Abe was on his knees, stretching up his neck and twitching his head from side to side with the air of an agitated fowl.
“We’ll make it a rule after this to have only common songs, like Larry Gorman’s,” continued the boss, with a quizzical glance at the woodsman poet. “These high operas are too thrillin’.”
But those who stared at Abe promptly saw that his attention was not fixed on matters within, but without.
“He heard something,” muttered one of the men. “He’s got ears like a cat, anyway.”
If the giant had heard something it was plain that he heard it again, for he dropped his knife and scrambled to his feet.
“Me go! Yes!” he roared, gutturally; and, obeying some mysterious summons, his haste showing its authority, he ran out of the camp.
“Catch that fool!” yelled the boss. But the first of those who tumbled out into the dingle after him were not quick enough. The night and the swirling storm had swallowed him. A few zealous pursuers ran a little way, trying to follow his tracks, lost them, and then came back for lanterns.
“It’s no use, Mr. Wade,” advised the boss. “He’s got the strength of a mule and the legs of an ostrich. The men will only be takin’ chances for nothin’. He’s gone clean out of his head, and there’s no tellin’ when he’ll stop.”
And Wade regretfully gave orders to abandon the chase. He and the others stood for a time gazing about them into the storm, now sifting thicker and swirling more wildly. He was oppressed by the happening, as though he had seen some one leap to death. What else could a human being hope for in that waste?
“He’s as tough as a bull moose, and just as used to bein’ out-doors,” remarked the boss, consolingly. “When he’s had his run he’ll smell his way back.”