But his chapter of misfortunes had not yet reached its climax. That came when he stepped into the trap Joe had set. There was a click, and of a sudden Harry felt something press his dry ankle as if the member was in a vise.
“Oh! oh!” he yelled. “Let go! Oh!”
But the trap did not let go, and, dropping his gun, the young pioneer clutched at the grip and the chain, and tried to force the former open.
But Joe had calculated that that grip should “stay put” if once it caught hold of anything, and the more Harry tried to release himself the tighter the trap seemed to fasten on his ankle, until the pressure became positively painful.
“What in the world am I to do now?” thought the youth, and gazed at the trap in dismay.
The trap was a “long” one—that is, the end of the release chain was out of Harry’s reach, so that unfastening himself by such means was out of the question.
“I’m as much of a prisoner as if I was a wild animal,” thought the young pioneer. “I’ll have to remain here until Joe or somebody else comes along to set me free.”
The snow now covered the ground to the depth of over an inch, and came down more thickly than ever. Poor Harry’s feet were almost frozen, one on account of the wet, and the other because of being clutched in the trap. He stamped the wet foot vigorously, but even this helped him little.
“If I have to stay here all night, I’ll die,” he thought, and his heart sank within him.
Half an hour went by. He tugged, twisted, and pried on the trap, but all to no purpose. Then he imagined he heard the howl of a wolf in the distance, and he saw a lean fox come out into a clearing, and gaze wonderingly at him.