Free Over the Misty Mountains by Gilbert Morris Page B

bite it. It was a test, and he knew that the Indians had the ability to hold such a position for hours. His legs grew cramped, and once he almost cried out with the pain of a knotty swelling in his calf, but he gritted his teeth together and thought, If an Indian can do it, I can do it!
    Finally he was rewarded for his patience. A tiny sound came, and he shifted his eyes slightly, catching a flash of movement. A buck stepped out of the thickness of the forest, his head held high, and his eyes looking constantly, searching the whiteness around him. Josh remained absolutely still. The rifle was cocked, and his finger was on the trigger. His left hand held the barrel, and though he had lost all feeling in that hand, he knew that he would have only one shot. He could not, for a moment, decide whether to slowly move the musket into position or to raise the rifle with one snap movement and get the shot off. He chose the latter, and even as the rifle rose he saw the buck whirl. Judging accurately the direction of the leap of the animal, he pulled the trigger. The shot knocked the deer down, but the animal jumped up at once and disappeared in the corridor of snow-covered trees.
    Josh ran quickly and gave a sigh of relief when he saw the bright red trail of blood in the snow. “Hit hard,” he murmured, feeling his blood pumping through his veins and his heart beating faster. Josh began to move through the snow at a steady pace, trotting, and after half a mile his breathing had hardly increased. Getting tougher , he thought. My legs are gettin’ stronger every day .
    He saw the body of the deer lying in a clump of cedars up ahead, and he smiled with satisfaction, advancing carefully. One of his friends had rushed in on a buck that had leaped to his feet in his dying throes and cut the man to pieces with his razor-sharp hooves and antlers. But this one was dead, so Josh quickly pulled out his skinning knife and began to butcher the animal. He was not as good at this part of hunting. Carefully he removed the skin, and then cut off a quarter. He kept the liver also, which was a favorite of his. He made his way back to where the horse was tied. “I’m gonna fix up a good supper, Rusty. You can’t enjoy a good steak, but I’ll feed you the rest of the oats.”
    It was a feast, for there was nothing Josh liked better than deer liver. He made a stew and also put a huge chunk of the fresh meat on a forked stick. The savory smell as it sizzled above the fire made his stomach growl. Finally when it was done, he gorged on the meal. He tore off chunks of the steak with his strong teeth, and when he could hold no more, he leaned back against a tree and said, “Now all I want to do is lie down and sleep.”
    The next morning he fried up another piece of the steak and moved ahead, glancing up at the sun. The sky overhead was blue, and there was no sign of snow. An hour later he sighted some small animals bouncing from tree to tree, and he thought, Squirrels! I could do with a little squirrel stew . He tied the horse, patted him on the rump, and said, “See if you can find some dried grass under that snow, Rusty.” Leaving the animal tethered, he moved underneath a canopy of towering evergreens. Overhead, the thick branches kept the snow from falling to the earth so that only an inch or two crunched beneath his feet. It was still bitter cold, and as he moved forward a sudden thought came to him, one that he had had before. There might be Indians in this part of the woods .
    He had not gone fifty feet before he stepped into a hole that was covered over with a layer of snow. He fell awkwardly, twisting to hold his musket clear. Even as he was falling he caught a glimpse of movement to the side. Fear ran through him, for whatever it was stood only a few feet away. He cried aloud and brought the musket to bear, but even as he did, he was struck in the face by a stream of the vilest-smelling liquid he had ever encountered.
    Skunk!
    Gagging and