CHAPTER III.

THE FIRST SNOWSTORM.

IN the midst of the danger and excitement of the chase, Bowkett had not a thought to spare for Wilfred. He and Diomé were far too busy to even wonder what had become of him. It was not until their work was done, and the proverbial hunger of the hunter urged them to prepare for dinner, that the question arose.

"Where on earth is that young scoundrel of a boy? Has he fallen back so far that it will take him all day to recover ground?" asked Bowkett.

"And if it is so," remarked Diomé, "he has only to give that cunning little brute its head. It is safe to follow the track of the cart-wheel, and bring him in for the glorious teasing that is waiting to sugar his tea."

"Rare seasoning for the frying-pan," retorted Bowkett, as he lit his pipe, and proposed to halt a bit longer until the truant turned up.

"Maybe," suggested Diomé, "if May bees fly in October, that moose-eared pony [the long ears of the moose detect the faintest sound at an inconceivable distance] has been more than a match for his raw equestrianism. It has heard the jog-trot of that solemn and sober cowherd, and galloped him off to join his old companions. What will become of the scattered flock?"

"Without a leader," put in Bowkett. "I have a great mind to bid for the office."

"Oh, oh!" laughed Diomé. "I have something of the keen scent of my Indian grandfather; I began to sniff the wind when that mantle was talked about last night. Now then, are we going to track back to find this boy?"

"I do not know where you propose to look for him, but I can tell you where you will find him—munching cakes on his auntie's lap. We may as well save time by looking in the likeliest place first," retorted Bowkett.

The bivouac over, they returned to Acland's Hut with their well-laden cart, and Wilfred was left behind them, no one knew where. The hunters' careless conclusions were roughly shaken, when they saw a riderless pony trotting leisurely after them to the well-known door. Old Pête came out and caught it by the bridle. An ever-rising wave of consternation was spreading. No one as yet had put it into words, until Forgill emerged from the cattle-sheds with a sack on his shoulder, exclaiming, "Where's the boy?"

"With you, is not he? He did not say much to us; either he or his pony started off to follow you. He was an unruly one, you know," replied Bowkett. Forgill's only answer was a hoarse shout to Marley, who had returned from his wanderings earlier in the day, to come with torches. Diomé joined them in the search.

Bowkett stepped into the house to allay Aunt Miriam's fears with his regret the boy had somehow given them the slip, but Forgill and Diomé had gone back for him.

An abundant and what seemed to them a luxuriant supper had been provided for the hunting party. Whilst Bowkett sat down to enjoy it to his heart's content, Aunt Miriam wandered restlessly from room to room, cautiously breaking the ill news to her brother, by telling him only half the hunting party had yet turned up. Pête was watching for the stragglers.

He roused himself up to ask her who was missing.

But her guarded reply reassured him, and he settled back to sleep. Such mishaps were of every-day occurrence.

"A cold night for camping out," he murmured. "You will see them with the daylight."

But the chilly hour which precedes the dawn brought with it a heavy fall of snow.

Aunt Miriam's heart sank like lead, for she knew that every track would be obliterated now. Bowkett still laughed away her fears. Find the boy they would, benumbed perhaps at the foot of a tree, or huddled up in some sheltering hollow.

Then Aunt Miriam asked Bowkett if he would earn her everlasting gratitude, by taking the dogs and Pête, with skins and blankets—

"And bringing the truant home," responded Bowkett boastfully.

The farm-house, with its double doors and windows, its glowing stoves in every room, was as warm and cozy within as the night without was cheerless and cold. Bowkett, who had been enjoying his taste of true English comfort, felt its allurements enhanced by the force of the contrast. Aunt Miriam barred the door behind him with a great deal of unearned gratitude in her heart. Her confidence in Forgill was shaken. He ought not to have brought home the cows and left her nephew behind. Yet the herd was so valuable, and he felt himself responsible to his master for their well-being. She did not blame Forgill; she blamed herself for letting Wilfred go with him. She leaned upon the hunter's assurances, for she knew that his resource and daring, and his knowledge of the country, were far greater than that possessed by either of the farming men.

The storm which had burst at daybreak had shrouded all around in a dense white sheet of driving snowflakes. Even objects close at hand showed dim and indistinct in the gray snow-light. On the search-party went, groping their way through little clumps of stunted bushes, which frequently deceived them by a fancied resemblance to a boyish figure, now throwing up its arms to call attention, now huddled in a darkling heap. Their shouts received no answer: that went for little. The boy must long ago have succumbed to such a night without fire or shelter They felt among the bushes. The wet mass of snow struck icily cold on hands and faces. A bitter, biting wind swept down the river from the north-east, breaking the tall pine branches and uprooting many a sapling. The two search-parties found each other that was all. Such weather in itself makes many a man feel savage-tempered and sullen. If they spoke at all, it was to blame one another.

While thus they wandered to and fro over the hunting-ground of yesterday, where was the boy they failed to meet? Where was Wilfred? Fortunately for him the grass grew thick and tall at the bottom of the bank down which he had fallen. Lost to view amid the waving yellow tufts which had sprung up to giant size in the bed of the dried-up stream, he lay for some time in utter unconsciousness; whilst the frightened pony, finding itself free, galloped madly away over the sandy ridges they had been crossing earlier in the morning.

By slow degrees sight and sound returned to the luckless boy. He was bruised and shaken, and one ankle which he had bent under him made him cry out with pain when he tried to rise. At last he drew himself into a sitting posture and looked around. Recollections came back confusedly at first. As his ideas grew clearer, he began to realize what had happened. Overhead the sky was gloomy and dark. A stormy wind swept the whitened grass around him into billowy waves. Wilfred's first thought was to shout to his companions; but his voice was weak and faint, and a longing for a little water overcame him.

Finding himself unable to walk, he dropped down again in the grassy nest which he had formed for himself, and tried to think. The weight of his fall had crushed the grass beneath him into the soft clayey mud at the bottom of the valley. But the pain in his ankle predominated over every other consideration. His first attempt to help himself was to take the knife out of his belt and cut down some of the grass within reach, and make a softer bed on which to rest it. His limbs were stiffening with the cold, and whilst he had still feeling enough in his fingers to undo his boot, he determined to try to bind up his ankle. Whilst he held it pressed between both his hands it seemed easier.

But Wilfred knew he must not sit there waiting for Forgill, who, he felt sure, would come and look for him if he had rejoined the hunting party: if—there were so many
ifs
clinging to every thought Wilfred grew desperate. He grasped a great handful of the sticky clay and pressed it round his ankle in a stiff, firm band. There was a change in the atmosphere. In the morning that clay would have been hard and crisp with the frost, now it was yielding in his hand; surely the snow was coming. Boy as he was, he knew what that would do for him—he should be buried beneath it in the hole in which he lay. It roused him to the uttermost. Deep down in Wilfred's nature there was a vein of that cool daring which the great Napoleon called "two o'clock in the morning courage"—a feeling which rises highest in the face of danger, borrowing little from its surroundings, and holding only to its own.

"If," repeated Wilfred, as his thoughts ran on—"if they could not find me, and that is likely enough, am I going to lie here and die?"

He looked up straight into the leaden sky. "There is nothing between us and God's heaven," he thought. "It is we who see such a little way. He can send me help. It may be coming for what I know, one way or another. What is the use of sitting here thinking? Has Bowkett missed me? Will he turn back to look me up? Will Forgill come? If I fall asleep down in this grass, how could they see me? Any way, I must get out of this hole." He tore the lining out of his cap and knotted it round his ankle, to keep the clay in place; but to put his boot on again was an impossibility. Even he knew his toes would freeze before morning if he left them uncovered. He took his knife and cut off the fur edge down the front of the old skin coat, and wound his foot up in it as fast as he could. Then, dragging his boot along with him, he tried hard to crawl up the bank; but it was too steep for him, and he slipped back again, hurting himself a little more at every slide.

This, he told himself, was most unnecessary, as he was sore enough and stiff enough before. Another bad beginning. What was the use of stopping short at a bad beginning? He thought of Bruce and his spider. He had not tried seven times yet.

Wilfred's next attempt was to crawl towards the entrance of the valley—this was easier work. Then he remembered the biscuit in his pocket. It was not all gone yet. He drew himself up and began to eat it gladly enough, for he had had nothing since his breakfast. The biscuit was very hard, and he crunched it, making all the noise he could. It seemed a relief to make any sort of sound in that awful stillness.

He was growing almost cheery as he ate. "If I can only find the cart-track," he thought; "and I must be near it. Diomé was behind us when I was thrown; he must have driven past the end of this valley. If I could only climb a tree, I might see where the grass was crushed by the cart-wheel."

But this was just what Wilfred could not do. The last piece of biscuit was in his hand, when a dog leaped out of the bushes on the bank above him and flew at it. Wilfred seized his boot to defend himself; but that was hopeless work, crawling on the ground. It was a better thought to fling the biscuit to the dog, for if he enraged it—ah! it might tear him to pieces. It caught the welcome boon in its teeth, and devoured it, pawing the ground impatiently for more. Wilfred had but one potato left. He began to cut it in slices and toss them to the dog. A bright thought had struck him: this dog might have a master near. No doubt about that; and if he were only a wild Red Indian, he was yet a man. Full of this idea, Wilfred emptied out his pockets to see if a corner of biscuit was left at the bottom. There were plenty of crumbs. He forgot his own hunger, and held out his hand to the dog. It was evidently starving. It sat down before him, wagging its bushy tail and moving its jaws beseechingly, in a mute appeal for food. Wilfred drew himself a little nearer, talking and coaxing. One sweep of the big tongue and the pile of crumbs had vanished.

There was a sound—a crashing, falling sound—in the distance. How they both listened! Off rushed the furry stranger.

"It is my chance," thought Wilfred, "my only chance."

He picked up the half-eaten potato and scrambled after the dog, quite forgetting his pain in his desperation. A vociferous barking in the distance urged him on.

It was not Bowkett, by the strange dog; but another hunting party might be near. The noise he had heard was the fall of some big game. Hope rose high; but he soon found himself obliged to rest, and then he shouted with all his might. He was making his way up the valley now. He saw before him a clump of willows, whose drooping boughs must have lapped the stream. His boot was too precious to be left behind; he slung it to his belt, and then crawled on. One more effort. He had caught the nearest bough, and, by its help, he drew himself upright. Oh the pain in the poor foot when he let it touch the ground! it made him cry out again and again. Still he persisted in his purpose. He grasped a stronger stem arching higher overhead, and swung himself clear from the ground. The pliant willow swayed hither and thither in the stormy blast. Wilfred almost lost his hold. The evening shadows were gathering fast. The dead leaves swept down upon him with every gust. The wind wailed and sighed amongst the tall white grass and the bulrushes at his feet. It was impossible to resist a feeling of utter desolation.

Wilfred shut his eyes upon the dreary scene. The snatch of prayer on his lips brought back the bold spirit of an hour ago. He rested the poor injured ankle on his other foot, and drew himself up, hand over hand, higher and higher, to the topmost bough, and there he clung, until a stronger blast than ever flung him backwards towards the bank. He felt the bough giving way beneath his weight, and, with a desperate spring, clutched at the stunted bushes which had scratched his cheek when for one moment, in the toss of the gale, he had touched the hard, firm, stony ridge. Another moment, and Wilfred found himself, gasping and breathless, on the higher ground. An uprooted tree came down with a shock of thunder, shaking the earth beneath him, loosening the water-washed stones, and crashing among the decaying branches of its fellow pines.

At last the whirl of dust and stones subsided, and the barking of the dog made itself heard once more above the roar of the gale. Trembling at his hair-breadth escape, Wilfred cleared the dust from his eyes and looked about him. A dark form was lying upon the shelving ground. He could just distinguish the outstretched limbs and branching antlers of a wild moose-deer.

Whoever the hunter might be he would seek his quarry. Wilfred felt himself saved. The tears swam before his eyes. He was looking upward in the intensity of his thankfulness. He did not see the arrow quivering still in the dead deer's flank, or he would have known that it could only have flown from some Indian bow.

He had nothing to do but to wait, to wait and shout. A warm touch on the tip of his ear made him look round; the dog had returned to him. It, too, had been struck—a similar arrow was sticking in the back of its neck. It twisted its head round as far as it was possible, vainly trying to reach it, and then looked at Wilfred with a mute, appealing glance there was no mistaking. The boy sat up, laid one hand on the dog's back, and grasped the arrow with the other. He tugged at it with all his might; the point was deep in the flesh. But it came out at last, followed by a gush of blood.

"Stand still, good dog. There, quiet, quiet!" cried Wilfred quickly, as he tore a bit of fur off his cap and plugged the hole.

The poor wounded fellow seemed to understand all about it. He only turned his head and licked the little bit of Wilfred's face that was just visible under his overwhelming cap. A doggie's gratitude is never wanting.

"Don't, you stupid," said Wilfred. "How am I to see what I am about if you keep washing me between my eyes? There! just what I expected, it is out again. Now, steady."

Another try, and the plug was in again, firmer than before.

"There, there! lie down, and let me hold it a bit," continued Wilfred, carefully considering his shaggy acquaintance.

He was a big, handsome fellow, with clean, strong legs and a hairy coat, which hung about his keen, bright eyes and almost concealed them. But the fur was worn and chafed around his neck and across his back, leaving no doubt in Wilfred's mind as to what he was.

"You have been driven in a sledge, old boy," he said, as he continued to fondle him. "You've worn harness until it has torn your coat and made it shabbier than mine. You are no hunter's dog, as I hoped. I expect you have been overdriven, lashed along until you dropped down in the traces; and then your hard-hearted driver undid your harness, and left you to live or die. Oh! I know their cruel ways. How long have you been wandering? It isn't in nature that I shouldn't feel for you, for I am afraid, old fellow, I am in for such another 'do.'"

Wilfred was not talking to deaf ears. The dog lay down beside him, and stretched its long paws across his knee, looking up in his face, as if a word of kindness were something so new, so unimagined, so utterly incomprehensible. Was it the first he had ever heard?

No sunset glory brightened the dreary scene. All around them was an ever-deepening gloom. Wilfred renewed his shouts at intervals, and the dog barked as if in answer. Then followed a long silent pause, when Wilfred listened as if his whole soul were in his ears. Was there the faintest echo of a sound? Who could distinguish in the teeth of the gale, still tearing away the yellow leaves from the storm-tossed branches, and scaring the wild fowl from marsh and lakelet? Who could tell? And yet there was a shadow thrown across the white pine stem.

Another desperate shout. Wilfred's heart was in his mouth as he strove to make himself heard above the roar of the wind. On came the stately figure of a wild Cree chief. His bow was in his hand, but he was glancing upwards at the stormy sky. His stealthy movements and his light and noiseless tread had been unheard, even by the dog.

The Indian was wearing the usual dress of the Cree—a coat of skin with a scarlet belt, and, as the night was cold, his raven elf-locks were covered with a little cap his squaw had manufactured from a rat-skin. His blue cloth leggings and beautiful embroidered moccasins were not so conspicuous in the fading light. Wilfred could but notice the fingerless deer-skin mittens covering the hand which grasped his bow. His knife and axe were stuck in his belt, from which his well-filled quiver hung.

Wilfred tumbled himself on to one knee, and holding out the arrow he had extracted from the dog, he pointed to the dead game on the bank.

Wilfred was more truly afraid of the wild-looking creature before him than he would have been of the living moose.