One thing that bothered Dick, and which he had not yet explained entirely to his own satisfaction, was Sandy’s strange behavior a few hours previous. The young Scotchman’s violent and unwarranted attack upon Toma was not in the least like the usual happy-go-lucky conduct that Dick had ascribed to his friend. Of course, he had heard many times before, of similar cases where men, driven to the limit of physical exertion, had acted queerly. It was a sort of temporary mental breakdown preceding physical collapse. What Sandy needed was a good sleep, followed by a day or two of complete rest. He’d probably feel better in the morning.
For the next few minutes Dick busied himself in gathering more wood for the fire. His first duty was to keep himself and Sandy warm, as warm as possible in their hastily improvised camp there in the inadequate shelter of the river bottom.
“Toma will be back in an hour or two,” he thought to himself, “and then everything will be all right.”
He looked down at Sandy, whom he had bundled up in their two blankets and hoped devoutly that nothing had happened which might delay the young Indian’s safe return. Although not in the least doubting the guide’s prowess, Dick had learned to his sorrow that Govereau’s opposition was not the only factor to be considered in the successful carrying out of their plans.
“There is always this blamed wilderness to contend with,” ruminated Dick. “Treacherous rivers, forest fires, wild beasts, the danger of freezing to death in the extreme cold or getting lost in a blizzard. Sometimes I think——”
Exactly what Dick thought will probably never be recorded. He woke suddenly from his preoccupation, a look of fear in his eyes, every nerve tingling as if tiny electric wires ran close to the surface of his skin. A slight sound somewhere out there in the enveloping darkness had caught his attention. In addition, there had quickly come over him a vague feeling that he and Sandy were not alone, that an actual presence, either an animal of some sort or a human being, had intruded within the circle of their campfire and was ready to pounce down upon them.
For a brief second Dick could scarcely suppress the cry of terror that had sprung to his lips. He wanted to turn his head to look at the thing he knew to be immediately behind him, but, for some unknown reason, his body seemed incapable of action. Instead he sat there, weak and trembling, the blood pounding in his throat with a force almost suffocating.
With a truly mighty effort he contrived finally to twist and squirm around so that his gaze could discern the thing that menaced him, and in that instant he caught wildly at the trunk of the up-rooted tree upon which he sat, so frozen with horror, that the person who stood immediately opposite—probably no more than ten or twelve feet away—might easily have advanced and overpowered him without encountering even the slightest resistance.
In all his life, Dick had never seen so strange an apparition. His first sickening impression was that he was confronted not by a man at all but by a real ghost, fashioned out of a substance as hard and unyielding as a block of ice. In the glare of the campfire, the person’s body gave forth a peculiar gleam or sparkle that so amazed and confounded Dick that he found himself putting up his hands to his eyes in an effort to shut out the unusual sight.
“Toma, he tell me come,” issued a friendly voice from the ghost-like figure, standing there in front of him. “You no ’fraid me.”