The Wilderness Trail

by Francis William Sullivan

All day he worked at this, so planning that evening should find the task uncompleted, as an excuse for Michael to leave the equipment over night.

As fortune would have it, snow began to fall shortly before sundown, and McTavish was robbed of the stars for guidance once he should be free. But the heavy, swirling curtain of flakes made his work inside the fort much easier. At dinner-time, the wind had risen, and the storm outside was of such fury that only the hardiest Indian or trapper would have ventured out in it. This gave the captive some concern, but he realized that he must either go now, or else lose his opportunity.

As was his custom, Michael sat up smoking with a few cronies in a near-by room until about ten o'clock. Then, he let his friends out of the corridor, and securely fastened the door behind them with lock and bolt. After that, he looked into McTavish's room, to find the Scotchman almost ready for bed. With his customary respectful good-night, he shut and locked the door, and shuffled on to his own quarters.

Immediately, now, Donald dressed himself quickly, and then put out the lamp, which had made a square glow on the snow outside. Presently, the light in Michael's room, also, went out. McTavish, crossing the floor noiselessly in his moccasins, sat down in his chair, and smoked his new pipe, for the better part of an hour. By that time, a gentle buzzing, varied with wheezes and whines, attested that Michael was asleep.

Forthwith, Donald stepped cautiously to the window. He was fully acquainted with its peculiarities; he had studied them all day. It was one of those squares of wood and glass set into a frame without any means of opening either by lifting or swinging. To escape, he would have to push the window bodily from its frame.

But then what? The bars were outside, and not two inches away.

Following a plan already matured, he took a block of wood from the box beside the little, pot-bellied iron stove. This he wrapped in a blanket, and used as a battering ram, at first gently, but, presently, with more force, since the noise of the storm without almost negatived any other sound. Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Each corner of the window, in turn, moved an eighth of an inch from its long resting-place, with many groans and snappings of wood and ice. But, resolutely, he kept to the work, stopping every now and then to listen and make sure that Michael was still breathing heavily.

At last, the window was at the edge of its deep casement, and Donald now devoted his entire attention to the lower corners. Tapping them gently, he got them gradually to swing off the frame, and the blast came rushing in. The window now appeared as though swung from hinges at the top. McTavish pushed it until it came to rest against the iron bars outside. There was an inch and a half of space beneath the outswung frame.

Then, the prisoner changed his tools. Going to the stove, he returned with the poker, and the end of this he set firmly against the last bar to the right. A quick, mighty effort, and the sawed iron snapped noiselessly, and bent outward and upward. One after another, he gave the remaining four the same treatment. Eventually, they all stood out six inches from their almost imperceptible stumps.

Now, to get rid of the window. Donald resorted once again to his muffled block of wood, and tapped at the top until the frame dropped silently off into the snow. To bend the bars back so as to allow his exit was now an easy matter, and soon accomplished. With his snowshoes in his hands, he wriggled head first through the square opening, and landed easily on the heaped snow.