The light was dimmed by a brighter effulgence beyond. A rim of silver shoved itself above the neighbouring hills, and then a semi-circular disc, gradually growing in brightness and flooding hill and ravine with mellow light. Giant boulders and tree trunks were silhouetted against its rising disc, and on a tree branch just athwart the centre was, grotesque and huge, the figure of the lone bird of night—an owl.
"Plenty of light to-night," said Hugh.
"But not more than we need; the search will require all the light we can get," said Ande.
They arrived at Hunter Tom's cabin and dismounted. The horses were hobbled and turned out to graze in the clearing. Tom, hearing the noise, opened the door, and cheerfully welcomed them within. The hunter was clothed in his customary fringed buckskin and home-made moccasins, but in his belt, in addition to the usual hunting knife, was a small Indian tomahawk.
"Why, Tom, one would think ye were on the warpath," said the pilot, jokingly.
"Aye, and a warpath it may prove," soberly, and then seeing the look of the pilot concentrated on the tomahawk in his belt: "This tomahawk I secured in the Indian country of the Ohio in 1812. It is an effective weapon."
"But surely you don't expect a fight," said Dick.
The old man shook his hoary locks mysteriously and muttered, "The Shawnese."
By the light of the turnip lamp the pilot brought forth his map and spread it out on the rough wooden table. The hunter scanned it approvingly, and then:
"Where did ye get it, Hugh?"