“Pleasant dreams, and do not fall out of bed,” piped Emma.
“If I do, you will hear me,” retorted Hippy.
“Yes, we surely shall feel the mountain shake when you land,” chuckled Anne.
“Good-night, all,” called Hippy, and strode off laughing to himself, a chorus of good-nights following him. For an hour or more intermittent chattering was heard in the girls’ tents. Through the open tent flaps they could see the cloud fog swirling about, and the damp, musty odor of the sky-mist was strong in their nostrils.
“The glory of the mountains! How I should love to spend all summer right on this wonderful spot,” murmured Grace, and, turning over, went quickly to sleep.
Shortly after midnight Grace awakened, and lay gazing out at the drifting gray fog.
“What was that?” Grace sat up suddenly, listening for a repetition of the sound that had disturbed her.
What Grace had heard sounded to her like the rattle of a wagon, followed by a loud squeak, but the sound was not repeated.
The Overton girl sprang up, dressed hurriedly and buckled on her revolver holster. She then ran over to Lieutenant Wingate’s tent and softly called his name. There was no reply from within, nor could Grace hear breathing there.
Thrusting a flash lamp through the tent opening, she swept the interior with a brief ray of light. The tent was unoccupied, and the blankets lay on the ground in a confused heap, indicating to her that Lieutenant Wingate had taken a hurried departure.