“That sounded like a painter to me, Dick!” ventured Roger, handling his gun, so as to make sure the weapon was within reach of his hand.
Of course a “painter” meant a panther, for it was so called by nearly all back-woodsmen and pioneers of that day. And these two lads knew well what a fierce antagonist one of those great gray cats became when wounded, or ferociously hungry.
“Yes, that was just what I thought,” replied Dick; “but there isn’t much chance he’ll bother to pay us a visit to-night. The woods are big enough to give him all the hunting he wants, without trying to invade our camp.”
“There seems to be plenty of life in this valley of the Yellowstone River,” the second boy continued, “and, even if Jasper Williams fails to find the Happy Hunting Grounds he is looking for, he might do lots worse than stay around here.”
“Yes, I am sure there must be lots of fur to be picked up, and we saw plenty of elk, you remember, Roger, as well as other food animals. From what we have learned, the Indians never come in this direction unless they are compelled to by a scarcity of game in other places.”
“All on account of their believing an Evil Spirit haunts the land,” commented Roger. “As for myself, I think all those stories must be made up in the brains of foolish people. I would never believe one of them unless I saw the things with my own eyes.”
“We may know more about them before we finish this journey,” Dick remarked complacently.
“When you last examined the tracks left by Jasper Williams and his party, Benjamin, how old did you make them out to be?” inquired Roger of the guide.
“We are one day’s journey behind them,” came the assured reply.
“And if they should choose to linger on the trail we may overtake them by to-morrow night,” added Dick, in order to comfort his cousin.