leaps, and began to gain. Yet he felt at
last the effects of so strenuous a flight. His breath became
shorter; despite the intense cold, perspiration stood upon his face,
and the straps that fastened the snowshoes were chafing his ankles.
An end must come even to such strength as his. Another backward look,
and he saw that the foe was sinking into the darkness. If he could
only increase his speed again, be might leave the Iroquois now. He
made a new call upon the will, and the body responded. For a few
minutes his speed became greater. A disappointed shout arose behind
him, and several shots 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, but
they could 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
new course, although not so fast as before. He knew that the
Iroquois would rush straight ahead, and would not discover for two or
three minutes that they were off the trail. It would take them
another two or three minutes 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 ran forward some distance, stopped where the trees grew thick, and
then enjoyed the golden five, minute by minute. He had felt that he
was pumping the very lifeblood from his heart. His breath had come
painfully, and the thongs of the snowshoes were chafing his ankles
terribly. But those minutes were worth a year. Fresh air poured
into his lungs, and the muscles became elastic once more. In so
brief a space be had recreated himself.

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

He sat enjoying a half hour, golden like the five minutes, and
then he saw, outlined against the bright, moonlit sky, something that
told him he must be on the alert again. It was a single ring of
smoke, like that from a cigar, only far greater. It rose steadily,
untroubled by wind until it was dissipated. It meant "attention!"
and presently it was followed by a column of such rings, one
following another beautifully. The column said: " The foe is near."
Henry read the Indian signs perfectly. The rings were made by
covering a little fire with a blanket for a moment and then allowing
the smoke to ascend. On clear days such signals could be seen a
distance of thirty miles or more, and he knew 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. The party
sending up the smoke might be a half mile away, but the others,
although his trail was 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 the blanket on his back again, and, leaving the friendly root,
started once more. He ran forward at moderate speed for perhaps a
mile, when he suddenly heard triumphant yells on both right and left.
A strong party of Iroquois were coming up on either side, and luck
had enabled them to catch him in a trap.

They were so near that they fired upon him, and one bullet
nicked his glove, but he was hopeful that after his long rest he
might again stave them off. He sent back no defiant cry, but,
settling into determined silence, 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 the left. This fact must have some
significance, but he could not fathom it. Neither could he guess
whether the Indians were fresh or tired, but apparently they made no
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, the kind
that savages utter only when they see their triumph complete.

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

Henry's heart leaped up and then sank lower than ever before in
his life. It seemed that he could not escape from so complete a
trap, and Braxton Wyatt was not one who would spare a prisoner. That
was perhaps the 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 the courage that never failed him burst into fire
again.

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

As Henry plunged downward he heard behind him a shout of
amazement and chagrin poured forth from many Iroquois throats, and,
taking a single glance backward, he caught a glimpse of dusky faces
stamped with awe. But the bold youth had not made a leap to
destruction. In the passage of a second he had calculated rapidly
and well. While the cliff at first glance seemed perpendicular, it
could not be so. There was a slope coated with two feet of snow, and
swinging far back on the heels of his snowshoes, he shot downward
like one taking a tremendous slide on a toboggan. Faster and faster
he went, but deeper and deeper he dug his shoes 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 kindly Providence to save
him from some great boulder or abrupt drop.

The snow from his runners flew in a continuous shower behind him
as he descended. Yet he drew himself compactly together, and held
his rifle parallel 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 snow beyond saved him from a severe bruise. Then his speed
was increased again, and all the time the white surface of the lake
below, seen dimly through 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 could have no triumph over him. He was alone in his
great flight. Once a projection caused him to turn a little to one
side. He was in momentary danger of turning entirely, and then of
rolling head over heels like a huge snowball, but with a mighty
effort he righted himself, and continued the descent on the runners,
with the heels plowing into the ice 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, the unattainable was about to be attained. He gave another
mighty dig with his shoes, the last reach of the slope passed behind
him, and he shot out on the frozen surface of the lake, bruised and
breathless, but without a single broken bone.

The lake was covered with ice a foot thick, and over this lay
frozen snow, which stopped Henry forty or fifty yards from the cliff.
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
suffered nothing save some bruises, that would heal in their own good
time. His deerskin clothing was much torn, particularly on the back,
where he had leaned upon the ice and snow, but the folded blanket had
saved him to a considerable extent. One of his shoes was pulled
loose, and presently he discovered 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 of victory. He looked up at the
mighty white wall that stretched above him fifteen hundred feet, and
he wondered at his own tremendous exploit. The wall ran away for
miles, and the Iroquois could not reach him by any easier path. He
tried to make out figures on the brink looking down at him, 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 far away from "The Alcove," and he did not intend to go there,
lest the Iroquois, 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, and the Iroquois would have to make a great curve to
reach the other side, he felt perfectly safe. He walked slowly
across, conscious all the time of an increasing pain in his left
ankle, which must now be badly swollen, and he did not stop until he
penetrated some distance among low bills. Here, under an overhanging
cliff with thick bushes in front, he found a partial shelter, which
he cleared out yet further. Then with infinite patience he built a
fire with splinters that he cut from dead boughs, hung his blanket in
front of it on two sticks that the flame might not be seen, took off
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 hands and with snow,
until they felt better. Then he replaced his clothing, leaned back
against the faithful snowshoes which had saved his life, however much
they had hurt his ankles, and gave himself up to the warmth of the
fire.

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

He knew that he had taken a little risk with the fire, but a
fire he was bound to have, and he fed it again until he had a great
mass of glowing coals, although there was no blaze. Then he took
down the blanket, wrapped himself in it, and was soon asleep before
the fire. He slept long 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 pain from his left ankle shot through him that he
abruptly sat down again. As he bad feared, it had swollen badly
during the night, and he could not walk.

In this emergency Henry displayed no petulance, no striving
against unchangeable circumstance. He drew up more wood, which he
had stacked against the cliff, and put it on the coals. He hung up
the blanket once more 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 be was in a plight that might appall the
bravest, but be kept himself in hand. It was likely that the
Iroquois thought him dead, crushed into a shapeless mass by his
frightful slide of fifteen hundred feet, and he had little fear of
them, but to be unable to walk and alone 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 comrades wandering his way. He looked once 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 his
nest with his back to the cliff, he had defense against any enemy in
his rifle and pistol. By faithful watching he might catch sight of
some wandering animal, a target for his rifle and then food for his
stomach. His wilderness wisdom warned him that there was nothing to
do but sit quiet and wait.

He scarcely moved for hours. As long as he was still his ankle
troubled him 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. Across the lake he saw the steep down which he had
slid, looming white and lofty. In the distance it looked
perpendicular, and, whatever its terrors, it had, beyond a doubt,
saved his life. He glanced down at his swollen ankle, and, despite
his helpless situation, he was thankful that he had escaped so
well.

About noon he moved enough to throw up the snowbanks higher all
around himself in the fashion of an Eskimos house. Then he let the
fire die except some coals that gave forth no smoke, stretched the
blanket over his head in the manner of a roof, and once more resumed
his quiet and stillness. He was now like a crippled animal in its
lair, but he was warm, 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, and for a few moments it seemed to help
him a little, but his hunger soon came back as strong as ever. Then
he tightened his belt and sat in grim silence, 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 Jim trying venison, wild duck, bear, and buffalo
steaks over the coals. He could sniff the aroma, so powerful had his
imagination become, and, in fancy, his month watered, while its roof
was really dry. They were daylight visions, and he knew it well, but
they taunted him and made his pain fiercer. He slid forward a little
to the mouth of his shelter, and thrust out his rifle in the hope
that be would see some wild creature, no matter what; he felt that be
could shoot it at any distance, and then he would feast!

He saw nothing living, either on earth or in the air, only
motionless white, 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
his hunger, 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. The new snow was, in a way, a satisfaction, as it completely
hid his trail from the glance of any wandering Indian. He awoke
the next morning to a gray, somber day, with piercing winds from the
northwest. He did not feel the pangs of hunger until he had been
awake about a half hour, and then they came with redoubled force.
Moreover, he bad become weaker in the night, and, added to the loss
of muscular strength, was a decrease in the power of the will.
Hunger was eating away his mental as well as his physical fiber. He
did not face the situation with quite the same confidence that he
felt the day before. The wilderness looked a little more
threatening.

His lips felt as if he were suffering from fever, and his
shoulders and back were stiff. But he drew his belt tighter again,
and then uncovered his left ankle. The swelling had gone down a
little, and he could move it 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 certainly walk and hunt game or
make a try for "The Alcove," so far as his ankle was concerned, 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 that
famine made upon his will was telling. It seemed incredible that he,
so powerful, so skillful, so self reliant, so long used to the
wilderness and to every manner of hardship, should be held there in a
snowbank by a bruised ankle to die like a crippled rabbit. His
comrades could not be more than ten miles away. He could walk. He
would walk! He stood upright and stepped out into the snow, but
pain, so agonizing that he could scarcely keep from crying out, shot
through his whole body, and he sank back into the shelter, sure not
to make such an experiment again for another full day.

The day passed much like its predecessor, except that he took
down the blanket cover of his snow hut and kindled up his fire again,
more for the sake of cheerfulness than for warmth, because he was not
suffering from cold. There was a certain life and light about the
coals and the bright flame, but the relief did not last long, and by
and by he let it go out. Then be devoted himself to watching the
heavens and the surface of the snow. Some winter bird, duck or goose,
might be flying by, or a wandering deer might be passing. He must
not lose any such chance. He was more than ever a fierce creature of
prey, sitting at the mouth of his den, the rifle across his knee, his
tanned face so thin that the cheek bones showed high and sharp, his
eyes bright 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
a hole in the ice, and trying to fish, but the idea invariably came
only to be abandoned. He had neither hook nor bait. In the
afternoon he chewed the edge of his buckskin hunting shirt, but it
was too thoroughly tanned and dry. It gave back no sustenance. He
abandoned the experiment and lay still for a long time.

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

Henry was conscious that he was very weak, but he seemed to have
regained much of his lost will. He looked once more at the fatal
left ankle. It had improved greatly. He could even stand upon it,
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. The earth
wavered. The smooth surface of the lake seemed to rise swiftly, and
then to sink as swiftly. The far slope down which he 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, 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 ashamed of such extraordinary weakness. He looked at one of his
hands. It was thin, like the band of a man wasted with fever, and
the blue veins stood out on the back of it. He could scarcely
believe that the hand was his own. But after the first spasm of
weakness was over, the precious will returned. He could walk.
Strength enough to permit him to hobble along had returned to the
ankle at last, and mind must control the rest of his nervous system,
however weakened it might be. He must seek food.

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

Weakened by shock and several days of fasting, he had no great
reserve now except the mental, and he used that to the utmost. It was
proof of his 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 mind rather than of the body flowed back into his veins;
he felt able to dare and to do; the pale aspect 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 his
shoulders. He looked at the snowshoes, but decided that his left
ankle, despite its great improvement, would not stand the strain. He
must break his way through the snow, which was a full three feet in
depth. Fortunately the crust had softened somewhat in the last two
or three days, 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, his rifle held in his ready hands, in order that he might miss
no chance at game. To an ordinary observer there would have been no
such chance at all. It was merely a grim white wilderness that might
have been without anything living from the beginning. But Henry, the
forest runner, knew better. Somewhere in the snow were lairs much
like the one that he had left, and in these lairs were wild animals.
To any such wild animal, whether panther or bear, the hunter would
now have been a fearsome object, with his hollow cheeks, his sunken
fiery eyes, and his thin lips opening now and then, and disclosing
the two rows of strong white teeth.

Henry advanced about a rod, and then he stopped, breathing hard,
because it was desperate work for one in his condition to break his
way through snow so deep. But his ankle stood the strain well, and
his courage increased rather than diminished. He was no longer a
cripple confined to one spot. While be stood resting, he noticed a
clump of bushes about half a rod to his left, and a hopeful idea came
to him.

He broke his way slowly to the bushes, and then he searched
carefully among them. The snow was not nearly so thick there, and
under the thickest clump, where the shelter was best, he saw a small
round opening. In an instant all his old vigorous life, all the
abounding hope which 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. He thrust his left hand into the hole, and when the rabbit
leaped for life from his warm nest a smart blow of the ramrod
stretched him dead at the feet of the hunter. Henry picked up the
rabbit. It was large and yet fat. Here was food for two meals. In
the race between the ankle and starvation, the ankle had won.

He did not give way to any unseemly elation. He even felt a
momentary sorrow that a life must perish to save his own, because all
these wild things 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 intervals between each piece. How delicious it tasted, and how
his physical being longed to leap upon it and devour it, but the
power of the mind was still 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 of the rabbit carefully in his food
pouch, wrapped the blanket about his body, leaned back, and stretched
his feet to the 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 lofty
cliffs on the farther 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
strength returning to his frame. He knew that the blood in his veins
had begun to sparkle, and that his vitality was rising fast. He
could have gone to sleep peacefully, but instead he went forth and
hunted again. He knew that where the rabbit had been, others were
likely to be near, and before he returned he had secured two more.
Both of these he cleaned and cooked 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 sleep that 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 his nest for another day, and then he would be equal to
anything. Few could lie a whole day in one place with but little to
do and with nothing passing before the eyes, but it was a part of
Henry's wilderness training, 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 and then he could glide swiftly over the snow,
back to his comrades. He was content. He had, in fact, a sense of
great triumph because he had overcome so much, and here was new food
in this example for future efforts of the mind, for future victories
of the will over the body. The wintry sun came to the zenith, then
passed slowly down the curve, but all the time the boy scarcely
stirred. Once there was a flight of small birds across the heavens,
and he watched them vaguely, but apparently he took no interest.
Toward night he stood up in his recess and flexed and tuned his
muscles for a long time, driving out any stiffness that might come
through long lack of motion. Then he ate and lay down, but he did
not 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 score were springing out. Suddenly at a point on that far shore
a spark of red light appeared and twinkled. Most persons would have
taken it for some low star, but Henry knew better. It was fire put
there by human hand for a purpose, doubtless a signal, and as he
looked a second spark appeared by the first, then a third, then a
fourth. He uttered a great sigh of pleasure. It was his four
friends signaling to him somewhere in the vast unknown that they were
alive and well, and beckoning him to come. The lights burned for
fifteen or twenty minutes, and then all went out together. Henry
turned over on his side and fell sound asleep. In the morning he put
on his snowshoes and started.