He advanced until
the smoke line became much thicker and broader, and then he
stopped in the densest clump of bushes that he could find. He
meant to remain there until darkness came, because, with all
foliage gone from the forest, it would be impossible to examine
the hostile camp by day. The bushes, despite the lack of leaves,
were so dense that they hid him well, and, breaking through the
crust of ice, he dug a hole. Then, having taken off his
snowshoes and wrapped his blanket about his body, he thrust
himself into the hole exactly like a rabbit in its burrow. He
laid his shoes on the crust of ice beside him. Of course, if
found there by a large party of warriors on snowshoes he would
have no chance to flee, but he was willing to take what seemed to
him a small risk. The dark would not be long in coming, and it
was snug and warm in the hole. As he sat, his head rose just
above the surrounding ice, but his rifle barrel rose much higher.
He ate a little venison for supper, and the weariness in the
ankles that comes from long traveling on snowshoes disappeared.
He could not see outside the bushes, but he listened with those
uncommonly keen ears of his.
Pages:
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373