"If only one doesn't catch cold," replied Dave. "Don't you remember the cold I caught when we were up at Lake Ontario?"
"To be sure; and I had a cold myself." Henry paused for a moment. "Where has Barringford gone?"
"He said he was going to try to stir up some game. I don't know what he expects to get in this rain."
"He ought to know what he is doing. He is the best white hunter that I ever ran across."
An hour passed, and by that time it was dark. The Indians sat in their wigwam smoking and talking in low guttural tones. The white hunters were also telling yarns of the war and of the various Indian uprisings before that time. They were thrilling tales and the youths listened to them with deep interest. Both Dave and Henry had been through a great deal themselves, so they knew that the stories, though wild and wonderful, were probably based on facts. To-day, when we live in such security and comfort, we can hardly realize the dangers and privations those pioneers endured to make our glorious country so full of rich blessings to us.
Growing tired of sitting down, Henry had just arisen to stretch his limbs, when a sudden rushing sound through the forest reached his ears.
"What is that?" he questioned, and instinctively reached for his rifle.
"Some animal, I reckon," answered Dave.
A rifle shot rang out, and the sound came closer. Then, as Henry ran out of the shelter, he uttered a yell of alarm.
"A buffalo! Lookout!"