“What do you mean?” I asked, although I understood well enough what he meant.
“I’s here once afore, as I told yer, and I never heerd sich goin’s on then. I’ve seed the tracks of moccasins all about the traps, but can’t draw bead on the shadder of a redskin.”
“You heard that horrid howl, didn’t you?”
“Heerd it! I should think I did.”
“Was it you who shot?”
“Yes; the way on it was this: I got on a purty plain trail and follered it up hereabouts, when I cotched the glimpse of a Blackfoot’s feather goin’ down through the bushes there, and blazed away at him. I never missed a red in my life, and I didn’t miss him. Howsumever, he didn’t mind it, but kept on and got away, and jist as he went out of sight that orful yell come. It didn’t seem that he made it, but sounded like as though ’twas all about me, above and under the ground, and around and behind me.”
“Anywhere near us?” asked Nat.
“It sounded jist under your feet about.”
“Jerusha!” exclaimed the affrighted Nat, as he sprang nervously toward me.