“It’s jes’ prob’ly what the critter’d do,” Rivers murmured, “a night like this.”
We did emerge from the woods and out by the cleft. The brook below in the light of day seemed to strike a silver chord of happiness within me. Now, in the storm-ridden darkness, it echoed plaintively along the gully.
The swish of the water flowing so rapidly over the rocks gave me the ghostly thought that perhaps it was the phantom feet of Peter Northrop retracing his steps down there and not the swish of the water at all. Tom’s voice jolted me out of my eerie musing.
“Where shall we go from here, Charlie?” he asked.
“No place. We’ll stay. He’ll come sometime to-night, a’right.”
“My feet are cold,” Brent said, soberly. “Couldn’t we make a little fire in through the trees there somewhere?”
“Sure!” Rivers said. “We haint heard him howl yet. That’s time enough to watch.”
The campfire was a welcome sight and put to flight all my morbid thoughts. We were sheltered by the trees some twenty-five feet from the cleft.
For about an hour we sat and chatted pleasantly. Except Rivers. He seemed to have sunken back into his usual silence again, and as I glanced at his face, I thought I detected a look of cunning. One felt, glancing at his face, that he had an air of expectancy about him. As if he had been listening and waiting all through his life for just that moment.
A terrific clap of thunder broke and the mountains seemed to be crashing around us. As it rolled away, we heard that great mournful wail, now becoming so familiar to our ears.