"What's up now?" asked Jo, who thought they might as well understand everything as they went along.
"It's queer," replied their companion, in a low voice, "but I've fancied once or twice that I heard signals in the woods just such as have caught my ear when I knew the redskins were looking for some of us. Night before last, I picked up a poor chap—Tom Haley, a settler living near me, and was on my way to another place to hide him, when we heard the same sort of sounds, and we stopped to listen to 'em, but we hadn't stood more than five minutes when they come down on us. The first notice we had was the banging of about a dozen rifles, and that was the last of poor Tom. I was lucky enough to get away, but I don't want to meet any more neighbors like that."
This was not cheerful or soothing information, and the three fugitives felt anything but comfortable.
"Haven't you heard the sounds?" asked Worrell, addressing the three.
None of them had noticed anything, and Rosa asked:
"What do they resemble?"
"Nothing so much as the faint call of the whip-o'-will, so low and soft that the ear can hardly catch it."
"It is strange that you should be the only one to notice it," she continued; "are you sure that you weren't mistaken?"
"It may be I was, but my experience with the Iroquois has made me very suspicious; but I do hope I was off the track, for it may prove a bad thing if I wasn't."