Donald MacDonald, M.D.

"Mike, we're lost!"

City born and bred though he was, the man took a not unjustifiable pride
in the woodcraft which he had acquired during many vacations spent in
the wilds; hence it was humiliating to have to admit that fact--even to
his dog. To be sure, the fastnesses of the border Cumberlands were new
to him; but his vanity was hurt by the realization that he had tramped
for nearly an hour through serried ranks of ancient trees and crowding
thickets of laurel and rhododendron--which seemed to take a personal
delight in impeding the progress of a "furriner"--and over craggy rocks,
only to find, at the end of that time, that he was entering one end of a
short ravine from the other end of which he had started with the vague
purpose of seeking the path by which he had climbed from the valley
village.

Moreover, a subtle change was taking place in the air. Faint breezes,
the sighing heralds of advancing evening, were now beginning to steal
slowly out from the picturesque, seamed rocks of the ravine and from
behind each gnarled or stately tree, with an unmistakable warning.

There was clearly but one logical course for him to pursue--head
straight up the mountainside until he should arrive at some commanding
clearing whence he could recover his lost bearings and establish some
landmarks for a fresh start downward. With his square jaw set in a
decisive manner, the man picked up his gun, threw back his heavy
shoulders, and began to climb, driving his muscular body forcibly
through the underbrush.