“I heard it, too, Jack!” exclaimed George; but neither of the others seemed to have noticed anything, though in the case of Josh, with his head tied up, this was really not to be wondered at.
“What sort of a sound was it, boys?” demanded the tall one.
“I thought it was a shout of some kind; how about it, George?” Jack replied.
“Same here. But then, perhaps it’s only Herb and Nick skylarking. Once in so often Nick gets a streak, and thinks he has to work off his high humor. But see here, Jack, I hope you don’t imagine some sort of trouble has dropped in on the two boys we left in camp less than an hour back?”
“Well, I don’t know,” Jack made answer, in a half-hesitating way. “But somehow it struck me that yell was more along the line of anger or fright than the result of high spirits or kidding.”
“But Jack, we don’t hear any more of the same sort?” George remonstrated.
“How’s that, then?” asked the other, as a plain whoop came faintly to their ears.
“Say, that’s Nick, all right,” Josh declared, stoutly. “I could tell his shout among a thousand. There never was one like it. I always said a wild Injun from the Crow reservation couldn’t begin to hold a candle to Nick, when it came to letting out a whoop.”
“But what would make him give tongue that way?” asked George, as he pushed on at the heels of the leader; for they were now following what seemed to be a trail through the undergrowth, where the trees grew sparingly.