“White Buffalo can hear it,” came from the Indian chief, as they all listened again. “It comes from over there,” and he pointed with his finger to a clump of silver maples twenty feet away. “As the white soldier says, it is a wild beast.”
“You must have keen ears,” put in Silvers. “I can’t hear a thing but the brook.”
“White Buffalo lives by the hunt.”
“Perhaps you had better go forward and find him then.”
“White Buffalo can do that, too,” was the quick answer.
“I’ll go along,” said Henry and caught up his musket once more.
With extreme caution the two left the circle of the camp-fire which had been started after the first alarm. The Indian held an arrow to his bow, and the young soldier had his finger on the trigger of his firearm.
The advance was very slow and absolutely noiseless. Henry now showed his training as a hunter. Coming to the nearest of the maples, both halted without a sound and peered upward.
There was nothing to be seen, and they moved around to the next tree. Then both caught the dim outline of some animal, crouching low on a thick branch, ready to leap.
There followed the crack of a musket and the whiz of an arrow almost simultaneously, and the wild animal raised up, with a scream of pain. Then it made a mad leap, striking Henry on the shoulder, and both rolled to the ground in the dark.