They all looked around, startled for an instant, and then Mr. Dacre exclaimed:
"A wild-cat!"
"That's what it is. One of them pesky varmints, sure enough," declared Lafe. "I mind me of a time in Nevady, when——"
But they were none of them listening to Lafe just then. Their eyes were centered on Olaf.
An extraordinary change had come over the big, blonde Norwegian. He glanced about him nervously, almost timorously. It was odd to see the effect that the ululation of the wild cat crying out in the woods had had upon the strapping frontiersman. His light eyes held, for an instant, all the fear of a frightened child. Then the cry died out and with its passing, the fear faded from his face.
By common consent they looked at Lafe, as if seeking an explanation for the phenomenon. Olaf glanced uneasily about as if he was half afraid of being ridiculed for his momentary exhibition of alarm.
"One fears one thing, one is dead mortal scared of another," volunteered Lafe at length. "I knowed an old lady at home that wouldn't go nigh a cat. 'Nuther feller I hev in mind was as bold as a lion in everything but one, an' that was spiders. Yes'ir, let a spider come anigh Spence Higgins and he'd come purty near hollering out like a school gal that spied one of the critters on her best pink muslin."
"Yes, I suppose that we all have our pet dislikes," said Mr. Dacre.
"Wa'al, Olaf, he's got a heap more reason an' title to his dislike than most of us, I reckon," said Lafe. "I'll bet a cookie right now that you thought that thar critter was a mounting lion fer a minute, na'ow, didn't yer, Olaf?"