He mused mumblingly—half deliriously: “Even God will not help me. He would not, if he could. He has laid down inflexible laws for the government of the universe; he will not alter them to accommodate the individual. But I’ll not despair—I _will_ not! I will overcome all obstacles; I will cheat fate. The snow has concealed all signs of our encounter with the Winnebagoes; has covered our trail. Bradford and his braves will never find me. On the morrow I’ll procure food; then I shall be stronger. I’ll work my way eastward, by easy stages. Now I’ll lie down and try to snatch a few hours of natural sleep. Oh! This terrific cough and pain! And my head!” He piled more dry wood upon the fire, and stretched himself upon the ground. Duke nestled at his back and helped to keep him warm. The red blaze crackled cheerily; the smoke and sparks ascended in gyrating columns. The wounded man lay and watched them until his eyelids closed. When he awoke it was broad daylight. The fire had burned down; only a few gray embers and charred bits of wood marked its place. Duke, with bristles erect, was sitting by his master’s side, growling mutteringly—warningly. It was this sound that had awakened the sleeper. Ross rubbed his eyes and sought to arise. But his limbs were as lead; his blood was as ice. He stirred; and a thousand needles pricked his flesh. By great effort he sat erect. His head gave him keenest torture; his eyes threatened to drop from their sockets. His sight was dim. Strange noises rang in his ears. He tried to take a deep breath; but the pain in his chest caused him to moan aloud. His heart was thumping tumultuously. Thor’s hammer was beating in his brain. Again the bloodhound uttered a hoarse, rumbling growl; and this time, sprang to his feet and advanced a step or two from his master’s side. “Someone or something is approaching,” was Douglas’s mental comment. Then aloud: “Watch them, Duke—but do not leave me!” But the dog had no intention of deserting his charge. Rigidly erect, menace and defiance in his attitude, he stood his ground. Ross listened intently, and thought he heard stealthy footsteps beyond the fringe of bushes that shut him in. But, through the interstices in the brush and brambles, he could see no one. Once more the hound growled, and more sharply than before. Then Douglas caught the patter of moccasined feet upon the snow-covered leaves, and the buzz of whispered words. A moment later the bushes parted and a painted Shawnee peeped into the glade. Duke’s bristles quivered; his wicked eyes blazed. Revealing a double row of ivory fangs, he snarled savagely and crouched for a spring. Excitement lent strength to Douglas’s limbs. In some way—he never knew how—he got upon his feet and flung his heavy gun to his shoulder. With a grunt of surprise and terror, the Indian instantly withdrew his painted visage. Ross sank in a heap upon the ground, whispering brokenly: