“Ah!” he muttered, shaking his head. “There may be something in that dream—more than I thought. At the ravine—to-morrow evening. What can that mean? I must investigate. Perhaps his friends are near—and he has met them at the ravine above here. What more likely? Forewarned is forearmed.”
And, smiling grimly, he replenished the fire, rolled himself in his blanket—and was soon sound asleep.
CHAPTER VIII.
Steadily, monotonously, the rain poured down all night long. The morning dawned cheerless and murky. The earth was sodden; every rivulet was swollen; and the creek was bank full. A dense fog rose from the water-courses and spread itself over the land. The feeble rays of the winter sun could not penetrate it; and at midday the depths of the forest were gloomy and oppressive.
The savages huddled together in their mean hovels and silently watched the dreary downpour. Nothing broke the stillness, save the steady drip of the rain and the rumbling roar of the fast hurrying streams. All the fuel was wet, and the fires burned dismally. It was a wearying, soul-trying day.
Douglas and Bradford sat by the fire that smoldered in the middle of the floor of the miserable hut they occupied. Occasionally, one or the other arose and peeped out at the pouring rain. But the scene was too depressing; and, shivering, he returned to the fire. The pungent smoke refused to find its way out at the hole in the bark roof, but swirled and eddied about the interior and added to the general discomfort.
Neither man was in a talkative mood. Hour after hour, they sat staring into the ash-masked embers, each busy with his own thoughts.