The final exclamation, uttered in an altered tone, is accompanied by a start—the hunter suddenly raising his head from the saddle on which it rests. Nor has the act any relation to his previous speeches. It comes from his hearing a sound, or fancying he hears one. At the same instant, the hound pricks up its ears, giving utterance to a low growl.
“What is’t, I wonder?” interrogates Woodley, in a whisper, placing himself in a kneeling posture, his eyes sharply set upon the dog.
Again the animal jerks its ears, growling as before.
“Take clutch on the critter, Charley! Don’t let it gie tongue.”
Clancy lays hold of the hound, and draws it against his knees, by speech and gesture admonishing it to remain silent.
The well-trained animal sees what is wanted; and, crouching down by its master’s feet, ceases making demonstration.
Meanwhile Woodley has laid himself flat along the earth, with ear close to the turf.
There is a sound, sure enough; though not what he supposed he had heard just before. That was like a human voice—some one laughing a long way off. It might be the “too-who-ha” of the owl, or the bark of a prairie wolf. The noise now reaching his ears is less ambiguous, and he has no difficulty in determining its character. It is that of water violently agitated—churned, as by the hooves of horses.
Clancy, standing erect, hears it, too.
The backwoodsman does not remain much longer prostrate; only a second to assure himself whence the sound proceeds. It is from the ford. The dog looked that way, on first starting up; and still keeps sniffing in the same direction.