Tom was, in fact, so empty and exhausted2 that he turned sick and dizzy, as much with wrath3 as with weakness, when he realized the treacherous4 trick Harrison had played. But after all no great harm was done, except that Harrison was away now with a long start on his plan—whatever that was—to get possession of the walnut5 timber.
Charlie meanwhile had at once begun to put bacon to toast and the pot to boil, which he had previously6 refrained from doing so as not to waken Tom. Tom was so hungry that he could have eaten the food raw. In fact he did chew a scrap7 of raw pork while he waited for the rest to cook; but after he had consumed an enormous breakfast of bacon, hard bread, and tea he felt much better, and his spirits rose.
Getting into the canoe, they paddled down to the narrows. There was no sign of Harrison about the place, but Tom thought he saw tracks that had not been made by himself. He pointed8 out the half-buried logs to the Indian boy, and explained that they were valuable stuff.
“Worth thousands of dollars—more than ten times all your fur catch,” he said. “Those other men want to get it—want to run us off. We mustn’t let them have it.”
The wild boy nodded, and looked at Tom with a sudden spark in his black eyes.
“Sure—they try to burn us off,” he said. “I see him—that red-hair man. He light fire. I see him—too late. I think mebbe I shoot him; then I think better not. I come an’ git stuff from our camp—look for you everywhere almost.”
“Well, I thought all along that McLeod had started that fire,” said Tom. “But I’m glad you didn’t shoot him. But how we’re going to hold the fort here I don’t know. It’ll take a lot of men, money, teams, to get this timber out. Maybe I’d better send you down to Oakley to get a telegram off to my father.”
Charlie had no idea what a telegram was. He shook his head.
“I stay here. I fight um,” he said.
“You see, this land doesn’t belong to me,” Tom went on, half absently going over the argument he had mentally rehearsed so often. “I haven’t any real rights here, I suppose. But no more has Harrison. This place belongs to Uncle Phil, or maybe one of the boys. Here they are, Charlie.”
And Tom took from his pocket the photograph of the group of himself and his cousins which he had shown to McLeod.
Charlie looked at it with great interest and grinned as he recognized the central figure.
“That-um you, Tom,” he said, pointing. Then, indicating one of the others, “Who that man?”
“That’s my cousin Dave.”
“I know him,” Charlie announced, gazing hard.
“No, I guess not,” Tom replied.
“Sure!” Charlie insisted. “I see him this spring. He work in mine camp, ’way up Wawista, what you call Blackfish River.”
“You don’t mean to say you saw Cousin Dave there? When?” burst out Tom.
“Sure I see him. I stop there for grub. I talk to him. He ask me if any prospectors10 up where I trap. Just ’fore I come out—two, three days ’fore I see you, mebbe.”
Tom gave an almost hysterical11 yell of laughter.
“Good gracious! To think you had the clue to the puzzle all the while. Charlie, I’ve got to go and bring him quick. Is it far?”
“I go git him,” Charlie offered.
Tom thought for a moment. He would prefer to stay himself, but Charlie could hardly explain the situation; he feared to commit it to writing. Besides, when he came to think of it, he had no writing materials. No, he would have to go himself, and he sought directions from the Indian.
With intense deliberation, Charlie explained that he had seen Dave at a small settlement where there was a mine. Its name was something like Roswick, and it was only two, three days by canoe. It was an easy road to find, with only one long portage. He could not say whether Dave was still there, of course; but the camp must have been just opening for the spring, and it was hardly likely that he would have left so soon.
“You go up this leetle river,” Charlie explained, “mebbe half-day, mebbe day, up to big carry place by long rapid. Make long portage then. Bad trail over portage—hard to find. But then you hit Wawista River, and you go up him, and then up Fish River, and come to Roswick, mebbe two, three days. I go quicker’n you.”
“I dare say you would,” said Tom, digesting this knowledge. “But if you help me to hit the long portage I’ll go alone. You stay here, and keep Harrison from getting away with this timber.”
“Yes, I lay for him,” said the Ojibway. “Hope he come back. He git good dose buck-shot next time.”
“No, don’t kill anybody!” Tom cried; but the Indian looked at him reproachfully.
“How I keep um off if I no shoot um?”
“Well, I don’t know,” Tom admitted. “But if Dave’s where you left him I ought to be back before those other fellows turn up again.”
Tom made his preparations to start without delay. He was to take Charlie’s canoe, and he laid out a due proportion of food—pork, tea, sugar, flour—enough to last him two or three days. Charlie stirred up a large pan of flapjack and baked it—enough for one day at any rate. Long before noon they were ready to start, and Charlie accompanied him as far as the “long portage” to make sure that he should not miss the spot.
The smoke had dissipated; the sky was clearing, and the sun showed a tendency to come out. The first half-mile of the route up the little river lay between burned and charred13 thickets15, and then the fire limit ceased. The stream was low, and several times they had to get out or make a short carry, and it was afternoon when they reached the point where Charlie said he should strike across country to the Wawista. They stopped here to make tea; then Charlie indicated the direction once more and without a word of farewell faded away into the thickets, starting back to the treasure he was to guard.
Two miles due north was the direction, and Charlie said there was an old blazed trail, “hard to find.” He would have to make two trips, once with his pack and once with the canoe. The pack was not very heavy, not more than fifty pounds, and Tom shouldered it and set off with a light heart.
The blazed trail was indeed hard to find, and Tom lost it almost immediately. He did not concern himself much, however, for he knew that if he kept due north he could not fail to hit the river eventually. But fifty pounds on the shoulders means much, over rough ground, and he did not have a regular tump-line. Hard trained as he was, he had to sit down several times and rest. He gasped16, in fact, and the sweat burst out in streams; but he kept on and finally broke through a dense17 belt of willows19 and saw the Wawista, a broad, slow stream winding20 away toward the west.
He cached his pack in the low fork of a tree, and went back leisurely21 for his canoe. This was an even more awkward load to transport. Its length concealed22 the ground ahead; it tangled23 itself with the underbrush; two or three times he tripped and fell with the canoe on top of him. He lost his own back trail, and had to drive straight ahead, so that at last he came out on the river a quarter of a mile from the spot where he had left his dunnage.
He secured it, however, and sat down for a final rest before beginning the canoe voyage. It was growing late in the afternoon. The sun shone clearly and warmly now. Not a breath stirred the leaves, fresh and green from the recent rain, and the river flowed with a peaceful murmur24. But a feeling of uneasiness came suddenly upon the boy, as if he was under the eyes of some enemy.
It was so strong that he stood up and peered about, rifle in hand. But nothing stirred in the forest, except two noisy whiskey-jacks that discovered him at that moment. It was an attack of nerves, he told himself; but he could not resist a strong inclination25 to be off immediately.
He piled his dunnage into the canoe and started down the river. A last glance over his shoulder showed the shore deserted26; yet the vaguely27 uneasy feeling pursued him down the stream. He found himself continually glancing back without intending it. The sudden splash of a rising duck made him start violently; but he saw no larger living thing, and as he rounded every curve there was nothing behind nor ahead but the empty stretch of water between the wooded shores.
The voyage down the river was easy. The current ran smooth and strong. There were no portages, and he made good speed even without much hard paddling; yet he had not yet reached the junction28 with the Fish River when sunset came on. Charlie had said that he should make it that night, but he had lost time on the long portage.
Selecting an open bit of shore, he landed and drew the canoe out of the water. It was a fine, warm night and he did not think it necessary to build a shelter; he merely built fire enough to boil tea, and he ate his lunch of hard bread and cold fried bacon which he had brought with him. For some time he sat by the blaze, reluctant to lie down. Once more he felt uneasily suspicious; but at last he rolled the blanket around his body and stretched out to sleep.
Several times he dozed29 lightly, awaking with a nervous start. Clear starlight was overhead. The dense spruces looked inky black against the dark-blue sky, and in the light stillness the ripple30 of the river sounded loud.
He lay awake for some time at last, and finally got up and put fresh wood on the fire. It blazed up suddenly, and he thought he heard a startled stamp and rush through the dark thickets—probably a hare.
He was tired and wanted to sleep, but sleep would not come to him. He thought of the treasure in timber that was to be gained or lost. Harrison would stick at nothing to gain it, he felt sure. In his anxiety, Tom felt half inclined to break camp and go through the night; but he knew that he would gain nothing by wearing himself out. He got up again and went down to the river, bathed his face, and drank, looking up and down the long, dark current in the starlight. Then he came back, feeling less restless, and in time he succumbed31 to sleep.
When he did sleep he slept long, and awoke to find the early sun on his face. He jumped up uneasily. Everything about the camp was just as he had left it, and in the clear daylight his nocturnal alarms seemed the height of folly32. Nevertheless, while the breakfast kettle was heating, he went into the woods where he had heard the sound, and discovered a certainly fresh, shapeless track. It might have been a bear track; it might have been made by a sitting rabbit; or it might have been the tread of a moccasined foot.
He could not determine nor could he trace it for any distance. Vainly he wished for Charlie’s skill as a trailer. He decided33 that it must have been a bear, and, angry at himself for his nervousness, he went back to the fire, drank his tea, fried pork, and then launched the canoe again.
But the uncanny sense followed him of something’s being on his trail. It seemed as if a pursuer must be just around the last bend of the river. A dozen times he looked quickly back, but the water shone empty in the sun.
Shortly before noon he arrived at the mouth of the Fish River, recognizing it at once from Charlie’s description. Roswick lay a day’s travel or two up this stream, and there he would find Dave Jackson; at least, he hoped so. He felt as if the end of the journey was almost in sight, and he headed the canoe joyfully34 against the current of the swifter tributary35—and glanced quickly and involuntarily back.
Nothing was in sight. There could be nothing, he told himself.
“But I’m going to settle this,” he reflected, after a moment. “Either something’s after me, or there isn’t. I’ll just wait here a bit, and end this foolishness.”
Half ashamed of himself, he dragged the canoe ashore36 and hid it. Then he took his rifle, and ambushed38 himself just at the peninsula where the two rivers met, well out of sight under a thicket14 of willows, and waited. It would be a relief to settle this suspense39 at the cost of an hour’s time.
Silence settled down, except for the rush of the meeting currents. A mink40 ran down the shore and into a log heap, popping out again and into the water, busy about its hunting. A pair of wild ducks came swimming down the Wawista, dipping their heads deep, and halted close opposite his ambush37. He could have shot the head off one of them, and he contemplated41 doing it, to secure a bit of fresh meat. His suspicions of pursuit were vanishing. He had been there a long time—an hour, surely. It was scarcely worth while to wait longer, he thought, when the ducks suddenly splashed into flight, and went off quacking43 over the tree-tops.
Tom’s heart bounded. He caught a glimpse of a canoe coming slowly down the Wawista. The next moment it was in full view.
A single man was in it, handling the paddle with the skill of a practised voyageur; and even at fifty yards Tom recognized the glint of the fox-colored hair under the cap. The paddler paused at the forks of the river, held the canoe balanced while he looked this way and that, and then, as if by some intuition, turned up the Fish River as Tom had done.
The canoe, hugging the shore, came within twenty feet of the willow18 clump44, when Tom stood up suddenly, with the repeater at his shoulder.
“Halt!” he hailed.
McLeod cast a sudden glance at him and then dropped his paddle and reached back like lightning for the gun that stood behind him.
“None of that! Hands up, now—quick! I’ll shoot!” Tom yelled at him; and the woodsman slowly put up his hands, with a grin like a trapped weasel. The canoe drifted backward.
“Paddle in this way—slow,” Tom ordered. “Don’t make a move toward that gun.”
McLeod looked into the rifle muzzle45 and seemed to hesitate. Then he suddenly took the paddle and forced the canoe up close to the shore, where it hung almost motionless in the slack water.
“Now what are you up to?” Tom demanded. “You tried to burn me out. Now you’ve been trailing me since yesterday; I know it. What are you and Harrison planning to do?”
“Why, I told you I was goin’ to run you off’n that there homestead,” McLeod growled46. “You ain’t got no more right there than that Injun boy of yourn. I was there first. If there’s anything in it, I’m the one that gits it.”
“I know what’s in it,” Tom returned, “and so do you. But you haven’t got the ghost of a show, McLeod. I know where Dave Jackson is now. It isn’t over twenty miles from here, and I’ll be back on Coboconk with him in three days. He’s still got the rights to the place, I guess. You’d better drop this and go back home, before you do something that gets you into trouble.”
“These here woods is free, I guess,” said the man. “And you’ll never find Dave Jackson where you’re going.”
But he looked considerably47 dashed by Tom’s announcement.
“We’ll see about that,” retorted Tom. “And I can’t have you following me. I’m going to stop you. I ought to take your canoe, as Harrison did to me; but you might starve. I don’t want to shoot you.”
He reflected. It is a terrible thing to deprive a man of his canoe in that wilderness48, where he may very likely perish before reaching any point where he can obtain supplies. And it is not easy for even a good hunter to live on the country.
“Throw me your paddle,” Tom ordered at last. “It’ll take you some time to make another, I guess, and you’ll never catch up with me when I have that start.”
Under the threat of the rifle McLeod tossed the paddle ashore. With a long pole Tom gave the canoe a strong shove out into the current. It went drifting out into the Wawista, turning helplessly end for end, down the current till it was a hundred yards away. Then McLeod snatched up his gun and fired both barrels.
Tom heard the buck-shot rattle49 on the leaves around him, and impulsively50 he fired back, almost without aim. It was a perfectly51 bloodless duel52, and in another minute the canoe went out of sight behind the trees of a bend in the stream.
With a sense of triumph and of infinite relief, Tom launched his canoe again, and proceeded up the river. He no longer felt uneasy; that strange instinct of danger was quiet now. He knew that McLeod could never catch up with him. The rest of the journey should be easy and safe, and he was impatient to reach the end of it.
Travel up the Fish River was not so easy, however. It was a smaller, swifter stream than the Wawista, and more broken by rapids. For an hour at a time he had to discard the paddle for a pole in going up swift water, and portages were so frequent that he thought he walked almost as much as he floated. He did not expect to reach Roswick that day, but he began to look out for signs of mining-camp work or prospecting53. It was a district of rock and stunted54 woods, a mineral country by its look, but he detected no trace of man, and all that day he pushed on, “bucking the river,” paddling, poling, and carrying. It was almost sunset when the appearance of a formidable rapid just ahead brought him to a stop.
He had gone far enough for that day. He landed, looking about for a good camp ground; then he determined55 to carry the canoe and outfit56 up to the head of the rapid and camp there, so as to be ready for the start next morning. After a short rest he made the portage, unpacked57 his supplies, and lighted a fire; and the idea came to him of trying to pick up some small game for supper. He was growing very tired of fried salt pork.
Leaving the kettle on the fire, he turned into the woods from the river. Usually it was easy to find rabbits or partridges almost anywhere, but he wandered about for a full half-hour, and then, seeing a rabbit sitting up in the twilight58, he missed it cleanly.
Disgusted at his clumsiness, he turned down parallel with the river, but the bad luck lasted. He found no game, and dusk was deepening. Veering59 out to strike the shore, he found himself a long way below the big rapid, and he began to walk rapidly up the stream.
He heard the rapid roaring ahead, and he had almost come to it when he stopped with a shock. There was a canoe lying at the shore, a battered60 Peterboro that he recognized well.
He sprang back into the shadow of the trees, but another glance showed him that nobody was by the boat. Rage boiled up in him at this persistent61 trailing. There was a paddle in the canoe; he should have remembered that McLeod was sure to have a spare paddle lashed42 in the canoe. But this time he would cripple him effectually. With a strong shove he sent the canoe whirling down the stream. It would take a day to overtake it on foot, unless it were smashed against a rock, and Tom stood with cocked rifle, grimly waiting for its owner to appear.
Looking up and down the shore he could see nothing of McLeod. He grew uneasy. He was about to scout62 up toward his camp when a canoe—his own canoe—appeared shooting down the rapid.
McLeod was in her, steering63 with magnificent skill through the dangerous, broken water; and he did not risk a single glance aside, even when Tom whipped up his rifle and fired desperately64. The boy fired to hit; it was a matter of life and death; but it was like shooting at a flying duck. The canoe was past in a twinkling, was down in the tail of the rapid, was almost out of sight, while Tom pumped the lever of the repeater till his magazine was empty. Then McLeod swung his paddle high with a far-away, triumphant65 whoop66.
Tom began to run wildly after him, checked himself, and hurried up to his camp. But he knew too well what he would find.
The fire had burned almost out. The kettle was gone. So were his blankets, his little ax, everything. Nothing was left except what he carried on him. He was afoot in the wilderness in earnest.
As he took in this catastrophe67, Tom’s heart seemed to sink into his boots. The river roared savagely68 over the rapid. He looked round at the darkening wilderness, and it seemed suddenly to have turned sinister69, murderous. Without canoe or food, he knew that his life hung by a hair. Plenty of men have died in such a predicament, in that tangled country, where streams are the only highways.
McLeod had intended that this should be his fate. Tom sat down weakly on a log, beside the dying fire. He was likely to leave his bones there, he thought. McLeod was racing70 back to Coboconk to rejoin Harrison. Between them, they would get out the timber without danger of interruption. Charlie was there, to be sure; but Charlie’s only idea of resistance was, by weapons, which would probably only make matters worse.
But by degrees Tom recovered from the shock.
“I won’t be beaten!” he vowed71 to himself. “It can’t be more than thirty miles to Roswick now. I can do that on foot, following up the river. I’ve got a rifle and a beltful of cartridges72, and it’ll be queer if I can’t pick up enough to keep from starving.”
For a moment he thought of trying to trail McLeod in his turn, to recover one of the two canoes, but he decided that this would be hopeless. McLeod might be miles away already, and he would surely push on with the greatest possible speed.
As he sat there in silence, collecting his nerve, a shadow came out of the thickets by the shore and hopped73 dimly about in the twilight. It was a rabbit. The light was all but gone; Tom could not see his gun-sights, but he fired. It was almost sheer good luck, but when he went to look he found the rabbit shot through the body, considerably mangled74 by the bullet but eatable. It had come at the very moment to encourage his resolution, and it would make rations12 for one day, at any rate.
He built up the fire, dressed the game, and set it to roast on pointed sticks. But he had no salt, and he remembered that unsalted rabbit is perhaps the most flavorless food on earth. It reminded him of those first dreary75 days after his coming to Coboconk Lake. But the meat had nutriment in it at any rate, and he ate of it sparingly, reserving the greater portion for the next day.
Pulling a heap of dead leaves between two logs, he tried to rest, to sleep; but he was far too uneasy. Without a blanket, the night seemed cold, despite the fire. His little ax was gone, and he had no means of cutting logs large enough to make an efficient heat. He tried to huddle76 under the leaves, dozed intermittently77 with horrible dreams of danger, and at last got up in the gray dawn, feeling aching and empty.
The fire had burned entirely78 out while he slept. There was not even a spark left in the ashes, and to his horror he found that he had no matches. He had used the last in his pockets, and the water-tight box in reserve was gone with the stolen supplies.
This blow almost took away his remaining courage. Fortunately he had roasted the whole hare last night, and most of it was still left. It would last one day.
“After that, I’ll have to eat raw meat, like a wolf,” he thought.
But it was as easy to go on toward Roswick as in any other direction, and he was still determined not to let Harrison win. It occurred to him that the prospecting season was well advanced; he was in the mining country, and he might fall in with a party of mineral hunters at any time. If not—well, he was tough and muscular, and he could surely endure hardships for a day or two.
So he put the rest of the cooked meat carefully in his pockets, his rifle under his arm, and started briskly up the river. There was no trail, and it was rough going. The margin79 of the stream was grown thickly with willow and spruce and cedar80, frequently marshy81, sometimes rocky, always hard to get through. From time to time he had to wade82 a tributary creek83. Worse still, the river went in huge curves, so that he felt sure he was traveling two miles for every mile he made westward84.
But he was afraid to leave the guidance of the river, and he struggled along. He grew very hungry; hare meat was not filling, but he controlled his desire to eat until noon. Then, after swallowing far less than he wanted, he clambered into a tall tree on the crest85 of a hill and looked anxiously off into the west.
He could see a long way. It was an infinity86 of sweeping87 hill and hollow, all blue-green with the spruces in the sunshine, smoky, unlimited88, with here and there a gray gleam of rock. Far away to the right he detected the glitter of a long strip of water—no doubt his river, sweeping in one of its long curves.
He stayed there for some time surveying the desolate89 landscape. There was nowhere any sign of fire or indication of human life. It occurred to him that he would do well to make straight across country to the water, instead of wasting muscle by following the river around its many bends. He fixed90 the direction well in his mind, slid down to the ground, and struck out across the woods.
For a time he found the traveling easier. The forest was light and scattered91, and the ground firm. Twice he was encouraged by coming upon what seemed to be an old trail, and once he found prospect9 holes dug the season before.
Feeling sure that he was nearing the end of his journey, he hurried on gaily92 till he arrived at the edge of the water he had seen from afar off. But it was not the river. It was a little, long lake, with a creek flowing out lazily from near the point where he had struck it.
Now he bitterly repented93 his folly in leaving the river, his only guide. He had no idea which way it had curved since he left it. It might be close ahead; it might be a dozen miles away to the left. But the only chance of safety was to try to find it again, and he steered94 off diagonally into the woods to the southwest. The woods became difficult to get through. He struggled for more than two miles through dense tamarac swamps, and at last did come upon a medium-sized river.
Was it the Fish River? He could not tell. He thought it must be; yet it seemed too small, and moreover did not appear to be flowing in the right direction. The sun was sinking low, and all at once it, too, seemed to be in the wrong quarter of the sky. The woods turned dizzily around him; all directions seemed to be reversed.
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opportune
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| adj.合适的，适当的 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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walnut
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| n.胡桃，胡桃木，胡桃色，茶色 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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prospectors
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| n.勘探者，探矿者( prospector的名词复数 ) | |
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hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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rations
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| 定量( ration的名词复数 )； 配给量； 正常量； 合理的量 | |
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charred
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| v.把…烧成炭( char的过去式)；烧焦 | |
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thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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vaguely
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junction
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| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
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dozed
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| v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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30
ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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31
succumbed
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的过去式和过去分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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32
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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33
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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35
tributary
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| n.支流；纳贡国；adj.附庸的；辅助的；支流的 | |
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ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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ambush
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| n.埋伏(地点)；伏兵；v.埋伏；伏击 | |
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38
ambushed
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| v.埋伏( ambush的过去式和过去分词 )；埋伏着 | |
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39
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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40
mink
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| n.貂，貂皮 | |
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41
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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42
lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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43
quacking
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| v.（鸭子）发出嘎嘎声( quack的现在分词 ) | |
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44
clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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45
muzzle
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| n.鼻口部；口套；枪(炮)口；vt.使缄默 | |
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46
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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47
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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48
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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49
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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52
duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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53
prospecting
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| n.探矿 | |
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54
stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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56
outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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unpacked
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| v.从（包裹等）中取出（所装的东西），打开行李取出( unpack的过去式和过去分词 )；拆包；解除…的负担；吐露（心事等） | |
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58
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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veering
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| n.改变的；犹豫的；顺时针方向转向；特指使船尾转向上风来改变航向v.（尤指交通工具）改变方向或路线( veer的现在分词 )；（指谈话内容、人的行为或观点）突然改变；（指风） （在北半球按顺时针方向、在南半球按逆时针方向）逐渐转向；风向顺时针转 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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62
scout
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| n.童子军，侦察员；v.侦察，搜索 | |
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steering
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| n.操舵装置 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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whoop
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| n.大叫，呐喊，喘息声；v.叫喊，喘息 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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72
cartridges
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| 子弹( cartridge的名词复数 )； （打印机的）墨盒； 录音带盒； （唱机的）唱头 | |
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73
hopped
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| 跳上[下]( hop的过去式和过去分词 )； 单足蹦跳； 齐足（或双足）跳行； 摘葎草花 | |
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74
mangled
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| vt.乱砍（mangle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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76
huddle
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| vi.挤作一团；蜷缩；vt.聚集；n.挤在一起的人 | |
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intermittently
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| adv.间歇地；断断续续 | |
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78
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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79
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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80
cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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81
marshy
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| adj.沼泽的 | |
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82
wade
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| v.跋涉，涉水；n.跋涉 | |
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83
creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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84
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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85
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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86
infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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87
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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88
unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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89
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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90
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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91
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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92
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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93
repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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94
steered
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| v.驾驶( steer的过去式和过去分词 )；操纵；控制；引导 | |
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