“If anything happens, it happens!” he said grimly.
Now came the step which called for all his courage. He could see the embers, down in a little hollow, glowing brightly. The dark trees rose before him—ominously dark—their scraggly branches assuming in the whitish light of the moon a weird and sinister aspect.
Within their shadows, Larry Burnham, crouching behind a bush, looked and listened with painful intensity. His mind continually pictured menacing figures but a few yards away waiting for his appearance. A crackling of the embers filled him with sudden terror. Only a powerful effort prevented him from fleeing in mad panic.
Finally he quelled his shaking nerves, and worked his way to a point where a clear view of the hollow was before him. The tension leaped away. He uttered a sigh of heartfelt relief.
The camp was deserted.
The instant this discovery was made, Larry, with a boldness in great contrast to his former stealth, rose to his feet and walked directly toward the fire.
The first thing which struck his attention was the appearance of the ground and grass. The latter in many places was beaten down, while deep imprints and clods of torn-up earth gave every indication that some terrific struggle had taken place. And, to add to these evidences, his eye lighted on a bush, partially flattened, its branches and leaves scattered about. “By whom?—how?”
The astounded Larry Burnham asked himself these questions over and over again.
The silence, the peace of the enclosure appeared in such striking contrast to something which he could see only too clearly had taken place. And the impression on his mind was tremendous.
“By Jingo!” he murmured, breathlessly, “those shouts and pistol shots seem tame alongside of this. Believe me, it’s enough to give a chap the creeps.”