It was sometime later that Marjorie awoke. She felt strangely wide-awake as she lay there staring about her in the gloom of her tent; it seemed as if she had not been asleep at all. The moon had risen; she could see that by the bar of pale light slanting across the ground from where the flaps of the tent were loosely joined. She could hear the stamping of the horses, hobbled over beyond the tents of the men. She wanted to get up, but she knew that she would surely waken her tent-mates if she moved about; so she resolutely forced herself to lie there, while her thoughts wandered from one thing to another—scouting, John Hadley, the strange disappearance of Daisy’s sister—until she finally dozed off.
Suddenly she came wide-awake again, and found herself sitting upright on her bedsack. Then she knew that something had wakened her. Could it be overwrought nerves, she wondered? She was as bad as Doris, who now slumbered peacefully a few feet away from her. Surely, it could not be nerves, since she felt no fear.
The night air had become chilly, almost cold; and she pulled her blankets about her shoulders and prepared to listen and to wait for something to happen. But as she sat straining her ears for the slightest sound, she could hear nothing but the regular breathing of her companions. The silence was becoming almost unbearable, and she was about to give up and lie down again, when she heard, just outside her tent, a strange sniffing noise such as her dog at home often made when he had something up his nose.
Bears! It was her first thought. For an instant she felt too terrified to move, even to breathe. But no; it could not be a bear; the thought flashed across her brain that the horses would smell it and be alarmed. What was it then? She waited for a repetition of the sound. When it came again it was accompanied by a scuffling noise that seemed to approach to the very canvas wall which separated her from the outside world. Now she was sure it was a bear—it was just the sort of noise a bear would make. Perhaps those horses had run away. The girl was now terrified indeed, and pressed both hands tightly against her mouth to prevent herself from crying out, expecting every moment to have the thing outside break through the wall of her tent and tramp over her.
But whatever it was, it had paused, and all was quiet again; except once or twice she heard a slight swishing sound against the canvas, as if a branch containing dead leaves had been brushed against it. Marjorie was determined not to utter a sound, though she was so frightened she could feel first hot and then cold chills passing over her body. There came a muffled tramp of steps receding to a short distance away.
As she waited, trembling, and nothing more occurred, her courage slowly returned and her active brain commenced to plan. The danger, at least, was no longer imminent. Should she arouse the men? And how? The thing was still out there somewheres, she reflected; if she attempted to leave her tent she would call its attention to herself; if she cried for help, she would not only frighten the rest of the girls out of their wits, but would bring forth the men—perhaps unprepared—face to face with the unknown danger. She had read somewhere that bears, when cornered, were extremely ferocious. Perhaps she had better remain quiet; there was always the possibility that it would go away.
Then the thought occurred to her that she might safely raise the lower edge of the tent without being heard, and make observations. Rolling over, with her head to the ground, slowly she stretched forth a cold, shaking hand to the cover, fumbled with her fingers beneath the edge, and raised it sufficiently to look out. But she kept her eyes tightly closed for fear of what she was about to see.
When she opened them she thought she must have been dreaming. After the darkness of the tent, the world without appeared remarkably bright in the soft light of the moon. Glancing quickly about, Marjorie beheld, to her utter amazement—not a bear, but a horse! It stood clearly outlined against the wall of Mr. Hilton’s tent, about fifteen yards away and was apparently dozing; for it was motionless, with drooping head. Marjorie felt so provoked that she risked waking the other girls by putting her head outside her tent to utter a sharp hiss. The horse raised its head with a jerk, and with a loud snort trotted back to its companions.
Marjorie threw herself back upon her bed, and pulled the blankets over her. She was undecided whether to laugh or to cry. But she did neither. Now that she was relaxed she felt limp and worn out. She again told herself that she was worse than Doris; but she was glad that she had not aroused the men and alarmed the girls unnecessarily; that she had had sufficient courage to sit there quietly in spite of her fears. She resolved to say nothing about it, not because of the joking which would be sure to ensue at her expense, but for the sakes of the more timid of the girls; and she determined to go through with the rest of the journey even though she were the only girl to remain in the party.
“I decided last night to go back,” announced Doris at breakfast. “At least if anybody will take me.”