Sam was too “seasoned a veteran” to have his emotions stirred. Mechanically, he watched the light flashing over tree trunks, tinging deep recesses with its ruddy glow, and the smoke rising high and drifting slowly out of view.
Every now and again he replenished the fire, until the flames shot up, and crackling sparks, like a miniature fire display, dropped about him.
His lonely vigil neared an end.
“Poor old Dave,” he reflected, glancing at the round face of the sleeping “historian.” “I almost hate to do it.”
He was about stepping over to awaken him when a series of blood-curdling yells from a point not far distant, followed by the sharp cracking of pistol shots, gave him the start of his life.
Then came the neighs of frightened horses, the stamping of hoofs, and the sound of a heavy crashing through the underbrush.
Before the astounded Sam Randall had time to even voice a warning the camp was astir.
CHAPTER VIII
THE STAMPEDE
Bob Somers was the first to spring to his feet.
“Good gracious! What’s the matter?” he yelled.