Finally he picked it up again, but when he moved back toward the wagon it disappeared. He seemed to be in a more open country now, although it was difficult to tell just what the place did look like.
He stumbled back to the wagon and deliberated on his next move. He managed to light a match, which showed him that he was still on the road; so he led the team at right-angles, clearing the road and tied them to a jackpine.
Taking his rifle he went back to where he could see the tiny light, and struck boldly across country toward it.
And he found the going very bad indeed. He could not see the ground, and, after he had picked himself up for the fifth time, he declared aloud that it was surely the rocky road to Dublin. His shoulder and his many bruises ached and he was chilled from the rain.
But he kept the light in sight, in spite of the underbrush, logs and rocks, which tripped and bruised him. He lost his rifle and had a difficult time finding it.
At times the rain descended in such torrents that the light was obliterated, but he stood still until it slackened. He was used to the rain now. Every muscle and joint in his body ached, but he gritted his teeth and laughed loudly at the misery within him.
Finally he reached the light, or close to it, and stopped. To all appearances it was a lantern, which was seemingly suspended in the air. He was standing in a little thicket of jackpines within possibly six feet of the light.
As his eyes became more accustomed to it, he seemed to catch a faint glow of the light against rocks.
"Looks like it was against a hill," he reflected, as the downpour slackened for a moment. "That lantern is hangin' in a break in the hill."
