CHAPTER XIII
THE MAN WHO WAS GLAD
There was just the slightest sound of a foot-tread down by the creek. None but an attentively alert ear could have detected it amid the soughing of the wintry wind and the murmur of the stream over its stony bed.
Young Dan Medlicott raised himself on his elbow and listened, directing his searching gaze across the moonlit grass towards the deep shadows of the bluff of birch and poplar that lay between him and his home on Rattlesnake Ranch.
His rifle was behind him, propped against a post of the stout corral gate. His hand went round to it cautiously, but only to touch it and assure himself that it was still there, ready for use in case it should presently be needed.
There were Indians about—Indians and rebel half-breeds, who coveted the horses in the corral which he was watching, and who during the past month had made more than one attempt to break through the palisade and stampede the animals across the valley into their own encampment.
Dan was only seventeen years old, but he was no tenderfoot. In spite of his youth, he had already had many a brush with the Redskins of Western Canada, and he knew their subtle ways and how to deal with them.
He had been lying in wait for three weary hours, and nothing had happened until now. The night was very cold, there was a sharp frost, and a cutting wind from the mountains in the north moaned dismally in the trees. He lay with his blanket over his knees and his coat collar turned up about his ears. He listened for a long time, but the sound which had alarmed him for a moment was not repeated.
"Some scavenger dog prowlin' around, I reckon," he decided, and leant back, folding his arms across his chest and closing his eyes.