“B’ar meat!” yelled Barringford.—Page 180.
“B’ar meat!” yelled Barringford, and ran forward, drawing his hunting knife. Watching his chance he drove the knife into the wounded beast’s throat, and soon the game breathed its last.
The wind was now blowing a regular gale, causing the tree boughs to snap and crack in all directions. Try their best they could scarcely locate themselves, for every part of the trail had been obliterated.
“We are lost in the snow!” exclaimed Dave blankly. “And the storm is growing worse every minute!”
“We must make some sort o’ shelter, Dave,” returned the frontiersman. And then he added: “It’s a rare good thing we shot the b’ar. It may save our lives.”
“You mean for food?”
“Exactly. Come with me, and ketch holt.”
Dragging the game between them, they pushed forward until they reached the shelter of some rocks. Here were several clumps of bushes and some tall timber, and they lost no time in starting up a fire, for the temperature had fallen greatly, so that both were in danger of freezing to death. With a hatchet they cut a quantity of firewood, and made a lean-to against the tallest of the rocks. They worked hard, and this helped to keep up the circulation of their blood.
Hour after hour went by, and the storm showed no signs of abating. Barringford skinned the bear, and the pelt was hung upon the boughs of the lean-to to keep off a portion of the wind. In the hollow the snow was damp and could be packed, and this they used to build a sort of house, of snow, boughs, and bearskin combined. It was by no means a comfortable dwelling but it was far better than nothing. The fire was close by, and gave them not only warmth, but also a good deal of smoke, when the wind chanced to veer around, as it often did.