"How many did you see, Sol?" whispered Henry.
"Only two, but one of 'em won't ever attack us again."
"The others must be near by in their canoes, and the swimmers may have
been scouts and skirmishers. They know where we are, but we don't know
where they are."
"That's so," said Shif'less Sol, "an' it gives 'em an advantage."
"Which, perhaps, we can take from 'em by moving our own boat."
Henry was about to put his plan into action, but they heard a light splash
in the water to the west, and another to the north. Spots of piercing red
light appeared in the fog, and many rifles cracked. Fortunately, all had
thrown themselves down, and the bullets spent themselves in the wood of
the boat's side. Henry and Sol and Tom fired back at the flashes, but more
rifle shots came out of the fog, and those on the boat had no way of
telling whether any of their bullets had hit.
"I think we'd better hold our fire," whispered Henry between rifle shots.
"It's wasting bullets to shoot at a fog."
The others nodded and waited. A long cry, quavering at first, and then
rising to a fierce top note to die away later in a ferocious, wolfish
whine came through the fog. It was uttered by many throats, and in the
uncanny, whitish gloom it seemed to be on all sides of them.
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