And now, the side of the hillock showed other signs of forest
life. Up the steep slope thundered a six-antlered buck, snorting
shrilly in panic and flying toward the cool refuge of the little
lake.
Far more slowly, but with every tired muscle astrain, a fat
porcupine was mounting the hill; its claws digging frantically
for foothold among the slippery stones. It seemed to flow, rather
than to run. And as it hurried on, it chuckled and scolded, like
some idiot child.
A bevy of squirrels scampered past it. A long snake, roused from
its stony winter lair, writhed eerily up the slope, heedless of
its fellow travelers' existence. A raccoon was breasting the
steep, from another angle. And behind it came clawing a
round-paunched opossum; grinning from the pain of sparks that
were stinging it to a hated activity.
The wilderness was giving up its secrets, with a vengeance. And
the Red Terror, as ever, was enforcing a truce among the
forest-folk; a truce bred of stark fear. One and all--of those
that had been aroused in time to get clear of the oncoming fiery
sickle--the fugitives were making for the cool safety of the
lake.
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