White Tail could not mistake the sound of the dogs in the distance. Neither could Young Black Buck, who was instantly on his feet. The dread sound had more to do in curing the sprained foot than the night’s rest, and he followed White Tail, trotting around and sniffing the air in every direction.
“Are they coming this way?” Young Black Buck asked.
“It’s hard to tell,” replied White Tail. “I haven’t picked up their scent yet, but I don’t need to. I hear them.”
“We must be going before they find us.”
“Is your lame leg strong enough?”
“Yes, it’s all right again—a little lame, but not much. Which way shall we go?”
Unconsciously Young Black Buck had been depending upon White Tail ever since danger first threatened them, and this was a sure sign that he recognized qualities of leadership in his rival that he did not possess. And White Tail had accepted it without giving it much thought.
“I think,” he said finally, “they’re off to the right where Downy said the white hunters had their camp. Then we should go to the left.”
“But that will take us to the hunting grounds of Puma and Timber Wolf,” protested Young Black Buck.
“Yes, I know, but we can swing around north of them before we reach their woods. At any rate we can’t run right into danger.”