“What fur?” asked Teddy, in surprise.
“To see whether thar’s any ‘sign.’”
“But Hammond is there, ain’t he?”
“Yas, but there ain’t no telling what mought have tuk place while we’ve been peggin’ away inside.”
As Hammond was much less experienced in frontier life than they, the others saw the cause of Black Tom’s misgiving. The stealthy Blackfeet might have stolen upon him unawares, and, having silently slain him, as their race had often done under similar circumstances, might be lying in wait outside until the trappers should walk into the ambush.
So it was arranged that old Stebbins and Teddy O’Doherty should remain where they were, or rather should retreat into the darkness of the cavern, and await the return of their comrade from his reconnoissance.
Black Tom moved away with the silence and stealth that had characterized his approach to an Indian camp, frequently pausing and listening for some indication of the danger that he feared menaced them; but nothing reached his ears, save the dull, faint murmur of the stream behind as it rushed through its narrow cañon.
It seemed to have lighted up somewhat on the outside since they had entered the cavern, as he managed to discern the faint outline of the opening, partly screened as it was by its peculiar conformation.
“I guess every thing is all right,” he said, as he crept through the opening.
As he did so, a faint noise caught his ear, and looking somewhat to the left, he was startled by seeing the dreaded animal, with its rings and streaks, cantering awkwardly over the ground, while Fred Hammond was caressing and playing with it.