“Not much,” Roy laughed. “Golly, it’s lonely here! Listen! Doesn’t the river sound queer? Almost as if it were talking to us.”
“Poetical Roy,” Teddy chuckled. “Ask it if it’s going to be a nice day to-morrow, will you? Or maybe it doesn’t talk English? Maybe—”
He stopped, and a puzzled look came over his face. He grasped his brother’s arm.
“By golly, it is talking!” he whispered tensely. “Listen!”
To their ears came a sound of voices—men’s voices! And they came from the surface of the river!
CHAPTER XIII
The Fugitive
Long, weary miles stretched out behind The Pup as he wheeled his tired pony through the brush bordering the stream and allowed him to dip his nose in the cool water, drinking in noisy mouthfuls. Long, weary miles behind—and what before? Would the miles be any shorter, the road less wearisome? Would the midday sun be more merciful, or the nights more friendly?
As his horse drank, The Pup shifted uneasily in the saddle, and, turning his head, peered quickly behind him. This gesture had become almost automatic in these last few days. Always, whenever he halted, his eyes would seek for some hidden enemy, and at the slightest sound his hand would twitch down to the gun at his side. But how guard against one enemy when the very woods themselves seemed hostile and the song of the birds sounded a note of continual warning? The man shivered apprehensively.
Savagely The Pup pulled his pony’s head up, causing the animal to whinny in pain at the suddenness of it.
“Gonna drink all day?” the man muttered, then shivered slightly. It was long since he had tasted food. Perhaps the memory of his last meal caused him to regret his cruelty to the bronco, for he allowed him to continue his drinking until fully satisfied.