The tiny clock that ticked away cheerfully in the corner of the cabin indicated that a full hour had gone by, and Johnny and Sandy sat by the fire awaiting the moving of the spirit that was to restore animation to the motionless figure lumped over in the chair.
To Johnny, who was accustomed to action and plenty of it, this seemed a strange procedure. A bit spooky it was, too. Night lay silent over all. Only the dull glow of a half-dead fire lighted the room. From time to time a log, burned to glowing charcoal, would break and fall. For a moment after, strangely grotesque shadows would dance upon the wall. Then they, too, would lapse into inactivity.
At last the figure in the corner stirred. A bony hand outstretched seemed to beckon. Sandy knew the meaning of this. All the time the great coffee pot had stood just close enough to the fire to simmer low. Now he poured a steaming cup and passed it to the outstretched hand.
“See!” came in a hollow, cracked voice after the cup had been drained. “See many strange things, me.”
“Ah!” Johnny thought to himself, not daring to stir, “The oracle speaks.”
“See Devil Bird,” the Voice went on. “See two Devil Birds.”
“He means airplanes,” Johnny told himself. “Devil Birds belong to Indian legends. Airplanes are like them.”
“One Devil Bird,” the Voice droned on, “gray like clouds on a day of slow rain. No marks. No, none. No white man’s writing.”
“The gray outlaw,” Johnny breathed.
Sandy placed a hand on his arm for silence.