They found a spring, in a little clearing, and since birds were bathing in the water Tom decided that it was safe for them to drink from it. They slaked their thirst and went on with a much better confidence. The jungle had yielded its food and drink to their confidence in themselves.
“I don’t want you to think I’m a ’fraid-cat,” Nicky said presently. “Do you fellows notice little cracklings off in the brush?”
“I’ve heard them, several times,” Tom agreed. “I wondered if some Indian might have seen our fire and was watching, going along some other trail, to see where we are bound for!”
“But it’s first on one side, then on the other,” Nicky protested. “Once I heard something, sort of ‘whoosh!’ away up ahead, and now—listen!”
They drew closer together on the trail, and Cliff took a tighter clutch of the rifle he carried. They kept still, and presently, from a point quite close, there came the crackle of a twig.
In an instant Cliff whirled to face the point, the rifle leveled.
But then, from far ahead, there came a queer noise as if something were breaking through brush. The sound close at hand became also more pronounced, like the passage of a body through lush grass.
“There’s two of—whatever it is!” whispered Nicky.
Spellbound they watched the scene that developed with the swiftness of a moving picture.
Into the path quite close to them, but ahead of their position, a dark, almost naked Indian sprang: he carried a bow and a quiver of arrows; his ragged trousers were torn and scratched. He glanced toward the chums only for an instant. Then, backing toward them, he pointed up the trail, saying no word.