“Yes,” was the cautious reply.
“All right. We didn’t dare to answer y’r whistle, fer fear the Injins might hear us. They was mighty close right then. That dog o’ yours’s got a heap o’ sense—he has, by ginger! He jest nosed ’round us an’ never barked n’r nothin’. Wher’ are you, Bright Wing?”
“Me here,” came from the depths of the Wyandot’s chest.
“Well, lead off, an’ we’ll foller you. This is a ticklish business, ’r my name ain’t Joe Farley! Ross, y’r dog was goin’ back to you, but I c’ncluded I’d best risk callin’ you. Go ahead, Injin, we’re right at y’r heels.”
“Ugh!” was the guttural response from the blackness.
To the bottom of the ravine they stealthily descended; crept through the water and mud of its bed; and ascended the opposite bank. Bright Wing led the way; Duke brought up the rear. Reaching the open wood, they arose to their feet and silently threaded their way through the intricate mazes of the black forest.
They had proceeded but a short distance, however, when Bright Wing dropped to the ground and lay motionless. The others followed his example. Duke growled menacingly, and ere his master could lay a restraining hand upon him, darted into the wall of blackness ahead. To the ears of the three comrades came a sharp exclamation, followed by the sounds of a tussle. Then all was silent.
“What’s the meaning of those sounds?” Ross inquired softly of Farley.
“Don’t know,” was the reply in the same cautious undertone.