He had reached the other side of the swamp when his ears caught suddenly a high-pitched, mournful howl, ending in a sort of yelp, sounding indefinitely far away, yet clearly heard through the tense air. He knew well what it was. The pack had struck a trail—possibly his own, possibly that of a deer. He would very soon learn which.
Thrilling with excitement, he walked on slowly, turning his head to listen. Again and again he caught the hunting chorus of the wolf pack, far away, but still perceptibly nearer. He was just then in the midst of a tangled stretch of second-growth timber, and he hurried on to reach more open ground. As soon as he felt convinced that the pack was following him he intended to turn back toward the river.
He kept moving on, however, and at last came to the river before he expected it. He was still more than a mile above the point where the ambush was to be set, and he paused on the shore and hearkened. Far away through the moonlit woods he heard the savage, triumphant yell, much nearer now—so much so that he felt that he might as well make for the ambush at once. He felt suddenly alone and in peril; he longed earnestly to see his companions.
He started down the river at a swinging trot, still listening over his shoulder, when the ice suddenly gave way under his feet, and he went down with so swift a plunge that he had time for only a shuddering gasp.
He had stepped on an airhole lightly crusted over with snow. He went down to his neck without touching bottom, and the black water surged up to his face. It was the gun that saved him; it caught across the hole, and he clung to it fiercely. As the current fortunately was not rapid, he was able to draw himself up and out upon the ice.
But he found himself unable to extricate his feet. The long-tailed snowshoes had gone down point foremost, and now were crossed under the ice, and refused to come up. He dared not cut them loose, for in the deep snow he would have been helpless. Growing fainter at every moment, he struggled in the deadly chill of the water for four or five minutes before at last he succeeded in bringing them up end first, as they had gone down.
When he staggered back stiffly upon the snow the very life seemed withdrawn from his bones. His heavy clothing had frozen into a coat of mail almost as hard as iron plate. There was no sensation left in his limbs, and he trembled with a numb shuddering.
Long forest training told him what must be done. He must have a fire at once. He would have to find a dry birch tree, or a splintered pine that would light easily.
His benumbed brain clung to this idea, and he began to stumble toward shore, his snowshoes sheets of ice, and his clothes rattling as he went. But with a hunter's instinct he stuck to his gun, tucking it under his icy arm.
He could see no birch tree, and the bank was bordered with an impenetrable growth of alders. He dragged himself up the river, and each step seemed to require a more and more intolerable exertion.