Of course the rangers had conversed in whispers, which could not have been heard three yards away. And not for a second had they ceased to watch and listen with strained senses.
But they did not start. Another rifle spoke from the opposite side of the open space, the bullet passing near them. And during the succeeding moment or two, they detected movements at their left. For a short time longer they remained motionless and silent.
“These on our left ar’ goin’ up,” said Mace. “Ten to one most o’ the skunks ar’ above us now. I’m goin’ ter make stret across the openin’.”
Joe Hill undertook to whisper something; but the other had no time to hear him, being already creeping after Mace. Joe suppressed a wrathy exclamation and followed.
The nature of the ground was such that a practiced scout could steal over it without much danger of being heard. The greatest danger was being seen. Each went on hand and knee, moving slowly. They were nearly across, when Mace suddenly stopped and hugged close to the ground. Those behind followed suit.
They were not more than ten yards from the edge of the woods beyond, which was marked by deeper darkness. What had Mace discovered?
It was a silent query soon answered. A figure was moving forward, intent on crossing to the side they had just left. Evidently the author of the last shot.
The Indian came on slowly. He was not over-cautious, for his body was but half bent. Its dim outlines barely perceptible through the deep gloom, seemed twice the natural size. He probably had not, as yet, the faintest suspicion that enemies were so near him.
He was nearly past the motionless rangers, when suddenly he stopped. Was it instinct or his keen vision-sense that caused him to glance around?
Not the latter, evidently, for soon he moved on.