"Queer that we have seen nothing worth shooting up to now," remarked Sandy, after they had been tramping a full hour. "What do you think is the matter, Bob? Can the Indians be about, and have they frightened all the deer and buffalo away?"
Bob shook his head.
"I was just wondering," he said, "if we made too much noise stalking through all these dead leaves. Did you ever see such a thick mass? And as dry as tinder, too. See, when the wind catches them up, how they whirl like mad."
"Goodness!" remarked Sandy, remembering the caution of the trapper; "wouldn't it just be awful if they caught fire? We must be miles away from home, and could never reach it. What in the world would we do, Bob?"
Then, as he glanced up at his brother when asking this question, he discovered that Bob was standing there, sniffing the air suspiciously! In the present excited condition of Sandy's nerves that, of course, was enough to set him wild.
"What is it? You smell something—oh! Bob, please don't tell me that it is smoke!" he exclaimed, his voice trembling with sudden alarm.
"That is just what I do smell," replied Bob, uneasily, though, seeing the distress of his brother, he immediately tried to laugh it off. "But perhaps it comes from some campfire started by the Indians. How do we know but what we may be close to a village, since no one has ever come this way before?"
"Now I get it," cried Sandy, "and, Bob, listen, what can that roaring sound mean? Are we near the river, and is that a rapids of any sort?"
In spite of his bravery, and his desire not to frighten Sandy, Bob felt that his face turned pale, for he knew instinctively what that strange sound meant.
"Come, perhaps we had better turn around, and walk this way," he said, suiting his action to the words.