“Don’t you, Charley?”
Clancy sets himself to listen, but at first hears nothing, save the usual sounds of the forest, of which it is now full. A spring night, a sultry one, the tree-crickets are in shrillest cry, the owls and goatsuckers joining in the chorus.
But in the midst of its continuous strain there is surely a sound, not animal, but human? Surely the voice of a man?
After a time, Clancy can distinguish it.
One is talking, in tone not loud, but with an accent which appears to be that of boasting or triumph. And the voice is not like an Indian’s, while exclamations, at intervals uttered, are certainly such as could only proceed from the lips of a white man.
All this is strange, and causes astonishment to the travellers—to Clancy something more. But before he has time to reflect upon, or form conjectures about it, he hears that which compels him to cast aside every restraint of prudence; and springing forward, he signals the others to follow him.
They do, without a word; and in less than twenty seconds’ time, they have entered the shadowed circle, and surrounded the group at which they have been so long gazing.
Only three figures after all! A man, a horse, with what may be woman, but looks less like one living than dead!
The man, Indian to all appearance, thus taken by surprise, plucks the pipe from between his teeth. It is struck out of his hand, the sparks flying from it, as Woodley on one side and Heywood the other, clutching, drag him toward the light.
When the moon shines on it, they behold a face which both have seen before.