I managed to clamber out of the hole, suffering extreme torture all the while. I had not the slightest idea of direction; in fact I seemed to be lost. At any rate I climbed the hill, went down the other side and then climbed another, where I sat down on a rock.
It was very, very quiet up there. Finally a dog came along. I tried to be friendly, but it slunk away at my whistle. Then another one came; and another. I said to myself—
“Pettingill, there must be kennels near here.”
From a distant butte, against the pale light of the moon, I saw several more, and then came a wailing howl. From near me came a blood-curdling answer. I said to myself—
“Pettingill, those ‘dogs’ are wolves!” The realization was painful. I really believe I grew homesick. In all that waste I could not see a tree. I peered around. Ah! On a not too distant ridge stood a tree.
I stood erect, grasped my gun, and hurried up the slope, spurred onward by the howls of at least a million savage throats. Perhaps it was undignified, but I ran; actually ran. Luckily the branches grew low, and I was able, suffering as I was, to climb into the sanctuary of those thick branches. I breathed a sigh of relief, and exclaimed aloud—
“Thank Heaven for this tree!”
And from above me came—
“Pettingill, it is fortunate that you spoke, as I was about to pistol you.”
“Middleton!” I gasped. “You here in this tree?”