Still Ree sat thinking, and John hummed a tune softly to himself as he lay restfully on his back, carelessly wondering whether their visitor spoke the truth when he said, “Me good Injun.” All the fear he had felt during the afternoon was forgotten. As usual he was trusting to Ree to see that precautions were taken and that no harm came to them. In the corner the man under the bearskin seemed sound asleep.
“What was that?”
Ree and John leaped to their feet together. Sharp and clear above the rattle and roar of the nightwind came the report of a rifle, fired at no great distance.
“No, no! Don’t open the door!” John called, as his more fearless chum sprang forward to look out.
The words came too late. In a trice Ree had the door swung wide and was peering into the gloom, shading his eyes with his hands.
“Help! Help!”
It was the voice of a white man, borne on the wind clearly and distinctly, out of the darkness from the edge of the forest.
“Who—who-o-o!—who-o who-oo!”
As if a giant owl were calling from the blackness of the storm, came these further cries, but in the sounds there was something strangely like a human voice.
“For mercy’s sake, Ree, don’t stand in the open door that way! You’ll be killed,” cried John, drawing his friend away.