"That you, Grace?" demanded a cautious voice a few yards to her right.
"Hippy! Are you wounded?" begged Grace.
"I am not. I'm trying to get to my rifle."
"Here. Take mine. Look out for Tom. He is on the opposite side of the camp. We agreed not to go beyond the edge of the clearing so there might be no danger of our hitting each other. He is looking for the 'shereef.'"
"I'll fix him. Hark! Did you hear that?"
"Yes. It was a revolver shot on beyond where Tom is," answered Grace.
"There it goes again. Tom must be using his revolver. A hit! Somebody yelled," cried Lieutenant Wingate. "I hope it is that pesky mosquito that has been trying to sting us. Stay here while I go out to investigate."
"No, no!" protested Grace. "If you do you and Tom surely will shoot at each other. Remember he is a woodsman and knows how to creep up on one without making a sound that a human being could hear half a dozen yards away. Go to the edge of the clearing and wait. I will go back and around on Tom's side of the camp."
Grace crept away, calling softly to the girls to keep down. Washington, with his ears muffled, failed to hear her coming, nor had she given the little colored boy a thought until she planked a foot down on his neck.
Wash uttered a yell and leaped to his feet, for the second time that night bowling Grace over and darting deeper into the bush.