No longer did he hesitate.

Laying down his rifle, he tied the hound to a little spruce, patting him and whispering for him to stay there and be still.
Then Wade's action in looking to his belt-guns was that of a man who expected to have recourse to them speedily and by whom the necessity was neither regretted nor feared.

Stooping low, he entered the thicket of spruces.

The soft, spruce-matted ground, devoid of brush or twig, did not give forth the slightest sound of step, nor did the brushing of the branches against his body.

In some cases he had to bend the boughs.
Thus, swiftly and silently, with the gliding steps of an Indian, he approached the cabin till the brown-barked logs loomed before him, shutting off the clearer light.
He smelled a mingling of wood and tobacco smoke; he heard low, deep voices of men; the shuffling and patting of cards; the musical click of gold.