"Indians!" said the Colonel.
But with the rubbing out of other distinctions this, too, was curiously faint. Just so there were human beings it seemed enough. Within four feet of the deerskin door the Colonel stopped, shot through by a sharp misgiving. What was behind? A living man's camp, or a dead man's tomb? Succour, or some stark picture of defeat, and of their own oncoming doom?
The Colonel stood stock-still waiting for the Boy. For the first time in many days even he hung back. He seemed to lack the courage to be the one to extinguish hope by the mere drawing of a curtain from a snow-drift's face. The Kentuckian pulled himself together and went forward. He lifted his hand to the deerskin, but his fingers shook so he couldn't take hold:
"Hello!" he called. No sound. Again: "Hello!"
"Who's there?"
The two outside turned and looked into each other's faces—but if you want to know all the moment meant, you must travel the Winter Trail.
CHAPTER XIV
KURILLA
"And I swear to you Athenians—by the dog I swear!—for I must tell you the truth——."—SOCRATES.