It was cold, for, in rolling about as he slept, he must have displaced his blanket.
That jerk at his right leg gave Roger a thrill. He realized that something had taken hold of his fringed deerskin trousers, and was endeavoring to drag him aside. Even as this startling conviction flashed through his mind, for a third time he heard that low growl. It was like that of a dog, when some one approaches while he is gnawing a bone.
Roger slightly raised his head and saw two gleaming yellow spots that seemed to glow like coals of fire.
He knew they were the eyes of some sort of forest beast that was crouching close alongside him; though why it had seized upon his trouser leg and kept up this spasmodic tugging Roger could not comprehend.
Where was his rifle? He put out a hand, groping for the weapon, which action was the signal for more growls, and a spitting sound such as a cat might make. Then he heard a low whispering voice saying:
“Keep still, Roger; don’t move! I’ve got my gun, and can fix him! Steady, now!”
Then came a mighty crash that awoke the echoes of the forest.