The man smiled at him and chuckled in a way Peter loved. But the smile and the chuckle did not hide the flame smoldering deep in his eyes, nor the pallid tenseness of his face, nor the trickle of blood that persisted in running down his cheek and wetting the soft roll of his collar. He was bareheaded and sweaty; his blond hair, very much like Peter's, was wildly disheveled; his hands gripped a gun, and lying on his stomach, he had made himself a loophole by digging leaves and mold from under a crooked elbow in the log. Through this he had watched for his enemies. His grin was chummy and companionable as he turned to Peter.
"Everything all right?" he asked. "Not afraid, are you?"
Peter shook his head. "I'm not much scared."
"Getting hungry?"
"No."
"Thirsty?"
"A little—not much."
The man laughed. He did not feel like laughing. But he laughed, fighting to make it appear natural and unstrained.
"You're a trump, Peter. God knows you're a trump!"
A rifle cracked in the thick fringe of balsams and jack pines a hundred and fifty yards from them, and a bullet struck the log with a sodden chug. The man wiped the blood from his cheek with a handkerchief that was stained red.