He busied himself for another minute, and then struck a match. As a little fire started Tom stepped back and gathered an armful of a certain weed that had not yet been killed by the frost. This he threw upon the flame, when immediately a dark smoke began to rise. As Felix got a scent of it he gave a snort.
"You're sure right, when you said that beat anything I ever ran up against," he declared, vigorously; "whew! it must be the stink-weed of the Indians. Nothing else could throw off that awful smell."
"Just what it is; and now take care, for I'm going to open the door a little to toss the stuff inside," replied Tom.
"I see our finish, if that weed ever gets to smoking inside the dugout," sighed Felix, rather disconsolately, as he held his fingers to his nose, and tried to deep his rifle in position at the same time.
"Oh! we'll soon chase that out with coffee and such things," returned the cheerful Tom; "besides, you've got to stand lots of things when you can't help it. Here goes, Felix. Now, Old Claws, will you be good?"
He gathered up the smouldering weeds, and opening the door with one hand, suddenly tossed his burden within, slamming the barrier shut again, and turning the bar. They plainly heard some heavy object come with a crash against the door, as if the cat had sprung savagely, hoping to land on its enemy, as it undoubtedly considered the one who was bothering with its peaceful occupation of the apparently abandoned shack.
Snatching up his gun, Tom sprang back to where he too could get a dim view of the top of the short chimney, not more than ten feet away.
"You first, remember, Felix; I'm only going to break in if you fail to get him," he said, hastily.
They plainly heard the cat jumping around within the place, as though it resented the odor of smoke, and such smoke too! Felix certainly could sympathize with the animal.
"He's coming!" warned Tom, suddenly.