That night the Mohawk village feasted again. Relieved by the ending of the storm and the restoration of Conrad, the squaws forgot the alarming emptiness of each family cache.
The snow thawed little by little. When a crust formed, it was not thick enough to bear the weight of the hunters. Food grew more scarce and the usual two meals a day dwindled to one. Another heavy snow made hunting impossible. More sullen grew the warriors, more angry the squaws, more miserable the little children.
After the second great snow a crust formed and Quagnant started at once into the forest, taking Conrad with him. The two crossed the hill which lay toward the west and followed the next valley to the north. It was bitterly cold; insufficiently clad and weak from lack of food, Conrad trudged along, his heart heavy, his mind dull. To him now the new country was a trap in which all the Germans would be finally lost. Quagnant did not speak except to give sullen orders. At nightfall the two camped supperless and without shelter. There was now no warming of a bed, since the wood lay deep under the snow.
When the two took up their weary journey, it seemed to Conrad that Quagnant tried deliberately to court death. He climbed another western hill, and his voice became more gruff. Was it possible that he meant to lead Conrad far away and desert him? Then there would be one less mouth in the Indian village.
The sun was high when they came to the top of the hill. Another valley lay before them with a swift, dark stream flowing through its center. Another hill rose opposite. Conrad wondered drearily whether his numb feet must climb that also.
"I wish that the end would come soon," said he bitterly. "I wish—"
Walking heedlessly as he had walked on the Schenectady meadow, Conrad came with a thump into the same obstacle. Before him Quagnant had stopped rigid. Terrified, Conrad looked up. Quagnant was staring down into the valley, where along the stream beside a deep pool a small herd of deer nibbled the green laurel leaves. They were almost motionless and they were within easy shot.
Quagnant pulled the trigger and a deer dropped. His comrades lifted their heads, but before they could dash away in terror another fell. The flight of the remainder soon ended. Before them the stream plunged over a precipice; on both sides the icy walls rose steeply. A third and a fourth fell before Quagnant's accurate shots. There was a glow on his dark cheeks, a fire in his black eyes. He took a step to one side and pulled the trigger again.
Then, in spite of the silence to which he had been trained, Quagnant gave a fierce yell. He had gone a little too near the edge of the steep slope. His feet slipped as the gun recoiled and he slid, making frantic efforts to regain his footing.
But his efforts were vain. With increasing speed he coasted down the hillside, his course leading straight toward the rocky wall which dropped abruptly for at least fifty feet. It was as though an insect should slip down the side of a cup with sure drowning in the bottom. Then, near the brink of the pool, a bush caught the pack on his shoulders and held him suspended.