"Dis yere little ole pup don slink back like he seed a hant and he had burrs stickin' to his sorry-lookin' hide—seems he was off the scent. No 'count!"
Jed gave the hound a push with his foot, but he had set Nancy's nerves tingling.
"I lost the scent myself," she said, striving for calmness. And then relying upon the old man's simplicity she asked, pointing across The Gap:
"What did you say was the name of that peak, Uncle Jed?" She wanted to make very sure!
The old man raised his bleary eyes and looked troubled. He was conscious of something stirring in the dark of his mind.
"Thunder," he replied, then he laughed, and the gold in his few remaining teeth glistened. Cackling and shuffling along beside Nancy, he muttered—his mind again on old Becky:
"Her—as was—or her as is! Maybe she ain't a was—'pears like she can't be an is." Then he grew calmer and faced Nancy. "Stay away from Thunder, chile. 'Tain't safe, Thunder ain't—only fer hants."
"I'll stay away, Uncle Jed," Nancy promised fervently, and tried to laugh off the foolish, superstitious fear that the old man's words had aroused.
Jed went off muttering—he was strangely disturbed.
As the first impression of her adventure wore off Nancy was surprised to find that a new fear and restlessness oppressed her. It was like the after effects of a blow that had stunned her.