He began to wonder whether Sinclair's fear had communicated itself to him. This weakness was excusable, for the forest was growing very dark—lonely it always was—and full of strange sounds. Solitude works strangely upon the imagination.
His hand released the rifle, and roamed idly along the ground. Presently fingers came in contact with certain matter, which was thick and sticky to the touch. With a slight shudder he withdrew the hand, and when his eyes fell upon the red fingers he involuntarily uttered a sharp cry of astonishment and fear—but the next instant he laughed.
He had forgotten the dead animal, which lay stiffening at his side.
'Lucky old Sinclair isn't here,' he muttered. 'It would be his turn to have the smile.'
He wiped his red fingers upon the white moss, then began to pace up and down, listening anxiously for the tramp of horses, or cheery cry of his returning companion.
The minutes fled past in silence. The sun had fallen beneath the black tree line, which fringed the northern shore of the Saskatchewan. Glistening dew was settling softly, while a shadowy presence of evening stirred along the forest.
Winton grasped a bunch of foliage; the leaves were cold and slimy to the touch. 'Past the quarter hour. The horses must have strayed, so, like a fool, he's gone after them. I'll give him ten minutes more. If he isn't here then, I shall make tracks before the darkness gets any thicker.'
Ah! That sound was no work of the imagination.
He wheeled round sharply, with ready rifle to his shoulder. The sharp rustling of parting bushes brought the heart to his mouth. But he saw nothing.
Then a branch waved ominously, and he felt it was not caused by the wind. He strained his eyes to pierce the gloom which surrounded the mass of interlacing boughs.