Slowly the time wore away and Henry had now to make another search for firewood, if he expected to keep the blaze going, and what to do he scarcely knew.
"If I look for wood I'll get wet again," he reasoned. "And if I don't go and get some the fire will leave me in the cold."
He was on the point of scraping the fire together, to make it last as long as possible, when an unexpected whistle broke upon his ears. He sprang to the front of the shelter and listened intently. The whistle was one he knew well, and the whistler was rendering an old English air, called "Lucy Locket Lost Her Pocket," an air which we to-day call "Yankee Doodle."
"Dave!" shouted the young hunter, and set up a wild yell. "Dave! Where are you?"
"Is that you, Henry?" came from the edge of the hollow.
"Yes. Look out, or you'll get a tumble as I did."
"White Buffalo knows the trail," came in the voice of the Indian chief.
"Hullo! is that you, White Buffalo? Very well, but be careful."
Torches in hand, Dave and White Buffalo moved forward slowly. But the Indian knew exactly what he was doing, and soon he and the youth with him were at the bottom of the hollow in safety. Then Dave ran forward to greet his cousin.
"Are you badly hurt?" he questioned.