Even while he spoke, young Farrar caught sight of two feathered things hopping along the avenue of light which lay between him and the camp-fire, the red flare of the flames mingling with the white radiance of a cloudless moon. At the same time the screech sounded and resounded.
“Coon!” exclaimed Joe derisively. “That’s no coon. It’s only a little owl. Bless ye! I’ve had five or six of ’em come right into this tent of a night, and ding away at me till I had to talk to ’em with the rifle to scare ’em off. I’ll give ’em a dose o’ lead now if they don’t scoot mighty quick; that’ll stop their song an’ dance.”
“Their cry is pretty much like a raccoon’s, Neal,” said Doc. “Only it’s a great deal weaker. Lie down, boy. Go to sleep, and don’t mind them.”
The owls perhaps apprehended danger. At all events, they were silent for a while; and in three minutes each occupant of the tent was fast asleep again, with the exception of Neal. The sharp awakening had upset his nerves a bit. He obeyed the doctor, and hugged his blankets round him, hoping sleep would return; but he lay with eyes narrowed into two slits, peeping at the ruddy camp-fire, involuntarily listening for the screeching of the birds, and wishing that he had not been such a greenhorn as to disturb his comrades for nothing. Royal, who lay on his right, was of a less excitable temperament. Although he had been awakened, he was now snoring lustily, insomnia being a rare affliction in camps.
“What’s that?”
About half an hour had passed when Neal Farrar suddenly and sharply rapped out these words close to Joe’s ear. He felt certain that he would not now bring upon him the woodsman’s good-natured scorn for making a disturbance about nothing. A heavy, stealthy tread, as of some big animal, was crushing the pygmy bushes near the tent. Immediately afterwards he saw an uncouth black shape in the lane of light between himself and the fire. It disappeared while his heart was giving one jump, and he heard a dull, mumbling noise, such as a pig might make when rooting amid rubbish, varied with an occasional low growl.
Joe was already awake. His hunter’s instinct told him that something truly exciting was on now.
“My cracky! I b’lieve it’s a bear!” he muttered, forming his words away down in his throat, so that Neal only caught the last one. “Keep still as death!”
The guide reached out a long arm, and clutched his rifle. Hurriedly he jammed half a dozen cartridges into its magazine. Then lightly and silently, as if he was made of cork, he got upon his feet, and bounded out of the tent, Neal copying his actions nimbly and noiselessly as he could; though, in his excitement, he only succeeded in getting two cartridges into his Winchester.
Royal’s snoring ceased. Doc’s eager question, “What’s up now, boys?” reached the two just as they quitted shelter, and passed into the broad moonlight, crossed with red gleams from their fire.