"Willy, is that you?" he demanded, as a familiar movement revealed the identity of the figure.
"Yes."
Grace asked the Indian where he had been. He mumbled an unintelligible reply, then turned to Tom.
"Two men come. They watch shack. Me want to shoot, but not do."
"Certainly not," rebuked Tom. "What do you think they want?"
"Come spy on camp. I spy on them. Fix guns and creep up. Look in windows and whisper. Bah! No good. What do?"
"Have they rifles? Perhaps they are hunters," suggested Tom.
"No hunt. Me watch." Willy Horse melted into the shadows.
"Who can it be?" wondered Grace.
"Hunters, of course. Willy Horse's zeal has run away with his judgment. I think—" Tom paused. Protesting voices were heard back in the forest, voices raised in angry resentment. Two men suddenly burst out into the light of the campfire, followed by Willy Horse close at their heels, his rifle pressed against the back of a panting man.