Suddenly a reddish gleam in the midst of a patch of timber caught his eye; then, as intervening trees came between, flashed out; then reappeared once more.
“Whoa—whoa!” whispered Larry, softly. “Here’s a development I wasn’t expectin’. Where there’s a camp-fire there must be men.”
Pulling up his steaming horse, some of his old feelings of nervousness returned.
“It may be dangerous,” he reflected. “Oh, thunder! Wonder what I’d better do?”
For several moments he debated the question; then, making up his mind, rode to a tree close by, and, dismounting, tied his horse.
“By George, I’ll sneak up,” he muttered, determinedly. “Little ‘Fear-not’ is going to see this business through to the end.”
Unslinging his rifle, and using the utmost care, Larry crept slowly toward the light, which was more often out of sight than in. There was no sound of voices or anything else to indicate the presence of campers. This, however, he argued, was not to be wondered at, as the hour was very late.
No Indian stealing upon an unwary foe could have used greater care than he. But not possessing the Indian’s skill the sharp cracking of twigs, or other noises made by his advance, often caused him to stop, his heart beating fast.
“Suppose some one should suddenly pop out from those bushes and draw a bead on me!” he muttered, shiveringly.
Several times he was on the point of giving up, but on each occasion shook his head.