For a moment we stood breathless, paralyzed and speechless. Then our eyes sought each other with a look of fearful inquiry.
“Was that Biddon’s voice?” I asked, in a faint whisper.
“I don’t know. There it is again!”
And again came that wild, howling shriek of such agony as made our blood curdle within us.
“It is his voice! Let us hasten to his aid,” I exclaimed, catching my rifle, and springing out. Nat followed closely, his gun having been reloaded. The cry came from up the river and toward it we dashed, scrambling and tearing through the brush and undergrowth, like two maddened animals, heedless of what the consequence might be. Several times we halted and listened, but heard nothing save our own panting breasts and leaping hearts. On again we dashed, looking hurriedly about us, until I knew we had ascended as high as could be the author of that startling cry. Here we paused and listened. No one was to be seen. I turned toward Nat, standing behind me, and directly behind him I saw Biddon slowly approaching.
“What are you doin’ here?” he asked, as he came up.
“Was not that your voice which I just heard?”
“I rather reckon it wan’t. When you hear Bill Biddon bawl out in that way, jist let me know, will yer?”
“What under the sun was it?” I asked then, greatly relieved.
“That’s more nor me can tell; but shoot and skin me, if I can’t tell you one thing;” he approached closely and whispered, “there’s sunkthin else nor reds about yer.”