So in that silence, broken only by the cries of wild things in the night, he rowed on.
And after them, in utter silence, there came a canoe.
CHAPTER XXX
HOLLOW CHUCKLES
On a moose trail that leads down the steep slope of the ridge lying between Duncan’s Bay and Tobin’s Harbor a flashlight gleamed. Once, twice, and yet again Johnny Thompson saw that light flashing among the trees high up and far away, and he wondered a long wonder. He said nothing to Drew Lane. The time had come for silence and action. Bending low, he drove their boat forward at increased speed.
Meanwhile the light on the slope blinked on and off, was lost among the shadows of tall spruce trees, came out into the open, vanished behind overhanging rocks, then was lost to view altogether as it reached lower levels where giant spruce trees, a primeval forest, cast deep shadows over a small world as dark as a tomb.
“That light,” Johnny told himself, “is no witch light of the night. Some one is coming down the ridge. Wonder who? And why? Drew said this island was practically uninhabited in winter. Looks as if the ghost of every Indian, explorer or trader who ever visited these shores has returned to-night.
“Ghosts,” he whispered to himself, “surely are queer!” He was thinking of the Galloping Ghost.
“Now we’ll swing in.” It was Drew who broke this curious chain of thoughts.
Fifteen minutes more of silent rowing and their boat touched without a sound on a mossy shore.
“Good!” Drew breathed. “Bushes here. We can hide the boat. May need it in case—”