“Leave him where he is. I reckon the wolves will take care of him. I am not going to bother myself on his account.”
“I hope the tornado didn’t overtake father and his party,” went on Dave. “It’s a wonder we weren’t killed.”
“Yes, we can certainly be thankful,—not only because we escaped from the windstorm, but for escaping from that Indian.”
The wind had swept the snow into great drifts or ridges, and they knew they would have to make wide detours in order to escape the worst of these piles. They kicked out the fire, picked up their traps and the blanket of the dead Indian, and set out.
It was a hard, exhausting journey, and they often stopped to rest. On their way they saw in the distance a small deer, stalled in a snowdrift, and Henry could not resist the temptation to fire. The deer leaped into the air, threw up a flurry of snow, and then disappeared from view.
“There’s something to take to the fort!” cried the young hunter.
“It will be all we can carry,” observed Dave.
“What! you wouldn’t leave a deer behind, would you?” questioned Henry, reproachfully.
“Oh, no.”
With care they worked their way around to where the deer had disappeared in the snow. To do this they had to cross a hollow, where they sank up to their waists.