And then his lids slid down; and in his dreams he continued to watch the red and yellow flames rise and fall, creep up, bring down, and mount again. He dreamed that he did not sleep, but lay and watched the fire crown the shattered stump and gnaw a dozen passages into its hollow heart. That was all of his dream. It was no more than a picture, as far as progress and action were concerned. It seemed to him that he lay deep in the dry moss, on his right side, with his eyes wide open. So, for a few minutes—and then the fire died down suddenly to blackness—so suddenly that he sat bolt upright, and uttered a cry of dismay.
It had been a dream. Rayton had dreamed the long night away, thinking himself awake; and now the cheerless gray of a November dawn was sifting through the forest. The fire was a patch of dead ashes. The air was bitterly cold. Rayton felt stiff and sore. His hands and feet were like ice. As he sank back upon his right elbow, a sharp pain stabbed him in the side. He groaned pitifully.
"This is worse than the bullet wound," he muttered. "And this is all my own fault for going to sleep."
His shoulder, fortunately, neither bled nor pained him. The blood in the pad of moss was dry. The arm was stiff, owing largely to the grip of the elastic suspenders and the bandages; but that was only to be expected. This hot pain in the side, however, leaping inward with every breath and movement, told him of a serious danger.
"I'll just warm myself a bit, and then get out," he said. "I must get out, this time!"
He managed to heap up an armful of moss and twigs, and set it alight. He crawled close to the quick flames, almost embracing the mound of smoke and fire. Little sparks flew out, and fell upon his heavy, frosted clothing, scorched for a little while, and then blinked to nothingness, unheeded. He piled on more fuel, and fairly breathed the heat into his lungs.
A shout rang strongly and hopefully through the silent forest. Rayton sat up weakly, and gazed around him. The light was dim, and he saw nothing but the soaring trees and crowding underbrush. He tried to shout—but his voice was no more than a whisper. He tried again, with desperate effort, and groaned with the hot agony that stabbed his lungs. He put more dry fuel on the fire, for here was a signal more sure to guide help to him than any outcry. Not content with this, however, he crawled to his gun, inserted a loaded cartridge, and discharged it into the ground; then crawled close to the fire again, lay prone, and made no struggle against waves of flashing color and gigantic sound that flowed over him, trampling him down, down fathoms deep.
When Rayton returned to the surface of that mighty tide, he discovered his head to be supported by a human shoulder and arm. A flask, gripped by a big, familiar hand, was against his lips. On the other side of the fire stood Dick Goodine, gazing across at him with haggard eyes. Among the trees, the daylight was stronger, and held a hint of sunshine. He sighed, and parted his lips, and the potent liquor from the tilting flask trickled down his throat and glowed within him.
"Thanks, you chaps," he muttered. "I'm mighty glad you found me."
"Drink some more," said Banks tenderly. "You feel like a block of ice. Swig away, there's a good fellow. Better be drunk than dead!"