"To-morrow," he said softly, "I will do the rest."
He was growing very hungry, but he did not touch the flour. For six
hours he slept, and then drank his fill of hot tea.
"We will travel until day, Jan Thoreau," he informed himself, "and
then, if nothing turns up, we will build our last camp, and eat the
flour. It will be the last of us, for there will be no meat above this
snow for days."
His snow-shoes were an impediment now, and he left them behind, along
with one of his two blankets, which had grown to be like lead upon his
shoulders. He counted his cartridges--ten of them. One of these he
fired into the air.
Was that an echo he heard?
A sudden thrill shot through him. He strained his ears to catch a
repetition of the sound. In a moment it came again--clearly no echo
this time.
"Ledoq!" he cried aloud.
He fired again.
Back to him came the distant, splitting crack of a rifle. He forced
his way toward it. After a little he heard the signal again, much
nearer than before, and he fired in response. A few hundred yards
farther on he came to a low mountain ridge, and lifted his voice in a
loud shout. A shot came from just over the mountain.
Waist deep in the light snow he began the ascent, dragging himself up
by the tops of the slender saplings, stopping every few yards to half-
stretch himself out in the soft mass through which he was struggling,
panting with exhaustion.
Pages:
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202