There was a flash and a concussion, the trigger-guard sank into his nerveless finger, and a smashing amidst the undergrowth was followed by footsteps that were presently lost in the roar of the river.
Alton drew one knee under him, and listened until the sound grew altogether bewildering and the dim trunks reeled about him.

Then he lurched over and lay where he fell, sensible only that it was bitterly cold.

It was still night when he awakened from sleep or stupor, but the moon shone down and he saw that there was white frost on the fern.
His hands were also stiffened, and there was a horrible ache in every limb, while he groaned as the cold struck through him.

Twice he essayed to raise himself and fell back again, but at last by an effort crawled towards a tree and leaned his back against it while he stretched out one numbed and useless limb into the silver light.

The long boots were curiously smeared, the overalls above them stiffened and crusted, while following the movement he made there was a swift spreading of the stain.
Alton shivered and set his lips as he groped for his handkerchief, then groaning the while dragged at it until it was knotted above his knee.
After that he laid his finger on the overalls and saw that the stain spread past it more slowly.