He drew a little apart, opened the parcel and read the letters. Then he took a pad from his tent and wrote a brief reply; after which he retied the bundle and gave it back to Anton, saying:
“Deliver this to Mrs. Hungerford as safely as you have to me and I dare say she’ll give you another like this!”
He held out a shining silver dollar but somehow, although the lad did take it, it seemed to lie very heavy within that inner pocket where he dropped it.
Supper over, all grouped about the fire and beset the Indian guide for a fresh batch of ghost stories, his specialty in literature or tradition; and though Judge Breckenridge asked his messenger if it were not time that he started back—for Aunt Lu had written urging him to keep the boy no longer than was absolutely necessary—Anton still lingered. Hitherto he had known no fear of any forest. He inherited his love for it and his knowledge. He had even loved best to prowl in its depths during the moonlit or starlit hours, and riding hither had anticipated a leisurely return. So long as he was back at the farm by morning he saw no reason to hurry himself before.
Then he found himself listening to Monty’s question:
“You say, Guide, that these very woods, right around us, are ‘haunted?’”
“Sure. Hark!”
There was a strange unearthly cry from somewhere in the distance and the man continued:
“Some call that a screech-owl! But I know it’s the cry of a girl who was lost in this forest. Why, Anton, boy, what’s happened you?”
Anton had suddenly swayed in his seat and his face under its copper skin had turned ghastly pale.