Even to a skilled hunter and trapper like him, this was no easy task. It meant at least a week’s journey through almost impassable swamps and undergrowth, with frogs, raw fish, roots, and berries for food.
How that half-breed, unconscious that the mills of God had ground him the grist he deserved, fought his way through this pathless wilderness; how he ate mice and frogs to sustain his worthless life; how he cursed McGuire as the original cause of his wretched plight and Martin’s party as aids; and how many times he swore he would kill every one of them, needs no description.
He lived to reach his hut on the Fox Hole, and from that moment on, this wilderness held an implacable enemy of McGuire’s, sworn to kill him, first of all.
CHAPTER XIII
“The biggest fool is the man that thinks he knows it all.” –Old Cy Walker.
For two weeks the little party at Birch Camp first watched and then began to enjoy themselves once more. September had come, the first tint of autumn colored every patch of hardwood, a mellow haze softened the outline of each green-clad hill and mountain, the sun rose red and sailed an unclouded course each day, and gentle breezes rippled the lake. The forest, the sky, the air and earth, all seemed in harmonious mood, and the one discordant note, fear of this half-breed, slowly vanished.
Chip resumed her hour of study each day; a little fishing and hunting was indulged in by Martin and the two officers; wild ducks, partridges, deer, and trout supplied their table; each evening all gathered about the open fire in Martin’s new cabin, and while the older people chatted, Ray took his banjo or whispered with Chip.
These two, quite unguessed by Angie, had become almost lovers, and as it was understood Chip was to be taken to Greenvale, all that wonder-world, to her, had been described by Ray many times. He also outlined many little plans for sleigh-rides, skating on the mill-pond, and dances which he and she were to enjoy together.
His own future and livelihood were a little hazy to him. These matters do not impress a youth of eighteen; but of one thing he felt sure,–that Chip with her rosy face and black eyes, always tender to him, was to be his future companion in all pleasures. It was love among the spruce trees, a summer idyl made tender by the dangers interrupting it, and hidden from all eyes except Old Cy’s, who was these young friends’ favorite.