So he started again across the woods. The ground grew more broken and rocky. Creeks flowed down rocky gullies; almost impassable swamps alternated with boulder-strewn hillsides. Once he came upon the “discovery-post” of an ancient mining claim. What mineral had been sought he did not know, but a great pit had been dug, the grave of somebody’s hopes, long since deserted, and showing no trace of recent life.
Half a dozen times during that forenoon he dropped to rest, quite worn out. Noon did not mean dinner-time. His sickness had not recurred, but he was afraid to eat much of his uncooked hare, and only chewed morsels as he stumbled along. So far as shooting any more game was concerned, luck seemed still against him, and he did not greatly care.
The sun wheeled from his shoulder to straight ahead, and began to sink. He almost lost expectation of getting anywhere at all. Roswick and the mining-camp seemed a myth. There seemed to be nothing in the whole world but the endless miles of spruce and jack-pine, swamp and rock, which he kept doggedly struggling through.
He was too wearied even to keep up his anger against McLeod, or to think with any interest of the timber treasure. It was all a dulled memory. It was only the force of a past determination that kept driving him ahead.
The sun went down almost without his noticing it, until the woods began to grow dark. He threw himself recklessly on the ground where he happened to be. Probably he could survive that night, but he felt sure that another one would be his last. But he was so bone-weary that he slept with merciful soundness, hardly even disturbed by the cold, till he awoke to find the earth once more powdered with the frost.
He arose stiffly, feeling rheumatic twinges, and plodded forward once more. The weight of the light rifle was growing intolerable. He was mortally afraid lest he should begin to walk in the deadly circle of lost men, and he kept one eye on the sun. His mind was so confused that its changing position disconcerted him sadly.
Then all at once a sound electrified him—a crashing through the undergrowth not many rods ahead. It sounded as if several men were going through at a run. Tom made a staggering rush forward, shouting loudly. In five minutes he heard running water, and then broke out upon the shore of a small river. On the shore opposite him he saw the marks of many heavy boots, but no one was in sight.
Again and again he shouted, but no one answered. He could only guess that a party of hunters had gone past after a deer or a bear. Shaking with exhaustion and excitement, he sat down on a rock to listen and wait.
After he had waited half an hour a boat shot up the stream, poled rapidly by four roughly dressed white men. They ran the boat ashore close to him, pitched out a collection of picks, shovels, and dunnage, and were about to rush away when Tom arose and shouted to them.
They turned and stared, spoke together hastily, and seemed about to go on. But Tom’s forlorn appearance must have struck them, for one of the men came forward hurriedly.