“That’s a good resolution to make, and see to it that you remember it. But all the same, my boy, it isn’t helping us any just now. You’ve got one bullet, and I advise you to hang on to that to the bitter end. Let me do most of the shooting, if it ever comes to it, which I hope it won’t; because I’ve got a belt full of all sorts of shells, from buckshot to Number Sevens. Now, shall we go on again?”
“Sure,” replied Step Hen, cheerfully.
But when he had managed to get his arms through the loops of his bundle, and began to heave it up on his back, he groaned audibly, so that Thad knew full well they would hardly make camp that night, at least not without several rests by the way.
“How far d’ye think it is, Thad?” asked Step Hen a few minutes later, as he dragged along behind the other.
“Well, I can’t just tell,” replied Thad. “It may be only three miles, and then again perhaps it would tally up twice that. We’re going to strike the lake shore by keeping on as we are; but just how far away from camp, gets me. Like as not we can sight their fire, and give the boys a hail that will fetch a canoe for us.”
“Whee! wish that blessed canoe was here right now,” murmured poor Step Hen.
“You’re pretty near at the end of your rope, ain’t you?” asked Thad.
“That’s right, I acknowledge the corn, Thad. I never was so dead tired in all my life. But I’ve still got the grit to keep along as far as I c’n put one foot in front of the other.”
“Good for you; we’ll try it a little further, and see,” Thad went on.
He was chuckling to himself even while he spoke; for he knew full well that, although it pleased the tenderfoot to call it “grit,” in truth it was fear of those lurking, howling wolves that was driving Step Hen to making these astonishing efforts. After all there is absolutely nothing like fear to make a laggard run like a Marathon sprinter. It has even effected cures in people supposed to be paralyzed, as Thad remembered reading not a great while before.