His
training during the winter in holding a line of march helped him now to
maintain his course steadily in one direction. The temperature was still
dropping rapidly. Over the woods hung a dead stillness, except for the
lonely call of an occasional crow or for the scream of the impudent
whiskey-jack. But soon even these became silent. As he surmounted each
hill top Cameron took his bearings afresh and anxiously scanned the sky
for weather signs. In spite of himself there crept over him a sense of
foreboding, which he impatiently tried to shake off.
"I can't be so very far from camp now," he said to himself, looking at
his watch. "It is just four. There are three good hours till dark."
A little to the west of his line of march stood a high hill which
appeared to dominate the surrounding country and on its top a lofty
pine. "I'll just shin up that tree," said he. "I ought to get a sight
of the Bow from the top." In a few minutes he had reached the top of
the hill, but even in those minutes the atmosphere had thickened. "Jove,
it's getting dark!" he exclaimed. "It can't be near sundown yet. Did I
make a mistake in the time?" He looked at his watch again. It showed a
quarter after four. "I must get a look at this country." Hurriedly
he threw off his jacket and proceeded to climb the big pine, which,
fortunately, was limbed to the ground.
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